Inkpoem

Rage can be a bitter plum, spilled inkwell, or empty words. -b.c.d.

The Dizzy Kid (Poem)

He sat alone,
around him a cacophony of noise muffled,
the carousel of water surrounding, spinning, rising, falling,
the sky pebbled and the color of pigeons.

Waves thumped against his inner tube,
lifting one side gently,
tumbling it down roughly the next moment,
sucked into the onslaught of the next wave.
In circles he rolled and rolled,
like when you start chewing a tasty piece of gum.
Then, as if losing interest in taste,
the wave pool would quiet for a moment,
and the young boy would stare and twist his head,
here and there,
this way, that way,
wondering what would wander his way.

Surrounding him,
swimmers on their backs, stomachs,
up and down like water-held pogo sticks.
Swimmers screaming, laughing, talking, smiling,
spluttering water swallowed by accident,
all anticipating the next waves to roll
forwards, sideways and from behind,
spinning tubes like dizzy tops,
bobbing, slipping, hopping
to a wave's rhythm and roll.

The kid spun himself lazily,
one arm back and forth,
staring at the sparkle shimmer coming off the water's surface,
composing poems in his head.
Poems about silence and movement,
poems about ink spilled into water, staining blue,
poems of strange men wandering deserts in search for secrets.
In thought, lost,
He did not hear the hum of machines starting,
nor the yelps of joy erupting from all around,
nor even feel the tube begin its exuberant rocking.
Instead he sat like a wedged V inside his tube,
and smiled at the sky, thinking out loud,
"No wave is the same shape,
no wave moves the same,
no wave tells the same story."