Breaking before our eyes into a sound,
as whoosh and swish of the ocean tide.
In constant as rhythmic strokes
branches crack and are thrown into the stream.
I stood among the trees and watched,
immobile in the cooling shade,
the leaf surfaced, face up beneath the bridge.
Woooh, the wind howled.
Cut limbs falling, the crack they make,
each dropping from its trunk as though for once
the last branch of winter made us trim.
Lost for violence of mid-air branches,
soft current dragged on as wind chimes
blew at the stretch of the dam.
Wading water into land, downward
as the deep blue sea, at times where
the light reflected a bend.
Slowed the surface calm waters,
evergreen trees lined the banks of river,
as natural forces contained the seed of life.
The fading moon, and she emerges
from quiet woods above the cliff.
We love swimming in the clouds,
along the high cliffs and deep in valleys,
we chase the scattering of flocks,
roaring anger of the rising river water
from a rocky, sandy bank.
The cloak is lovely, divine heaven,
in your proud kingdom, I am worthless.
My eyes follow the light that reflects you.
In the shadow of the bending willows,
we meet and dance at once.
We are going to die. The spell is cast.
Our souls are blind to our fate.
Gazing into midnight, we are hopeless love,
with our illusions and dreams of childhood.
The happiest day of life is first to leave us.
Lives of Infinity
This lonely hill was always dear to me.
I hear the wind stir these branches,
I begin comparing that endless stillness
with this noise pounding in my head.
The eternity comes to mind,
dead seasons, lives of forever bound,
so my head sinks, tears drift to the ground.
The eternal, all-commanding nature
was created for me to suffer.
The earth gods have denied hope,
my eyes would never shine, they whisper.
I race blindly through the grasslands,
memories pour out of the sky.
Evergreens tremble in the wind,
dirt beneath the melancholy earth.
Near the Sea
All is purplish-blue:
at heavy surface of the sea,
as tides swell and turnover.
Opaque water lines the green benches
the lobster pots, scattered sea lions
among the wild jagged rocks.
The beach shore has translucence
like the small old buildings with emerald moss
growing on their veined walls.
The big fish tubs are lined
with layers of beautiful herring mermaid scales,
wheelbarrows are plastered with red paint
holding creamy coats of mail,
small black flies crawling in salt on them.
On the hill behind the houses,
in the bright sprinkle of mildew on grass,
is an ancient wooden ship-wheel,
cracked, with two long bleached handles
and some melancholy stains, like dried blood,
where the ironwork has rusted.
We wrangled noiselessly.
ItŐs not as if a recorder needs to hum.
The clocks taught us into existence.
In the painting of a mock funeral, we intercept traffic.
Our dog stayed, we have our housing flexibility.
Broke amounts gamboled and stolen.
While wealth peels off, a tiny button falls off tablecloth.
My father closes the door,
scared he will wake me from sleep,
a thesis in congested paper web in my headache.
Above a small stiff sheet of white bedroom.
In painting impracticalities coming nearer out of time.
Fixed or moving furniture of step by step,
he takes off with his boxes.
It came to me then.
It was time for the move but my dad didnŐt suit plans.
From the summer on the coast to the west winds.
© Samantha Seto
Bio: Samantha Seto is a writer. She has been published in various anthologies including Ceremony, Blue Hour, Soul Fountain, Ygdrasil, and Black Magnolias Journal. Samantha studies Creative Writing and is a third prize poet of the Whispering Prairie Press.