Wednesday, August 22, 2018




There is a woman

in a room,

her white dress

pushed and pulled

by the ocean.

The moon stains her arms gray

as she stands perched

in the window frame,

waiting for what,

I'll never know.

More night?

Some sort of midnight eclipse?

A black illumination?

Morning will shake me again,

back to chasing those balloons

I lost as a child,

so early burned

by that Texas sun,

dreaming in the desert,

never having slpt in forest

or at sea.

So yes, I am a balloon chaser,

my pockets full of seeds

and photographs,

maps of the Persian Sea,

or Berlin,

nautical charts,

sketches from a dream I had

of the Northern Lights.


Jonathan Simons
Songs of Waking
Analog Sea