Harsh cannon booms and pounding thuds:
The waves make war upon the shore
awash in foam-blood evermore,
defying fools to mortal combat
with the sea who neither knows
nor cares for flotsam such as we.
Bit-players on the stage of life,
frustrated plots, eroding strife,
we seek out fame and seek out glory.
Yet the sea’s life’s allegory,
and the imperious elements
make mockery of us all.
The sea explodes in thunderous cracks
of ancient ire, primordial rage.
We are compelled to turn the page,
and now the sea holds center stage.
It slaps the smooth and gallant shore-face:
“You are nothing next to me!”
“Rogue wave!” they said as if explaining
made it better, made it right
that now the darkness quenched the light
and blindness washed away all sight.
“Rogue wave!” they said. “Rogue wave!” Rogue wave
was to my child an early grave.
A dagger plunged into my throat;
the acid tears both burned and choked.
I could not speak, I could not breathe;
maternal bosom could not heave.
My soul poured out upon the floor
•••Anita MacDonald is a retired businesswoman originally from Ridgefield, Connecticut, now a freelance writer who has published articles in the Nassau Guardian and the Tribune. She is a member of the Nassau Music Society and plays First French Horn with The Bahamas National Symphony Orchestra and sings in various choirs including Alliance Francaise and the St Paul’s Cathedral choir. WomanSpeak is proud to be the first journal to publish her poems.