In moments of anxiety,
self-ruination,
fear and agitation,
it’s easier to allow
my soul to sit up straight,
grab the prefrontal oars
of memory,
and propel my canoed body,
over the raging rapids
of today’s gorge.
Frightened, I lie still,
play dead to the malarky,
but my spirit’s amidship
balancing my old Bidarka,
tracking me straight through
each tongue-tied tempest,
and my heart,
well-below the waterline,
outrigs itself with honesty.
I dugout this moment.
Now, I trust intuition’s bow
to dig on, forward stroke,
conquer whirring white waters,
eskimo roll my soul,
and when I reach
open waters,
wet exit my kayak,
a flourish of triumph,
my bearings safely returned.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
I love the analogy which you follow through expertly: ‘grab the prefrontal oars of memory’ is splendid !!
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Thank you, John. The memory oars were a favorite line for me as well. Art inspired; like his sculptures.
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hit open waters, at least. Now, stand by for the next one.
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Yes, thank you, Nice to at least have a small pause in the evening to life’s turbulence.
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hopefully somebody throws you a lifeline for the next one!
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Would be nice, it’s tiring paddling alone.
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I feel certain from this poem, that you’re a master mariner. Fair winds, as a sailing friend used to say, and may you easily find safe harbours.
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Thank you, kindly. I’m rubbish, but my soul’s a seasoned sailor. 🙂
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🙂
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And may your waters be forever untroubled…I loved this poem.
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Thank you, Hobbo. Does your spirit also enjoy kayaking?
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Yes indeed!
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