When I look to the waves, I see an origin story. A moment of tension, Unresolved, Refusing to cease. My introduction, His desperate bobbing form, Scarcely differentiated from the surrounding flotsam. Slick skin as I pulled him to the boat, Air reentering his body, His vitality surging suddenly through me. When one saves a protagonist, They are typically framed as a hero, But not me. I’m left pining. After a destined necessity, In a famous playwright’s story, Which also includes me, As the character who usually gets forgotten. I’ve dedicated my life to the sea. Grappling rope with calloused hands, Guiding vessels through the swells, Grown comfortable in their deadly power. Enduring these trials unflinchingly, Until that drifted offering, An unknown beast, Whose tail I grasped, Dragging me through the pages, Of a future more near to death, Than any hazardous voyage. The plot moved on, Through a dozen nights, Of purposeful facades and mistaken identities, Disparate fragments, Chaotically finding completion, Except for me... This story was never mine. I still exist of course, Heartbroken, Because I don’t easily move on. Not so fluid and adapting, Like my rippling companions, I am the rocks jutting out, As they crash around me. Despite where I am, I don’t regret submerging the unknown waters. The brief spell that was born. The passion that surfaced the salty storm, Dissolving the steady life I’ve known. Even the rejection, Dispersing the spell, Awakened in me, New possibilities. Left alone by the Master’s pen, Drifting buoyantly, Not weighed down by the closure, Of couplings or tragedies or comic happenings. Life isn’t always about the longer narrative. The short passages can be the most poignant of all. Those dangling with no resolve, Left only completed through dreams, imagination, or acceptance. My story may always be, Just a sordid introduction to an inner self, Forcefully suppressed, But powerful enough to break through, Splashing out of the words on the pages, And floating freely, To surge with the swells, Of new beginnings.
Nicholas Yandell is a composer, who sometimes creates with words instead of sound. In those cases, he usually ends up with fiction and occasionally poetry. He also paints and draws, and often all these activities become combined, because they’re really not all that different from each other, and it’s all just art right?
When not working on creative projects, Nick works as a bookseller at Powell’s Books in Portland, Oregon, where he enjoys being surrounded by a wealth of knowledge, as well as working and interacting with creatively stimulating people. He has a website where he displays his creations; it’s nicholasyandell.com. Check it out!