this pendulum below her rib,
swings in ocean-time:
rolls its current through her frame
while
coaxing through exhaustion,
her to reach;
flotsam
scrambles for some pause
upon this tangled beach;
to rest a while -
bares herself to sky
while hands fail to fix in sand
beyond her tide,
she is all eyes & sense
dilating
to a point of mercy
& release,
black & buried deep
she cannot hide the
waters shifting
with each breaking crest,
this foam-tossed into free ...
this fluid
I
name woman
of my sea.
Bronze trophy winner
Adding your comment:
I often say, when asked how I do it, that I merely hold onto the pen...usually for dear life. 
if I'd "ever written a bad poem". I replied, "Of course; I just try not to post them." 
