The Art of Anchors

You only see it at low tide,
A heavy block of concrete, too heavy for the tides,
an anchor of sorts,
Concrete and a chain to hold your boat in place.

It has been here for years,
You have never actually seen the craft it holds in place.
It leaves on the tide, and comes back on the tide,
a time where you are so often away,

working on your soul in words and paint.
There is an art to such anchors, and the chains
that bind stone and vessel,
enough chain to hold you in place,

but not so tight that storms
and a full moon tide
full of craziness and high seas
pull you into the sea to drown

just feet from the shore.

About this poem

About boats. About the baggage that holds us in place too often. i was going to title it “A Morning at the Shrink” but unless you knew the conversations that inspired the poem, you’d NEVER figure out the title. Poetry is never about one thing. At times it is not even what it is about.

The picture was taken near the fishing piers of Provincetown, Mass.

Tom