It was a year ago that I committed to my friend George that I would start sharing — in this case posting — my poetry for all to see. For better or worse, I’d get it out of the shadows and into the bright light of the day where friends, family and anyone who’d like can read it, delete it, pass it along, whatever they like. One comforting thing about this digital age is it’s highly unlikely anyone’s using it to line the bottom of their bird cage!
Anyway, it’s been a year!
At the start I made no commitment to a specific frequency of postings. But it didn’t take long before I was posting weekly and I made a personal commitment to maintain that pace, not dogmatically but on average. So, here we are, a year and 52 postings later! And, I can say without question, victory truly is in the doing!
Doing it — it being Along the Way — has brought me a level of joy I could never have imagined. I’ve always loved writing, but this has taken it to an entirely different level. It has awaken a part of me that had been sleepily plodding along for way too long. In that regard, thank you again, George!
And thank all of you for taking the time to read what I’m posting, to comment on it so thoughtfully, and for sharing it with others. It means a lot to me!
There now are more than 100 of you receiving my poems each week and I am incredibly grateful. I hope to double that community this year. So, please pass it along!
Also, to commemorate this one-year mark, I’m re-posting below Sisyphus at Sea, the first poem I shared on Substack last year. It’s one of my favorites. I hope you like it!
Onward.
Rich
Sisyphus at Sea
It stood dry in the yard cradled in wood, an old wooden boat sailing over high grass and weeds and rocks, reeking of mildew, oil and lacquer. It hadn’t seen water in years and wouldn’t for years to come for it had to be perfect, stripped to its rotted ribs, ridded of pieces of wood so swollen and shrunken and worn from years of neglect that they’d split and splintered, spit out tiny dowels, had cracked open and would never again be watertight.
At least not until Andy assessed them, passed judgement with his quiet eyes, and ran his knowing hands along them and felt in his bones the decades of that wood absorbing the power of the ocean as the boat plowed at a slant through open water just off Plum Island. He would sit silently, sometimes for a long time, a cigarette in his right hand, his left caressing a dried-out gunnel or a tarnished green portal frame of brass and envision the boat back on the water. But that would be a day long down the road, long after he would have his way with its hull and its cabin with its small sliding door, would apply his mastery to its tight cabinetry, refurbish the mast and acquire and modify new sails and rigging. He loved the old boat and its potential and saw nothing but beauty in its soft lines, the flaking blood red paint above its water line, the faint thin stripe of white separating the red from the faded-out baby blue bottom that only showed when the boat was out of the water. Before ever starting on the boat he framed a domed cathedral of long, thin wooden slats giving wide berth on all sides of the boat and high above it, then covered his sanctuary in thick plastic sheathing so he could work on the boat throughout the North Shore winter. It would not be the last time he constructed such a protective shell for his old boat, for he knew well the Sisyphean task of loving an old wooden boat and keeping it in the water.
“Wooden ships on the water, very free...and easy”...I’ve enjoyed being a part of your community Rich😉
Well done Ricardo! Keep it going my friend.... love reading these weekly.