My Secret Key Poem by Greg Gaul

Rolly, rolling in shallow surf, every wave a wisp
that'll move me through this sticky sand to the lush land.
Lumbering, waterlogged, soggy heap in my tux,
arms flopping, flailing about, cool currents fill my ears;
mere vestige of society, like some stray beached fish,
washed up to safety, survival my only wish.
Then, carefully cradled in nature's crux held betwixt
the enormous sea and strange saviour, my secret key.
Wobbly now, standing in spanking sun, born again!

The universe was whispering insights in my ear.
Three years ago, I embraced nature's dialogue here.
My party yacht sadly sunk in that terrible black squall.
Best I could tell, I was the only one who made it.
This key paradise long has held me to her bosom -
with fruits, berries, nuts, plantains, sea life, turtles to eat.
I made a 'HELP' sign in sand thirty by forty feet.
The treehouse I built five feet up was my real refuge,
below, my rough, rock fire pit skewered so many meats well.

Lucky me, to be castaway in a tropic sea.
It seems we are all islands; only one lost like me.
Metal things in my tux turned into tools for crafts.
One's imaginations tease thoughts of offensive tacks.
Searching the east beach routinely for plastic bottles -
Startled! I saw new human footprints in the fresh sand.
Rocked my secret key world, changed it into fear.
Am I rescued? Am I in danger? Grabbed my spear!

And then, I suddenly realized what was the truth.
I feared being found, to be then taken away.
This island had been talking, teaching me everyday.
I had made an uncommon bond with sand, soil 'n sea.
Ran up the beach in a blur to my second saviour.
He surprised! Turns, clutches me with a soulful sigh.
'We'd given up all hope, thought Sir, you'd drowned,
never had we dreamt we'd find you, now you're found! '

Quite excited, he asked a barrage of questions.
He would wait each time for my reactions, reflections.
I slowly said these three words, 'I am staying.'
Incredulously, he stared at me in silence.
He paused. We then talked for well over an hour.
Later, went to his seaplane, took off into the sunset.
Captain Sowerby sounded rather enamored.
My personal estate was managed in Bermuda,
all agreed on sending provisions dropped by air.
Sowerby seemed a decent chap alright, quite keen
on my recent transformation, oneness with the key.
Unchartered in British records, I claimed it!

I could not imagine such an inner, private place,
a key of the mind where with a blink I could commit
mentally, freely forever, to come and to go.
Where I'd fit into every ebb and living flow -
sunsets, morning beach walks and meditations;
the simplest things. I'd have enough. What I'd need.
All was here, even a Royal Tern named Robin
who ate from my hand. The secret was mine now, the key.





Free Verse 54 Lines Attributions to Frances Hodgson Burnett's 1911 classic The Secret Garden and John Donne's 1500 iconic poem, No Man Is An Island. As well, 'castaway' stories, especially those where individuals stay and Buddhist mystical, metaphysical references and themes.

Copyright © Greg Gaul | Year Posted 2021