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Here you will find 1345 poems by Theodore Waterfield.


I am selling peace of mind,
the quiet hinge.
How a pillow meets the soul
and ink flows on paper.
Pieces of sound
that left a rumble
in the walls.
A voice without tremble,
and laughter at nothing at all.

A piece of shade inside my hand.
The charge that beauty has
filling you with invisibles.
The voices of silence
in our ocean.
How to open things
and close them,
set a table.
Watching you sleep,
your life
returning like a voyage,
showering like a wave.

Hammock Beach

We come back
in the shadow of dolphins,
something new.
To what do we belong?
The sea pumps its salt
through our hearts.
Tides wash away the past
with every wave.
The walls of the sky
extend forever into blue,
and our lives continue.
I celebrate the sun in me,
the air’s transparent purity,
a new heart
cherishing all the love
I have found,
and the foamy mesas
of the sea
opening its arms.

A Carousel in Italy

I’m not sure
if I’ll ever get everything done.
If I have accomplished anything.
My life is a carousel,
up and down,
round and round,
laughter and shrieking
from those on the ride.
Stern faced widows,
children hanging on.

seven ages of man,
what have I done?
When does the ride end?
How did it begin?
How many miles have I gone?
Where am I going?
Will my feet be steady getting off?
Will someone call my name?
Will I have my wits about me?

In Italy,
I rode a carousel with Mary.
An evening heaven put on a stamp.
Where geraniums blushed
with mouths so red,
their lips never recovered.
There, on that carousel,
life stood still,
and people waved,
and I waved,
and Mary called,
how much fun it was!
Is there enough fun
to go around?
Fun for a lifetime,
renewed when we ride the carousel,
how close is anything?


What am I searching for?
Looking in the quartz,
how does the light get captured?
Why do I listen to silence?
Because it owes me tears?
How often should I say,
I love you?
Why is once not enough?
What am I searching for
when the sea tells me everything,
and I go away innocent?

Who chooses the hummingbird
that comes to my garden?
Is he the same as the one
that came last year?
I miss him before he leaves.
I will plant flowers again,
just for him.

Why do I watch people pass,
and want to see them again?
What makes me say,
I will remember you always?
When will childhood
come in to play with me?
Are we still friends?

I need to stay alive,
until I finish my diving lessons
in flying.
Find the ultimate glass of water.
Can run,
without losing my breath.
Hear a voice
tell me my true name,
and never say forever
must come twice.

Orlando Letter

I am writing Orlando,
to the concierge of my hotel,
to send three bottles
of Orlando air,
and a pint of sea water
off Cape Kennedy.
A recording of the children
by the pool
would also be appreciated
for meditation.
I heard several songs
being splashed about
which can be used in baths
particularly when Jackie and Michael
are taking theirs.

Also, if you would send a picture
of the adjacent lake,
and peel off some light
for wallpaper in the kitchen,
very cache.
I can’t forget how clouds
dived like dolphins
in its depths.
Also, a case of bottled humidity
for a winter lotion
scented with palm leaves
and saw-grass.

And a pound of that wonderful butter
I got from the local mall,
you’ll know it
when you find it.
For savoring,
for a taste of what butter can be.
For the smell of a Florida night,
send a damp towel
to drape over a chair,
I’ll furnish the dreams.
In postscript,
I thank you for your indulgence
and continued happiness,
in being where you are.
Yours truly,

Without Wings

How messages
get to hands and feet
I’m not sure.
To think you want to walk
is very different
from walking.
It happens,
and perhaps
it’s best not to ask.

It is easy
to fly without wings
by telling joy
to lift you
where you want to go,
it being
no less real
for being invisible.

Heat Wave

The heat is crowding us,
pushing us into our houses.
The meridian of high summer
with the furnace of the sun.
Trees panting as the grass grows brown,
and stillness
invades the shadows.
Not a sound.
Not a whisper.
As if the birds had flown away
leaving an unfilled sadness
behind them,
their wings dissolved in the heat.

The flowers droop in maidenly shyness,
bowed as if an unknown suitor
were passing by.
But his eyes have the iridescence
of a cat.
He is silent,
and ignores their modesty.
I fan myself,
and long for the cool water
of a boy.
The sails I remember as a boy
in the darkness of the house.
How the breeze lifted the spirit,
combed itself through my hair,
and summer was a woman
in a diaphanous dress,
revealing her legs,
sensuous as clouds
going to sleep in the sky.

When Joy Comes

Sometimes joy comes to me
and I ask,
Joy! What brings you
to these parts?
I had a bad night last night.
I died and got lost
crossing the River Styx.
There was no compass,
and the stars stayed
behind the clouds.

Then, you were there,
and something said,
forgiveness shows the way,
and I was younger
than the day before.
And I hadn’t died
because the face of joy
is love,
wanting me to stay.


Life is scary.
half the time,
sometimes a little,
a moment, an hour,
sometimes only in my dreams.
But what’s the point
of losing my nerve?
If I become mute
and never speak again?
It would be like a songbird
without its song.
Could happen.
Life returned to silence.
The earth without its birds,
without its songs,
longer than time itself.

Not suffering.
Just that light had never happened,
until stars
shattered the darkness,
before then,
everything was eternally invisible.
So why should I
be afraid of tomorrow?
The next millennium?
That I would be alone,
and never have the peace
of sleeping as I slept before?
Waking up
to love my sacred ones,
and being afraid
of losing them.

How Fire is Made

The dewdrop of atoms.
The way water cuts a glacier in two.
Divided sleep
between two fires of sunset and dawn.
Why the heart is made of ash.
To live it burned in fire,
touched the mouth of another
and ignited.
Even the diamond burns in the light,
fills the hands
with the brightness of a prayer,
hides in the blackest space
and becomes a star.

The waste of the sea
consumed in foam,
a rolling tide of brightness,
fire from the white volcanoes
in its darkness,
where the earth consumes itself.
The fire inside the cold ambition
of a saint,
the child glowing in the sun with radiance.

Everything warmed and moved
by its conflagration,
until there is nothing in the end.
Until the space left by fire
waits for the last moment of eternity
and blazes up,
to begin again,
how fire is made.