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My Boat Sails Off on a Lovely Day
I am still learning the art of poetry. While I’ve written a few short poems before, I’ve never practiced it with much diligence. Last night, raw words began to form in my mind just before I drifted to sleep. I thought I had lost them, but this morning, while in the bath, the words came buzzing back, demanding to be written.
My Poem: "My Boat Sails Off on a Lovely Day"
Date:24/12/2024
My boat sails off on a lovely day,
the future unknown as it drifts with the tide.
A storm rises, ferocious and unrelenting,
dragging me to the bottom of the sea.
I feel the weight of the water,
the finality of sinking—
I believe I will never rise.
Out of nowhere, a brush appears,
a great, shimmering stroke of light.
I grab it, and in its touch, I feel peace.
The storm dissolves like an unfinished story,
and my boat sails once again.
The deck blooms with flowers,
wild and vivid,
as though the brush carries the colours of the earth.
It is a magic wand,
painting skies in hues of amber and lilac,
waters in swirls of teal and sapphire.
I let my boat drift with the flow—
no resistance, no fight.
In my hands, the brush feels like hope,
like the quiet promise of something waiting,
something tender,
small, and infinite all at once.
But storms never truly leave.
They return,
stirring my boat,
changing its course.
This time, the storm pushes me
toward a place I once dreamed of—
soft, fragile, a flicker of warmth,
so long buried I almost forgot.
I row toward it,
in the hope of a quiet, golden pause.
Amidst the chaos, the brush disappears.
I feel the void,
but I keep rowing and rowing,
my arms aching against the waves.
The stars whisper above:
Keep going. The universe hasn’t forsaken you.
I row, still searching for the glimmer of a horizon.
Exhausted, adrift—
until the brush returns.
Its weight in my hand feels familiar,
its magic undeniable.
Once again, I paint the skies,
fill the waters with colour,
and guide my boat toward the dream—
delicate, waiting,
alive in ways I never dared imagine.
This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thepoeticbrush.substack.com/subscribe
Thanks for reading The Poetic Brush! This post is public so feel free to share it.
The Poetic Brush is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thepoeticbrush.substack.com/subscribe
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By Urva PatelI am still learning the art of poetry. While I’ve written a few short poems before, I’ve never practiced it with much diligence. Last night, raw words began to form in my mind just before I drifted to sleep. I thought I had lost them, but this morning, while in the bath, the words came buzzing back, demanding to be written.
My Poem: "My Boat Sails Off on a Lovely Day"
Date:24/12/2024
My boat sails off on a lovely day,
the future unknown as it drifts with the tide.
A storm rises, ferocious and unrelenting,
dragging me to the bottom of the sea.
I feel the weight of the water,
the finality of sinking—
I believe I will never rise.
Out of nowhere, a brush appears,
a great, shimmering stroke of light.
I grab it, and in its touch, I feel peace.
The storm dissolves like an unfinished story,
and my boat sails once again.
The deck blooms with flowers,
wild and vivid,
as though the brush carries the colours of the earth.
It is a magic wand,
painting skies in hues of amber and lilac,
waters in swirls of teal and sapphire.
I let my boat drift with the flow—
no resistance, no fight.
In my hands, the brush feels like hope,
like the quiet promise of something waiting,
something tender,
small, and infinite all at once.
But storms never truly leave.
They return,
stirring my boat,
changing its course.
This time, the storm pushes me
toward a place I once dreamed of—
soft, fragile, a flicker of warmth,
so long buried I almost forgot.
I row toward it,
in the hope of a quiet, golden pause.
Amidst the chaos, the brush disappears.
I feel the void,
but I keep rowing and rowing,
my arms aching against the waves.
The stars whisper above:
Keep going. The universe hasn’t forsaken you.
I row, still searching for the glimmer of a horizon.
Exhausted, adrift—
until the brush returns.
Its weight in my hand feels familiar,
its magic undeniable.
Once again, I paint the skies,
fill the waters with colour,
and guide my boat toward the dream—
delicate, waiting,
alive in ways I never dared imagine.
This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thepoeticbrush.substack.com/subscribe
Thanks for reading The Poetic Brush! This post is public so feel free to share it.
The Poetic Brush is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thepoeticbrush.substack.com/subscribe