The Fog Horn

The Fog Horn short poem

Every 20 seconds, its lonely voice cries
Out to someone it will never meet
like an ancient voice, never ceasing
Through the cold rain and silent darkness
Standing, waiting, as patient as time
How many a forlorn sailor heard its call?
How many remember?
As they rode along the rocky shore
Dreaming of home
Yet the fog horn cries on its lonely perch
Unanswered throughout time
Silhouetted against a timeless shore
As sand castles wash away
A child’s voice, now silent
Stars peering down from above him
Offering empathy
For the loneliness
That only they would know
And time somehow loses its meaning
Its quality
Because time can’t be measured
By loneliness

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Rich Wright

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Rich is a writer, poet, photographer, creative, wilderness instructor, Eco therapist, explorer and lover of nature and life. He has been to the darkest of places and somehow made it out. He has always been guided by a force that knows what he needs to learn. He has humbled himself before this power many times and continues to move forward, sometimes backwards first, but still forward. Rich knows that his highest purpose is to support others with love and compassion. He is not sure where he is going but he remains awake and fearless on his journey.
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2 Comments on "The Fog Horn"

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“Stars peering down from above him
Offering empathy”, so true!! This loneliness is unique because of its eternal nature.



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‘Don’t create fog’, covering truth, people say, afraid of fog, For me, the invisible beauty, nothing to cover, but be here, With me, at least in the morning and evening, as my love, To cover ourselves, as we walk, embracing


Fog short poem

We all have secrets, don’t we? The secrets which unlock our soul, The mirror, It’s a portal, it’s the key, Shows my spirit, Black as coal. But why mist, why do you block? Let me see the scars so deep.

London Fog

London Fog short poem

In the London fog she walks like light Light as soft as the lofty stars Dreams are haunted Liverpool ships Herdwick sheep bleating by Lake Windermere She sounds the bells of destiny Oscar Wilde with a black cane Morose of