Sometimes it was as if

We were touching

Finger tips,

Maybe it was just

The magic


Inside the Seabird,

Maybe the memory

Of your lips

On the nape

Of my neck,

Whatever the reason,

In the quiet of the

Bald Pate Too,

It’s as if you

And I were




Stephen Nesbitt ©

From “Songs From A Seabird”

1:39 PM August 18, 2015


It’s all over

But the dying he said,

Leaning over a broken rail

On what once was a boat,

Now a haphazardly patched

Wooden hull tied to the dock,

Bits of plywood, boards, plastic,

Tin and what have you in a shanti

Town collage of how in the hell

Does one live there,

You’ll probably survive the boat,

No, he looked straight through me,

When she goes I go she’s all I have left,

Isn’t that the same for many of us,

Are we not clinging to something

That in reality is of little value.

Stephen Nesbitt ©

From “Songs From A Seabird”

12:49 PM August 17, 2015