Mito Beach 海

There is a fierce joy in witnessing God's power on display in the ocean. 

For that reason, this post will be photos of my Mito beach with the power of poetry.

The Wide Ocean 

by Pablo Neruda

Ocean, if you were to give, a measure, a ferment, a fruit

of your gifts and destructions, into my hand,

I would choose your far-off repose, your contour of steel,

your vigilant spaces of air and darkness,

and the power of your white tongue,

that shatters and overthrows columns,

breaking them down to your proper purity.

The falling wave,
arch of identity, shattering feathers,
is only spume when it clears, 
and returns to its source, unconsumed.

Not the final breaker, heavy with brine,

that thunders onshore, and creates

the silence of sand, that encircles the world,

but the inner spaces of force,

the naked power of the waters,

the immoveable solitude, brimming with lives 

that death cannot touch, the visceral green

of consuming totality.

As I Ebb'D With The Ocean Of Life - 

by Walt Whitman

As I ebb'd with the ocean of life,

As I wended the shores I know,

As I walk'd where the ripples continually wash,

musing late in the autumn day, gazing off southward,

Chaff, straw, splinters of wood, weeds, and the sea-gluten,

Scum, scales from shining rocks, leaves of salt-lettuce, left by the tide,

Miles walking, the sound of breaking waves the other side of me,

As I wend to the shores I know not,

Listing to the dirge, the voices of men and women wreck'd,

As I inhale the impalpable breezes that set in upon me,

As the ocean so mysterious rolls toward me closer and closer,

I too but signify at the utmost a little wash'd-up drift,

A few sands and dead leaves to gather,

Gather, and merge myself as part of the sands and drift.

Ebb, ocean of life, (the flow will return,)

Cease not your moaning you fierce old mother,

Rustle not up so hoarse and angry against my feet as I touch you or gather from you.

Me and mine, loose windrows, little corpses,

Froth, snowy white, and bubbles,

(See, from my dead lips the ooze exuding at last,

See, the prismatic colors glistening and rolling,)

Musing, pondering, a breath, a briny tear, a dab of liquid or soil,

Up just as much out of fathomless workings fermented and thrown,

A limp blossom or two, torn, just as much over waves floating, drifted at random,

I perceive I have not really understood any thing, not a single object,

 and that no man ever can,

Nature here in sight of the sea taking advantage of me to dart; upon me and sting me,
Because I have dared to open my mouth to sing at all.

Apostrophe To The Ocean - 

Poem by George Gordon Byron

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,

There is a rapture on the lonely shore,

There is society where none intrudes,

By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:

I love not Man the less, but Nature more,

From these our interviews, in which I steal

From all I may be, or have been before,

To feel what I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

…

And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy

Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be

Borne like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy

I wantoned with thy breakers—they to me

Were a delight; and if the freshening sea

Made them a terror—'twas a pleasing fear,

For I was as it were a child of thee,

And trusted to thy billows far and near,

And laid my hand upon thy mane—as I do here. 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean—roll!