Tag: ocean imagery

  • Author’s Note

    This poem began as a collection of bad jokes.

    Or at least that was the excuse.

    Sometimes I start writing with no destination in mind. A phrase appears. Then a pun. Then another. A moon becomes a metaphor. Ducks end up in a rowboat. A piggybank loses all its cents.

    And somewhere in the middle of all that nonsense, something honest sneaks in.

    I’ve noticed that humor often works like a side door.

    There are things I can say directly. There are things I can say through poetry. And then there are things that feel easier to approach sideways, hidden beneath wordplay, jokes, and absurd little detours.

    This piece lives in that space.

    The speaker keeps drifting away from the point, circling it rather than naming it. Every joke becomes a delay tactic. Every pun buys another moment before the truth has to be spoken aloud.

    Because sometimes vulnerability isn’t difficult because you don’t know what you feel.

    Sometimes it’s difficult because you know exactly what you feel.

    And saying it out loud makes it real.

    The title’s parenthetical reference, “1, 4, 3,” comes from an old numerical shorthand for a phrase many people know by heart. I liked the idea of building an entire poem around avoiding a confession, only to hide it in plain sight.

    In the end, the poem says exactly what it means.

    It just takes the scenic route to get there.

    Rowan Evans


    A solitary figure stands on a moonlit beach beside gentle ocean waves while silver moonlight reflects across the water beneath a glowing night sky.
    Sometimes the longest journey to the truth is the scenic route—through moonlight, wordplay, ocean waves, and all the jokes we tell before we finally say what we mean.

    Ocean Waves (1, 4, 3)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I stand on the shore
    giving ocean waves—
    begging the tide
    to take me away.

    I trace the moon
    across the sky,
    I map it in rhyme.
    Line after—
    silver-lined metaphor.

    I got my ducks in a row
    boat—is that what the paddles for?
    I know the direction,
    what would I panic for?

    You might be confused—
    I know that made no sense,
    like an empty piggybank.
    No cents, thoughts scattered
    like loose change.

    I use jokes
    to mask the truth sometimes.

    It makes what I want to say,
    an easier pill to swallow—

    1 letter
    followed by 4
    then 3—

    Together, they mean
    you mean the most to me.
    By your side—

    is where I’m supposed to be.


    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [1-4-3]
    A poem about love that isn’t rooted in need, but in choice. About finding safety not as a cage, but as a place where fear finally stops running—and stays.

    [1-4-3 (Tongue Tied)]
    A vulnerable poem about holding back the words that matter most. 1-4-3 (Tongue Tied) explores fear, emotional suppression, and the quiet ache of wanting to say “I love you.”

    [What I Want to Say]
    Sometimes the hardest words to say are the simplest ones. What I Want to Say explores love, hesitation, and the fear of what might change if you finally speak.

    [No Parachute]
    A poetic reflection on falling in love without hesitation—raw, uncertain, and without a safety net.

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

  • Author’s Note

    Some dreams feel less like fantasy and more like memory.

    Not literal memory—something stranger than that.

    A feeling. A pull. A version of yourself that already exists somewhere ahead of you, waiting to be caught up to.

    I’ve written a lot about displacement, longing, and feeling emotionally out of sync with the place I was born into. But this piece isn’t rooted in resentment. It’s quieter than that.

    This poem came from the feeling of seeing glimpses of alignment before you’ve fully arrived there yet.

    The strange comfort of closing your eyes and feeling more connected to yourself in dreams than you do while awake.

    Not because sleep is escape— but because sometimes dreams reveal the shape of what your heart has been reaching toward all along.

    Rowan Evans


    A solitary figure stands at the edge of the ocean at twilight, looking toward distant city lights across the water as waves roll onto the shore.
    Some places feel familiar long before we ever arrive there.

    Memories From a Life Yet to Come
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I close my eyes—
    hear the crashing waves,
    taste the salt on my lips,
    feel the wind in my hair.

    I feel like I’m floating—
    even lying in bed.

    When I close my eyes—
    I travel in my head.

    It’s like I remember things
    I haven’t lived yet.
    Memories from a life
    yet to come.

    I see the life
    I want to lead,
    while I live the life
    I want to leave.

    Not because I hate it.

    I’m just misaligned.
    A little off-center,
    a little out of sync.

    It’s like I follow the waves,
    because I was never meant
    for this shore.

    Awake is the nightmare,
    asleep is when I open my eyes,
    and I can see the streets—

    where my life
    will finally align.


    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]