Conquest

The oceans speak of power, might, design.
I sit upon this cliff-top now and mourn
at tales the oceans tell to my decline.

They tell me of the ships they love to scorn.
They laugh regarding sailors they have drowned.
They cough up all the pieces they have torn.

Then noticing a silence—much of sound!
I hear no more the waves lash at cliff-shore,
and heavens, looking to the clouds, resound.

The tale, it loops around the green-spread moor,
and stretched-wide arms reach out to welcome me
as sages tell me of triumphant lore.

My hands have been destroyed by cruel sea,
but, looking back, a rising hand I see.

Ethan McGuire

Ethan McGuire is a writer and healthcare cybersecurity professional whose essays, fiction, poetry, reviews, song lyrics, and translations have appeared in Blue Unicorn, The Dispatch, Emerald Coast Review, Literary Matters, The New Verse News, The University Bookman, Voegelin View, and many other publications. Ethan is a contributing editor at New Verse Review and the author of two poetry chapbooks, Before Apokalypto and Songs for Christmas. His debut book-length poetry collection, Apocalypse Dance, will be released in 2025 by Wipf & Stock. Ethan grew up in the Missouri Ozarks, lived in the Florida Panhandle on the Gulf of Mexico for twelve years, and is currently settled in Fort Wayne, Indiana with his wife and their children. To find Ethan, visit his website TheFlummoxed.com.

Conquest

The oceans speak of power, might, design.
I sit upon this cliff-top now and mourn
at tales the oceans tell to my decline.

They tell me of the ships they love to scorn.
They laugh regarding sailors they have drowned.
They cough up all the pieces they have torn.

Then noticing a silence—much of sound!
I hear no more the waves lash at cliff-shore,
and heavens, looking to the clouds, resound.

The tale, it loops around the green-spread moor,
and stretched-wide arms reach out to welcome me
as sages tell me of triumphant lore.

My hands have been destroyed by cruel sea,
but, looking back, a rising hand I see.

Ethan McGuire

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The oceans speak of power, might, design. I sit upon this cliff-top now and mourn at tales the oceans tell to my decline.

They tell me of the ships they love to scorn. They laugh regarding sailors they have drowned. They cough up all the pieces they have torn.

Then noticing a silence—much of sound! I hear no more the waves lash at cliff-shore, and heavens, looking to the clouds, resound.

The tale, it loops around the green-spread moor, and stretched-wide arms reach out to welcome me as sages tell me of triumphant lore.

My hands have been destroyed by cruel sea, but, looking back, a rising hand I see.

Ethan McGuire

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Subscribe to VoegelinView via Email

The oceans speak of power, might, design.
I sit upon this cliff-top now and mourn
at tales the oceans tell to my decline.

They tell me of the ships they love to scorn.
They laugh regarding sailors they have drowned.
They cough up all the pieces they have torn.

Then noticing a silence—much of sound!
I hear no more the waves lash at cliff-shore,
and heavens, looking to the clouds, resound.

The tale, it loops around the green-spread moor,
and stretched-wide arms reach out to welcome me
as sages tell me of triumphant lore.

My hands have been destroyed by cruel sea,
but, looking back, a rising hand I see.