Word play...keeps me young at heart

As long as I can recall, I have written whatever was in my heart or on my heart. It helped to heal the pain, express feelings otherwise hard to convey, and eased any stress in my life. It is also quite enjoyable to create, to pen, even to give birth to poetry or prose. It is only natural that I would blog at this point in my life now even though I am only somewhat technologically adept.
I find inspiration in different places and situations which I find inviting, comforting, even alluring. One of my favorite places to compose ingenious work is at the seashore or beach, or whichever you prefer to call it...the distinction can be made by the locale. I find when you are in the southeast United States you go to the "beach"...be it on the Atlantic or the Gulf side. In the Northeast they refer to the the beach as the "shore." But whatever the vernacular or colloquial term--it is still quite an inspiring place to be, at least for me.
Part of the lure of the seashore, of course, is the immenseness and grandeur of it all. I am lulled and coaxed by the rote (the noise of the surf or waves breaking on or near the shore) of the water. The smell of the salt air is also an alluring condition of the beach. It is also wonderful for your sinuses and your lungs, but that must be written of in a different blog.
One afternoon, I found myself quite alone on Blue Mountain Beach on the Gulf of Mexico between Panama City and Fort Walton Beach--and various points also between--the sunset was in gentle progress, the sky was a glorious color, and the water an emerald green closer to the shoreline. The high tide now diminishing had washed away any evidence that another person had even walked on the sand that day. My pen painted the scene in one of my favorite poems. I call it

At Ebb Tide
The ocean's voice is a gentle rush
Of ebb tide's waning sound.
The seagulls dance in shallow pools
And feed from the salty ground.
Sandpipers pick amongst the gulls--
Their share of ocean's bounty claim;
And cast a shadow upon the sand
By the sky's dwindling flame.
The sun will be but an ember soon
As it reaches for that heaven-sent time
Where the sky meets the earth
And forms a water-etched line.
The shallows are an emerald green,
But I watch for they will stray
To where the water turns a dark, dark blue
And then a darker gray.
I come to the sea when I am alone;
I walk the shore untrod.
I come to the sea to partake of the beauty
When I need to meet with God.
...1994

For a while I worked as a newspaper reporter and columnist. I loved the writing part of the job...but I must admit, I was not a good reporter. I just did not have that feeding frenzy instinct that leads good reporters to glean all the facts--especially in cases where people were suffering, hurt, or...dead. I covered several cases of such human misfortune. I had a hard time sticking a tape recorder or even a pad and pen, that would reflect in the tears, into the faces of victims and their families and asking them how they felt as they watched their house burn to the ground, when they first found out someone had died, was missing, etc. etc. etc.—or other equally asinine questions.
I interviewed quite a few people for human interest stories and mostly what I learned was many people confuse who they are with the worldly possessions they have accumulated. What a shame.
While writing for one small weekly publication, my editor used the term "wordsmith" quite often. I am not sure what one must do to be officially, and perhaps technically, deemed a wordsmith....I do sometimes hammer out the words to make them express my intent...but never under a spreading chestnut tree...so, I am probably not to be considered a wordsmith.
I love words and the sound they make on paper. But it is merely the word play that keeps me young at heart.