“Abandon ship and from her flee
Better her than all be lost to sea.”
“First Mate, be rendered silent,” is the captain’s plea
“Dear crew, I beg, depart not, stay along with me.”
But Admiral calls from ships numbered three.
“Leave Elpida alone, and Captain, for drowning.”
Then company vanished, quick as a wink.
Left small, untested sailboat to sink.
Night reached down on vast ocean’s face,
And soon sea’s swells were by darkness embraced
Light blazed cross the sky, wind roared from the heat.
The blue’s anger and rage against terrified vessel did beat.
More and most fiercely Elpida battled the deep.
Up ‘til the moment Earth sunk in her teeth.
The storm screamed on, endless as the heavens are deep.
And for half a score years, the sun, from Captain's eyes, night did keep.
For two times for every five, did the captain despair
Lost upon foreign soil, abandon by fleet out there.
To stumble upon natives, fate had it be.
An amiable bunch, again the odd number three.
To restore broken vessel labored the four
Sew up the hull, repair ruptured floors.
And for time, two times, and three times more
Toiled this group ’til there was work no more.
And the sun, as, of course, it would be
Broke the horizon and bore new day on the sea.
Set the deserted again to conquer the deep.
No armada to accompany, but lone Captain, no fleet.
And now, even now, sails Elpida Berregin.
Meeting new worlds by way of the sea.
In all her travels she met again her former fleet,
But Captain did not the Admiral re-meet.
For they had become galleys of ghosts;
Galleys to whom the dead were tending.
Offering up a prayer, Captain took his leave,
And having left, returned to journeying.
“Abandon ship and from her flee.”
Perhaps they, but never me.
Elpida Berregin, mighty galleon proved by sea,
A crew member, forever yours, will I be,
And will serve your Captain most faithfully.
Marvellous Mellow Glass of Chardonnay
What was my life before you came my way?
My parched throat and tongue, my taste buds were rife,
My heart, my mouth, with the raw taste of life!
I would sweat by my brawn, or by my brows,
Through the days and nights, for a wife and house;
But, with a Mellow Glass of Chardonnay,
My troubles and strife’s seem to wash away!
My heart, my mouth, would taste the sprite of life
If you were woman, I’d make you my wife!
*A poem written on a request from Keith Jackson AM.
There is little difference between us.
It is as if Narcissus gazed again
to catch a glimpse of us for just a moment;
ourselves as echoes
Products of a common seed, divided.
Tiny ripples reflecting back at me.
Is this the way Narcissus felt, forever
gazing in a pool?
Living portrait of whom I see as me.
A perfect duplicate in flesh and blood
Where I end you start, and seem to be
my echo and ripple.
For Skat's Ode Contest
THEY graze in beauty on the land
of grassy glades and dewy dales,
and all that's best of dark and tanned
meets in their aspect and their tails;
thus mellowed to that tender hand
which Shepherd to gentle glen compels.
One fleece the more, one hair the less,
had half repaired the shearless grace
which wreathes in every woolen tress
or darkly tightens o'er their face,
where mouths serenely sweet express
how pure, how dear their grazing-place.
And on that rump and o'er that round
so strong, so firm, yet elegant,
the baas that win, the hooves that bound,
but tell of days in meadows spent—
a flock at peace with all around,
a drove whose milk is innocent.
01/26/2014, "First Poem On Soup" Contest
I played my part, in the praise of the Lord,
Standing by the choir box, on my own accord,
Deft hands created a heart, centuries old,
With gilded corners and polished wood, set my soul,
The young little fingers of a fairy, that kissed,
Struck a hammer, in my strings lips,
A mild tap of dance, on the brass right foot,
Would sustain my melody into an eternal mood,
Crafted with the ability, to sound like a lark,
Across octaves and sharps, six and half,
The bard who was deaf, could hear through my touch,
And create symphonies, for an interminable march,
When the ‘Rose of England’, reached the Lords’ Abode,
Elton’s tenor, rained heavens, on a grieving road,
With my hammers and tongs, I make the world think deep,
Or weave a sweet lullaby, that puts little hearts to sleep,
Needless to spell, I, reside in your hearts,
In exultation or sorrow, I am always your part.
I am the one who once traveled by flight and foot
And now I slither around on my round-body
My tongue has always been and still is split in half
In my first stage of life my speeches consisted of fire-bursts, ice-shards, smoke rings, and whirling-wild-winds
Now my speeches are speedy rollings-of-the-tongues and a-spitting venom-filled saliva
Horned was I back in the days after I had hatched out of my egg
Now my mushroom-like head consists of my eyes, my nostrils, and my ears
Once I had massive teeth to help me emasculate my food
And now I must swallow all of my food whole
Many primitive cultures have used me as a symbol for both good and evil
I symbolize the Morning Star, and have been blessed with many different names
Nevertheless, I am worshiped by many cultures of mankind as a powerful being
I am the Light-Bringer, and the Knowledge-Bringer to mankind and am similar to Prometheus
I seduced Eve to bite the apple in order that she may have knowledge and become like Yahweh
I am also Quetzalcoatl, the revered sky god of the Aztecs
Without the symbolism that mankind has placed upon me I am nothing more than a plain reptile
Loveliness that's deep and that's rare
is like a rose that blooms afresh
(like the rosebud that's new and fair);
lovely in aspect and in flesh,
it lives in sunlight without care
letting all the sky breathe and mesh.
Its loveliness is hard to find
unspoiled and as innocent;
and with its tint and with its rind
it quells my musing discontent.
As it sighs (softly and from behind),
my nose takes in its lovely scent.
Its beauty transcends its locus,
imbuing the eyes of my soul
with romantic, ideal focus
that makes the heart and the mind whole:
without it the world seems callous
and grace would not be in control.
SHE glides with grace, like one in love
with love itself and all that’s lush;
and when the mythic sprites above
unloose her from the morning's blush,
she descends like the milk-white dove
with the notes of a singing thrush.
With golden locks, as light as air,
and liquid, limpid eyes most blue,
none is like her or can compare
to her beauty and lovely hue
which lift the humble souls that dare
come to her for her balmy dew.
As wind and air Nymph and a muse
with the nimbused crest of a saint
which no man can therefore refuse
or with mean words tarnish or taint,--
then let all Creatures freely choose
to honor her without constraint.
1.) Ngoc Nguyen; 2.) Nature motif; 3.) for "Impress me II ! ( Old/New )" Contest
The juggler moves his fingers fast,
he likes to smile and to deceive,
when people laugh at his recast,
his goal's higher things to achieve,
for Bathsheba applauds and laughs.
Her hands she claps with sullen glee,
changed him to a marionette,
that sprawls for her obediently,
jinxed tragicomical duette,
he jumps defeating gravity.
The juggler walks on tightened rope,
St. Bernard will protect his act,
frail equilibrium's postponed,
he'll pass across, crows' croaks detract,
agleam granite pavement's below.
Unmoved he laid, (lost souls misgive) ,
the juggler sprawled did not bemoan,
the sawbones's charlatan and thief,
as Bathsheba failed to dethrone,
the clown's tangential unknown grief.
© G. V. 12/23/2012, All Rights Reserved
( Iambic tetrameter form.)