Jill Martin | + Follow Poet |
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Sea Songs

His heart is with the winds
that set his spirit free,
enduring breeze that sets the sails
and guides him out to sea.

Sea rover fair with eyes as blue
as ocean’s deepest depth,
he hails the morning mist
and keenly sets about his quest.

The sea songs call his name again,
and he cannot resist
the feel of sea spray on his face
gentle as a fair maiden’s kiss.

For wanderlust has this young lad,
no port to claim his own,
he stands upon a galleon’s bow
forever meant to roam.

Oh noble buccaneer,
with a poet’s heart to feed,
he leaves behind fair lassie
with eyes of Erin green.

For pieces of eight
and gold doubloons to spare,
he sails into the early fog,
hungry for adventure is our gallant corsair.

So she waits upon the rocks
of far and distant shore,
with faithful heart and purity
sure he’ll sail to her once more.

She keeps a lantern in the window,
it’s flame burning bright,
a lighthouse in the darkness
to guide him on foggy night.

He fancies himself a pirate
sailing under blackened flag,
the skull and cross bones waves above,
a sailor’s nightmare, a soiled rag.

But our mariner sails the briny deep
with dreams of tales to forever pass,
and perhaps a shiny nugget
to bring home to his fair lass.

But oh, the days are salty
with ne’er a puff of breeze to slake
the raging thirst befallen those
with sweet water naught to take.

In the ensuing days ~

the crew went mad,
the captain slain,
and the scuppers ran with blood.
Our handsome sea farer lay face down
in the awful flood.

The boat rocked listless in gentle swells,
the sails lay flat against the main.
The bounteous treasure long forgotten,
glittering heap of ill gotten gains.

As weeks and months and years passed by,
and winters turned to springs,
our once fair lassie, wiser now,
no longer dreams such things

as bonnie lads that set sail home
and take a faithful wife,
as he learned there’s naught to gain
from such a roguish way of life.

Her pretty face is creased now,
lined from worry and age,
her shiny locks tinted
with silver and gray,

She walks along the shoreline
on a bright summer’s day,
shiny rocks and seashells
she gathers from the bay.

The pretty tinkling of glass
on the rocks draws her near
as a bottle lies bobbing
in the shallows so clear.

The cork it is swollen
and waterlogged there,
but what lies inside
she can hardly bear.

A ruby as red as the blood of life,
and a note that simply read . . .

“Lassie, may I take you for my wife.”

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