The Captain Sails Atop the Storm
Like sitting upon a sail at the storm’s peak,
riding its mastery, and black and blue artistry.
Underneath the vessel’s feet, it’s troubled us
to flip us end to end, to break its back. Pale
is the moon under many a gossamer sheet
of the criminal-clouds. The sun likewise quivers,
a sickly-green hue, as the seaweed, underneath
the careening boat, moves either like tentacles
or woman’s full-length hair, underneath our coffin.
The teeth of the sea seethes, it’s vengeance sure.
Its waves long to crush the wooden bones. Blast
of the storm’s nostril, like an explosive bull, and
the bolts of lightning like a game of competitive darts.
Like sitting upon a sail at the storm’s peak,
riding its mastery, and black and blue artistry.
I laugh with maniacal eyes. I scream at its pleasure.
It boasts. It taunts. The ants below my eyes, tossed
to and fro, caught in an onboard net of spilling waves.
The storm suddenly yawns, momentarily forgets
to care. The sun and the moon both force their way
through. It is the darndest thing that was seen that day.
The golden sun and the silver moon, joined by sunrise
and sunset, bloom over the horizon. The jaws of the sea
dropped, calmly looking on, a bit unsettled and cowering.
“Not this time,” I say with a wink. I nod at the sun and moon.
I slink down the pole and tell the wet and sniveling swabbies
to “clean the deck.” My compass points toward the treasure.
The weak knees and minds of all on board will be strongly
dealt with. Nothing will delay my task. I will get my wife back!
8/22/2022
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