The Foghorn of Yore
The days are long and unproud, they brood...
and please not the weary soul wearying in its wake;
when gnashing snow and rain bite
cold and bitter nights ---
smite the weary traveler soul
The spray of oceans fierce, the tattered sail
and shattered galleon hulls,
whipping winds above the dead below the waves,
heave torrid warning weeps,
to forgotten realms...
to misty denizens deep,
buried 'neath the seas
Fathom after fated fathom, bugle from mermaids call,
belated beckonings, doom from harp ringing culls;
'ere the storm ends many men;
they sound the trumpet and bugle ---
and sea urchin minstrels again,
'ere the storm ends many men
The masts seem as wooden-braced ghosts;
shackled to grimly merchant (boors) for sailor eyes ---
aghast for Captain Bold and his pickled laugh ---
To the eye! Straight on! Through her gutteral seas we go!
'ere the storm ends many men
The crest of waves rise monolith and mighty,
scolding beam and soul,
lancing forthwith all aboard ---
visions of ill-fated meagre pay;
of wife and child far and away,
forgotten faces...
lost in venomous haze
Terrible is the vanquished soul,
smitten to meaningless display,
needless heroics of Captains Bold,
(summoning water thundered fates)
sleeping seas,
then silence...
sweet silence...
***Dedicated to the sailors who lost their lives at sea***
Copyright © Keith O.J. Hunt | Year Posted 2017
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