Croat Poem |
THE LEAVING OF LIVERPOOL
Giant ferry berthed in Mersey River :
Tugs take the strain with a shiver,
Ropes creak and we cast off -
She timorously inches away from the wharf.
Bow comes round and leaves the dyke:
Lit buildings spin carousel-like -
Strong currents have us in tow.
Black vortices with bubbles below,
Inkiness of river water stark:
Hear it more than see it in the dark.
Big crewman in black woolly hat
Yelling to another in Serbo-Croat:
Looks like mayhem but they know
How to swing her into the river, so
That ropes, men, machines, move in sync
Floating her out on the ink.
Liverpool fades in red glow;
Stars emerge from hiding low.
On the frowning wave
We are alone in the dark, save
Our own lights cast ghostly
Into nothingness mostly.
Go inside and shut out the night.
In the morning Dublin in sight.
Copyright © Sidney Beck | Year Posted 2011
Croat Poem |
Paid the realtor’s fee
Collected key and learned how to jiggle it -
Some lock problem - corrosion in salt air.
In the silence of my own thought
Previous life in these rooms speaks of
Views of the clouds and sea.
Nothing much else to see, just think about
Their own childhood memories.
Drawers with screws nails and nylon line -
That’s out - my own junk in.
Shelves with a few books
“Cooking Fish with an Electric Wok”
and “Teach Yourself Serbo-Croat”,
and one ice-skate.
That lot goes in a bag for the junk store.
Make room for my own geology maps and
Collected Thomas Hardy novels.
Cigarette ash, empty chip bag, crumpled chocolate wrapper.
These people must have had serious teeth and lung problems.
Kitchen cupboards with packets of soup and instant coffee -
And yet they used a wok ?! ( Like Jeckyl and Hyde. )
Chuck out their rusty can-opener
Put in my own rusty can-opener.
Table will be better under the window.
That round rug they could never decide where to put -
I’ll put it in the back cupboard - hideous colour.
Curtains have to go too - wouldn’t be seen
Dead with curtains like that.
Some people have the weirdest taste.
Copyright © Sidney Beck | Year Posted 2010
Croat Poem |
BURNING OF A CROAT VILLAGE
Do you see the town that burns a flame
always it burns, always the same,
and has down through it's history
it's burning will forever be.
Can you hear the children playing here?
they play with death, they play with fear,
forever is their only game
where life it burns a constant flame.
Do you see the smoke that blinds the eye
of all the world, as chances die?
Always to burn, always the same
always to be engulfed in flame.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2017