Best Barnacled Poems
On ocean bowride below gentle titans peep
ghost ships of the Pacific hunt and chase -
where great barnacled seafarers of the deep
beneath the waves its blue waters grace.
Old sea tales of killing lance and spear tip
tell of the dying struggle of the flurry -
once more mighty hulks of beast and ship
haunt the dark shadows of the undersea.
Let no harpoon pierce your skin,
no flense cut and slice,
not body or fin.
Let no kill sound its death throes,
and may long
live the shout of “thar she blows!”
Far and yon an old boneyard whaling station
fluking bulls and cows circle the perilled pod,
and breach and dive in fabled echolocation
the bones of Ahab and wreck of the Pequod.
Still ghost ships old hunting grounds scout
that mystic echo whalesong far reaching,
and still cavernous mouths unmade to shout
trap by moon and tide on remote beaching.
Let no harpoon pierce your skin,
no flense cut and slice,
not body or fin.
Let no kill sound its death throes,
and may long
live the shout of “thar she blows!”
Written: July 1992
The tide worn and barnacled pylons
holding up the wharf wobble
on a sea swell like loose teeth.
Most of the decking planks
are missing. Those that remain
span joists with bones
of rotted wood fastened down
with rust. A chain wire fence
bars public access
and a large red sign
screams a message of danger.
I find myself looking through
the wire, asking who else
would stop by and perceive
a strange beauty here,
that in the wreck
of this derelict wharf,
something immutable
has found a home in the rot.
Its history
is not mine nor does it
conspire with a notion
to snare me with a kind
of enticing nostalgia.
What is here is more like
time chewed pick up sticks
stuck in mud.
And yet I don't know why
I am moved so, standing here
with all the reverence afforded
a relic of something almost holy,
why my pen should waste time
chasing such an elusive presence
around a page.
Perhaps what is here
is an essence of what my mind
cannot grasp, that other,
a mystery imprinted on a finite world,
a longed for sign of hope
in a language known only
to the soul - or is it simply
something more mundane,
slowly loosening the pylons
holding up my brain.
Arrogant autocratic Ahab
Sails set seaward
Heartless harpoon high
Wind wracked Waves
Revenge rage regret
Wretched white whale
Opaque Ocean oblivious
Deep dark dangerous
Titanic terrors traversing
Captain callous cold
Blood bought bonds
Obsidian oaths ordured
Foreboding fears fester
Sacrosanct silent seas
Motionless midst moonset
Dim daylight dawned
Spray shot skyward
Lithe Longboats launched
Barnacled Behemoth Breaching
Heartless harpoons hefted
Destruction death defeat
Ahab alone as Achilles did battle
Poised proud purposeful in battle
Long lance light in hand for battle
White whale welcomes the battle
Dives deep deep to rise to the battle
Man monster meet to do battle
The sea is still, it has no tale to tell
The sirens and mermaids
called up from the deep,
untangled mesh nets
blithely held out by sleep.
There the first to emerge
were the sighs and the nods,
they sank then resurfaced
in clear Morphean pods.
I found myself wandering
on a wide stretch of beach.
My mind squeezed like a lemon,
my thoughts fuzzed like a peach.
When the sheet of fog lifted,
I walked through the haze,
what’d been transfixed by the night
now transformed into day.
Bands of green kelp
had encircled my feet.
Sand dollars tossed out
from the wallets of seas.
The tang in the air
by the water and brine,
awoke to my senses
other days hazed by time.
Sunk then in a sinkhole;
my heart now clanged a bell!
I was no longer an oyster
in a barnacled shell.
I kicked off the seaweed,
splashed through the shoreline,
feeling refreshingly freed
from that soul ravaged time.
I knew I’d still wonder
about Calamity Clam.
Had he hid from the onslaught,
become a sea star’s sea ham?
Ouf…no longer my problem,
I was no agent by rights.
Then I stepped on an object
and, out went the lights!
I hopped in frustration
with great hurt I did bow.
I bellowed out pain
like an angry sea cow.
With one mighty scoop
he was constained in my hand.
How to dispose of the despicable?
I felt seared by a brand.
Covertly I gazed
at this nemesis of fear.
Then I gave a smart tug
to his mossy green beard.
The thoughts that I harbored
were not of my decree.
I hurled him out, with three skips,
he sank back into the sea.
Deep ocean of azure blue
Overhead seagulls circling flew
In constant motion, heaving sides
The old merchant ship upon it rides
Rust scorched it's barnacled coat
Salt encrusted railings forever afloat
On the horizon's sinking sun's amber glow
Beckons enticingly along the flow
New moon appearing from out of the west
Silvery waves splintering against foamy crest
Figures emerging from the hold below
Peering skywards at the star studded show
Then into action to each their appointed task
Some heaving ropes, others mounting the mast
All working together to achieve one aim
To secure the sails aloft the bounteous main
A rumble of thunder and a flash lightening sound
Mountainous waves gather pace all around
Working in unison the crew now complete
All tasks meritorious as a well drilled fleet
A shout from the Captain, as the thunder roars
Urgently gesticulating "secure the oars"
Rain clashing as in sword play
Freeze drench they stand
As they see the top sail rend
Now all secured they disappear down
Below decks they ruminate
All worrying, no sound
Then vocal in assumptions from mate to mate
Until the Captain shouts "Silence no need for this din,
I shall calculate our bearings, now where to begin?"
Spreading out his charts he clears cups for a space
Each man concentrating, deep intent on each face
"Look Captain", one points "there's the Cape of Good Hope
enough time to manoeuvre and with luck stay afloat"
The temperature plummets and the crew mill around
No warmth except mittens and blankets draped around
The storm is abating and two bells is called
As each man takes turn to pump until hauled
Buckets of water overboard they keep on
Clearing sea water over gunnels, until all is gone
Ship breaking water all in it's wake
No matter the weather only headway to make
Dolphins leaping and diving below
Thoughts turn to seamen of long ago
Royal Navy Standards, a jolly jack tar
Plotting each course by the Northern Star
Pirate vessels hoisting their skull and crossbones
Biting winds moaning and pelting hailstones
Sailing ships with elaborate sails
Above the wind, sailors hearty hales
Anchorage sought and a comfortable berth
Homeward port reached and feet on the earth.
The Love boat
Love is such a tossed about word
‘I love you’ we say
But often we neglect to see
We have forgotten to truly care
A rough word written or spoken
Can often break a heart
Have we become so calloused
Like the barnacled hull of a ship
Desensitized to understand
It’s the little things that cause us
A smooth or a rough sail
Or a total wreck
Maybe to have a scrapping down
We’ll sail smoother
On our great ocean voyage
Even when the waves swell
And almost swallow us whole
If we are smoother bottomed
Our stormy ride will not leave us
Quite the shipwreck
© Brenda V Northeast 4 Sept. 2011
Climbing o’er the jagged rocks reddened by the setting Sun
Still the mellow roar went on cadenced by a crashing one
Roaring on the rocks below, the barnacled and musseled throw
A carpet of surprise, the water rushing down in waterfalls
Flashing in the sparkling sun the seagull sails with shrieking calls
Glowing amber sunset, the reddened waves reflect the light
Fashioned like some precious gems racing toward the night
The spectacle the ocean bears
Its strength and glory can’t compare
To anything we find on land
Or things we built with our own hand
The glory of the living sea
Will always be a mystery
Harpoon raised,
the chaser boat in full flight.
Coiled rope, explosive head,
cold steel reflects
the fading light.
Oil spill blood
surrounds the ship,
a flag aloft with Japanese crest.
Shouts of glee, victory sweet,
the death roll,
this pathetic conquest.
Flencers cut like guillotines,
their knives always the sharpest.
Flesh and bone, it’s all the same
to these murderers,
these licensed rapists.
Great barnacled
mammals of the deep,
at the mercy of the harpooner.
Their kill lies on the plate
of some old world
foreign consumer.
One day children
will ask what’s a whale,
what happened to the species?
And why is the only thing
left of their home now
graveyards of the seas?
Written: circa 1994
———
Wrote this many moons ago
but sadly the hunt still goes
on in the name of science.
The Ruba’iyat of Créteil Lake – Part Eleven
Once a wounded turtle dove ground out its pain in a bare poplar
When autumn sunset bid bitter farewells to the lone star
Three black liana lassies trudging homeward swayed to strains:
‘It’s not a second, Seven seconds away,’ from Africa
One swore she saw the Bard linger by the reedy marshes
‘Just as long as I stay, I’ll be waiting,’ at her haunches
Where the Préfecture’s tinted glasses ricochet sunset sadness
Where the long low wooden wharfs burst pyrotechnic gushes
Here where her weedy mud periods foul barnacled autumns
Where sharp shafts of icicles shoot shut her twitching bottoms
And in her gripping gash the killing cold relent geothermal
Sweet Nature yet watches over the Maudite Maid of Dungeons
Where the Bard of the lost astral eye keeps vigil in his tent
Astral pebbles skim over her sleek seductive juicy rent
“Ghalatan Ghalatan hami ravad ta bun-i-ku”
No sign of her release at day’s end when autumn’s old and spent
Oh! Stay yet with Ol’ Khayyam! Ye! Dream-tongued Lass of Lahore
Lest he pine waste away let dry poesy’s wine ever more
While the lush Maiden of the Main dreams on for all silver tongues
The stuff of such dreams as stuff universal words into Law!
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Remember watching the tide
The sandpipers around
The barnacled pillars of the wharf
Everything wet, you silky and soft
Drifting Away
All alone one might think they stand in muddy water unclear
Now feeling like a drowned rat in time and not utter a peep,
Where all at once there might have been a wooden pier
Like a wooden driver pilings driven in still waters so deep.
Crustily, dusty and maybe even barnacled big and beside
Against a ravaging, descending shoreline as if it were cascading,
As though in silent trembling tenors when at once it was denied,
Then came in full force as if it was intended to be tending.
In courageous flow and dubious angles as in endless angles tilted
Against thundering tumultuous wind and wave at raging hand
Like the all elusive lost lonely lovers of long and been jilted
For all would think that they were stuck in between sea and land.
Written:25/04/2016
I’ve been drifting for such a long time
This old ship with its seafaring ways
But big waves ever harder to climb
Seem to threaten to shorten my days
This old ship and its seafaring ways
Barnacled heavy with bowing of masts
Seem to threaten to shorten my days
I just wonder how long I will last
Barnacled heavy with bowing of masts
For these years I’ve refused His strong hand
I just wonder how long I will last
Till I find once again some soft sand
For these years I’ve refused His strong hand
And though parched have rejected His drink
Till I find once again some soft sand
I deserve from my choices to sink
And though parched have rejected His drink
I detect that the waters recede
I deserve from my choices to sink
But instead for His mercy I’ll plead
I detect that the waters recede
And so reach for the bent cross of iron
But instead for His mercy I’ll plead
Casting rope with the weight so required
And so reach for the bent cross of iron
I expect ocean’s floor to be rough
Casting rope with the weight so required
For the anchor He gives is enough
I expect ocean’s floor to be rough
I’ve been drifting for such a long time
For the anchor He gives is enough
And the hills in His steps I will climb
Day joined to expired day,
nights lost to darkest night.
Another year has defected
to the phalanx arrayed against us,
their iron hooves now thundering,
their sheer number mocking
our plundered ranks.
Do we then muffle our laughter,
and await the slaughter?
Do we extend our wrists,
by the flood of years barnacled,
offer them to the tides to be manacled?
But no, we shall not forfeit the coming dawns,
nor grovel before time’s ghastly taunts.
Let us thumb our noses at these turncoat hours,
so their cackles shall forever be jarred by our song,
their armors singed by our bonfires,
and their bloating flesh branded with our footprints!
Let us empty ourselves into tomorrow
until we’ve drained our marrow,
so that the moons shall remember
that one sepia heartbeat in time
when we rose to the smiting hand,
again and again,
until we were deaf
to our hearts’ murmurs
and blind to the stars.
Christmas for stolid, hermetic recluse
Recidivistic mind all sentimentality doth refuse
Token, lifeless symbols; pageantry will recuse
Pawned, second-hand trinkets now in disuse
Barnacled to limbs drooping to spindling angles obtuse
Garnishments that jilting time accrues
Hung sloppily, stunted timber's temporal dues
Strings of patchwork lights will fuse
Faded colored-cones baring every bruise
Creased garlands as tawny ropes the girth noose
Strands of tarnished ice sickles futility to infuse
Stale candy canes, last year's refuse
Dangling from needles now frayed, loose
A corrugated tin star the pinnacle to abuse
Under the tree, ribbonless, empty boxes complete the ruse
no shortage of familiar metier real
(material) aye attest
welling up within thy breast
merely a predicament how to winnow
junk bonded barnacled
accretion encrusted
amidst gems buried
within treasure chest,
yet vigilant to sift,
viz figurative fine tooth comb
uprooting excrescence laired plethora
incognito, sans faux
couture doggerel habiliment dressed
necessitating painstaking
poetic rock climbing
ala scaling Mount Everest
imbedding, hooking, grappling
fingered duple crampons
aye con fessed
to myself, the futility
to wrest Shakespearean nuggets,
which analogy hyperbole you guessed
nor does modesty allow me feeble effort
(trite) on par with August bard,
who would rank him,
the highest allotted value
upon assigned (absolute)
value of playing card,
hence tis the gold standard thee
verse a tile scribe based
at Stratford on Avon
this here wordsmith wields
his own literary might always on guard
to stave reprehensible tar tarred plaque
like encrustation glued hard
akin to a geode methodical
mother lode extraction jarred
by the slightest distraction,
thus with bold
ness sigh hermetically
seal off every cerebral fold
vectors against superfluous mind chatter
can upend fragile tenuous hold
when merest wisp of nearly
elusive mental thread escapes,
i feign scold
ding this paperback
bestseller wannabe with told
cha so Harris, thus
keep dreaming envisioning
an green acred Edenic demesne
sprawling across wide webbed wold.