Best Masts Poems
Rippling waters moving
feeling hypnotically soothing
under our boat it rocks us
under its spell it locks us
misty fog slightly breezing
dampening the salty air we’re breathing
over our shoulders it shrouds us
silhouetting the masts around us
rippling waters moving
feeling hypnotically soothing
its rhythmic ride tells us
to give in and let it lull us
moody night skies
reveal nothing to our eyes
not the light of the moon or a star
but secrecy’s a seductress where we are
rippling waters moving
feeling hypnotically soothing
sultry sway hypnotizes us
as Eros glamorizes us
Susan Ashley
May 17, 2019
*In Greek mythology, Eros is the Greek god of love.*
Autumn unreeled
Forests shaken hollow
settling
like shipwrecked beauty
Tree masts of moss
Colourful mobs of decay
unspooling
Last strands of conceit
Rag tag laurels
capsized
casual drift of sacrifice
Diced leaves of October,
change
that drains potency
Resplendent wreckage
An unraveling season
faint
in slim, silvered light
Outcomes unavoidable
with fertility plundered
Gold leaf patches
fallen
treasures washed overboard
a trail of flotsam
in the lost ego of summer
Ragged contortion
in sea-water cold
in a quiet that marks
transition
Poem composed: Spring 2020
(Revised September 29th, 2022)
(In the words of a happy little mermaid)
I slide through silky cerulean seas
Silently swimming wherever I please;
I glide through water with buttery ease,
With skin that is smoother than ivory keys.
There are secret gardens I love to explore
Far below the world on the ocean floor,
Where are colors no man has seen before
Hidden in an underwater treasure store.
Deeper down in the sea, where I go on a whim,
The light is so far it is grayish and dim;
There the masts of shipwrecks rise dark and slim,
And coins of gold line passages I swim.
On tropical islands with flowing waves
I play in uncharted, mysterious caves,
Or nap in the sunlight's golden rays
In a silent shoal on balmy days.
I pick pretty flowers to put in my hair
And splash in the shallows with never a care;
The droplets shine like diamonds in the air,
Rising and falling like a crystal flare.
When the day is over, the dolphins sing mass
And the sun sets fire on the leaping bass,
Then I lie in a bed much clearer than glass
And pray a sweet dream for this mermaid lass.
Burnished gold, aged bronze patinaed by the firelight
singed by sullen Sol, not stayed by Poseidon's hand;
aflame, aflame, tall ships burn, see their masts ignite.
Impenitent, sky rains ash blackening the night.
Fire sends a smoky pall upon the sea and land,
burnished gold, aged bronze patinaed by the firelight.
Fire eats: the air, snuffs man's breath; highlighting their plight,
all hands on deck, the Captain calls, out his command.
Aflame, aflame, tall ship burns, see their masts ignite.
Hell's inferno comes calling on this sun lit night,
foul winds blow, fire roars, and so the flames are fanned;
burnished gold, aged bronze patinaed by the firelight.
Without their ship, crews are lost to a debtors blight.
Up the went like scarecrows shriven by the brand,
aflame, aflame, tall ships burn, see their masts ignite.
Cinder shower catch the dock; workers run in fright.
Pain and heartache fill the wharf; still, they must disband.
Burnished gold, aged bronze patinaed by the firelight
aflame, aflame, tall ships burn, see their masts ignite.
Keelmen Heaving in Coals by Night' by Turner
Published by Dual Coast 2014
Beneath thunderous waves near craggy shores
Exist in frigid seas the ancient men of cold blue
Fallen angels who now cast to earth are kind no more
Courageous seaman’s souls they look to accrue.
Imprudent men have eternally suffered
Callously the blue men of Minch, have crested the waves
Pursuing those without wit, for the challenge that’s offered
Condemning fools forever to the brinies depths and it’s caves.
Beware of the blue men and their command of the seas.
Fierce waves will extend from a flick of their tails,
Exhaling breathe launches a furious breeze
Masts shall be shattered; and shredded are sails.
Consider angels as fair, but fear the blue men of the Minch
Salvation will always encroach with a twist
Quick be the poets, whose conviction won’t flinch
Sheltered passage from verse, is the pardon, that blue men insist.
Trading verse with the devil, would be sounder for souls
Blue men of Minch have true depth to both rhyme and their prose
Brandish poems from heart and the head instead of old scrolls
Caution for that cold clench of the sea, is the poet that froze.
I was born to sail.
I can hear whispers of the ocean calling me,
but there are no tides upon this mantlepiece.
I cannot set sail, trapped in this glass cocoon,
collecting dust.. I am no resting place for flies.
Eyes gaze at me in wonderment,
at the patience and precision of my imprisonment,
unaware my masts are raised.... Waiting,
for the seal to break and set me free upon open waters.
In the confinement of my stillness,
I remain poised for this fortress to shatter.
This shield may preserve my charm,
but its glass walls prevent a voyage of purpose,
where I can feel the breeze and
admire my reflection on waves.
Burnished gold, aged bronze patinaed by the firelight
singed by sullen Sol, not stayed by Poseidon's hand;
aflame, aflame, the tall ship burns, see the masts ignite.
Unpenitent the sky rains ash blackening the night
the fire sends a smoky pall upon the sea and land
burnished gold, aged bronze patinaed by the firelight.
Fire eats the air, it snuffs man's breath, death maybe their plight,
yet, all hands come to the Captains call, his to command
aflame, aflame, the tall ship burns, see the masts ignite.
Hell's inferno's come a calling on this sun lit night
a foul wind blows, the fire roars, and so the flames are fanned
burnished gold, aged bronze patinaed by the firelight.
Without their ship, the crew were lost, debtors they'd alight
they went up like straw scarecrows shriven by the brand
aflame, aflame, the tall ships burn, see their masts ignite.
Burning cinders catch the dock, the workers run in fright.
Pain and heart ache fill the wharf still they must disband.
Burnished gold, aged bronze patinaed by the firelight
aflame, aflame, the tall ship burns, see the masts ignite.
See About the poem
SENSITIVITY
They’re all ignored by us, but they have feelings too :
A black gravestone in New York, down in the world,
Recalling its halcyon days as a part of
The impressive strata at Palisades Park.
The statue in the museum of Androcles and the Lion
Daydreaming - oh, for the good old days just lying sunbaked
On the beach surrounded by
Fossil shells and shrimp at Sables d’ Olonne,
With the feet of the famous resting gently on you.
And the marble fireplace in our living room -
He can still see in his mind’s eye
The Carrara quarries in bygone days…..
Why, some of his great-grand-daddies were
Hacked out of there and taken to Rome for the Via Appia.
Oh yes, stones have feelings too.
My carved ship-of-the-line from Nelson’s navy
With her masts and spars and decks and cabins
Lies awake at night thinking of her days
In the pine forests of Norway; and next to her
This old cedar jewellery box, with intoxicating
Smells of the coast at Prince Rupert
Where she lay on the beach for weeks
Before the saw mill changed her shape and sent her to me.
The new sapele door in our hall spends hours
Wishing for his buddies in the jungles of Uganda
Where the ants would tickle you
Half to death with their constant scurrying
Up and down your branches, building this or that.
Listen closely and he’ll boast that some
of his relatives ended their days as propellers
on German zeppelins, I kid you not.
Everyone has to feel special.
And what about those unassuming steel forks in my drawer
who can still tell stories
Of their days as iron ore in Finland,
And how their brother Ernie became
A bumper on the President’s limo (supposedly).
Or my wife’s copper bracelets with their pathetic tales
Of being shipped from Cyprus
and remelted into ingots in Bimingham.
I have overheard the wings of a 747
Recollecting in the hangars at night
How their existence as bauxite in Jamaica was so idyllic,
“Wit all dat reggae and smokin’ and god knows what, man.”
They too have their memories.
And, man, de smell in dat hangar!
my friend,
beacon, bright ...
how you have bewitched my years,
dancing on the wall of my room since my first memory,
a warm sweep of security and steadiness,
never failing - ever true ...
blinking me to sleep each night like a prayer -
"I'm here! - I watch! - You're safe!"
I wonder ...
are you really a warning?
Or do you wink your sparkling eye
only to taunt the unwary prey at sea?
Schooners, barques, cutters, and frigates,
wagging their masts like bony fingers,
admonishing you for your questionable intent.
How many have fallen for your treachery in ages past,
turned to driftwood and terror by your crimped and craggy skirt?
Not even Neptune's raging ire can affect your flicker,
for you have stood, steadfast and bold,
through the wickedest of gales ...
splitting the beastly billows with dire disregard,
and turning the tempest's tides
to naught but foam and spray.
But your days are numbered, old friend,
the world spins far too fast these days for your kind ...
your lights being snuffed by digits and dials,
and the indifference of technology.
But I shall remember you ...
your pulse will live on in my mind,
and in the hearts of all those who knew you -
all those who survived for your sake ...
and numbered your glinting gaze.
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***
If I didn't drip honey from my tongue each time I drew you close,
would I still leave immutable marks upon your heart my love?
If this holiest of grail this mouth of mine
spoke the art of love to you with the ingress of a mime
would you feel the essence of what I was meant to say to you,
through this un-pierceable, silence;
If I never learnt to write a poem or share one single line
through yielding quill or bleeding ink,
would you allow me to show you my brailing thoughts
and take you to the summit, despite my unspoken word.
Would you still love me, if I wasn't a poet
or if my words were silent ships sailing through the open sky,
then would you accompany me mute, or whisper me goodbye !
If we touched the harbor of each other's thoughts,
could we then be love and share each other's truth,
unspoken side by side, like two silent masts.
Floccinaucinihilipilification And Very Little Soul
(Third and Final Poem- In A Parable style)
Come on down here says the spider to fearful fly
this day weather is so fine and I am your friend
be free, and into my soft web, you shall not die
for greater pleasure come hither, your time here spend.
Now wise old owl looks on, hears and sees this charade
and in loud blasts hoots out his own angry replies
for mother Nature, hath all living creatures made
within her heart of hearts hears all their weeping cries.
Spider hears wizened, infuriated owl's blasts
continues to spin deeper and deeper spun threads
Fly sails on as if a yacht with windblown full masts
trap now seen, his former pals in their web-spun beds.
Spider feverishly works, other flies are caught
so goes vicious cycle, dark webs eating their fill
for flying blind, their souls are easily thus bought
with time and darkness, their ink-heart blood slowly spills.
Soon, escaped fly returns, so do ill winds of old
time has done its job and all fear has left his head
web is so pretty, its threads glisten as if gold
vacated are those warning, fat and well spun beds.
As those droplets lure fly in, owl hoots warning call
but gleaming hope has turned off his sight and his brain
in he goes, hungry spider watching sees it all
giving thanks for those huge glistening drops of rain.
Come on down here says the spider to fearful fly
this day weather is so fine and I am your friend
be free, and into my soft web, you shall not die
for greater pleasure come hither, your time here spend.
Now wise old owl looks on, hears and sees this charade
and in loud blasts hoots out his own angry replies
for mother Nature, hath all living creatures made
within her heart of hearts hears all their weeping cries.
Robert J. Lindley, 3-29-2018
Rhyme(Third and Final Poem in Trilogy)
Note- To be added later.... after I post the third blog on this subject.
Nature’s Single Dad’s
THE LEAFY SEA DRAGON
Gracefully swaying without need for speed
Are creatures of beauty, disguised as seaweed.
Up to twelve inches long from tail to snout
These delicate creatures just drift about.
They carry, as they move like galleons in sail,
Silk-like appendages, leafy and pale
On back spines, projecting as masts on a ship
Sailing the oceans, they rise and they dip,
To the rhythm of moon tides; full or neap,
They travel the seas; these Dragons of the Deep.
Through weed-covered reefs and meadows of sea grass
There’s neither a neigh nor a moo as they pass.
They resemble sea horses in flowing silk gowns
Drifting on rhythms, dancing up and then down.
They slow dance through the water just moving around
No fire, no flames from these dragons; not a sound.
The mother will lay two hundred eggs on Dad’s patch
Of soft sponge, where safely they’ll hatch.
The sun flashes golden as she drifts on by,
While in the shadow on his tail, his offspring lie.
This single Dad of the deep tends a new generation,
Of Leafy Sea Dragon eggs; a fascinating creation.
Less than one inch when first hatched from the eggs
As newly formed babies; ready for life without legs.
They drift as if they feed, gaining the silky covered bone
To a length of twelve inches by the time they’re full grown.
The cycles of the moon dictate the rhythms and motion
Of this Leafy Sea Dragon in the great Southern Ocean.
The Leafy Sea Dragon is just one of Natures' Single Dads worthy of a mention for the survival of the species.
Were I a sailboat traveling at sea
All alone with no one but me
My masts would creak , the decks rock gently beneath my feet
The hiss of my bow slice thru the waves ,
the tang of the ocean spray as I watch the wake paving the way
Billowing white sails puffed out in the summer breeze
And onward I would go merrily out to sea
No use for the land , just wild and free
The dolphins would come and play
The seaweed hang out all day
Overhead the sky prefers blue , but sometimes grey
nothing but me , the sun and the summer rain
The reflections play across the water
The waves lap gently on my bow
No use for the land , just me here and now
Smooth wood
Worn by water and air
Never polished
Escaped by the hands that touched it
Ropes and tackle attached streaming up towards the sails
All foreign to a land lover.
When tied at bay she seems so tame and easy to control
But set her free among the briny sea and you will see what she can bring
And bring it she will and take it with pride and gusto
For the winds were made for her sails and masts that anchor them to the deck
The seamen go about their business as though in a dance or a jig perhaps
But one not for feint of heart
They cuss and scream and talk about ones mother all in a days work
Unless of course you cross a line then there’s trouble about
In the night of the galley or the berth were there may lay trouble can find a weak man
And leave him there till day.
But it only takes a warning for each man has a job to do
And without him that means more work for the others
And less sleep between call
So they sort out their business and carry on as one must
But don’t think you can sleep the day away and not get a lump on the head
For they are watching you and you them and never in between shall a man lay his head down before his time.
Now the sea’s rolls in and o’er the bow tis time take on ones rest. First call comes early and some men like it the best. I prefer four bells in the wee hours of the morn’
When the rooster crows if you can imagine that at sea and the Southern Cross is high in the sky. I’ll take my chance with the wind and the sea and see what God brings. And I’ll swing her around and head for the China Sea if that what fancies me.
For we have been on this ship for more than five years and yet to make land for a day.
A ghost ship you may call us. Lost at sea and never found. But our wood is smooth and berths are clean and we never lie about love and women. For Captain Peterson was an honest man taught us the books of the Lutherans. But we buried him in an island town about ten years ago. And since then I have sailed this ship to heaven and to hell. It’s time to rest and bring her to shore but now no one wants to leave. Our land legs are gone and the desire to walk with the weak leave us less than desire. So shove off again and head to the seas and I’m sure the wolf of the north wind will find us. And we will laugh and cuss till she brings us under.