Best Pilings Poems
Today is Sunday and I'm going to the ocean
or maybe not. Definitely not doing the laundry
or maybe I will. Moss and even a small tree
grow in the rotten stubs of the pier pilings.
The city is Seattle and it has a macho airport.
Give me the comfort of a moose knowing its
water supply. The mosquito's acceptance of its position
among a million mosquitoes. The pool of stagnant
water that remains one with the mothering ocean.
I drift on the air, less than a seed, a bacteria.
Or I am human, big dick, big brain containing
universal philosophic affidavit. Pleased by
the churning of my tongue, sexual enlightenment,
devout prayer, gourmet dining. I swear
it is best to be alive and to have loved Mary.
FOGGY NIGHT ©
The white orb, saturated with
tidal flows, peers through the
veil.
A ghost ship slips up the fog
laden channel.
Night gulls. sing with strident cries
fog seeps in, the tide rolls out,
day is gone, the night creeps on.
Trees, dressed in ebony, drift by.
Water glistens, gold and wet.
Edges blurred night is soft and
tender, damp seeps into cloth,
hair, bone.
Tents of light spread over the
foggy landing.
Hunters of the sea know not day
nor night, fishers all,
white feathers stark against the
darkest shadows.
Palm trees, silhouetted in
ochre gauze, black brushes hard
with paint.
Pilings sway, their waists cinched
with rope.
Matronly sentinels, the craft finds
the woody bosom.
Trisha Sugarek
Butterflies and Bullets
A COPPER PENNY
The significance of a copper penny…
It’s part of our heritage
Being raised in the copper mining area
Of Ruth, Nevada
Fathers and brothers worked for
The Kennecott Copper Mining Corporation
Both abhorred and sacrificed for
It was a job
The dirt was copper colored
There was no gazebo
No water
No arboretum
The only wish made was for the bell
At the end of the day
Men
Working
Sweating
Crying
Dying
The copper colored beer with elbowed sleeves
On copper tile
Laborers draught
The copper penny
The juke box
Seen in the dance of the copper leaves in fall
Twenty and thirty years on
It’s not gold
An entirely different color
The copper leaves rake sweetness layered
Pilings high
Dancing in the breeze
A “Little” Fugue in G Minor
The Classical Power
Given by Time-Life living divided
Spent
Leaving
Wondering where it is
The beauty, the color, the penny
under the pier
breakers splash pilings
semidarkness
each roller awakens me
to the breath of the sea
No penance need be paid by the insular artisan
admonished for seeking an oral platinum quota.
Under furlough! Tuck their perfume in a bureau,
then intermittently release the poise to up-start
inferiority complexes who'll quote of the literati,
and then in the very same breath
naysay a quiver of emotion from word devotion…
Integral quandary - quaint ale or styled daiquiri?
Can phenomenal language fade in the simplistic?
Eloquence is gauche! So pilings of a quay erode…
(2/10/2021: DMS)
The iridescent raven perched upon pilings
By just one lake in Friesland's beautiful wetland outings
His golden beak and orange legs with claws set off
Against black feathers that glisten and are a rain runoff
Carefully he watches the Edelhert fawn play
At the edge of the lake, close to woods, where he lives all day
He had seen the das at dusk as he watched them all
His duty as the lookout to warn them against harm's fall
Against the vas that sly thief, who comes in the night
When all sleep, even for the watchman death could be his plight
Some Of The Wildlife In The Netherlands
Edelhert:Red Deer
Das:Badger
Vas:Fox
Sponsor: Elly Wouterse
Contest: Your Ode To "My"Netherlands And/Or "My Friesland"
Written: April 22, 2014
With darkness
Fishing
No appreciation
When beaten
Lies with submission
Stagnant streams
Overflow under dreams
Fish in spawning
Under currents churning
Filet knife honed
Scales in pilings
A temperate rising
Seasoned with bubbling
Deep fried soul
A fork that is piercing
Please pass on the sauce
You in yearning
Display me on a wall
Like a trophy stuffed
Dangling with lures
You felt so sure
A coward with a tale
A
...One night I asked who it was,
she said,”Just a man I used to know.”
She would never say more than that,
so I decided wisely to let it go.
But that night, like every other,
when midnight rolled around,
she walked along to the pier’s end
and stood staring without a sound.
I figured it was an old grief,
and did not want to interfere,
but one evening after many drinks
I stumbled, mindless, to the pier.
There I saw old Meredith
wrapped up in a tall man’s arms,
something about him just seemed off,
my drunken mind feared harm.
As I moved she turned and said,
“He does not like company.”
She shushed me and the two walked
onwards towards a quiet sea.
I thought I’d seen the tall man,
but from where, I couldn’t say,
and as I though I watched the two
walk off the end of the quay!
Rushing out, I looked below,
but no bodies could I see.
they did not lay upon the rocks,
or against pilings worn and slippery.
I raced back to the Walrus,
soon all the cops came out.
They dredged the short for three days,
but no bodies were ever found.
Some even suspected it was me,
but no charges came my way,
they combed the shore but found nothing
that indicated any foul play.
It was only later that I understood
just what I had seen that night,
the dead man in the old picture
had been on the pier in plain sight!
For so long she had gone out there,
hoping for the impossible,
it seems that in the end she got
her one wish granted in full.
She’d had no husband of lover
in the many years since his death,
but he’d come back to claim her
when she’d faced her dying breath.
Well, that was thirty years ago,
the tale has become folklore,
a thing whispered to tourist folk
all up and down the shore.
I took over the Wailing Walrus,
and have kept it much the same.
The tall, young man still hangs up high,
and there he shall remain.
But I did go to Meredith’s family,
and asked for a picture of her youth,
next to her lover it now hangs,
for all who would know the truth
Every so often some come here,
and say they saw in evening’s dim,
two figures walking on the pier,
who never seem to come in.
They say the figures just seemed off,
kind of wispy and quite pale,
so I sit them down, fix them a drink
and tell them this tragic tale.
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
Author’s Introduction - A word about Minot’s Ledge Lighthouse:
The Minot’s Ledge lighthouse, built 1850, lying off the southeastern chop of
Boston Bay, was the first lighthouse built in the U. S. that was not protected by
exposure to the fury of ocean storms. It was, then unfinished, in the shape of an
egg-shell painted red and supported by iron pillars. The first keeper, Isaac
Dunham, quit after 10 months citing how unsafe the structure was (swaying 2
feet in each direction in a storm). His fears were well founded, for in April 1851, a
colossal storm struck the New England coast. The lighthouse was toppled and
swept away, and the two attendants, Joseph Antoine and Joseph Wilson, were
killed.
The following day only a few bent pilings were found on the rock. This tragedy set
the standard for the construction of more solid structures using granite blocks for
greater support and a new light was built by June, 1860.
To this day, legend has it, that in dark and stormy weather, sailors hear a voice
coming from Minot’s Light crying in Portuguese (the nationality of one of the
deceased keepers – Joseph Antoine) – “Stay away!”
The Ill-Fated Lighthouse
The towering light that threw
Its friendly beams afar
Over the foaming waves,
The sailor’s guiding star,
Is quench’d – and darkness glooms
Where late it bless’d his sight,
As homeward bound he came
In the dark hour of night.
The thundering surges swept
Over the rocky bed,
From which the lighthouse rear’d
Aloft its flaming head.
And lo! They bore away
In that mad fearful hour,
The work that man had made –
The tempest’s rightful dower
And yet a richer freight
The heaving billows bore,
Than wreck of perished Light!
For tossing to the shore
The drench’d and lifeless forms
Of youthful dead there were,
Two brave and manly hearts
That sadly perish’d there!
Farewell ye faithful ones!
Your memory shall live,
While feeling hearts remain,
Pity’s sweet drops to give,
Or any to recount
The terrors of that night,
When the drear sea engulf’d
The hapless beacon light.
And you, ye rushing waves!
Sweep – foaming, sweep along,
And ever as ye go,
Lift high your noisy song;
For thou, remorseless sea!
Maketh all things thine own!
Then send aloft your tune,
And madly thunder on.
The Linda-Marie
I venture on down to the harbor, smelling the salt of the sea
Where waiting in anticipation is my sloop the Linda-Marie
In silence she sits while I board her, and cast her lines aside
Like a colt running free in the meadow, she strains to be untied
Slowly we move through the water, heading on out to the sea
I thrill at the freedom that grips me, on the sloop called the Linda-Marie
The wind is stiff from the starboard, the breakwater now far astern
The ocean is waiting to greet us, we hear the shrill call of a tern
As we address a headwind, filling out the sails
The Linda-Marie meets the challenge, as against the whitecaps she rails
Yawing to hold her position, she rises to meet each new swell
We hold our course at eight knots, a speed she handles well
Time I'm afraid is fleeting, and to soon we must return
Ending our adventure, once again the ocean spurned
We bump against the pilings, making sure she can't break free
I relish the time spent together, just me and the Linda-Marie
One day—
The sea will be my backyard
Every morning, standing upon the deck
Of the one called Going Numb
A “Greatest Dad” mug in one hand
My last vice burning orange in the other
I will watch the sun rise like the formidable Phoenix
Warming the blue green sea with her touch
As tender fingers of a salty breeze
Run through my silvery hair
A time worn wharf will serve as my threshold
Warped planks and crusted pilings
Proffering a story of victories against the storms of sea
Aromas of fish and diesel oil
Making promises of resilience yet seen
Seagulls as nameless neighbors
Charmingly silent until beckoned
By day old bread and salty crackers
Perched upon the strakes of the Going Numb
Black eyes praising me as they wait
To devour the next gratis morsel
A galley will greet any wingless visitors
Who happen by
Barstools for three, plus me
Wait obediently before the coffee-stained counter
A toaster and tea kettle from yesteryear
A hidden bottle of rum
Is all this old man will need
With but a few steps, travel with me astern
Over the worn colorless carpet
Past the curtain of puka shells
Hung by stranger before I knew her
A sturdy cot with too many pillows
Serves as my nighttime rest
Where the sea’s gentle waves
Lull away loneliness
And Adele whispers love songs to my soul
Between the galley and my humble nest
A room where I attempt to do my best
A small writing table with pad and pencil
A beige shaded lamp provides the rest
Nostalgic bookshelves of cinder blocks and planks
Against the portside wall
A stage for those who have inspired—
Hemingway, Atwood, Tolkien, and Plath
King James and Lewis as bookends
Hold it all together
Three windows each, port and starboard
To look out
Or in
One with an untold story
I will never know
Or tell
A stained-glass pane
Cracked and old
Beauty in a way
That will never be told
By prose or poem or
By me
One day—
A new chapter in my life will come
Closing the pages of before
My purpose complete
Children grown
Now with ones to call their own
Having moved from a time of needing
To the days of occasionally calling
The old man on the sea
One day—
I will stand alone
On the deck
Of my new home
With seagulls as chaperones
And briny air in my lungs
I will watch the sunset
Through stained-glass pain
I could've gone to Holland. I could've gone to Spain.
I could've gone to Denmark. I could've gone insane,
But instead I came here, where the river mirrors life
In a fractured, dream-like way on this brilliant summer day
By the Bridge at Argenteuil.
A couple in a rowboat, a woman and a man,
In silent conversation discussing future plans,
But they’re frozen in time. No one’s getting anywhere.
And I feel the same dismay, as though rooted in the clay
By the Bridge at Argenteuil.
It isn’t for the distance. The water's not that wide.
The house in which I lived is standing on the other side.
I just can't get across. There's a darkness shrouds my soul,
Wounds me more than words can say, lost in shades of charcoal gray
By the Bridge at Argenteuil.
With hands in empty pockets, holding on to all that’s mine.
My best possessions taken, the rest just left behind.
And the cold, dancing light that’s reflected on the Seine
Mocks the feelings I betray, with its shimmering ballet
By the Bridge at Argenteuil.
It strides across the river on pilings made of stone.
Without the means to burn it, I loiter here alone
At this shrine to the past and to all I gave away,
But I didn’t come to pray. I’m a pilgrim gone astray
By the Bridge at Argenteuil.
Fever and Chills
History writes itself
invisible pens find surfaces unknown
private life
public life
fever and chills sleep together
heaving corrosive air
from colorless lungs
hearing but their own moans
their own cries of ecstasy
how loud
how soft
From boardroom
to bedroom
clinging to manufactured essence
flesh bleeds with century's plague
ignoring contagion's history past
nurturing instead
weed gardens of delusional orchid and rose
These darkened windows aloft
where seductive airs of passion molt
fail to hide the pores of covetous fantasy
gluttony's vaporous hydration
ready to flake
While all about
Ether's wake delivers
sirens and horns
delivering ambition's twisted celebration of death
one less emergency burden
one more dodging of tragedy's awareness
the One-Percenters' plunder
destined to erode
like sand castles knowing little of ebb's inevitable tide
How courageous for some
To incandesce amidst shallow atmospheres
even as infirmity goes unnoticed by those
embracing fleeting moments
momentarily exchanging covers enfolding profit reports
for the silk and satin kind
king size queen size
makes no difference
For these of duplicitous breath
life becomes but a fool's gold enlaced treadmill
unquenchable thirst crossing windblown lips
insatiable and voracious spoils
body upon body
The sickness passes its virulent infection
its waste-basket poisons
from all too anxious glad-hands
offering but copper-nickel-dime pilings
greed's weed defoliation of flowered chameleon hope
trickling downward
battling updrafts of street despair
as sidewalk survivors reach skyward
embracing the floating pocket change tearfully
As misery rages below
this citadel high above
protects blind-weary subjects
behind penthouse glass
sitting together
sipping cognac
turning up the Bang & Olufsen
reading sonnets they know nothing of
awaiting the recurring sirens and horns
Like children beneath pup tents of fantasy
they scurry close
securing their panic
denying the dark
Yet
They too will one day know virulence
and await their own
fever and chills
sigh …
a lifetime ago
I breathed here, vital -
dangled my topsiders over these
pier stones and pilings
tempting the dark leviathans
that swam beneath the bloated
August moon, reflected …
kissing menthols like careless lovers
concerned only with the moment (hoping)
and a pair of bow lips that
smiled beside me
in the mirrored yellow
glow...
an odd teenage
dynamic - three callow kids
consumed by craziness
and euphemistic particle smashing …
a trio of courses that spun
their own dreams -
flung on disparate winds
but wound together
by the timeless wonder of warm
midsummer moons …
entranced by the same opiate of ocean air
caught up in a manic whorl of
hormones and honeyed
twilight ...
this place
sang to me then -
reached deep and chanted an aria of
infinite attachment -
melded my being with its
charm and essence and immortality
but … I wasn't listening
all my arrogant ears could gather
was youth and ego and
the soft flesh of an auburn-haired girl …
warm arms that found
me naught but a dalliance -
a fun summer toy
bared and berried lips that I mistook
for love ... and more
and I, not the lone casualty
it lasted forever
but was gone in an
instant …
sigh (again)
now, I return
unsure of my purpose or intent
and the dulcet dirge that
doused me then still strains to be heard
its aching echo serenades -
tender, true and sweet
from some sacred place deep within -
a dark and holy realm where
hearts bleed fire
and dreams feed on marrow …
or perhaps these old, creaky poles have
their own weathered voices
brought to music by tidal bore -
gentle, rhythmic swells
plucking them like sad strings that
whisper, poignantly -
"we wait for you … “
“come”