Best Planks Poems
I don't need mawkish photographs to see
the drowning rowboat tethered to the dock,
a withered seahorse clinging to debris
as umber water seeps through feeble caulk.
The cord grass will have grown up through the planks
to marry splinters teeming on the pier,
putrescent pillars tilted by the banks;
a pallid corpse beside the marsh's bier.
Those summers when we sailed through brackish mist
have long since gone the way of floating sculls
that languish in the asters to be kissed
by empty oarlocks perched atop their hulls.
Your August ghost still flounders on the fen
then sinks beneath in nightmares now as then.
Pirate women permeate my spaces.
They are fierce and fabulous.
You dare not lie to them.
They will cut you to shreds, with their swords.
Cut you to ribbons.
I do not crouch in fear.
I created them.
They are ruthless, savage,
out for blood.
Thirsty for it.
I walk their planks proudly.
Eager for the drowning
that awaits.
I used to like barbells, enjoyed pumping iron,
my Nautilus* gym was one happy environ.
Those posters of 6-packs and marbled biceps
inspired me to start counting carbs, pounds, and reps.
My trainer would coax, "hold as long as you can!"
Doing deadlifts I felt like a WAS a dead man
The kettlebell, medicine ball - hated those,
since dropping 'em both on my poor little toes.
My dad-bod and willpower soon parted ways,
after only 1 set, I was shell-shocked for days
My back hurt, my knees ached, I'd injured my hips,
after grimacing nonstop, I'd sprained both my lips.
Oy! The sharp pain that shoots
through my quads, delts and glutes...
Now my game plan is shifting
no more power lifting.
To planks, it's "no thanks",
I'm expunging all lunging.
I feel stabs in my abs,
there's a hex on my pecs
and my lats shriek like bats.
When I tweak my oblique
I am sore to the core...
and I want it no more.
The rowing machine is no longer my scene
I loathe those squats lots and I hate crunches bunches.
Do sit-ups or push-ups? Do jump-ups or chin-ups?
I'm more inclined now to do lots of "I-give-ups".
My doc tried convincing me I'd be less tired?
I'm questioning how that poor man's brain is wired!
I felt half exhausted just WATCHING staff clean
the ellipticals, treadmills, and stair-climb machine.
Then... I found when I stood on the locker room scale
That my plan to lose weight was a sad epic fail!
I'm done! I have finished my very last burpee -
I just want a hot dog and super-size Slurpee.
What happened to wanting to feel fit and well?
When it came to workouts, I was just a dumbbell.
I've resolved now to walk more, or swim a few laps
maybe jog, ride my bike, play some tennis, take naps.
That's right, getting plenty of rest seems so plain,
it appears the most challenging muscle to train ...
is the brain.
* Nautilus is a brand of gym equipment
written 2 Oct 2022
A diesel generator
drowns out the rusted Marshall stack
Six years we owned
the Billboard charts;
the DJ who crowned us
every summer
for five straight years—
this week, a county fair;
tonight, the Music Pier.
The drummer tapes two split fingers
closes his hand once
hard—
then rests the sticks
by Mick’s ashes
in a Folgers Black Silk can behind the kit
Tommy’s gold sequins
snag on his dialysis catheter
as he sits
Johnnie the P-bassist drags a stool onstage
to ease his neuropathy
We are crushed elderberries
hawking CDs from a card table,
bleeding a dark, tart stain
onto ninety aluminum chairs
No teenagers weep;
a man wipes funnel-cake grease
from his chin
As I tune the cherry-red '57 Stratocaster
down a minor third,
hoarse from pushing air
through a throat scraped thick
with scar tissue
We were a dense, golden field
beneath the studio lights
on Midnight Special
Now plucked dandelion crowns
scatter over Ferris wheel blacktop,
leaving white ghost-tufts
snagged in the Music Pier’s
boardwalk planks
Where just three bald stems
plug into the seaside damp—
and the seeds drift past the shoreline,
washed up,
vanishing into the deep
we used to call home
Silk wading thru wistfully warm sea waters,
my dreaming fingers have lingered to potter
with ocean surface, sun sparkled glitters.
My poetic pieces have gone full twitter
in charmed waters of crystal clear rarity
where I felt God's love soothe life's severity.
Slowly easing into ocean powered waves,
my playful moods have seriously caved
from forceful, salt stinging, brutal wave smacks.
My body has ached sea bruised, blue and black.
Rough seas crudely taught me joy may survive
despite waves of fright that savagely arrive.
Now, reaching the end planks on my journey's pier
and viewing my twilight's approach so clear,
it's past sunshine glitters that most sustain
these concluding sea views for my earthly gain.
Yet, I know without crass waves that abused,
wading joys would not have peaked this enthused.
Black Powder Dreams
Vast o’ the seas carry forth desperations
Lives cast aside in the faces of war
Rotted wood planks, salted skin aspirations
Wind tattered sails bound of endless explore
Black powder dreams aft the end quarter season
Cannons at wait, closer still to the bow
Manned by the weak, none in need of a reason
Chilled to the bone, never wondering how
Darkened the depths beckon angry waves crashing
Bound to the rail by a pitch and a shove
Visions of loves and the homeland a’ flashing
Prayers slowly drowned before floating above
Scar rippled flesh, leathered treachery flailing
Shrieks in the night causing laughter below
Tethered by fear o’er the desolate wailing
Shadows await harbors safe to bestow
Compass point dangers adrift in the distance
Forced to push on to the end of the fall
Death shrouds belief in a fractured resistance
Down on their knees longing nothing at all
Endless the journey for pittance bled wages
Deaf to the thoughts found alone in the screams
Forever lost in the unopened pages
At the expense of their black powder dreams
11/7/18
Written for the: Black Powder Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anthony Slausen
The Straw Man stopped by today
Listen to what he had to say
before blowing away
after this exposé
Aliens don’t do crop circles
or carve out landing strips
Only non-scarecrows have such ability
Ground crews do the Trojan work,
using string, planks of wood,
and sketchy blueprints
Heavy-duty equipment
is often required for the latter,
but not spaceships
As usual Ufologists and cults
are only too happy to jump on board
using the crappiest video recordings
as grainy evidence,
all enhanced by voiceovers
from know-all scarecrows that orbit the edges
of human gullibility and vulnerability —
ripe to be swayed either way
As for the heavens,
they never designed clarity on earth,
though they may provide
soul-searching clouds
that slowly unravel across the sky,
diluting everything
— even the water —
with bubbles of hope,
only to burst on the tines of pitchforks
misused by twisted hands
Such monsters
skulk in bedrooms and haylofts
after families in denial bail them out
They rarely take rain checks
unless kept in check
Though with hindsight,
it’s very poor foresight
to tempt them back downstairs
with a weapon as a birthday present
Many poets too lose rhyme and reason,
expressing reality as an
amputated tuning fork
whose stumps prevent them
ever facing the music
Others sense the blunt frequency
of straw beneath their feet
that will never soak up all the blood
And after spilling his guts,
the Straw Man added:
There’s still enough of me left
to return and break the back
of any new AI mirages.
By David Kavanagh
I come to you with humble thanks for all that you’ve delivered,
For Englishmen to walk the planks and for timbers left unshivered.
I thank you for a glassy sea and the steady blowing breeze,
For giving all these things to me without making me say please.
And I thank you for the horizon where sea and sky do meet,
For every new sun that I watch risin’ is a day of fate I’ll cheat.
It is my hope dear loving Lord that I can bring you pleasure,
By throwing someone overboard and stealing all their treasure.
And when I navigate at night you send the northern star,
I feel then that I’m alright and it’s to you that I’ll say ARRR.
There’s a lesson that some people teach about the carrying that you do,
But I knew that the footprints on the beach must have belonged to you.
‘Cause I got a peg and there’s no doubt it would’ve got stuck into the sand.
I couldn’t have pulled myself back out because I got this hook for one hand.
I’d like to see you but by some quirk my good eye got covered by my patch,
I know that I’m just salvage work and it’s you who’ll batten down my hatch.
So Yo Ho Ho and a bottle of rum and raise the Jolly Roger to the sky,
And praise Him from whom blessings come the one who reigns on high.
For I am grateful for the gifts that you have granted me,
A pirate ship that is so swift and the blue green open sea.
Perfection's never something,
You can capture oh so well.
But her beauty burned like gazing,
At the fires that burn in Hell.
And people they would beg of her,
"Let me capture you in photograph."
But with beauty that was so obscure,
She'd always turn and laugh.
She woke up every morning,
But this was a different one.
Called an artist that was yearning,
"We can do this just for fun."
She stained her lips with rose.
Painted her cheeks in the fairest rouge.
Slipped ballet flats upon her toes.
And in her sundress she found refuge.
The amateur had no say,
She had planned the perfect spot.
She whispered, "I'll lead the way."
A small price to pay to get the perfect shot.
Her movements were so delicate,
It's as if they were devised.
She used a subtle hand wave to indicate,
That they had finally arrived.
You would think you'd see a castle,
Or maybe a field of green.
But this enviroment was quite the hassle,
Maybe her sense of taste wasn't keen.
She thrusted weeds away,
Steering clear of twigs and rocks.
The warm wind made her sundress sway,
And softly tousled her gold locks.
Upon a bridge she advanced,
The planks began to creak.
The water below her danced,
And sunset began to peak.
She lifted her legs with elegance,
And supported herself with a beam.
The photographer shuttered in benevolence,
But followed along with this dangerous scheme.
It's as if the camera was under a spell;
As beneath the bridge, waves violentally lashed.
She threw her arms out and willingly fell,
As the light grew bright and flashed.
The tides pulled tight around her.
They made her twirl and spin.
And the camera man swore,
she smiled as they tugged her in.
Perfection's not that fluent.
Not something you can capture oh so well.
But now we have a picture here to prove it,
As the waves dragged her to Hell.
.
My Favorite Place
My favorite place is where the sun bakes my skin
From a soft pink to a golden tan.
Warm planks under my feet take me down the dock.
I see red stains and dried watermelon seeds,
Evidence of yesterday’s snack.
The salty sea spray hits my tongue,
My mouth waters with thirst.
Sea gulls bob to the rhythm of the waves.
I swat away mosquitoes biting my face leaving red itchy whelps on my skin.
But I stay to watch enjoying the dolphins play.
The evening sky is an orange dreamcicle
Melting away until another day.
I reach for the stars on the water’s surface,
The water responds with a luminous glow,
I turn away, I have to go,
Until another day, I will miss you
On the gurgling remains of Winter
as she seeps back into the earth
on a path around a lake
flanked by the casualties of winter's breath
cattails...
brown and bent with broken heads
backs turned to the pale yellow corn stock stubble
standing in mud clad fields
that lie beneath scattered hints of green
where a red barn and silo stand in wait
A gentle breeze... a ripple on the lake
cattail fluff floating in the air
a symphony composed by songbirds and frogs
drifts across the land and bubbling streams
that cut across the path
Moss lies abreast the thin skin of winter
still remaining in places
where the sun never shines
A blanket of burnt amber needles
and prickly cones
lie beneath a dark green canopy of pines
impaled by glinting spears of sunlight
where the path...for a momeent...is lost
Thump...thump...thump.. the beat of leather souls
on wooden planks over the marshlands...
The lake erupts in torrents of water tendrils
falling from the wings
slapping the face of the lake
as geese take to the sky...
And beyond the forest of pines...
the oaks and maples
display their new burgundy buds
and the few remaining
leaves of Autumn...
all crinkled and curled
still clinging to the past
on a well-worn path
that circles around a lake
with no beginning and no end
where the seasons come and go...
as do... I.
Written: April 30, 2018
Author: Elaine Cecelia George
He had earned a black belt in tae kwon do
Breaking slabs of concrete with his big toe
And butting planks with his head
Had left him nearly brain dead
Glazed eyes resulted from many a blow
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 7 in Linda-Marie's "Let's Limerick" Contest - October 2010
I've spanned these banks for many years,
made evident in the rusty tin adorning my roof
My sides are scarred , colors been stripped
from angry storms through hundreds of seasons.
My river bed ran dry back in late October
then Winter snows frosted my planks
but I was still fit for anyone crossing over
from one side to the other of the Kanawha River.
Come Spring, rushing water will flow under me
splashing over rocks as it rushes to the sea.
Bird droppings will build along each window sill
when nest-building robins arrive in flocks.
People walk across my wooden floor
some hesitate before taking each step
for my trusses tend to creak now and then
and I swell in places; curses of growing old.
I've been crossed by deer, hoofed by cows,
wheeled over by bicycle's and horse-drawn buggies.
They were all kinder than the smelly fumes spread
by those disrespectful autos that never slow down.
My weathered brows face North and South
making me a tunnel for bold Nor'easters
that swiftly tear through me and chip my paint.
I like to think it enhances my pastoral character.
I might be 'rickety,' but if you call me 'shabby'
that rumbling you hear will be me grumbling.
I'm proud of the state I'm in, physically sound
and geographically, two miles outside of town.
As long as I can stand on my supporting piers
I'll relive memories made beneath my roof.
A covered bridge spans more than the waters
of the gentle river where life flows free beneath me.
August 25, 2017
" Ship of Doom "
Ship of doom so sailed to sea ~
Dark her course... 'twas meant to be ~
Into seas this great ship sped ~
Her past... her history... of naught but dread ~
O'er those waves her bows did'st cleave ~
Her memories... but silken webs to weave ~
Thunder on her decks was heard ~
Yet sailors aboard spake no word ~
For ship such as she was doomed thus so~
Gone north into winds then fierce a'blow ~
Down her bows crept steadily then ~
None to know which verse thus then ~
For rime was abound on her decks those days ~
Yet aloft was fire seen from her stays ~
Off afar from crow's nest was hailed ~
As below in her belly that crew did bail ~
For her planks ridden with dark worm & rot ~
Such ship did'st sail from whence known not ~
Far corner o'globe she ran from ever ~
Home her port seen oft yet never ~
Equator her line of happenchance ~
Capricorn her thought yet not her stance ~
Now she sails a spars a'glisten ~
A'deck her men all a'listen ~
Now speaks thus such sorrowful ship ~
With voice akin to crackin' o'whip ~
Hail! Ye Lads.... heartily all ~
Sail we've had & such so a'ball ~
Now deep down Davy Jones' way ~
I'm thus bound this cold north day ~
My sprit I drive now into next wave ~
Darkness & silence I do now crave ~
Gone from me now pleazure o'sound aloft ~
For me hull is naught but now gone soft ~
I'll seek that bottom at sea's very depths ~
Were there I'll find my wager thus kept ~
With devil I’ve played throughout these years ~
Now I’ll so lay to rest all such fears ~
Sail with me now lads & lasses bold all ~
Into realms which di'dst us then enthrall ~
Gone only now our fine spark & fire ~
Quenched so by life's sodden quagmire ~
Off now go we & heads look a'forard ~
To see what 'twas behind & now not toward ~
Rocks... reefs... depth’s sandy shoals ~
These so now our woe begotten goals ~
So to break up these planks hath caused me to live ~
For as ship o'the main I was once known to give ~
Now all such gone with wild sea's winds ~
As now my time... mirrors death's sins ~
Down down down do I speed ~
In need o'sleep... dark do I need ~
Run now quickly from my decks so I say ~
Or with me in devil's depths ye shall play ~
Bouzouki in hand I now last am at rest ~
For with song always I have been best ~
Tsifteteli my dance so join me now so ~
For life is naught that which e'er we'll know ~
SeaWolf
©
Written: May 08, 2025, for contest by Brian Strand.
Art "Sitting at the Dock of the Bay' Oil, Plein Air Series, by Michelle Held. My Poem titled "Quiet Pier’s Lament" was written using this artwork as its inspiration. It's better to read the poem while looking at this artwork.
***********
seagulls fly to the sky
over broken planks and rusty nails
searching for what has been lost
they sift through seashells and sand
scavenging for leftovers as I
look for traces of you
river drips its brown-blue hues
at low tide. I hear the water hum
and cries of birds
as I search for you among grains of sand
at the end of rickety pier
a girl stands on one leg, arms stretched wide
balancing ~ as quiet as a breath
` patient as death
her pterodactyl thoughts
soar on the sunlit wings of pelicans
or plunge into the depths
the strong bodies of eels
this life, a feeble pier
anchored by shallow utility poles
cut into thirds, like hot dogs
still hovers over a muddy bank
with each storm, new scars appear
the wind is gusting left and right
weakening what I hoped would endure
crushing under the weight of every fresh verse
now it's a relic, floorboards askew
washed away by relentless waves
with nothing to hold up my old desires
my thoughts drift away each night
yet, each month I sit in the same stiff chair
struggling to share anything new
All I am is an aging pier
with gulls perched on my rotting posts