Best Ports Poems
When winter paints those frosty ferns on my windowpane
I find myself a little girl up on your lap again
In that old house, where you wove that coloured tapestry
With all the glorious memories of your life upon the sea
With weathered palm so deeply etched with every season past
You rubbed a porthole in the center of the frosted glass
Where outside in splendour lie a winter-wonderland
As halos rose above your head from a pipe bowl in your hand
And there upon a rocking chair as smoke rings filled the air
We rocked across a sea of dreams wind tangled in our hair
To lands I’d never been before we stepped upon those shores
And through your eyes I saw each one and still I wanted more
The morning passed in dreams between two pairs of eyes of green
As the world outside held its breath in a sea of snowy cream
And when the chill of winter melted from the windowpane
The whistling kettle on the stove brought us home again
You held my hand and looked at me with that twinkle in your eyes
And told me you would be my Captain 'til the day I died
So when winter paints those frosty ferns on my windowpane
I find myself a little girl up on your lap again
~~~~~
Written: Jan 15, 2011
Author: Elaine George
First Place in Brian Strand's contest: Let's See
4th Place In - Anything goes contest
In loving memory of my Dear Papa 'Captain James George'.
Authors Note:
When I was a child of three, I Went to live for a year with my Grandparents in Nova
Scotia. At that time my Grandfather was a retired Sea Captain of a Three Mast
Schooner. He had spent most of his life at sea, taking lumber and coal to New
Brunswick and various ports in the U.S. and in the winter months, would carry on to
pick-up and deliver cargo in the West Indies. Although my time with him was short,
the memories we shared have comforted me through-out the years.
~~~~~
`
O’ crooked branch and magpie’s claw,
yon rusted chains a’ sway this night
Clutch tight a sign “The Seagull's Squall”
of splintered wood and storm clouds fight
Old tavern lone this craggy shore
where angered waves accost the sand
and drenching rains from heavens pour,
whilst thunder boasts its loud command
On creaking stools with painted legs
'long the bar, a gathered crew
Expected flow from aging kegs
a frothy crown this lagered brew
Fills tankards held of one now gone
'midst pewter death in golden ale
In drunk'n stupor sorrows shown
lost at sea, his soul last sailed
Watching cloaked of shadowed mist
in darkened corner, lingered smoke
O’er long goodbyes on echoes twist
and couraged voices soundly spoke
Weaving tales a' journeys past,
voyages beyond the deep
Ports o’ call and forth day cast,
of treasures that abound to reap
When one, a glass above his head
beckons silence, moments slow
Respect, our mate now swallow'd dead,
entombed within the depths below
Then hearty cheers and farewell speak,
this touching scene if one would be
A ghostly tear now falls my cheek,
this fallen mate they cheer is me
Poetrysoup, to me is just like a joint family.
How by a common bond, here we are strung together!
Though sailing in different currents and anchored in remote ports,
Distance among us has never been a hitch or a tether.
Here we enjoy a warm and genial camaraderie.
Often I feel my credit far exceeds my debit,
And am weighed down by a heavy sense of debt.
I wonder if I will ever be able to repay a small bit.
Before I am stamped an insolvent the rest of my life,
Let me strive to do some little good while I can.
Like a melting candle, let me bring some glow,
Before I grow weary and time runs out of my span.
Sometimes I feel I am an insidious bed bug,
Growing bigger and fatter on others' blood.
Here when I registered as an artless novice,
I was as inane and inexperienced as a kid.
As a kite with a piece of broken string,
I floated up hither and thither in the skies in vain.
You gave me direction, guidance and support.
I owe to each one of you for all that I could attain.
Your relentless encouragement helps me aim for heights,
Your heartfelt blessings give me loads of happiness.
Your poems open before me new avenues of thought.
Your gracious company creates for me a new ambience.
Before my eyes, a hundred smiling faces appear in a row.
Some stand out as beacons of radiant light.
With words of encouragement, they vanquish all my doubts,
Revitalizing my lackluster spirit and leaving it shimmering bright.
Through this forum, we share our inmost thoughts,
How close we feel though never been together.
Many have left the scene leaving trails of footprints,
And many join fresh to continue the endeavor.
Irrespective of creed, we are here at art’s sacred shrine.
‘Soupers’ we are called and we breathe the scented pride.
We stand tall among many others of our species.
Let us proclaim aloud our fraternity worldwide!
fo'c·'sle /'fohksel/ noun deriv: forecastle
1. the forward part of a ship below the deck, traditionally used as the crew's living quarters.
2. historical: a raised deck at the front of a ship.
With the equinox illuminating a fortnight of recovery
On pelts spread like Ionian jars left askew,
My flame-keep sparked alight against the doldrums of
Greed. Stagnant and fetid.
My bark beats out a call stretched
Skin-tight over the sea’s virgin core
And sets trust aflame.
Ashes collected into the collated casks and
Corked with animus, Moon Girl pounded on.
Drumming a dirge on the tanner's own flesh.
Pounding the seed of echoing hope.
Pounding the corpus beat of life anew.
Those echoed my own harmony and emptied my ears.
My tunes would now be true and crisp.
My struggle to syncopate the middle eight
Was like on the saltchuck the time before.
Before we crossed the bar,
Breakers chasing, pounding aft of stern.
Now in the glow of the coal oil lamp
Sat The Dane who came to trade.
He mumbled a Chinookian curse and winced.
He sensed my mariner's cred, how I lit my smoke;
Muscle memory and addiction married in my subconscious.
But His eyes would never sense the venomous flow
Of the seabreak distant,
Like hounds baying to the highway of stars
And up to the dunes ran with phosphorescent faces
Fermenting the blackness.
Hell-hounds bounding.
Lungs pounding.
Driving on.
River may lick Disappointment’s shanks
But Drake’s gold remains unfound.
The cavities carved along the capes
Echo an emptied ethos and sapped spirit
Which salal and sage cannot clense.
Walk with me now Sister Ilchee.
Beat your dirge
Along the pock-marked ports of plunder
Laid before the flattened corpse of
Ebbing freedom found.
My computer-- disassembled
is a maze of cables, drives
chips and ports--an array
of connections, silver solderings,
twisting wires.
But when the satiny case
is latched in place
coils and cables disappear.
The smallest particle of matter
is not an atom, but a byte--
a particle of magic that combines
and multiplies unseen
inside the blinking box.
Creation occurs inside my computer--
friends, family rest behind the pressing
of selected keys. Words and faces
form; smiles and frowns
become feelings.
Attraction becomes addiction.
Inside my computer
merchants buy and sell--
musicians sing,
artists train pictures into pixels,
poets recollect emotion in tranquillity.
Inside my computer
dreams are imagined into reality--
inventions, hopes, ideas are born
and nurtured into happenings.
Strangers share a table, touch
hands across the world.
Inside my computer
the pulse of human hearts
waxes and wanes
as people fall in and out
of love.
(Duo rhyme in Honor of Mary Ports)
Butterflies & Moonbeams
Of things that inspire I will write
Whether things of day or by night
Butterflies and silver moonbeams
Upon the quiet water gleams
Azure heavens where a hawk screams
Sunsets repainting awesome themes
Trees shade meandering cool streams
Yellow Stone where old faithful steams
Fireflies & double rainbow dreams
All made of magic so it seems
Enchantments entice my delight
With wonder I will dream tonight
©Diana Dalton 15 July 12
__._,_.___
(A Blank Verse Sonnet)
In June, we traveled south to Memphis town,
a public poets' fete with Southern flair.
The mid-south heart unfolded nationwide,
an open cloak of warmth spread far afield
in concert with the sound and sense of rhyme.
A graciousness so coupled with its pride
to sharpen all who came in studied hope
and reasoned well effect, to prove result.
Yet seasoned poets put their pens aside;
the books they found, devoured with eyes and minds
already voiced the thoughts mankind repeats,
our ageless chants for hearts in love or pain.
The weather's pull to southern ports advanced
the lure of southern charm from heart to heart.
I feel like an old ship
Anchored in the bay,
Too old and slow
To battle storms
Or haul the freight
That pays the way.
I’ve had my turns
On stormy seas
And danced on waves
That threatened me.
I’ve spent my time
On misty isles
And slept with strangers
In lonely ports.
I’ve heard the songs
That nature sings
And drunk the wine
Of slower times.
. . . Now . . .
The journey’s over
The mellow, harbor lights
Of yesterday
Are gone.
I’m anchored in the bay
And people come to see
This old ship
Whose memories hang,
Like shrouds of rope,
Down from the mast.
And, younger ships have come
To take my place upon the sea.
Written while visiting the ship, "Star of India," in San Diego
Tis here, the eve of one day less
Of sorrow lost and hope reborn
If will brings us closer to our best
What reasons leave us cause to mourn?
From dust we pass and sweep aside
Its wake to crest in history's courts
Our fate, at hand, to be un-denied
Trim sails that wind for peaceful ports
No wishful thoughts add moments more
Nor take hours away paid to the past
As tides cast sand upon the shore
So time decrees the grains that last
May our imperfections drift away
On this the eve of New Years day
Happy New Year
12/28/2016
"I would rather be on a leaky ship that is mine, than aboard a more seaworthy vessel going where I don't wish it to go"—Poet's alter ego
Yes, I know what I’m doing
I’m the master of my fate
The captain of the sinking ship
Seeking harbor in ports whether safe or rocky
With gusto I plow through uncharted frontiers
Why do I do these things to myself? you ask
Perhaps I’m a rebel in search of what's unbeknownst
to me, in search of virgin long lost horizons pristine
Horizons others deem unreachable
I’m bold, brash and yeah sassy, brassy
And irrepressible! You can’t love me you see,
I’m a Lonewolf, and it's quite fine, to be…
Untamed as the wild northern wind
Sweeping the prairies with a gusting woman’s surge
Nature's raw elements try in vain to halt my advances
But I laugh and mock at Mother's efforts
Although I’m tossed and torn
In the grips of Her relentless tempests,
Her storms of fury suppressing, oppressing
Her stern and staid demands to obey, tame and domesticate
You may say I’m the constructor of my own chaos
A free-spirit, challenging myself
My integrity intact, place not your pity on me
Respect is my hallmark and independence,
my calling.
My boat rocks gently under a reddening sun,
is it wrong to wish for a Viking burial,
to ponder a last journey West
into the dying light?
Strangers have always been my friends,
they intuit
the liquid and inflammable nature
of this thing we do.
I could rest my soul here in this skiff
on this one long warm wave of evening;
let the wooded lands and sloping meadows,
the dredged, smoke-stacked barge brimming ports,
the patched up river towns slip on by
under the kindling sails of evening clouds.
I am laid out like a homeless person
bundled up in my rags and tinder,
a shadow in a small boat, drifting.
Night falls to the water
the words of strangers flame high
fire starters and their poems gleaming
as the dark rushes in.
I hitch the boat to a stump of land,
still imagining a Viking funeral,
but also resigned to a tomorrow -
yet another strange place
to play with this fire.
I had my first glimpse of her from the sandy beach,
her silhouette painted on the sky's canvas of peach
The regal double-mast brigantine, sailing out to sea
Upon waves she rode, full glory not yet at apogee
But whence the wind, her sails would be unfurled,
she'd glide quickly over waters, crested and curled
Fully hoisted and billowing in flowing trade winds,
chased by dolphins, breaking surface with dorsal fins
I longed to be a mariner aboard her quarterdeck
visiting foreign ports along the journey I would trek
Hearing tall tales the sailors were bound to embellish
Her crew was setting sail on a voyage I would relish
I yearned to stand at the helm; salt spray on my face
Memories of such an adventure I'd cherish and embrace,
on a vessel sailing between the sea and the stars
But I sit in the shallows, enviously watching from afar
Covid spread throughout the kingdom –
the people inside the elite compounds,
if they heard the many sounds of the
ill falling dead, did not seem troubled,
not a single head – besides, it was, for
them a special day, 60th birthday of
their consecrated God and his Queen,
to whom all will homage pay –
Politicians and Hollywood celebs alike
will take numbered turn fawning accolades
at the podium mike. Tables strategically set,
armed security carefully to vet every
privileged guest before passing the Walled
Castle-door, so not to allow Covid
to take flight and soar, spreading deadly
spore through the air – over His Majesty's
Red-carpet-floor...
There are plates with gold trim, not the
painted kind – of Twenty-four Karat as their
goblets of wine, precious silver from royal
chambers, billionaire vaults, brimming over
with champagne from prized cellars, vintage
of all sorts, tribute paid by appeasing, complicit
European Courts, with thousand dollar a-bottle
highly acclaimed ports. There will be classical
music combined with White Shaming Hip Hop Rap –
diamonds and precious other gems abundantly given
for gifts, the nation having been well sapped,
American's Treasury criminally tapped,
for the king and queen's off-road treats – while
theft and murder rages in the commoner's streets –
shortages developing to the point masses of
people will soon have little food to break-bread
and manage – to the ruling devils, simply
collateral damage....
Wind can be a bit pushy
at times
Though I would be first
to admit
of needing nudges in different
directions
inclined to linger too long
under shady canopy
or at the seashore
gazing off into dreamy
horizon
my mind inclined toward
repainting sunsets
rearranging stars into
unique constellations
or writing poetry
strictly for sojourners
each poem a gateway
to ports further unknown
Can you hear my voice,
on the other side?
I call quietly out to reach your ear,
and hope your heart will listen.
I don't care to reach the masses,
just one just you will do.
I'm a solitude writer,
as company can crowd me.
One perfect understanding being,
to delight in mutual comprehension.
How interesting silent communication is,
when two are wired just right.
A half wink, a half smile,
or just a half glance would do,
to translate all's well,
along with my hope for you too.
Keep fresh my love for you,
as my touch for you in your heart.
I cannot for years foresee,
how on earth we'd ever grow apart.
I have yet to witness over time,
true love that ever really did die.
If time would pass without an exchange,
hearts might surely bleed.
Like the clearing of a thick fog,
a lighthouse beam so bright,
the distance grows nearer,
ships find ports and captains raise their glasses.
Unite once again after rough seas and a long while,
together with a knowing half smile!