Best Shipyard Poems
Thump, thump...thump, thump
Your heart beats with internal impediment
Making each breath a struggle.
I see your pain, I feel your anguish,
I dearly love your determination to endure.
I can only imagine how difficult it is to
relinquish days of youth when your strength
was the marvel of the men you worked with
side by side...celebrated as the Paul Bunyan
of the shipyard whose power knew no bounds.
Advancing years have garnered fears of
imminent shadows from the Grim Reaper
inching closer day by day until you can
feel his breath on the nape of your neck.
Past regrets loom before you of missed
opportunities, and so many things left
unaccomplished, unattended projects that
act as brutish reminders of failing health.
You think I don't understand the dilemmas
you face in just getting through another
hellish night of insomnia to sleepwalk
through another day plagued by doubts of
Time slipping away like a thief in the night.
I want to be here for you...with you.
Please let me be.
7-26-18
Matchstick Bikes
To tinkers and toilers
I salute,
From mending boilers
to weaving jute,
Man and boy
for generations,
I will unemploy
your occupations.
To brewers in sheds
I sink a few beers
To wet the heads
of our engineers,
From flat cloth caps
to matchstick men,
I will see the collapse
of pushers of pens.
To bakers, tailors
I wish you well,
To the soldiers and sailors
who fought and fell,
From doctors, nurses
to hobnail boots,
I will give your purses
to thieves in suits.
To the grieving docks
I drink a toast,
To tackle and blocks
and shipyard ghosts,
From warehouses, workshops
to fishing trawls,
I will flick my mop
in empty halls.
To union dues
I shake your hand,
To cleaning loos
and farming land,
From railway gauges
to industry,
I will turn the pages
of history.
To factory lines
I raise my glass,
'Neath abandoned mines
of times now past,
From overtime
to austerity,
I will frame the grime
for posterity.
To the silent mills
I tip my hat,
To what ever ills
and this and that,
From a steelworks spew
to a builders hole,
I will stand in a queue
to draw my dole.
To finance, the city
I bow in awe,
To show no pity,
to flout the law,
From sellers, buyers
to pickets and strikes
I will slash the tyres
of your matchstick bikes.
© RJVHorton2016
The depth of our love has an infinite range,
as I reminisce on the day that we met.
I will always remember your deepest voice,
a mellifluous sound I will never forget.
You caught me off guard, while working my flight.
In a three piece suit, a tall Adonis you were,
as you bowed your head to enter the door,
I had no idea what next would occur.
When I served you white wine, I asked if you sing.
You smiled and replied “only in the shower”.
It was late at night, and the flight was long. . .
You came to the bar and we spoke for an hour.
You shared with me your love of surfing the waves,
and working at the shipyard at Pearl Harbor.
We both felt the chemistry of love’s sparks fly,
and I could barely contain my joyful ardor.
The drone of the engines made it hard to hear
so we spoke with a nearness that captured delight.
Your scent took my breath in a heavenly way,
and we hated to see the end of our flight.
You took my hotel number and promised to call.
You kept that promise when home you returned.
Soon our whirlwind romance began to aspire.
In my heart, in my thoughts, that flame always burned.
It was not long until this isle I called home,
and I have never regretted a moment with you.
Life with you quite a challenge, but oh. . . so divine.
You still make sparks fly in sweet things that you do!
8-28-16
*Note: We have been married for 34 years now
It is pointless to write with dull pencils
When a pen keeps the sheep safe at night.
And water can flow from a hole in the ground
As long as the spring’s not too tight.
Cargo is sent from a shipyard
But a shipment can go out by car.
A wise man is often superior
But a wise guy is usually subpar
Tonight I will drive down the parkway,
Yet park in the driveway at home.
No wonder I can’t speak this language
It only makes sense in a poem!
© Dean Wood
Oct. 26, 2017
I know how to live off the land
I'm a survivalist
I make do with whatever's at hand
I'm a survivalist
It's a mindset,
it's a lifestyle
You must have a soldier's discipline,
be able to endure hardships for a long while
I'm a mountain man,
got no time for guile
I can ascertain your true motives,
sense the truth behind the smile
I was trained to be a scientist,
I was trained to be a fireman
I was trained to be a field doctor,
but right now I'm a lumberjack
swinging an axe in my hand
I worked on a railroad,
I worked in a cooper mine
I worked at a shipyard,
I was a mean cook when I did a little time
I'm a mountain man,
got no time for those corporate city slickers
I can deduce your true identity,
sense the lies behind the smiling boot lickers
I was trained as a scout,
I was trained as an engineer
I was trained as a wrangler,
but right now I'm a mechanic
fixing a truck with busted gears
I worked for a big law firm,
I worked as a small company machinist intern
I worked at a high-tech factory,
I got recruited by a low-level military attache
Those are just a few of my credentials,
but here is what you really need to know
I'm a student of studying people,
I got a quick wit, but I like to appear slow
Being in the big outdoors
is where I really feel most at home
I love to test my skills at surviving,
I love to operate my satellite phone
Check the cloud patterns,
constantly scan the terrain
Calculate the tide shifts,
learn every animal, know every grain
I know how to live off the land,
make the land work for me
I make do with whatever's at hand,
let the land give me what I need
I'm a mountain man,
I live in an untamed world
I'm a different kind of animal
I'm a mountain man,
who's never gonna get trapped
by modern barbarians ever again
One morning, when I was stationed at base operations in Subic, I had a
telephone call. A Filipino shipyard worker had died during the night-shift,
on the job at the navy repair facility, apparently of natural causes. But to
cover our backsides, the shipyard wanted to fly the body to Clark Air Force
Base for autopsy by a pathologist. Just to make sure.
So I called one of the many helicopter pilots I had become acquainted
with to set the flight up. The pilot said “No problem, just put the body in
a body bag, and we’ll strap him into one of the UH-I’s seats (the helicopter
workhorse of Vietnam), call it a training flight, and do the deal.” So, I called the
shipyard, told them what to do, and went back to my morning cup of coffee.
A few minutes later, the admiral’s Aid called, to tell me that the admiral’s
driver, a marine corps sergeant with three Purple Hearts from combat in
Vietnam, was going to be charged with some minor legal offense by his
Philippine girlfriend, in order to keep him in the Philippines, instead of
returning to his wife in the US. The admiral wanted to get him to Clark and
en route home ASAP to avoid bi-lateral US-Philippine embarrassment.
So I called the pilot to tell him he would have a second passenger. No
problem, I went back to my coffee.
A few minutes later, I got a call from the marine corps captain who was
in charge of the brig. He had a soldier stressed out from combat in Nam,
high on unknown drugs, and violent. He wanted to get him out of the brig,
and send him back to the US.
So I called the helicopter pilot again to inform him of his third passenger.
He agreed to take him, if he was put in a straight jacket and leg irons, and
accompanied by a an armed guard. A reasonable requirement, because
passengers had access to the pilots in UH1 “Hueys”.
I still wonder what the air force airman thought as he slid open the door
of that Huey when it landed at Clark.
Built in a Belfast shipyard
for Shaw Savill ‘n Albion Line.
On her flagstaff wind ‘n lee
flew the Southern Cross ensign,
down a slipway to the sea
launched afar by Her Majesty
Behold her pale eau de nil
green ‘n painted hull of grey,
at twenty knots her rate
twenty thousand tons aweigh.
On the seas a ship of fate
the world to circumnavigate
Yon the Empire far ‘n wide
from Southampton to Trinidad.
Where from ship to shore
off I waved goodbye as a lad,
till in the distance I saw
my home to be nevermore
Smoke from her aft funnel
into a big Caribbean sky blew,
then set a course westerly
by merchant captain ‘n crew.
And to each port ‘n quay
across the ocean carried me
I remember gazing in awe
up ‘n down her length ‘n beam,
at the mighty waves below
and how sea ‘n ship did gleam.
In canal gates under tow
winding our way lazy ‘n slow
Crossing the equator I saw
Davy Jones ‘n King Neptune
rising up out of the deep
‘neath a high December moon.
Till in safe passage ‘n keep
back to the depths they leap
Out on Oceania as a boy
in the lido deck pool I did dive.
The Southern Cross ‘n me
would our long voyage arrive,
on in all her hope ‘n glory
the grand old lady of the sea
On final Far East voyage
would alas be her swan song,
beached on a tidal seaway
sold ‘n scrapped in Chittagong.
A line flagship in her day
stripped bare where she lay
Written: May 2017
It was a cold winter day on the Fundy Bay when the wind and the Ocean Raged
You were a child with the sweetest smile who walked through a storm for a mile
Over the frozen sand as I held your hand, we made our way to the land
Up over the banks past the shipyard tanks and a pile of old wooden planks
Homeward bound as the snow fell down and wood shavings blew all around
I held your hand like a grown man the way that your Mother planned
Keeping you warm from the day I was born together we weathered the storm
I was made by a hand, with wool from a lamb, with love knitted in every strand
As soft as a kitten and Oh! So smitten, I...Just one of pair of mittens.
April 12, 2018
Author: Elaine Cecelia George
It was a good spot.
A spot near the bus stop.
A spot where on many days the air was filled with aroma
of fruits and vegetables from tables set up in front of markets.
A spot where a poignant odor from the fish market stretched the nostrils.
There on that corner, that favorable spot of hers where she spread
her blanket
And on that blanket, her well-crafted beads and basket do
heavily employed.
There on that corner, that favorable spot where one would have
no need to have the nose of a bloodhound to pick up the different
smells of people.
There on that corner, that favorable spot she smelled mineral odors
from shipyard workers, whose boots and uniforms were stain by oil.
There on that corner, that favorable spot there were strong musty,
and repugnant smells from dislocated drifters.
There on that corner, that favorable spot, were dusty smells of
the sawdust and paper mill.
It was a good spot, a most favorable spot where her body and soul
ravished the distinctive odors, and the many loud and
indistinguishable voices that were subaqueous to the object of
the sounds of the street.
It was that spot on that corner that whispering winds spoke to her
about in her dream.
It was a dream that was sent to her by Hashtali-
Achafa.
On that corner, that most favorable spot she offered up her praise to
Hashtali-Achafa and hawk out notice of her goods.
And Hashtali-Achafa blessed her with prosperity.
Copyright 2017 Looking At The Light From The Bottom Of The Lake
Inspired by a character from the book Halona, copyrighted 2004
SHIPYARD
Visions do come to me...
Shades floating to Eternity,
Ships of souls floating away,
People now past their days,
Heavenly light's clear haze,
Leaving gifts for posterity,
Shipyard of our souls' humanity,
Eternal blessing, never ending,
Ships of souls we're sending
Home, the ships of souls are wending....
Your country needs you lads, let Lord Kitchener tell you more
Come forward, join the ranks and we’ll send you off to war
You’re fighting for salvation; you’ve got Jesus on your side
Remember that in battle; let the shepherd be your guide
Join up with your pals lads and march in time with pride
You’re Ulster Presbyterians, so, the lord with you abide
We’ll muster at the Shipyard so that everyone can see
Then continue to the Farmyards and the local Factory
You’re young, or even younger, than the army will allow
You look a little older since you smoke tobacco now
We’ll put you in a uniform and show you how to drill
We’ll teach you to be brave and then train you how to kill
Say goodbye to your family and prepare to sail away
You’ll fall in on the Western front and join the great affray
Although you may be seventeen, we’ve made you into men
Yet most of you will never see your mothers face again
In between the doubts and tears forms a founded thought…
scribbles on an old shipyard memo pad
tapping the inside of my skull, waking me…even though I don’t sleep,
offering a collection of dots and dashes to interpret
There are times in a man’s life when he knows he is sane…
Following the lines on an unpaved road
Crossing center without moving a muscle
Drinking from the fountain that bleeds rejoice
It is in these moments that he understands…
and removes the stupidity that has clothed him in rags
opens his eyes to what truly makes him happy,
breaks free of those past tense chains that bound him
What mattered does and what didn’t still doesn't…
When thumbing through crooked paragraphs
and finding that the phrases he thought he lost
were dangling from every crumbled page…waiting
Time does move in slug path wanderings…
Sidewalks glisten in zigzag designs
Drying in the mid day sun as
minutes appear as miniature renditions of the future
And as this time does slowly find me…
I extend my heart in fluttering palpitations of hope
strike the match on promises that I know I can keep
attempting to quell the flames of the past by swearing…never again.
standing midnight watch on the quarter deck
shipyard worker reported cries for help
Officer of the Deck sent me to check
on the portside sounded like a dog’s yelp
I knew of the barges on the portside
from port sponson saw man in the water
I tried pulling him out each time he’d slide
ship yard worker came and brought some order
a boat came to take us back to the pier
my white Dixie hat was pretty muddy
I later found out the man snuck out for beer
one week later my best friend was bloody
saved a life and loss a life in one week
I’m just thankful it wasn’t any streak
(8/26/12)
My dreams are like shipwrecks at the bottom of the sea
Covered under seaweed, algae, gravel and rocks
Because at its birth, I didn’t give it enough stock.
A dream is like clay and I am the sculptor
And if I can not see it in my mind , then it’s
Because I allowed myself to be blind.
You have to hold it , and feel it, and see it take shape
Otherwise it will be much too late.
You have to shape it and give it a heart that breathes
And pumps life into its body and soul
Until that mold starts to take hold.
To feel it in your every being to the point
That’s the only thing you’re seeing.
It has to become a part of you
And you a part of it
Until it becomes like a glove
With a perfect fit.
I wanted it quickly - I wanted it fast
But when you’re in a hurry it will not last.
I gave it up quickly and dropped it on the floor
Hoping to pick it up again once more.
But it was picked up by the wind and to the sea
It started its spin -taking my dream to the shipyard grave
Where at last it could not be saved.
So to all dreamers - I caution you this
Hold on to your dream and don’t drop it.
Perhaps a conspiracy, but the crew only knows, the
Happenings aboard the USS Eldridge, kept hushed
In a ship that sailed from sea port to time portals
Leaves a feeling this test was not ready, but rushed
Amid the Atlantic they were meant to disappear
Despite intentions, not only from sight did they vanish
Ever baffled by a green, eerie glow where the ship was
Last, by naval command all of the records were banished
People say they reappeared in the Norfolk Naval shipyard
Heavily disoriented and fused to the steel hull of the deck
In legend they say these sailors fused were alive
And how did they explain this more than a ship wreck
Each crewman survivor, where are they all now
X-rayed and studied in a black ops facility?
Prying minds still trying to make sense of it all
Ever curious, but maybe beyond my ability
Remaining questions with impossible answers
In theory, could there still be witnesses left
Men or woman who saw a war ship materialize
Each in disbelief of their eyes, their logic bereft
Not knowing if it was paranormal or sanity failing
This gave a new definition, to the term parasailing