Best Tacking Poems
The mellow western sky darkened,
The sea was calm that night,
Yachts tacking across the bay
Towards their appointed piers.
Luminous moon rays shimmer
Over wavelets that bathed
The coloured pebbles
Strewn all over the long shore.
As night slowly fell
I began my walk along the promenade.
A soft breeze was a welcome to all
Especially to the sailors that plied the bay
In their sleek sailing boats
Now tinged in red by the dying sun.
Along the promenade, I met with friends
A few words of salutation
But I hurried on toward an ancient tower
That once stood guard against pirates
That invades the surroundings.
Plundering and taking slaves with them.
The Tower was now a restaurant,
And there sat my love waiting for me.
The breeze-blown brightness of her hair
Seem to invite me to our destined tryst.
She stood up and we embraced,
A soft kiss on her wet lips.
It was a promising beginning
Of our night of love.
A light wind gently rocks our sailboat as
breezes begin to pick up on the sun drenched dock.
Cable wires rap and tap upon the mast as
daylight filters thinly through the clouds.
Egrets begin to peck around the gangway
foraging for scraps from bugs or grubs.
Great blue heron busily prepares her nest
high upon the eucalyptus tree.
I sit and daydream on the harbor deck
just enjoying the sea breeze, sights and sounds.
Kelp beds sway rhythmically with the currents
lapping the rocks at low tide, while
massive flocks of birds perch purposefully
near a lonely lighthouse high on the jetty.
Open seas spread toward the horizon where
pelicans busily dive bomb for fish.
Quarry rocks surrounding the harbor create
rocky protrusions, allowing ground squirrels to
spy sailors earnestly jibing on ocean water
tacking swiftly through the northwest winds.
Under the pylons and gangways
various starfish and mussels cling
with schools of fish swimming in tandem.
Xylophone sounds drift with music from a
Yacht club hosting a spring concert.
Zeal for the beauty of harbor life moves me.
Written on 2/11/2015
The cruise ship charged
Whistleless at my sail boat
In a narrow channel
Between Islands
Of The Salish Sea.
I was powerless with sails up
Tacking against a current
Knotted against me.
The water boiled.
I recoiled
In dread
I could see them
Cosmetic lazy travellers
Lounging unconcerned
Tending to their looks
As the mass
Of their moving Carnival
Careened
At my destruction.
Two glaucous winged seagulls
Preening feathers were
Unconcerned
As the submerging emerging hulking
Tree trunk and roots
Surged at me
Tents of various colours in parade across the sands
It's summer time in Brighton as the sun beams down so grand
Families too many to mention, on blanketed abound
Whilst laughter resonates from the children all around
Even nature has her say as the waves caress the shore
Just like yesterday, and so many years before
Gliding terns and seagulls grace the thermal flow
As they anticipate the pickings that present them down below
Rock pools gather attraction, a learning call for the young
Explained by thoughtful parents, of how we all began
Sails of shapes and sizes appear against the blues
Boats and ships aplenty in sailing tacking cruise
My day now nears it's end, on this wonderful Brighton Beach
So many joys surround me, I'm so thankful their in my reach
I may be poor
But yet I'm so rich
I count myself lucky
And so privileged.
I have a roof over my head
And a warm cosy bed
To rest my head.
Although my body is often weak
And I'm in a lot of pain
My faith in God.
Keeps me sane.
I have enough to eat
Clothes on my body
And shoes on my feet.
I try to live a simple life
But find it hard I struggle without a wife
Or child to call my own.
I am comfortable
And have all I need
I can pay my bills
And money enough to which to feed.
I try to stay focused in what I do have
And not what I've not
Even though to some
It may not seem a lot.
I often give to those less fortunate than me
For such things make me
Truly happy but also sad
For the world is full of want
And also greed wickedness a d bad.
Count your blessings for what you have
For tomorrow it could all be gone
The powers that be are tacking care of that
The rich get richer
And the poor get even more poor
Who knows what's around the corner
Or behind your door.
Be thankful for what you have got
Even if what you do have
Is not a lot.
Peter Dome.copyright.2015.July.
He clipped another one out of the news
The head on collision of Mr. Bob Hughes
Tacking it to his wall, he laughed to himself
Those trusting fools, he’d so kindly “helped”
He never thought he would like his work
But being a garbage man sure had its perks!
When stopped on a curve or on top of a hill
He waved people on, instantly thrilled
If another car was coming from the opposite direction
They made the most beautiful metal-to-metal connections
And the best part about it, was that if they survived,
They had no memory of him waving them by!
His wall’s almost full of people like Bob
Trying to get home, or on to their jobs
So don’t let his uniform fool your eyes
Just ask yourself this before you pass by -
Is the smiling man on the garbage truck
Helping me out, or setting me up?
If you just wait, seconds, minutes, to go,
Instead of trusting someone you don’t even know
You’ll have a better chance of staying alive
And not ending up on the wall of foolish drivers,
Where he especially loves pictures of smashed up cars,
To post above his articles, like golden stars
9/28/11
Gone forever, the used ones
Never can it be set aside for future use
As food, fuel or money can be
Can it be stored like a pea?
Like a large swift river
Ever flowing forward
Neither can be stopped nor delayed
Nor can thou use every drop flowing over
Moving in its downward flight
Dying in a sleepless night
Time and tide waits for no man
So goes a well worn slogan
A representation of action succession
Kill it with procrastination
Has it any resurrection?
Fatigue, a coin robber
Much emphasis on pleasure,
Grand coin robber
Coin robbers cause extreme pressure
This ticking-tacking coin in life
Can it be spent on behalf?
I'd rather be a time keeper
Than be a time waster
A fat flouncy funky flunky house sparrow bobs and bows his way tacking like a clinker built
dingy sailing across our sea of grass catching worms fattened by May's sun and showers .
Through pink glasses aiming Northward
Arctic lights and arrows quiver
The city life drags the final sword
As a sugar shack lilts with the river
The bow is his selenite
Mantra to foe, making them shudder
The amulet is his kryptonite
A tiller man now with no rudder
Longer boats to take him away await
Tacking slowly to avoid live minds
Leave a trail of very odd gait
Lowering his remains below water lines
Captain Bligh was his name,
he ruled his ship with an iron cane.
The Bounty was the ship,
sailing to Tahiti, via Cape Horn was the trip.
At Cape Horn, after tacking back and forth,
eastward, was set the course.
It was the long way round,
but they were still Tahiti bound.
After many long months at sea,
one morning the lookout shouted, "Tahiti."
Wine, women, and song for the crew,
it was a paradise, the like of which they never knew.
When the ship was fully laden with breadfruit trees,
once more the Bounty put to sea.
Three weeks later, the trees began to die,
"Give them the crews water", said captain Bligh.
The crew complained most bitterly,
"silence" said Bligh," or in the brig you will be."
Very early in the next morn,
the mutiny was born.
Over the side went Captain Bligh,
into the long boat, and left to die.
So back to Tahiti sailed the crew,
to the island paradise, that they loved and knew.
After more than a year of island bliss,
they decided, we had better get out of this.
For the British navy, will surely come,
then they will string us up, one, by one.
So once more the Bounty put to sea,
but this time the crew, took their families.
When Pitcairn Island came into view,
they said, "this is home, it will do."
Stripping the Bounty of everything of use,
she was set on fire with a fuse.
So if to Pitcairn Isle you go today,
the mutineers descendants, You will find, fishing in the bay.
I once heard a voice that can speak ever so quietly into the night
And while it was in a dream, it deepens to a whispering thunder
Like a roller coaster, where it’s very coils, silences the vibes
Like an air-draft, trapped, inside a mourner’s floating balloon
A few wishes too soon, it comes; a long sighing sound, growling even…
Filling-up all the voids, between each inconspicuous spaces, in place
Hope traces to a tiny thin line, giving birth to the light, from the darkness
And as it gets nearer, the quicker it turns to shadowy faces
Mimicking the sum of all my fears-to the smallest part of its pieces
Like a grain of salt inside a grain of sand, to the sea and to its rapturous waves
And poof! The voice spoke just once more from a swift edged sword of an epiphany
Teetering from the first breathe, ticking to the last heave, tacking
And somewhere within the ripples, I was left aside to wander
And to ponder, breaking my simplest thought asunder
Under the tender care of the thunder-ing sky, where the sun were,
Then I remembered but only forgotten it in a voice, who uttered the words “. . . "
wilbsd11/23/16
Her flawless beauty caught his eye
His head turned his heart followed
Skin of creamy translucency
Her body motion, he saw it flowed.
As a yacht upon the azure sea
Her body she sashayed down the street
Skilfully tacking from windward to lee
His eyes and heart all at once did meet.
His body yearned to feel her close
Her hair flicked windward calling him
His skin tingled inside his clothes
Feeling stirrings an exciting whim
Growth did begin but stung back to reality
With his wife by his side afraid of his mortality.
© 10/03/2013 ~GG~
Garden Golden Glove Award
(Or should that be Globe?)
Just dropping by St. James the Fisherman Church.
There was Father Dave doing all of his usual landscaping
work. He is really incredible. Not only does he help us
grow in God, he even helps the grass and flowers grow.
Terrific guy. Here is the poem I wrote for him. We even
actually need to give him one. That would be another
one of my great ideas. James Thomas Horn, Retired Veteran
Father Dave blessed us with beautiful church appearance
Not even needing a military security clearance
Thanks to all of his great efforts we do look forward
To presenting him with Garden Golden Glove Award.
Because of Father Dave's great gardening backing
Not only are we giving him award but also tacking
It up on the wall in the form of a fabulous plaque
After suffering another spiritual Father Dave attack.
(His is way better than a Mac Attack.)
All of this is sure to have an effect which will linger
As garden glove he starts sticking in each finger
Even over St. James from God an anger hovered
Father Dave has landscape issue completely covered.
PS. You need a category for entertaining.
Ticking! Tacking!! Tic Tac!!!
Time is running, seconds passing by
Years going with nothing that counts
Greys are showing, almost ready to die
Ticking! Tacking!! Tic Tac!!!
Flashes of his past, shadows of his future
Contents in his heart, wicked like the vulture
He wishes to go back, but back is not an option
Ticking! Tacking!! Tic Tac!!!
The best gift, He is not dead yet
To make his pact with GOD, he does first
To engrave his name in hearts, he does next
Ticking! Tacking!! Tic Tac!!!
Time is running, seconds passing by
The time is calling, he's ready to die
In heaven, he sits with a lovely smile
Ticking! Tacking!! Tic Tac!!!
:: Look to this day... For yesterday is but a dream and tomorrow, only a vision... But TODAY well-lived, makes every yesterday, dreams of happiness and tomorrow, vision of hope.
GOD IS WAITING ON YOU
At Sunset
Moving out of my shell at dawn
As the moving steel swag into sunset
Muse at the reception ground
Pattering partying feet colliding
Eyes scouting for a flower
No vacancy embossed in her lips
Adjacent my nose, stood a pebble lifting a mountain
One of Ultimate Reality's Master piece
Bride and groom in a euphoric hype
Atmosphere mugged in music
As the gongon bleeds
Crispy note growing wings
Tables littered with letters
Thorns chewing beef
Hands handcuffed with pounded yam
Aroma awaking sleeping giants
The competition begins
A bevy of ladies in a brief brawl
Brawling over a bowl of beef
Nostalgic commuters slide into the moving steel
Brouhaha intrude, a chicken-head in her garment of sheer emptiness, exploiting my mute face
As a lettered man, i let sleep dog lie
Calls from the blues intrude my cell phone, it must be a miracle, three-ex's swagging into my heart
Vehicles bustling, trees descending, pebbles and mountains bidding farewell, clock tic tacking as my heart walk down the aisle
Lips kissing the bread
A holy imagination!
awoh awoh