Best Tank Ship Poems
Who is a Prisoner Now
My back yard has high walls and is like sun trap, I sit here and
get a tan in winters... the walls, cracked, need a lick of paint.
I can see a map of Europe, lakes, rivers and open plains
where wolves roam and hunt elk, and man shot wolves.
The map changes I now see the Caribbean and the Islands
dotted about. When I was on a small tank ship years ago I had
a chance to go ashore, visit and explore most of the Islands
.... mainly I fear, my interest was to meet lovely girls, of what
these Islands have many, and with a few of them swam in
crystal clear waters of innocence. I also had the sense to see
those pearls of Islands in early morning haze.
So many years ago, yet I remember Teresa, in Curacao, and that
is a great recall, as the Island itself is rather flat and has little
to offer of beauty, its only claim to fame is a big oil refinery and
the largest camp of prostitutes I have ever seen. Anyway the sun is
setting and shadows erase my map, time to go in and lit the fire,
but reminiscence of a time gone by lingers.
The Nature of Success.
On an old tank ship that was so slow it felt as
we were suspended in time, a world shrunk
only us the ocean and the rhythmic hear beat
of the engine… and when the ship birthed, at
some god forsaken refinery, we felt overcome
by shyness seeing so many strange faces.
It was on a ship like this I met the third officer
a young man with literary ambitions, and he
succeeded on Norway´s modest literary tree.
Often interviewed, asked awkward questions
about writing and why he writes like it should
be a hidden formula.
I´m glad for his triumph, yet there is a sting in
my heart, not of rancor, but of sadness…never
having received the clarion call of acceptance.
Collections after collections have been rejected.
I feel as I have been suspended in a fool´s time,
only the sea and me and the shore is far away.
Away From the Camera.
In the Bay of Bengal, near Tripura, a tank ship ran
aground, an old ship that had been economical for
its owner, carrying crude for a hungry west and
crewed by low paid seamen. And she was sold to
the people who would tear ships apart, like French
avant-garde butchers with hearts of frozen rocks.
Squall in the bay, the ship broke anchor and, like
a horse that seeks grassland, she sought high seas.
Alas she had oil onboard must be caught before spill
washed on sandy shore. Cowboy tugboats rode out
lassoed the old lady back to the place of destruction.
It is in the Bay of Bengal the infidel drowned Bin Laden,
in moonlight his coffin is a silvery specter in the bay.
It drifted to shores of New Jersey, on the voyage made
a devil´s pact with sandy storm; revenge for those who
dare laugh in the face of Islam. For her crew this meant
little, but pale memories of peace when dolphins played
on cobalt sea, and grown men had hearts of poetry.
The Merchant seafarers` war
When world war two started Norway was
neutral but unsure which side to stay on.
The English thought occupying Norway
but they were too late the German army had
done the occupation.
The British sent a ragtag military force to Norway
trying to cut the country in half to stop further
advances but were told to pull out.
Norway had at this point a big merchant fleet
It was sequestrated and used bring good and weapon
for the allies.
This left thousands of seamen nowhere
to go those go tried to flee was arrested and sent
back as crew members of any merchant ship.
They the crew lived under a constant pressure
(one out of ten) never made it home can you imagine
how they year after year lived in constant fear
a tank ship full high octane for planes with the enemy
U-boats lurking about. When the war ended and
they could go home they were treated with indifference
like shirkers who had avoided the war.
These seafarers where heroes of the highest order
but the government ignored them, they let down the pride
of Norway, one can say without them the war might
have lasted much longer
Fifty Years Ago a Dedication
It was nice day in the Caribbean Sea I was on
a small tank ship called “Saphir” a radio message
the president Kennedy had been assassinated.
Deep silence in the mess hall, because he was
to use a modern vernacular: The Man.
He was the one who could lead us into a bright
future, he energized us and, our trusted brother;
and nothing could go wrong on his watch.
So who was this slayer? The ogre that had killed
our hero? We were soon to know, a weak chinned
misfit called Oswald. There has been conspiracy
theories aplenty over the years, but I still think
Oswald acted alone out of envy and dark hatred;
a loser seeking infamy, to prove something only
his dark mind could understand.
50 years have gone the players are dead or old
but president Kennedy will forever be a beacon
of light for us who loved America.
The Cow
By the edge of the cliff where the grass is juicy
the cow tried to eat it all the last straw you can say
alas, it tipped over and fell into the sea
and since happened in Dover, it swam to Holland
and joined the Dutch cattle.
This was a good solution till the cow demanded
special privileges such as imported Dover grass,
when it didn`t get it will, it swam back.
On the way across the channel, it was run over
by a Panamanian registered tank-ship.
Children had to go to school hungry no sausages
or milk for breakfast.
The ship, the farmer (not setting up a fence) and
the Dutch got the blame, this wouldn`t have happened
if we had let, the cow gets its own way.
Agoraphobia
Voyaging from Cuba to South Korea across the Pacific
takes about three weeks on an old freighter, but we knew
it had a beginning and an ending.
We have been held up in our flat for three weeks with
no ending in sight, next week it is said or perhaps the week
after that, if we are indoors long, we will get agoraphobia
and unable to leave the flat
Fearful of the world outside full of people and automobiles
agoraphobia is not a joke I have suffered from it on and off.
Once I stayed on board a tank ship for six months not leaving
the ship once I was saving money for further education
I needed help to walk down the gangway.
Once in Liverpool, I had another attack unable to leave the house
but I got help by a psychologist who lured me on a bus trip,
he was going to wait for me after four stops; he wasn’t there
I had to walk home among a throng of people
So, it might happen again because I tended to prefer
loneliness.
Voyaging
The high seas and the battle for a meaning
of life, not on a ship that runs on routine.
The Panama Canal, have I been there once
not sure, I vaguely remember a tank ship
pulled by trains; I might be erroneous.
A miniature community of lost people
changing the clock one hour forward
or one hour back, the time disappears.
No escape gaping emotional exposed
and the roar of sea-lions
Sanctuary is a tamper-proof cabin door
reading books to combat the tediousness
of being
Will the ship ever reach a safe haven?
The end of everything
The master of the old tank ship that resembled a schooner
sat fretting in his cabin; for twenty years he had been
the master of the ship, a friendship between the animate
and the inanimate had developed.
During the war years, the ship delivered high-octane plane
fuel from the USA to Britain, with him on the bridge in storms
and calm; they had seen ships blown up by torpedoes both
on the starboard side and the portside, it was as the ship and
he breathed in unison.
For five years, they had traversed across the Atlantic except for
a few times when she was in dry dock for maintenance and
when everyone had gone ashore, he stayed onboard, keeping
her company.
So many faces, too many to remember, had crossed her decks
no one stayed long, she had no comfort to offer, narrow cabins
the shower units were connected to the cold sea; didn’t they
see she had kept them alive?
It was over now she had been sold as scrap, he, homeless.
Once the king had given him medals, he and the ship had
been extolled in the papers that said she was a lucky ship
and him they called a great seaman.
Soon enough, he would go to the mystic island were sailors
and Nirvana’s Ocean cleanses the memories of the departed.
Remembering a dog
When I was young and for us not rich there was
navy academia you could learn engineering, navigation
and catering, with my eyesight I settled for catering
After going through the grades, I got a certificate that I was
a chief steward. a job which consisted of telling the cook what
to make, buying the food needed and to do the books.
The big tank ship, oh so beautiful, sailed from oil port to to
another oil terminal and boredom set in, I left the great ship
in Antwerp and after a week ashore I got a job
on an old freighter going into every port, you could think of
I was in my element; this was a perfect ship.
The officers were not going anywhere, no one wore uniforms
and bothered with titles.
On a French island, I have forgotten its name, a dog came onboard
unseen and since the storeroom was open it hid there
and I didn´t see it before we were on the open sea.
I took the dog up to the old-man he liked the dog it had a home.
Months later, when I was on another ship my old ship was
tied up in front of us, the old-man was retiring taking the dog home,
the new captain didn´t care for dogs.
The dog remembered me, and there was a lot of kisses and cuddles.
I'm sure the little dog had a long and happy life seeing
green grass and trees.
68 years ago
68 years ago, I was onboard the world's oldest tank ship
wooden decks and looking like a sailing ship more than
a tanker in the Black Sea on the way to Odesa.
The sea had ice flakes, fishing vessels got stuck, and a Russian
minesweeper was on its way to help it was painted dark
blue and red; the sky was slightly overcast.
What I remember best was the silence, no TV. no noise
from constant communication in the cold air, above all
no mobile phones had yet to intrude.
Now, ships loaded with grain follow a mine-free lane
on the way to the Dardanelles for inspection by men
in uniform before heading for Africa.
Not destined for the famished population, not yet
the grain is stored in gigantic silos by trying governments
distributed by them at an inflated price, the poor
cannot afford the starvation continues unabated.
We have been here before, in the winter of 1949, people
froze to death when fishing and fell like nine pins when
spring came; few families had any furniture left.
68 years ago, I recall the unmoving stillness, now
there is a cacophony of angry voices protesting against
the burden they are asked to carry for our leaders.
The shipping accident
It was late evening when the captain of a Russian owner cargo came down from the bridge where he and the first mate had mapped the route from Humberside to Amsterdam. North Sea is always a busy seaway
In his cabin, lit a cigarette, sat down and opened his personal computer to send an email to his wife; he had a two-month vacation coming soon and said he missed her and loved her, if she came to Amsterdam, they could travel to Swiss
Then, an almighty shudder, he was thrown off his chair, hastily got up, ran up to the bridge, to his horror, his vessel had collided with an American reg tank ship; both ships were on fire, but since it was a calm night, the crew survived.
Back ashore, he gave his version of the accident to the relevant authority, as he left the building, he was arrested for manslaughter by the police; he knew the Russians were hated in England except for the wealthy types
The unreasonable hatred goes back to the time of the Tzar when the Bolsheviks killed the Tzar clan his wife had been one of the Queen Victoria’s relatives; the old queen had relatives in most of European royal households.
Politics entered the fray; the captain of the Russian ship was thrown into jail to await a trial that was not properly investigated since the US ship had carried jet fuel for an American base in a mediterranean country
There was a rumor of sabotage since NATO provoked war in Ukraine, the notorious newspaper, the Guardian, which is known for its anti-Russian stance, didn’t hesitate to accuse Putin for bringing the war to British shores
Assassination of President Kennedy
The tank ship was on the way to Kingston in Jamaica
The sea was deep blue, the weather calm, In a few hours, we could stretch our legs and have a beer because the ship was dry, the charter in Houston, Texas, had insisted on this.
The radio operator came down and said “Kennedy had been shot and killed.”
There were shocked voices, was it true?
We all looked up to the president he, like us young and represented, the future and
now taken away.
Of course, we blamed the Russians
until news came and said the assassin was an American.
He Kennedy had stood up to Khrushchev and told him to leave Cuba.
Later, some of us understood that Mr. Khrushchev had saved
Kennedy and his hint of using nuclear force, what would he have done if Russia had not yielded?
We loved Kennedy, we saw him as a harbinger of better times when world leaders could talk and find peace.
I was young at the time and it was a good time to be young
Years later, I saw Walter Concrete in a recording announcing Kennedy's death, and he said it all.
A boy and shore leave
The 15 years old boy was standing on the poop deck of an old
tank ship late at night looking up to the millions of stars over The Red Sea.
His job was to clean pots and pans in the galley ruled over by a cook
who hated the world and everybody in it.
The boy had tried to sit in the mess hall where older seamen
sat, drinking coffee and playing cards, but they had made fun of him
saying he looked like a girl the way he folded his arms.
His left nibble was swollen when he pressed on the nipple white
stuff came out and he wondered if he was turning into a girl.
In his cabin he had found pornographic pictures looking at them
he decided he was very much a boy.
In a rough society like this, there was no one to talk to about his
feelings, a forbidden word, like constructing a house of cards and
pulling the bottom card away.
A burst dam of feelings, by those who had kept their loneliness
hidden, not being able to tell anyone about a rotten childhood and
a miserable life, punctuated by shore leave, with drink and whores
of Rotterdam.
The boy giggled at the thought of seeing bearded men wailing
about their misery; nevertheless, the next time the ship docked in
Rotterdam he would go ashore to see what it was all about.
love on the high seas
He was a happy man, had passed the catering exam, and got employment as second cook on a tank ship
To make happiness perfect his girlfriend had a job on the same ship, keeping the crew's mess hall clean.
How long was Adam in Paradise?
The fall came in the form of a mellifluous-voiced sailor
that had a call of love she could not resist and after work
she listened to his vocalization until one evening she stayed all night before going back to the cabin she shared with the second cook.
Pale and devastated he came in the galley to make breakfast, but the cook sent him to the store-room to fetch prunes needed to stuff pork loins.
When he came back he held in his right palm a finger
lacking from the left hand; an accident he said, we knew
he had done this for love.
At the entrance of the Suez Canal, he was sent ashore but there were some delays and he came back onboard in Port Said, because the ship was bound for Antwerp it was cheaper to send the boy home from there
His girlfriend starry-eyed and in love thought she could move in with a sailor who had a beautiful voice, but he
looked morally upset and refused her advances which
of course, that was not true, he had had his fun and goodbye
The shock of the rejection made him see sense, the second cook and she became lovers again, and she had forgiven him
(he didn't ask for what) and he forgave her.
Happy again, they left the ship in Antwerp, to take the train home, and their adventure ended.