Best Whalers Poems
When Whitman said
make your life a song,
had he spoken to old whalers?
Did they tell him of nights becalmed
on a pacific salty sea,
when no sound of lapping waves,
or rope stressed wood,
could interfere with the silence in the hold?
Did they tell of a time beyond sleep
long after the oil lamps were shut down?
When the silence of the briny deep
was broken by the eerie songs of whales,
oozing through the wooden walls.
Did they know, then, what they heard,
or did they talk in hushed tones
as ancient seamen did,
of harpies and sirens and
devils of the deep.
Did some say, "Those are our prey."
and recognize the song
and even familiar melodies and laments
from earlier seasons spent
plying these same seas.
Short songs and long songs,
and new songs built upon old songs,
pod songs and fractal songs,
and interminable songs of pain
and love songs that can be heard
by those who hear
from one edge of the basin
of the sea, under to the other edge.
Do you have a song?
Have you worked on it each season?
Is it short and repetitious
or have you worked to improve its sound
each turning of the moon?
Is it deep and subtle?
Does it provoke a laugh?
Would I recognize it far away
on a dark and briny night?
Would you mind if I wove my song
in and out of yours?
Do you have a song?
Some people think knots are for boy scouts and sailors
Cowboys, hangmen,Anglers and whalers
But knots have many jobs to do
To make this point I'll name a few
turning two heavy ropes into one?
The Carrick bend will get that done.
Do you need a loop at your rope's end?
On the figure eight you can depend.
Are you scaling walls of the steepest pitch?
You'ld be wise to perfect your Munter hitch.
Are you fishing one line, but wishing for two?
The Bimini twist can make that come true.
Please judge your knots by function and form
For if you tie them wrong
Your fish could be lost, Your boat could get tossed
Or your plummet could be mighty long
Here comes the judge contest
Morning fog was parting for the day's performance,
and an audience of just me sat cross legged,
waiting for ghosts.
They appeared slowly, one by one.
Old whalers, freighters and, fifty yards out,
slate grey bones scarred with burnt sienna,
a young trawler.
A Cormorant dried its wings on the wheelhouse,
primary feathers spread, glistening ebony,
tattered like a tramp's raincoat.
The surf whispered warnings.
February 4th 2016
For contest 'The Sea shore' sponsor- Craig Cornish
The roll of the waves hides the arcs of their backs.
The shoal of porpoises are feeding on squid.
Feasting amongst them on cephalopod snacks
Are green-scaled dragons that choose to be hid.
They hide from whalers and their brutal harpoons,
While they stay in the ocean for most of life's times,
Except times when they roam the nearby sand dunes
To covet Marsh Radishes and the wild limes.
These dragons don't fly, since they're aquatic sorts.
Like Nessie in Scotland, they wish to be free.
Some people catch a glimpse, and some hear a snort,
But rarely, since mostly they're way out to sea.
rising blood red sun -
spatters mount Fuji as
whalers fly flag
I wrote this poem to try to write what a country's flag might
represent to an individual. I love whales and dolphins so this
is what it represents to me.
Humpback beauties call to their young
Communicating to calves so precious
Don't be so immediately audacious
You can wander, just don't go too long
Blubberous parents are there to keep them close
For companionship, warmth and learning
Send each other many signals, the little one is yearning
Because of the ocean they want to make the most
Eating their fill of plankton and krill
The smaller babe makes a hydro sonic point
To the older one who loves this oceanic joint
He doesn't want to hurt or kill
The humans who eavesdrop on their descant
Like some other whales with mammoth choppers
Accidentally maiming overboard fishermen and surfers
These watery wonders are appreciated that's all they ever want
Imbibing benevolent attention only for half a century
Deep sea divers first decided to bring down equipment
When he spoke his special song, they had no idea what the male bull meant
That day being approached he was so hesitant and on sentry
Because whalers before had waited for them to breach
The surface for mere minutes finding some oxygen
Finding instead a foreboding air of danger without question
So reclusive they remain, staying out of reach
Beaching is another danger when whales will cry
For help they so need it and must be rolled back out
A benign thing on sand dangerously sprawled about
Back into the depths it should be before it go dry
Nature's biggest mammals can never be at rest
In the wild and bountiful marine, using fluked tales to swim around
Whales have a lot to say, their stories abound
In civilized society with whale translators today we are at our best
Making compact discs of them, something special we can keep
The arias of the ocean composed of many shores
Whales speak responding in the ripples as prophets do with lore
It works quite well for some, to lull ourselves to sleep
We should always stay in assonance.
Legends abound from society to society
But Norwegians have one that evokes great anxiety
A mythical sea monster of immense proportions
May be fifty-feet long, or its size has some distortions
With enormous tentacles it’s said to have grabbed sailors
Squeezing and consuming the bodies of Nordic whalers
Is the Kraken truly a product of Norwegian lore?
Perhaps its targeted vessels fell to the ocean floor
“Fish tales” are popular in many seas throughout the world
But the Kraken is a squid and many ships it has hurled
Since the concept originated in Norwegian tales
Giant squid sightings are reported wherever man sails
The Kraken is surely a most intriguing sailors’ yarn
But Norwegians take heed of the tall tales that warn
For none wish to test the near-impossible validity
Of a Nordic legend ripe with vivid morbidity
The Moby Dick Reunion
One hundred fifty nine years have passed
Since Melville published his novel.
Seven hundred twenty pages in length
Some say it was much too nautical.
All of the characters have gathered.
They’re going to have a reunion.
Rumor has it, they say, that Herman himself
Is making a huge revelation.
Ishmael is the first to arrive,
And it’s he who was telling the story.
That’s only right, in the book he survived,
He deserves to get all the glory.
Fedallah and Moby were next in line,
Just in from the Dr. Phil Show.
Their friendship had grown a lot lately.
The harpooner was psychic you know!
When he and Phil studied the big fishes mind,
They found out his reason for anger.
The fact that he was albino
Had burned in his mind like a canker.
Ahab, it seems, was equally mean,
And caused a lot of his stress.
He’d cornered the whale with harpoon boats,
And offered no way for egress.
Moby’s life has been changed forever.
He’s hitched to a really cute killer.
She’s working part time at Sea World,
Seems they needed a sub for their “killer”.
The pub where they met was named Starbucks,
In honor of the owner.
The first mate was rich as a pirate.
He could even afford to buy toner.
Then through the door entered Ahab,
With a prosthesis and brand new pipe.
He finally learned to be happy,
And enjoyed a simpler life.
With him was Herman Melville,
A screenplay under his arm.
One thousand pages he’d written,
About whalers who lived on a farm?
The crew didn’t give their attention.
By now, they were tanked up on rum.
He said he was going to Hollywood,
And if they were smart they would come.
But Ahab and Moby were sobbing.
Tears falling into their mugs.
After all of their trials they found friendship
In the bottom of a jug.
Herman begged them to go make the movie.
But, their lives were happier now.
They all had families to care for,
And no urge for taking a bow.
It seems that while Melville was groveling,
Pip and Ishmael had stolen the play.
They put it in Queequey’s coffin,
And watched it float slowly away.
That was the end of the reunion.
They all went home that night,
Happy with the realization,
That their lives were all just right!
A Whaling Tale
by Gabriel Magno
The whaling ships approach as I stare into the bay,
today I said by short farewells, to friends who pled I stay.
A whaler I have dreamt to be, since I stood three feet tall,
my name appears among the list of worker’s on the wall.
I grab my heavy backpack, and board the pungent ship,
as whalers celebrate with wine, a long successful trip.
We sail under the moon light, as we brave the crashing waves,
and as the morning sun appears, the ocean now behaves.
The captain calls all hands on deck, to start the daily hunt,
he points and shouts “there she blows”, the whale we’ll soon confront.
Harpoon in hand I spot it rising, as we meet briefly eye to eye,
with trembling hands I cannot throw, and watch the peaceful creature die.
The captain shouts “throw hard, throw true, before it swims away”,
instead I dropped this lethal spear, and prayed it lives another day.
As I stood watching, another whaler did his duty and it was cast,
but as the Northern winds blew hard, it missed the whale who fled at last.
The captain’s wrath I took in stride, I count the hours until we land,
and no more do I dream of whaling, against it now I’ll surely stand.
God’s creatures one and all, are born like you and me,
to dwell in this a wondrous earth, longing to live peaceful and free.
Last Fall, my church's Scouts and I went hiking.
A few miles north of Big Sur’s coast,
There is a forested park much to our liking.
Point Lobos is the nature preserve that I love most.
The beauty there is supernal, beyond description.
We chose our trails with maps and compasses,
And practiced local plant identification.
I pointed out Monterey Pines and Cypresses.
For a time we climbed a steep inclination.
We looked down into a cove, home of sea otters,
From a viewpoint near the old whalers’ station.
We climbed through a cleft worn down by waters.
That Saturday outing wasn’t a total disaster.
The boys passed tasks to advance in ranks.
Life doesn’t get much better for an old Scoutmaster.
Lastly, to the Great Spirit we all gave thanks.
For Goethe Stanzas contest
Her placid surface ripples with
undulating, hypnotic waves.
Yet, lost within Her depths' embrace,
lie the bodies of kings and slaves.
Exposing forgotten treasures,
cascading breakers seed the shore.
And hint at what lies still submerged,
deep within Her ebony core.
The Sea's a seductive siren;
luring fishermen and whalers.
And yet, She's far from submissive;
drowning impertinent sailors.
A potent brew of emotions,
is preserved in Her salty brine.
And many crave that elixir;
savoring Her bittersweet wine.
Her beauty lies just out of reach,
yet it's that allure men die for.
And it's said, time synchronizes
with Her tides as they wash ashore.
Creature of deep seas
Battle scars from giant squid
A rare appearance
Stay well hidden from whalers
Inspiration of Melville.
A. Green
'Thar she blows!' the cry goes up
a breaching whale is seen
The longboat's manned and low'red
the lookout's eyes were keen
The hunt begins, the whalers chant
the oarsmen strain and pull
The whaling ship won't turn for port
'til her holds are full
The boat seems small, the men seem weak
beside the mighty whale
but it's gentle nature seals it's fate
the harpoon never fails
The sea is churned to bloody red
the whale takes hours to die
but no-one there bemoans its fate
no tears in whaler's eyes
The killing done the mighty beast
is cut and torn apart
It's oil and perfume that combine
to still the giant's heart
The days of sail soon fade away
a spear becomes a gun
now gas is used to float the beast
when all the killing's done
Just when it seems that all is lost
that all the whales will die
the world begins to count the cost
of slaughter, greed and lies
The gentle giants of the sea
are saved from death and pain
We never should have hunted them
and never should again
To see them float with lazy grace
to spout and roll and dive
To touch their calves, a fluke's embrace
be glad they're still alive
It's very hard to understand
why some still want to kill
Their claims of scientific culls
are lies that make me ill
Let's let the gentle giants live
in peace beneath the waves
for once they do it's more than whales
that we will then have saved
From my PDF book "Bush Ballads and Bulldust"
I dreamt you
in golden threads of sunlight;
streaming, dancing, mingling with
azure waters...
dreamt you calling,
singing out my name in your regal orcan tongue...
dreamt you in each face that peered
from liquid silver seas...
dreamt your body's etheric touch
amidst cool tranquil waters...
dreamt our souls as one;
bound together; two spirit dreamers...
dream you now a foggy memory
since the whalers came...
but, as all dreams do;
you too soon…fade.
I awaken from this abysmal, astral realm…
reaching, stretching for your spirit.
Alone again, I will touch you again…
in another time.
Copyright, 2-20-14
THE EDGES WERE RAVELED
I COULD MAKE OUT THE
AUTHERS SIGNATURE
I MEASURED THE SIZE
AND FOUNDED WHAT
I HAD CAME TO SEE
THE ORGINAL " DUEX dE gRITT"
BY dIZZIE cAULIER GRUMP
I cOULDN'T BELEIVE WHAT WE WERE SEEING
A VISION FROM tRIMPP's " sUCCI"
IT'S A OIL PAINTING OF WHAT THE MAN IN
dRIPPERS " NIGHT IN bRIPPLES bAY"
THE PICUTURE OF THE HIDING WAR THE
cANADAIN gOVERMENT HIDE
FROM IT'S CITEZENS.
THEY SAY IT WAR ALWAY DOWN THE HOLD EASTCOAST.
THE WHALERS FROM THE PACIFIC THOUGHT THEY WERE IN THE PACIFIC
THEY WOKE UP ONE DAY IN THE aTLANTIC
AND STARTED WHALING.
tHE CANADAIN gOVERMENT
FOUND THEM OUT IN THE NORTHWATERS.
tHEY SIGNALED THEM, BUT wHEN THE WHALE SHIP GOT
SPOOKED, THEM hULL-HUSSIES LAUCHED
AN ATTACK ON THE FRIGGETTS.
THE OTHER PIRATES AND FRIGGET ALLIED
AND THEY STARTED AH WARRING.
THEY HIDE THIS FROM US IN SCHOOL.
THEY DON'T TEACH THIS STUFF!