The ocean is my morning commute
where I set sail on my Yahama Outboard
with nothing but tradewinds, waves,
currents and salt air with no traffic in sight
I can take the ocean roads
around the Atlantic
on my limestone archipelago
of the sun, sand and sea
from Grand Bahama and Abaco
on the Little Bahama Bank
to Inagua on the Great Bahama Bank
I can cross the Tongue of the Ocean
from New Providence to Andros
to view the depth at 6,000 feet
and Exuma Sound to visit
the southeast side of Eleuthera
and the western end of Cat Island
I can drive down south to the Bight of Acklins
to visit the secluded beaches
on Acklins, Crooked Island and Long Cay
or to the Ragged Island Range
an archipelago within an archipelago
and travel back up north
to the Cay Sal and Great Isaac Banks
and even travel through the Florida Straits
when I need a vacation getaway to Miami
The Blue Mountains aren’t really all that blue
In the middle of the night
In the pale moonlight
They’re more of a dark green hue.
And here’s the thing
About Alice Springs
There’s not a spring in sight
But say that to a local
And they’ll call you a yokel
And probably want to fight.
As for the Great Australian Bight
There’s nothing to eat in sight
Looking around
Only rocks can be found
It’s enough to make one uptight.
But it’s the land of my birth
So forgive me my mirth
There’s no more precious country on earth
I was lucky to be
Born in this country
That stretches from Sydney to Perth.
The Deplorables
Because there was hilly billy running around all willy nilly. flipping and flopping his fishy filet, now he's sloppin the mopin today. Out walikin' n chillin', n stalkin road killin', for black pot fillin', the kettle's the villain. Can't quite get it right, fight though he might, his light not bight by a right sight. Yet never has he ever, on any endeavor, goten it together to weather the whatever. Whether he's hootin' n hollerin' or rockin' n rollin', he's stumbling n bumbling, "dem cookie be crumblin." A pathetic excuse this obtuse red recluse, this mighty white wighty n righty up tighty should never reproduce. These cringey, whingey, power stingy, fumblin', grumblin', crumblin', mumbling, creatures' main feature's are backwards preachers, thruth bleachers, no teachers, and NASCAR skreechers. Hee-haw, southern draw, drug withdrawal, slack jaw, Maw n Uncle Papaw. Trumpy dumpy little stumpy, frumpy clumpy always grumpy, no last straw. Vile and bile, world reviled, can't reconcile such a defiled lifestyles, and all the while, siege heil siege heil.
Sinning Horn Haiku
sinning not commit
being down to the last bight
we should always quit
For Constance Contest: Eight Beautiful Lines
03/27/25
Mei is a Japanese ornamental tree with fragrant white and pink blossoms and small yellow fruits.
She strolls the shore swept by a cordial light
Her soul full of awe of the stately sky
The dawn, blushed in pleasure, drones with delight,
Cheered by the colored blossoms of the Mei
Waves lap her feet in the sand of the bight
Her heart a blooming rose, set to defy
Searching on the edge for a perfect knight
Would it be a prince or a Samurai?
How fragile we all are
Words break our souls
Until we have nothing to endure
Still we come back, asking for more, " Use, me, want me, because that makes me feel needed."
Who do you think you are, taking my feelings for granted?
You twist and turn until I become unhinged.
I am only good now, never when I am in need.
I now know people like you, and I avoid you.
You steal whatever bight light once shone through me.
You eat people like me for breakfast.
Shame on you and shame on me for trusting you...
I will never be hurt again, my mind has totally opened.
World at times is a spring of mirth
And at times a root of melancholiness,
Gaiety and ruth are ineluctable quirk of nature
Where it leaves no beings unbrushed.
Bight trice would shimmer some days
And putrid flash would strike at times,
Discern that's a puissant canon of nature.
When grievance mounts the golden throne,
When relation twists into tears,
When desires wrench into agony,
Never hell bent to confide suicide
For those troubles proceed the incredible comforts that follows
Alike the precession of hell heretofore the heaven.
Whenever melancholic flash haunts you
And coerce you to confide suicide,
Think no other than thy indulgent mother
Who lugged you almost a year in her belly
And who raise you up, with vacant scars
Physically and mentally, all well sound.
She never raise you up, to entertain thy death unnatural and astound,
She just raise you to live a life
And amend world into a ameliorate place to dwell in,
Life is a precious douceur of God
And thy mother is a God in human form,
So let's say no to suicide in all tastes of life.
---
You may believe or not
Am really afraid of syringe shot
It does make me sweat a lot
When doctor fixes my slot
Fear swallows my guts
As the door shuts
Ouch, the needle on my skin juts
Then to divert pain I eat magic nuts
Nightmares reveal my plight
So, closing my eyes tight
My brain attempts to fight
And fastens the viruses with a bight
Next morning when I rise
With the swollen eyes
My heart deeply cries
Sighting at an injection that lies
Beside the bed
Again and again and again!!
Mostly seen when there is a bitter fight,
Victory more important than shown might;
One’s rival a completely hateful sight
Whether he lived or died a matter light…
Watching a crocodile’s one turns white,
A shark’s to other marine lives a plight
When lion goes for it my own lips tight
The child who bites another its peers slight…
After one has been bitten looks not bight:
If it were a dog’s, hatred at its height
A snake remembers it at pitch-black night,
John hits you, you bite John you’re no more right…
Your bites, please, reserve for food from kitchen,
You should the urge check, as it keeps itching.
We know it belongs to digestion:
The very first step after food ingestion…
He put his hand on my butt, at my age
Maybe I should have mooned him full of rage
'Twould be nothing like the act, he'd set stage
The eclipsed moon awed, let me give applaud
Spiritual thing broad, now staring unflawed
The eclipse was beautiful that long night
Years ago, when Luna flower bloomed white
As observed from my small place near the bight
Sad state of affairs, when man touched backstairs
With Him pain she shares, looks at moon upstairs
Hand on my behind at my old, old age
Left me distressed and somewhat confused, awed
Years pass, I don't cry during the dark night
Time has healed; talking with the Man upstairs
Why do these guys quit before seventy?
After achievements Life on Earth empty!
There was to be a Macgregor Laird:
Before sixty-one years to rest laid...
For my avid interest in History,
I could not but alight on his story
With its private message from Greatness
"No, Mystery, no Magic: Eagerness!"
What had he shrewdly done: John Beecroft?
In their Britain left behind a voice soft
To in far-off lands hold her goals aloft
While him Portugal, Spain and, sure, France scoffed;
In West Africa's Fernando Po
Seeing that The Non British did lines toe:
In Nigeria's captured Bight of Benin
Ensuring that his men got their Quinine;
I reckon in the close Bight of Biafra
Giving out British bags not of raffia!
I could have for John Beecroft my hat doffed,
Just that when I last tried a patriot coughed.
You can draw with the yellow ink
while I draw with the green one
Take your yellow ink
and you will sketch the islands of:
Grand Bahama, Abaco, Cay Sal Bank
Bimini, Berry Islands, Andros,
New Providence and Eleuthera
against the dark skin of my backbone
Now I will take my green ink
and will sketch the islands of:
Exuma, Cat Island, Long Island,
Rum Cay, San Salvador,
Conception Island,
Acklins, Mayaguana,
Crooked Island, Samana Cay,
Ragged Island, Little and Great Inagua
against the light skin of your backbone
Finally we both will take our inks
of azurite shades of blue
will shade in the bodies of:
The Great Bahama Bank
The Little Bahama Bank
The Tongue of The Ocean
Exuma Sound, The Bight of Acklins
and the Florida Straits
against the flesh and backbones
of each other like human canvases
together forming a unique
little archipelago chain of our very own
to embrace the proud Bahamians
we are both on the inside
This world seems so care free, on a flower sits a big yellow bumble bee. The bight sun I can see, I wish I could also see the big blue sea. Sometimes I wish I could flee, I must be happy here with just me.
Date Written:12/21/2022
Beyond the Distant Horizon
David J Walker
Faint
Octobers morning sun
Was more tolerant
of simple sight
The malaise set at peace
The disquisitive gaze
Or at least it might
As the calendars race to
November
Remembering that
December
Comes trembling into
Winters bitter bight
But not yet
Says the clock
Regulating
seconds into
Moments
And minutes into hours
Beneath the pedestal towers
Of times flight
Faint
Octobers morning sun
The day has just begun
And is already gone
Beyond
The distant horizon
The moon fell, splashing into the sea
and left me grasping for its last light.
I turned, accepting we did not agree.
Would the moon rise again so bright
as when you were beside me,
embracing in the shoreline’s bight?
You departed promising to return soon
but I saw lies in your smile and knew
this moment was the last blue moon
we would share; your words, untrue,
died as you cruelly crooned love’s tune
to seduce and add me to your coup.
For now I despair, but still love you.
In time I will forgive your betrayal
and unhappy love’s somber hue.
I will forget your false portrayal
and whisper of love that blew
with intent to possess my avail.
I’ll move on with hope, autumn’s breath
encouraging me forward, to leave
you and your amoral shibboleth
into Satan’s clutches wreathe.
For you, I embrace my love’s death
and my memories of you I cleave.
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