His life raft drifted helplessly in an ocean of tears and lost dreams
In tangible finite and impermanent flow
He lost his compass and the needle festered in Tom’s purulent arm
A portal to hot flushes of receding pain
Chasing sea dragons and hobgoblins he punctured reality’s voyage
Fixation gripped an underworld of relief
Rudderless he floated fuelled by psychedelic currents of reprieve
Full of intrigue for surfing waves of delusion
He floated perilously before he submerged in uncharted waters
Unable to navigate he sunk like a stone
Emergency flares reached stars but failed to hook into the sun
As one single ray refused to yield revelation
Yet when he crushed at rock bottom and scratched translucent surfaces
One more shot blasted spontaneous combustion
Dissolved in oblivion by pirates Tom finally took off his eye patch
And realized that they patronize his demise
18th January 2020
Let us make ready and set sail
This mighty frigate will prevail
We will see what we will see
Mother Sea is calling me
The Mainsail, Lanteen and Jib are set
First Mate, Boatswain and crew are the best yet
Captain is on the Bridge planning our bearing for today
Orders all hands on deck, prepare to wake way
Anchors aweigh, the harbor is behind and the wind is at our stern
Frigate Constellation is swift and powerful the crew will soon learn
First Mate is at the sextant, compass and bell
"Ahoy Mates!" the wind fills our sails, all is well
Waves crash our bow, course set straight as the crow flies
Over Davey Jones's Locker where sea mysteries lie
Captain is confident, we will see what we will see
I will sail this ship, Mother Sea is calling me
Brenda penned a story about Brennan the boatswain in Bermuda
Who had bought a Bavaria 43 barque for a sailing adventure.
The story began with the ballad of Brennan:
'Come sail with me, on see-saw sea
Becapped, bedecked, emblazoned blithely, a blast!
Your love becalmed in my arms embrace.
All aboard, all in, with my deck I beckon.'
As the rollicking tale unfolded,
Brenda fell brow over boots, besotted, in love with Brennan.
She found herself browsing more and more online
Searching for 'Bermuda', 'Brennan', 'Bavaria Barque',
Hoping to find a real Brennan on board, waiting becalmed, with arms beckoning
For her to embolden her text and join him.
There is a reality in mortality
That eats away your soul
As life slowly passes I get the urge
To feel those high seas roll
Taste the salt on my tongue
Just like when I was young
Hear the boatswain call anchor’s aweigh
Set my own pace
With the wind in my face
See the sunrise come over the bay
One more time let me be
On a white dog at sea
Feel the waves crashing on her port side
One more time for a while
On an uncharted isle
Watching the evening tide
Set my sails once more
For that far distant shore
Make love on a secluded beach
One more time may I go
Where the harbor lights glow
Paradise within my reach
A quiet man,
a good man.
An exquisite artist
in
watercolor.
Self taught.
As a sailor,
he was excused
from chipping paint,
swabbing decks,
or peeling spuds
by lighting up
when the Chief Boatswain
barked to his crew
“smoke 'em if you got 'em.”
Excused,
he put down his mop
his paint brush, or his knife,
and smoked.
Today, thirty years
later, he is dying.
He is breathing through a tube
in his throat
and laying in his bed
at home
waiting,
watching his last
football games
and waiting.
When the time arrives for me to depart
from the sunlit harbors of the living.
Take me aboard a navy fighting ship
and carry me back again to the sea.
Order the boatswain to construct a skid
made of wood and painted with fresh white paint.
Build it to hold a gray weighted coffin
draped by Old Glory with her stars and stripes.
Cruise the coast of my beloved home Whidbey
until full abreast with Ebey’s Landing.
Muster the funeral party astern
Play taps and slide me into the blue drink.
Let the storm-flecked waves of the rolling sea
take this old sailor to his final peace.
© Copyrights G. Jones 2006
When the time arrives for me to depart
from the sunlit harbors of the living.
Take me aboard a navy fighting ship
and carry me back again to the sea.
Order the boatswain to construct a skid
made of wood and painted with fresh white paint.
Build it to hold a gray weighted coffin
draped by Old Glory with her stars and stripes.
Cruise the coast of my beloved home Whidbey
until full abreast with Ebey’s Landing.
Muster the funeral party astern
Play taps and slide me into the blue drink.
Let the storm-flecked waves of the rolling sea
take this old sailor to his final peace.