senses
it is about now knowing what you know except in certain circumstances
when fractures appear; when the past and the future merge.
The authorities were looking for a sunken U-boat using underwater drones
they found many things
A brig, sunk in a storm a luminosity of a lone figure looking up and smiling
before turning into unseen dust.
A German U-boat surrendered, waving a white cloth but such was the hatred
the boat was sunk anyway
They found the submarine had a design flaw when diving too steep an angle
the sub could not rectify itself but kept going down.
They heard and didn’t hear the scream of a young realizing he should never know
the sweetest love.
The fifth dimension is the moment when the past and the present merge and
everything is understood clearly but never spoken of
yabber yabber yabber
I am only half listening
brig brig brig
listening less now
She is nine
Does not notice
It is all about how many words she can speak.
She is not good at reading people's expressions
I look up, relieved,
that she has not stopped
and she still feels validated
Which is borderline ridiculous
if you know people at all
Been months since I've been fishin', underneath the starry skies,
Been months since I've been fishin', underneath the starry skies,
Next week I'll go for stripers, with me I'll bring some pie.
I fish into the ocean, through all the crashing waves,
I fish into the ocean, through all the crashing waves,
I'm thinking about the bait I'll use, that I'll pull out of the bay
I make up my own tackle, simple fish finding rigs,
I make up my own tackle, simple fish finding rigs,
Couple with some healthy clams, I'll make my way to Brig'.
The foxes look to seal my bait, I'm on the watch for them,
The foxes look to seal my bait, I'm on the watch for them,
It's dark and cold all about, many weakfish fill their den.
Far away back at my home, my family barely sleeps,
Far away back at my home, my family barely sleeps,
My safety they do pray for, and filet dinners for the keeps.
Most nights it's just sharks and skates, or seaweed from the drift,
Most nights it's just sharks and skates, or seaweed from the drift,
My truck facing the ocean front, my line across the sandbar cliff.
2018
Life out in the country has its own charm.
We have rifles and dogs out here on the farm.
Normal rules won’t apply if you choose to strike fear.
They won’t find your body, let’s just be clear.
We will see you coming from ten miles away.
Bring your violence out here and this is where you will stay.
We have plenty of ground on which we can dig.
We won’t call the cops and you won’t see a brig.
In the city with luck, you’ll just go to jail.
Out her you’ll be slop and end up in a pail.
We’ll feed you to the pigs or put you straight in the ground.
Either way my dear friend, you just won’t be around.
Out here I’m protected by God and my gun.
You know who we are and you know we won’t run.
We’ll sit up in a tree all day for one shot.
Even in the winter, you’ll wind up where it’s hot.
December 26, 2020
*Dedicated to the Nashville Bomber*
Old Salt
Was Walt
Possessed
On chest
Tattoo
Of Lou
Each port
Had snort
Much booze
Blew fuse
Got tight
Had fight
Some beef
With Chief
Unwise
Blacked eyes
Uptight
Lost fight
For prank
Lost rank
For swig*
In brig
*One interpretation of swig is - strike heavily with fist!
Entry for Brian Strand's "Footle-Me" Contest
Placed in tie for 3d place in contest
I wanted to see sailing ships again so I went to Dana Point last week to revisit the Brig Pilgrim, gift from Denmark to the United States honoring Henry Richard Dana’s voyage around Cape Horn in 1835. A brig is a ship with two masts, square rigged, or rigged nearly like a full-rigged ship’s sail mast and foremast.
Vessel is exact replica of the original Pilgrim, a common sight in the 1850’s picking up lodes, at the various mission ports between San Francisco and san Diego. Here in El Embarcadero Cove , the ship took on board hides from Mission San Juan Capistrano. These “Leather dollars”,as they were called, were carried to the east coast and made into shoes, wallets, and women purses. Ship owners made good profit for a relatively small investment.
B is for Buzzard under my hat,
my brain meaty and raw.
His talons cling like puppet strings.
His rabid teeth chew and gnaw.
Ye old Buzzard, nothing warm,
just a cold sentinel of death.
Not like the life-giving stork —
impervious to the stench of your breath.
Your buzzard form like a swarm of flies.
The maggots mirror your childhood.
The terror of your bulky brig —
weeping under my wing - your no good.
The psychiatrist dissects my thoughts.
One by one he pulls the seething strings,
whilst the buzzard glares at the Rorschach.
Irritated by the smell of ink and pendulum swing,
the suicidal creature flees to the window, succumbs.
The gift of happiness and flamingos, pink,
from my mailbox to the farthest edge.
Quite merry, maybe a bit wild, I sip a drink
of cherry cordial and admire the pink rabbits*
spiraling out of control but perfectly neat,
in row after row of planted fluorescence.
F is for Flamingo - now my crazy world’s complete.
1/9/2019
Contest: Buzzards and Flamingos
Sponsor: Anthony Slausin
Not a true story
*as rabbits multiply
Since Brig Copenhagen was only four
days out of Liverpool, there remained some
distance to cover. Because it was more
nearer winter bad weather had to come.
Ship needed to reef sails before they tore.
The menace of icebergs was always strong,
This consignment of tea to Halifax
by its English owners must not go wrong.
Then carrying passengers out of Boston,
such trade was good reaping much after tax.
Provided this battle could now be won
Around the Horn to California where
gold had been discovered now by the ton.
passengers hoping to get their fair share,
This is a Rosarian Sonnet in pentameter
I wanted to see a new sailing ship.
To Dana Point I went, just a short trip,
I toured the Brig Pilgrim, gift from Denmark
to the United States honoring great
Henry Richard Dana;s voyage of late.
It was around Cape Horn they plied their sails
in eighteen thirty-five. through rain and gales.
With hope of buying hides they disembark
off California’s Spanish rancho fields.
San Diego’ s ranchos gave many yields.
Rancho San Lauius filled ship’s hold full
Fiesta was given by vaqueros
Mayordomo was happy with pesos.
He gave special fight with rancho’s mean bull
This poem is really a Canzonetta Prime in Pentameter meter
The bay is free of sailing ships this day,
for the weather is not good so we sit
inside the small café out of harm’s way.
We drink a glass of wine and smoke a bit,
she’s not young but I’m not so young either.
This is a nice place until rain might quit,
but rain, wind to stop I wanted neither,
and missing the tide I cared not a whit.
I like Patros Place , it’s close to the shore
where I can see my ship, the brig Sunlit.
It rests at anchor out a league or more
with this day’s harbor master’s signed permit.
I take her hand in mine and ask a word,
her face takes on a smile, eyes brightly lit.
Maria’s wine response seemed slightly slurred,
being little drunk I cared not a whit.
Lady wanted to visit my brig soon
It seemed my quiet asking was a hit.
I told her after rain we’d go at noon,
but before rain stopped I could not commit.
This then was the chosen time I preferred,
to decision Maria did submit.
Her small smile agreed it would be absurd,
agreeing or not, I cared not a whit.
Let I'm a piece of sheet, so be it,
The scrap of yours, the scrap of them,
I have no pity (I don't need it)
for past, I burnt I loved I ran
my soul (and it was very silly)
to playful eyes of yours, and bounce
my brig has wrecked, there was no feeling
since this time. Oh, there was no us!
Yes, I'm a piece of sheet, I'm tired
to stand my suffering (it's fine)
so long so hopeless in quiet riot
I trust new copybook with time
accept me in its embrace newly
in spite of evil and my woes,
My wings will lift me up, they truly
big, they are gorgeous, of course.
Let I was good in my confessions,
No, I'm not piece of sheet at all,
Oh, I was written with my passions,
But I am clean now, and my soul
is open, I'm not scared of falling,
My wings are lightly in the hight,
New hand will touch clean sheet with morning,
New copybook will frame my flight.
Jobless Jack, a real jerk, dances a jig,
He juggles, smuggles jewels in backpacks,
jawbreakers, jump ropes, jelly rolls and crack.
~~Jig be up, Jack'll jiggle in the brig.~~
Junk jingles and jangles, squeals like a pig
jerked and jacked from joints on his pickup routes.
Amid crates of jackets, jeans, and jump suits,
Jobless Jack, a real jerk, dances a jig,
Jack jimmied the Jaguar trunk of some prig;
now Judge Judy’s searching Jack's jalopy.
“Jumping Jehoshaphat, what’s this jersey?"
~~Jig be up, Jack'll jiggle in the brig.~~
Jobless Jack, a real jerk, dances a jig,
her missing jersey was what the judge found.
~~Jig be up, Jack'll jiggle in the brig.~
written 1/31/2018
a villonet
Sponsor Constance La France
Contest Name ''J'' Contest, New or Old
It’s thirteen thousand miles from Boston to
San Diego around far Cape Horn’s way.
Ship needs to sail to that distant quay.
The Cape is a hard challenge for the crew
It’s where the Atlantic and Pacific
Oceans meet and the waves are horrific.
The number of ships lost are not a few.
With good sailing San Diego can be
reached in three months from Boston’s fine dock
in hope of returning with rancho stock.
Condition of hides rest upon the sea,
if hold remains ever dry and shipshape,
The wetting of hide they hope to escape.
No fear Brig Pilgrim’s hold is danger free.
Hide house at the Mexican harbor’s berth
cures hides vaqueros bring from distant field
hoping to gain a goodly peso yield.
Their agents bargain for true values worth
Profit will give major-domo much peace
He’ll thank the Virgin for worry’s surcease
At hacienda there will be much mirth.
This time in June as days are fair and bright,
Brig Copenhagen takes her leave from coast
to sail on Java's way for copra white.
Bet's made with schooner Captain Jake that most
in Brigantine returns first,aye, our boast.
The sheets are filling wide with breeze this day,
to gentle Zephyr we lift high a toast.
Swells go past oak boards showing gleams of spray
Toward Java we run free without delay
Good time lest blame foul weather moves our way.
At dusk, his eyes, dark brown. At once I melt.
Again, and yet again, with each sweet kiss.
Bright stars! He’s asked to marry me. He knelt,
With “trust me baby this is love,” in this
Romantic place of time and space. Knees weak.
A vestal moon shades blush this pale white dove.
His breath abates. He yearns for me to speak.
His heart’s been tossed inside the brig of love.
I wont to keep facade of logic’s sense,
But sky’s alight with truth and sappiness.
His “trust me baby this is love” intense.
His dusk dark browns lean into happiness.
Oh twilight moon! My beau is turning blue!
A crimson crescent smile exhales, “I do!”
6/25/2017
Sonnet
1st Place
Sub Categories
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