A marriage bond is to keep, not sever,
and yet, I made that sacred promise - twice.
We pledged that we would not part, not ever.
Those words, like lovely music, sounded nice.
Of those unions, just memories survive,
some good, some bad, and some which I hold dear;
and those couplings which fate once did contrive
would slowly and painfully disappear.
In a myth, Charon forever ferried
souls, as always, one special love, now gone
and ghosts of each woman that I married
will ever bitter-sweetly linger on.
A memory, and nothing more - or less,
honors a promise of foreverness.
a giraffe walked through swirliful whirliful water
his feet on the softly sea floor
his head above the waving wooshy waves
it was all neck and legs in between
as he ferried from isle to isle
those on his back were holding their breath
the lion, the tiger, the chimp and gnu
getting off to a new sandiful beach
the giraffe then went back to fetch the rest
and finally all their bags too
while on this fresh and sunniful isle
the animals roamed and explored
an elephant and rhinoceros
picked a pictureful plentiful place
and laid a blanket down
they then all assembled at the hamper they brought
for a picnicful feast, of course
the giraffe then stood up
he had to go back again
the rhino had forgotten the sauce
so all upon a dayliful day
when mice played with zebras and snakes
hippos danced with crocodiles
and antelopes ran with bears
every animal was animalful
paw in hoof in claw
on isles and lands under a givingly sun
where greatliful animals roam
heartful smiles and friendliness
and then the giraffe took them home
Poem written on 10th November, 2025
for "The Earth's Oceans Poetry Contest"
by Constance La France.
"The sea sheaths her gluttonous grip in a calm candour."
quote by the author.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
From the Greek myth of the Titan Atlas, your name,
In saltiness, no sea can quite compare.
Your mighty footprints press upon many nations —
Only the Pacific reaches more shores and coasts.
You bore the deceit that chained Africans —
Changed the hues of faces in the Americas.
You ferried millions into dark living shackles —
A graveyard for rebellious ones.
Upon your blue-green belly wars were won and lost;
You echoed the Cuban missile crisis.
You swallowed the Titanic mid its pleasure trip,
Still hold Gustloff's nine thousand bones.
You foster commerce and the flow of trade,
Yielding black gold with tireless ease.
You guard rich treasures for mankind,
Yet hide your deepest secrets in your vastest depths.
Is it true that with earthquake you sank Atlantis?
Do you have a triangle that vanish vessels?
Have you assigned a coast to the Sargasso Sea?
All these rumours your silence spreads both far and near.
Let me tell you my story
Not that it covers me in glory
Looking to be ferried across a river
A frog took me on board as long as I stung him never
Halfway across we were chatting happily
When the temptation to bite his neck came snappily
And loth to miss such a chance
My fangs plunged him into his death dance
Just in time to reach the other side
Before his strength ran out and died
So my lesson to all with a power to use
Never turn up your nose and an opportunity refuse.
The war refuses the head, below wasting in dead
Rearing the front as storms fell the timbers rot
Upheavals breast, shorn and filled in neglect
Lay useless she had cried, allow dimple and deny
Tis only folly we are joined from, seasons blurry
Contemptuous fury, theatrical brevity, lifeless
Burning misery, hasn’t all gone and come
Just so fiddle and spun, as garnish and lathe
Without soured breads fortune, and curled ears late
Forever they attend, a hearts creative bend
And rule they must, alas at lose in unbreakable crust
He in hand created this land, in tales of ferried rows
Gentled slave we musn’t hate, crucible’s labors as knave
In there buildings, craving and fighting, loud and obscene
Fruitful as flies, multiplying night skies
Crying babes of violence, unruly and brutal
Off again we should shout as they, steam filled hovels in suet
I already understand that children
grow inside two blinks,
as quickly as the novel Mayfly
comes to the surface to die.
I'm pining for those first days again,
of edentate smiles, milestones
to fund future independence.
Pineapple-sized hearts I cradled;
lulled, exchanged dank nappies for dry;
ferried on uncrossed seas,
your armada.
Smoothed rough waters as if by divine speech
because mothers can. I was thinking that I could always be your oxygen.
I let you walk through me, under, right over.
The rocking horse
brought for my bromelain angels
winged you away -
this blasted Pegasus ...
I miss you now.
How you rode away,
ephemera of innocence!
So, what then?
Me, fumbling wild in the backspace you left.
Your flabbergasting key smash to freedom
broke our finespun home, you left
me to talk to your father, Child,
to renegotiate
the bonds;
reconstruct ancient code,
deleted excess text -
obfuscating precision and knowing -
the tribal tongue of lovers
unlearned, forgotten;
escaped alongside discarded baby bath suds,
strewn puddles of rubber duckies,
tired breasts suckled
by fresh management.
Dear Emily, 'the Recluse of Amherst'
In my university days, you burned in me
As a dazzling flame of endless inspiration.
As I sit to write to you, your soul in its depth I see
And it speaks to me, still giving endless motivation.
Your concise and crisp musings, penned years ago,
Continue to light poetic sparks in my soul.
Your poetry is like a whispered secret still aglow
As a recluse, you hid yourself. From the crowd you stole.
Your poems give a glimpse into the workings of your heart
Your thoughts, bold and subtle speaks directly to me.
As I think of you, through my mind, emotions of awe dart.
Staying aloof, you watched nature and animals closely.
In your poems, you elevated the mundane to the sublime.
‘If I could Stop one Heart from Breaking’_
This poem, stays immortal in all time.
Your musings on life and nature are breathtaking.
Dear Emily, you shouldn’t have hidden your light,
Like a lamp under the bushel. Sad, your poems you buried,
Abhorrent of publicity, but posthumously came into limelight.
Now across oceans and tides, they are avidly ferried.
Written: February 05, 2024
_____________________________________________
On twilit roads as dusk falls,
from rivers to towers and walls,
when lilting rhythms call,
a gleaming steed sailed.
on pearl-grey pinions, and held,
as the aroma of willow draws.
tumble toward the ground.
through warm beams.
and anodyne smell.
Under the mast of a rusting ship,
over a dazzling web of water and light,
I'm excited to charter out of the bay,
In a silver chariot,
on chrysolite mirrors and carried,
where cinnabar vapor entices,
float gently to the ground,
with cheerful smiles,
and sensual breath,
bright polish—sun fell,
busters grab and break boards.
And tempests rumble and thunder,
In an iron chariot, ferried,
on clods of lava, and carried,
where cinnabar vapor beguiles,
swinging unpretentious,
with savage smiles,
and smoldering breath.
Escape pods
Ferried fears
Gaping heart
Falling tears
Dishevelled mind
Emotional unrest
Watered ground
Familiar guest
Questioned answers
Unanswered questions
Glassy eyes
Increased tension
Dissipating hope
Chewed confidence
Broken spirit
Unwelcomed sentence
Failing health
Unstable mind
Choked fingers
Flying blind
Pathetic plea
Stretched thin
Battered insides
Uncomfortable skin
Eventual stop
Frightful frights
Perceived freedom
Within sight
Bruised being
Absent gods
Relying upon.
Old ships come to die
on a silent beach;
once they ferried freight.
Side by side, they lie
broken hulls; now each
bide their rusty fate.
Image #1
On an early morning walk along the shore
I pondered thoughts about the ocean floor
What treasures are buried beneath its sands
Amid corals, anemones, orange sea fans
I wanted a key to unlock the seabed's door
On the crest of a wave, what had been carried
bobbled and lobbed, back and forth parried
from shore and blown across windswept seas
Miles traveled by storms or a tropical breeze
on ocean currents, their journey never tarried
In a shallow tidal pool, a conch was stranded
A gift from Poseidon's hand, I'd been handed
I held the shell to my ear and then listened
awed by the sound while the sun glistened
Waves crested until on the beach they landed
With perfect rhythmic cadence they swelled
on a high tide until its last ripples were felled
Another always followed, close upon its wake
constantly flowing as if it had a thirst to slake
quenched by rushing ashore as if compelled
Buoyantly, bottles drift on the crest of a wave
Directed by the whims of tides, as if a slave
No ebbing waters have ever ferried one to me
I ponder how many notes drowned in the sea,
bottles speared by Neptune. Forsooth, a knave!
Story of Century
Of how our fathers lived in penury
And the powers promoted prejudice
They came with promises of paradise
They turned themselves into merchandise
Selling our own like stacks of rice
Wives and daughters raped to coma
While the men kept in chains by the corner
It was a sad story of the centuries
Our hearts still bleed from the injury
The chains caged our warrior's fury
And the jail sentence by the crook jury
Killed, butchered and never sorry
Tied in chains and piled in lorry
Ferried away to the land filled with gory
This is our story
Story of the century
Your life's twilight on a
September evening came.
And ferried you were by
crimson cherubs; conveyed
in splendour on a celestial
cruise, to gates pleasant for
a permanent reign.
Your reign on the throne
on a September autumn
exited,
but your indelible legacy
in the hearts of Brits
is enthroned gloriously.
A thundering spacecraft arriving out of nowhere,
a crashing, crushing presence
hurled downward until lamps blink, doors tremble
and roof shudders.
I count seconds into an electric darkness.
The next boom is distant, miles away,
just weather, not the menace
of an alien attack.
Then the next mighty boom
sounds like a salvo from a battleship.
A fizzing pause, a weak flapping, a scrabble,
as if a stricken angel had been downed.
Will a rescue mission be mounted,
some frontline extraction?
No wait...just a thunderstorm.
In the daylight will I find a few wing feathers
some mangled pigeon parts,
relics that must be ferried to the trashcan
under the watchful eyes of mourning doves?
There's a trail in the sky,
licked by the moon, like
blood vessel passing the blue,
thin lines on the horizon,
in frontier dust, splitting the land
with fleeting aversions.
In a moment of despair, hazy memories
of bustling tourists ferried to airport, looking down
for Maidan Square, with their velvety eyes, not
the eagle eyes of a new iron curtain drawn by
every missile, their screeching noise whispering a
new tragedy; erased are memories of
east and west harmony, sapped by the hounds of
war, saddled on hypersonic madness.
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