It was no ordinary cloud,
Seeming wrongly to move
Opposite direction of all the
Other –
No cooperative morning, in general;
Sun seeming less inclined to dawn --
Lighting for him appearing not worth
His bother.
Got to thinking, perhaps nature has a mind
All its own, independent of my outing
Need? – should have replayed her all knowing
Tape on past proven feminine intuitive lead --
Fore-and-aft my nervous glances,
Masculine optimism beginning to fail --
Wind now developing a serious gale
(The main mast tearing a sail)
She surveyed me coldly and pale:
Though in your new Walmart cap, you
Look quite the sailor’ dashing, if you value
Your life, don’t ever again wake me early
To go fishing!
The heart is a wonderful thing
when in control and on fond
path – the heart is a fickle-thing,
sometimes confounding
its fore and aft – the heart
is a fierce competitor, when
afire, fearing not God nor Devils --
the heart is a repentant thing, a
foolish thing, Victor and Victim
of its own undoing. The heart,
its own praise and excuse…
a fruit tree~ with a dangling noose.
A motive was sought
a killer who laughed
Left pictures of clowns
near victims, fore and aft
Scratching heads, pulling hair
nor reason nor rhyme was there
Investing time and money
when the belfry’s bare
Watching people in the morning
Always makes me wonder,
Will their days be sunshine-kissed
Or thwacked with hail or thunder?
Sometimes faces might reveal
A look of such frustration
You know their day’s first hours
Have been filled with aggravation.
Yet others wear a glowing smile,
Their confidence so striking
That anyone observing may feel
Their own self-doubt spiking.
Of course, the day may then unfold
In ways we can’t envision,
Resulting in an unexpected
‘Fore and aft collision.
The early hours, though, provide
A glimpse of the beginning
Of the time stretched out before us,
As our world is slowly spinning.
A Mississippi River boat,
where bygone generations float,
is the only place in books and dreams
where I can talk to that man, it seems.
Searching eyes peer fore and aft
from a steamboat or a raft.
As underneath the fog I drift,
distant voices give me a lift -
an escaped slave tethered by reality's chain
I'll never see my dad again.
I often sail where glitter,
stars a dear focus of mine --
a twinkle voyage, fore and aft,
Christ my sure steer rudder --
The Captain had a penny whistle
Which he wore around his neck
And he played it every morning
As the crew danced on the deck.
Sometimes it was a Hornpipe
Sometimes a Palais Glide
As the crew danced fore and aft
And from Port to Starboard side.
Prompt every morning
When the Bosun rang a bell,
And if he was feeling frisky
The Captain danced as well.
Sometimes on sunny mornings
The crew would stand at ease
While the Captain and a subby
Mimed a decorous strip tease.
Rain storm hail or shine
Until twenty minutes passed
When on a given signal
The crew would climb the mast
To set the sails and rigging
And get the ship under way
And so it continued
Every single day.
Two or three times a year
All the ships would meet
And the Captain and his crea
Would dance for the fleet.
It was on the good ship Venus
Which had been a ship of shame
Until the Dancing Captain'
Gave it a better name.
He became the only Admiral to wear
A penny whistle around his neck
And even in his dotage
Would dance around the deck.
Ship shape and Bristol fashion
When she was away at sea.
Oh on the good ship Venus
Such a happy place to be
Met some friends in Central Park,
A meeting overdue.
How wonderful to see them
And catch up on all that’s new!
We strolled around the reservoir
Then found a place to sit –
A shady bench with bushes,
Fore and aft, for just a bit.
As we conversed, a little mouse
Did scurry from the brush
To underneath our bench in quite
A mouse-like frenzied rush.
My friends were quite blasé.
One said, “Just raise your feet a bit.”
The other said, “It’s just a chipmunk.”
(She was full of ****.)
That mouse (or else its cousins)
Scampered back and forth all day,
At least for the entire time
Of our reunion stay.
Still, I must thank my lucky stars
We got to meet and that
The mouse that we encountered
Wasn’t actually a rat!
We're on the highway, middle lane;
Some motorcycles pass.
The car in front slows down; my husband
Presses on the gas
And eases left, right in the midst
Of Harleys fore and aft,
Not knowing that, in biker world,
By accident, we'd gaffed.
We soon found out, though, for a hand
Shot up with finger thrust
Straight in the air - the middle one,
You've figured out, I trust.
We got the message, loud and clear,
And ceded them their lane
For choppers seem to rule the road;
That finger made it plain.
I like to think
that poetry
has intrinsic value
above and beyond
the actual craft…
That the origins
of poetry’s meter
and rhyme precede
each preliminary
draft…
That something, perhaps
even spiritual, transcends
the fore-and-aft…
And when the writer
thinks to scuttle
a work, as often
inherently we do,
always
may there be angels
floating him
a Literary-raft….
My eager man bought me a wee thong
which I put on to best get along
but rubbing bugging attacks
soon whacked my fore and aft crack.
My pinged pong found his dingdonged thong wrong.
Staring Fore and Aft
By: Tom Wright
5/12/03]
We oft stare hinder,
knowing that there, lurks only time spent.
We embrace in thought those days without birth,
while probing their existence.
We're cognizant of frailties at discerning the future.
We should rather, focus on time at hand
for this is all we possess.
Time can ne'er be secure beyond today’s moment.
Descry
The schooner sailed upon the sea
Creating whispered waves below
I stood close by the crimson bow
In stillness near the quiet dawn
with no distractions save for gulls
The fore and aft sails moved as kin
The sun awoke resplendently
Awaiting Neptune and his aides
And kissed the ocean with delight
An ocean’s shimmer with a light
A tremor stirred to my surprise
Distress entangled in my heart
A shape arose immense and huge
Leviathan monstrous in size
A monolith with dark blue hues
With seconds in its brief repose
Creating breakers as it dove
My heart retrieved its normal pulse
recording sights that I descried
A spectacle I’ll ne’er forget
Descry Contest
Sponsored by Rob Carmack
May 30, 2017
Her blinding boon kills Deer of old
and waxes swan beset;
down this cold rain of blue eyes sold
till Luna's eye is met.
Cool yet wan, O whispering breeze,
bloom dreams from withered skies:
abiding hot, as conjured Freeze
brews Fire Lakes and Lies.
I once thought I was Dear, alas,
peace and rest; tête–à–tête
evades me now in my impasse
till Luna's eye is met.
The droning Devil's horseback Four
destroyed my fore and aft,
their guiding light that wilts ashore
assures that I am draft.
By candles' light is forced the fault
till Luna's eye is met,
as softly here has lucid salt
birthed sickles' jaunty net.
This captive land, within my bones,
shakes to spatter lightnings--
my knowing laugh arranges tones,
goads and slaughters ice wings.
Till Luna's eye is met,
I shall wish for two hands' death!
For diamond souls upset
doth render specters, aye, Macbeth?
Dawn breaks ruby red, windy day in sight.
Sailors scorning its warning, grab a bite
Pack their gear, rush to yacht, hoist sails upright.
Sea weathered mates, love to join the fight
Against wind and waves to drive yachts to flight.
Discomfort ignored, sailing sheer delight
For salted down folk, which fair winds ignite,
To crew on helm, winch, fore and aft alike.
Lovely folk for which the tussle and fight,
Fosters heavenly help when woeful plight
Strands boaties in trouble, with fear and fright.
Nothing too much trouble - seafarer rite.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.