Note this poem was written some time ago but I was sick and deleted my site. I have been patiently reposting my poems since 9 October 2000.
On November 13, 2002. The Prestige, one of twelve tanks burst during a storm off Galicia, in northwestern Spain. No help was forthcoming and by November 19, the ship split in half. 20 million gallons were spilled into the sea.
Beneath the heavy dark clouds,
the storm broke.
An oil-filled tanker sank
spewing black lakes of murderous slime.
What a giant "Prestige"!
Despite the roar of untamed waves
there was a deadly hush over the ocean.
A low death knell sang a purgatory of pain,
as contaminated birds of gulls, orioles, kestrels
squawked their last dirge:
What a giant "Prestige"!
Too late men stretched their ingenuity,
a desire to save and spare
the livelihood of so many families
that sailed the oil-spilled seas,
where baby dead fish dotted the surface,
sands and rocks tainted with death.
Elsewhere engineers burned their chemical gases
and smoke escaped from the earth's fragile shell.
We all have our "Prestige"!
Written 2016
Gluggy margarine marine grips keels
Apex sun spreads sickly circle of lard
Plugged lungs, gust momentum marred
Strait elongates co-ordinate, pace killed
Gliding knife grease fixed current kestrels
Impotent motor pendulums drowsy matelot
Exhonerating tranquillity served seas slow
Exoteric tampers spatula flat vapid vessel
Crusading armada cruise aquatic canyon
Rigid crucifix mast meanders evangelical
Illusive land sinks split quills, sodalite inkwell
Top-gallant swallowed, whale snack plankton
Inert surrender line honours, hundred strong
Quelled by existence Earth centric
Universe of solar centre offensive
Encourages complacent latent symposium
Rigging ties tradition to methods regaled
Order drifts on brittle fine line filament
Oceanic only planet confirms familiar
Moribund remains phobic, slick oil sailed
18th February
Fear of Anarchy
GAPS GIVE CRITIQUE ROOM
He speaks for the uprooted.
A man of sorts, a twiggy Buddha.
He who interprets
the conferences of frogs,
the unpublished works
of kestrels and voles.
He’s an advocate for the underbelly
of a microbial heaven, for every kind
of uncouth animalcule.
Ancient is he, yet as fresh as tomorrow,
in green ponds he fishes for sunlight.
He plumps grassy pillows,
quilts nests for the slumbering and slippery,
gardens all the dewy meadows.
He speaks for the bulldozed,
the displaced. The native and
the nomadic.
He sweeps the muddy tracks
of iron caterpillars.
Bears tell him
of how things are going
in the suburbs,
in swimming pools and trash cans,
There must be a treaty.
Kits and coyote love him,
whistle-Pigs trumpet his approach.
Ducks quack his many sermons,
may shotguns always misfire.
He is a preacher,
a teacher to tic and turtle,
a bosky fellow, not a straw man,
or a hollow but verdant,
a green man for me and thee
harken now to his leafy lingo
for tomorrow he may be only a scarecrow
in a long ravaged field.
He speaks for the uprooted.
A man of sorts, a twiggy Buddha.
He who interprets
the conferences of frogs,
the unpublished works
of kestrels and voles.
He’s an advocate for the underbelly
of a microbial heaven, for every kind
of uncouth animalcule.
He speaks for the bulldozed,
the displaced. The native and
the nomadic.
He tracks the sins
of yellow, metal Caterpillar’s.
He glides over bogs with the frogs.
He moves under tree shadows,
if there are no tree shadows
he takes a bus.
He talks to the bears - they tell him
how things are going in the suburbs.
Swimming pools and trash cans,
have still to be negotiated. There must be a treaty.
He is leafy, kits and coyote love him,
Whistle-Pigs chirp like sparrows; blow their noses
to trumpet his approach.
When ducks quack his many sermons
shotguns misfire.
He is a preacher, a teacher to tics and turtles.
He is the Green Man,
he is not a straw man,
or a hollow man –
he is green
at least for now.
Life-giving blue lake filled almost to rim
Brings beauty and delight to ones full of dreams
Gives plentiful to migrated Canadian geese
Offers cozy homes to duck families
Meditating Cranes stand by banks
Male Gobblers dance charmingly ruffling their fans
Red-tailed Hawks, Kestrels and Eagles circle over high
Searching for tasty meal using exceptional eye
Clever Blue Jays show presence by daring loud quacks
Chirping Robins feed on insects in small cracks
Scurrying squirrels enjoy hidden nut feasts
Draw packs of howling coyotes
Grassy greens become playground for scampering rabbits
Nourish Black-tail Deer with scrumptious treats
Ornate blooming fields of wild lupines, larkspur and poppies
Heighten magnificence of surroundings
Bursting woodlands of Digger pines and varieties of Oaks
Provide blackbirds, quails, towhees and wrens continual homes
Filled with moderate hills and dirt trails
I’m in awe of the splendor of the landscape
Glorious sunsets heighten beauty of the lake
Displaying shades of yellow, orange and fiery red
Astonished by generous affluence from dear Mother Earth
I bow to her feeling gratified and loved
where
the egrets
perch
where
the petrels
nest
the
kestrels
screech
wrens
peep
above
the creek
which
wends
then ends
where
the speckled
perch teem
and
dew
bedews
the ferns
a fp inspiration verse
Keepers of the secret
Knowledge, powerful men
Kneel before the altar
Knowing their prayers are
Kisses on God’s lips. New
Kingdoms come and go like
Kestrels in search of food.
A very special place, beautiful, magical and withdrawn,
It's happy and content, never sad and forlorn,
I imagine to portray it's perfection will be tough,
No matter how hard I try I can't seem to get enough.
With fields and woods, ponds and ditches,
A stone house, a tower a courtyard that bewitches,
With oak, ash, beech, willow, wild plum, crab and fir,
I lie down with holly, box, yew and hazel, I purr.
An orchard, a walled garden and a small chicken coup,
Kestrels that hover, ravens that bark and swallows that swoop,
Foxes, hares, rabbits and deer.
The sun, the moon, the sky, cloudy or clear.
But most of all when I stumble to bed,
I feel cocooned in tranquility from my toes to my head,
A sensation of floating, suspending in the air,
My paradise, relaxation, serenity beyond all care.
I heard the owl call my name,
like a backbeat in a child's voice,
etched in shadows of a father's grave,
lonely echoes on a frosted night...
at dawn I'll be immortal again,
renewed by a workaday
and the frigid fiscal year,
my soul stays leafless in damp moonlight...
do we end days defibrillating
in hospice and parchment or
under foreign suns twitching and fluid,
while kestrels dive as doves take flight...
why only in the dark hours,
the soul's midnight,
can we see farther, deeper,
nightdreams wander like a restless wight...
experienced or just imagined,
dreamt but never realized,
conceived yet unexecuted,
an inner eye begs keener sight...
as yellow eyed and dark skinned children,
play with tattered banners,
laughing at rusted armor, bleaching bones,
and history cries that might makes right...
as I, stale pilgrim of no progress,
catch faint odors of war,
in the molded root cellar of my mind,
as hope catches wind like a child's kite.