Long Cargo Poems
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Ghost Ship
Benjamin Briggs a master, with three previous commands
Took over the ill fated ship, which was to prove to be his last stand.
The ship originally named the Amazon, was 103 feet long
She was listed as a half-brig, and everything seemed to go wrong.
She had a lot of accidents and passed through many owners hands,
Eventually she turned up in New York, for sale and a new command.
She was sold and refitted; the owners bought her for a song.
Then they had her re-registered, to maybe help right the wrongs.
Captain Briggs his wife and child, in eighteen seventy two
Set sail on November the seventh, plus an extra seven man crew.
The cargo was seventeen thousand barrels, of raw American alcohol
They set off for Genoa Italy, not forgetting his daughters’ toys and doll.
On December the fifth half way between the Azores and Portugal
The Dei Gratia spied a brigantine, but it didn’t look right at all.
He watched it for two hours because he recognised the ship
The brig, that he had been in dock with, and he knew Ben commanded it.
It was sailing all wrong, it was yawing on the sea.
Captain Moorhouse knew Captain Briggs, was the captain he should see,
They took a boat out to the ship, and boarded her when they could,
On climbing aboard they found the ship to be empty, but all sound and good.
There was plenty of food and drink, but all the ships papers were gone
The ships clock was not functioning, but of the compliment*, there was none.
There should have been a lifeboat, but that was not there now
Just a frayed rope hanging in the sea and they didn’t know why or how.
Captain Moorhouse was perturbed knowing his friend Briggs to be in distress
He took the ship into to tow, it was named the “Mary Celeste.”
~GG~ 2011©
Compliment The number of crew on board a ship*
The Dilettante Diaries: "Open Door Barefoot"
Open door to closed room
Ceiling smashed
Stars in a very clear sky
Fresh air
taken into lungs
Risen
from
the
Lake of None
Arrival of White Doves
Broken glass, careful where you step
Barefoot Bleeds Love
(Lovejoy-Burton/October 2018)
for my daughter, Georgia
"THAT crazed girl improvising her music. Her poetry, dancing upon the shore, Her soul in division from itself Climbing, falling She knew not where, Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship, Her knee-cap broken, that girl I declare A beautiful lofty thing, or a thing Heroically lost, heroically found."
The Poet Pleads with the Elementals
THE Powers whose name and shape no living creature knows
Have pulled the Immortal Rose;
And though the Seven Lights bowed in their dance and wept,
The Polar Dragon slept,
His heavy rings uncoiled from glimmering deep to deep:
When will he wake from sleep?
Great Powers of falling wave and wind and windy fire,
With your harmonious choir
Encircle her I love and sing her into peace,
That my old care may cease;
Unfold your flaming wings and cover out of sight
The nets of day and night.
Dim powers of drowsy thought, let her no longer be
Like the pale cup of the sea,
When winds have gathered and sun and moon burned dim
Above its cloudy rim;
But let a gentle silence wrought with music flow
Whither her footsteps go.
(William Butler Yeats)
"Fly On" /Coldplay
https://youtu.be/qtooMN9QZKw
My father and his father were Farmers. It wasn't told to me,
but I suspect that my Great Grandfather was also a Farmer.
My wife's father was also a hard-working and successful Farmer.
However, in my family line, farming ended with my father.
From my second-story window, it's a beautiful sight.
Presently, having chosen to retire in the rural, I am
surrounded on three sides by fields of corn, and on the
fourth side, beans greet me every day with a smile.
I don't see a Farmer, but his workmanship is on display.
I can't imagine a Farmer who doesn't know how to pray.
When his work is done, whether by choice or otherwise,
he must wait and trust his God for rain lest there be pain.
It's now late June, and in this Dixie Delta Region, there have
been very generous out-pours of rain that have treated the plants
and soil. Corn stalks, embraced with soft grains of corn, cover each
cob of corn. Golden, yellowish tassels grace the tops of corn stalks,
and the farmers are happy as they wait for the corn to harden.
Sometime in August when the corn has finally hardened, it will be
time for the harvest. One would assume that harvest is the final
test for the Farmer. In these parts, the Farmers are also dependent
upon the river. In the harvest season, it is good to be dry but not
for long. The river's depth must be adequate for the cargo ships
to float. If the rains are not just right, the Farmer must wait and pray.
063023PS
I ponder my existence beyond the breakers,
Navigating depth’s perils past shallows of youth.
Will I rise with the tides and lift up those near me,
Or will I drift along unanchored by the truth?
Avoiding a solo Melville-penned fate, or wreck,
Depends on my “see man” skills and good attitudes.
Striving to be a vessel of encouragement,
As my life’s journey marks increasing latitudes.
Experience stored as miles pass under my keel;
To have all the answers I surely don’t pretend.
With care and service among my mental cargo,
I am ready to help any mariner friend.
And so it is for all who sail upon life’s seas;
Constant watch on the horizon, helm, and radar.
Make no ties, steer alone, try to stay on course; or
Give the hope and guidance of a familiar star.
Close up is when you see the cracks,
the lines etched, scratched onto canvas.
An oil painting that survived a fire.
Close up is when you see the ash
loosen, drift away in a breeze. Smoke.
Something once hot white turned to charcoal.
Close up is when you see the riverbeds
dry now from drought, once drenched with desire.
Cargo stuck in the mud of the water we were.
Close up is when you see marrow, the blood
and bone bristling under transparent paper
once pink and once flesh. Once strong. Once marble.
So leave, please. See me blur as those cracks become hazy.
Retire, step back. Zoom out. Fly up with only a dot down here to see.
Take a snapshot out of focus. Forget to develop the memory of me.
LAST YEAR’S NESTS
When fall reluctantly lets go of the last wind-battered leaves
Coquettishly revealing its crunchy, bitter nakedness
I like to peer deeply inside each stiff and prickly carcass
Seeking out last year’s abandoned nests, and the stories each tells.
I am amazed at the range of societal class I find
Some nests adorned with tinsel and feathers, colorful and soft,
Others woven with intricate designs for strength and shelter,
Finally, some are basic, just sticks and leaves, soon to crumble.
I feel kindred to these birds who have lived lives and flown away
Who have worked to raise their baby birds through all earthly hazards
Then watched as they flew away, ready to build their own nests now
And been left with empty nests that remind them of better times.
At home, I gently place my precious cargo of last year’s nests
Alongside my collection from years past, admiring them all,
Wondering if when I fly away, my nest will be studied.
Will someone notice the house built to hold my happy children?
Will they smile at scratches on the door frames from the pets we loved?
I hope that when entering my last year’s nest, someone sees love,
They see some tinsel and feathers that made me feel fancy, rich,
And some designs that I have woven for more practical use,
To keep my baby birds safe when the winds outside howled and stormed.
But mostly they will find in my last year’s nest, well-used items
Loved for a time by family and then retired, like myself.
November 14, 2019
whether a dog
cargo three
wheeler or
a simple get
me around
if needed
feed it
my brother
in law
after having
double knee
surgery refused
to be put
down
customized
four tires over
sized for out
side and in
back had on
added
holders
the left
held his
fishing rod
the right
held his
shot gun
up front
two beverage
holders both
for beer
but now
as i get
older
i
hear my
knees crack
feel my feet
ache and my
back bends
primately
forward
what
to look
forward to
envisioning
what my ride
might
be
i
see
epiphany
taking my
ride out for
an aboriginal
vision walk about
Form:
She stands by the window
Looking out over the blue
For soon he will sail home
He lover oh so true
It was many weeks ago
From Valletta harbour he sailed
For the Atlantic cause
Following the convoy trail
From its industrial ports
On America's east coast
The war efforts cargo
Must never be lost
Tankers and freight
Ammunition and foods
To serve the heroic
As we deservedly should
Corvette's on the peripheral
Scouting for the packs
For these demons from the deep
And their torpedo attacks
Action stations
As the packs are discovered
Sonar kicks in
For the depth charge shower
The surface explodes
In showers of spray
As lookouts view
Any debris display
The sighting of bubbles
And traces of oil
One of the wolves is maimed
Another statistic war spoil
Days pass
As Liverpool is reached
A rare sight indeed
For a convoy not breached
This Corvette of the brave
And the hero's who have manned
Continue on their journey
To the North African lands
By the Bay Of Biscay
Into the Gibraltar Straights
Down the Mediterranean
To Valletta where she waits
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/love-9.php
Airship
How far I’ve flown I neither know nor care.
Much as this open deck my plans are bare.
Of star or compass I have nary need,
But follow as these downy cloud tops lead.
The chilly breezes toying through my hair
Cascade across my skin and jacket flare
While on the bottoms of my booted feet
The engine taps an unrelenting beat.
I acquiesce to gentle bob and sway
Beneath balloon and rigging bloated shape.
Awaiting now the nearly risen sun
I scan the vast expanse and see no one.
And yet, I hear a rumbling of some sort
Then luminescing clouds off to my port
Combusting deep with ever brighter tones
Now booming louder, louder, nearer, NO!
Bombastic airship, cannons bursting now,
Ejected straight at me from out its shroud.
A maniac, that pilot, heaving hard
Just missing our collision by one yard
His tortured face, the horror in those eyes,
For near destroying me, so I surmised,
Until I saw his passing stern ablaze.
Then mammoth winged beast in brutal chase
Erupting, fierce and howling, scales agleam.
The hot concussion of its down-spent wing
That final moment as it thrust away
Forced ship and I and all the world to sway.
Then came the screams, the pounding and a moan
As crew and cargo floundered down below
Caught in the violent swinging disarray.
The flaming ship and dragon sped away
To disappear in yet another cloud.
Our vessel’s motion finally calmed down.
Those lightly injured put the ship aright.
And unspilled rum was quickly spent that night.
Now star and compass were of urgent need.
This damaged vessel and the injuries
Required that we find a ready port
Equipped to lend us aid of every sort.
I searched in haste upending fore and aft
For sextant, compass, and the proper map,
Then finally we found the guiding star
And made for help that wasn’t very far.
By dawn I bid the floating docks goodbye
With only half a crew and resupply
But, now where'er I travel through the sky
I keep the navigation tools nearby.
We left our abode in old Cowfair,haggled a price for an old shire mare.Onto the
landlord's canal boat,lock stock and barrel for a life afloat.Farewell to our
Buckingham birthplace and its meagre living from old point lace.Dawdled slow
up to Cosgrove taking our meals around a blackened stove.Our moveable house
painted castle and rose,not a life we would have chose.Eighteen fifties harsh
and mean,coal cargo so nothing stays clean.Doff your cap,torch your forelock
every two mile at the gatekeeper's lock.Fresh food scarce except or fish,perch
and roach a staple dish.Clothes dry on a washing line strung,home for a time
whilst the toddlers were young.As their number increased and grew ,places to
sleep all too few.Family life impossibly hard so back we went to a tied cottage in
Aylesbury's Anchorage yard.