Long Headland Poems
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Leaking pontoon predicts my departure
Impatient yacht chases nautical next
Mislaid terrain erases my history
Grim authorities in obvious places patrol
Timidity prescribes aghast of tranquil abiding
Windwaken, I'm admiring the Sea of Revolt
Remarked upon in wonder, venture presents
Treasure indiscernible beneath tumbled tumult
Bold abandon condoned by bow of rationale
Faithful lungs serenade the speed of sails inflated
Turning back causes hair whipped vision to opaque
Potential's yell propels me from return's persistence
Society's twine allured by Twitter lunacy
My social media expels expiring bubbles
Sunk with rusty ruins of past governing
Continents are considered impediments
Ballast beckons ocean of observation
Jubilation journeys my adjournment
Angels guide navigation wide eyed
Fleeing seabirds call for recognition
Wave over waves of sweeping search
Unlikely dream festered in slumber of time
Shaken awake by inspiration's finger nails
Carries message of necessary momentum
Voyage for knowledge graces me
Extremeties are empty, planets drift
Virgin space accommodates galaxies
Originally written April 2020
Submitted for John Hamilton's
Free Verse of 2020 Contest
I can hear the thunder rolling
in the stillness of a night,
I can see the lightning flashing
its white fire burns me bright
I reach to touch a strand
to only feel my hand go numb,
it starts to coil my arm
and wraps around my thumb
I can feel a gentle pulsing
coursing through my soul,
and suddenly the wind blows
its my path to feeling whole
as elements connect
my body comes to life,
with the earth underneath
I take off my form to flight
dipping to the ocean
I play amongst the waves,
flying up a cliff-side
I’ve got adrenaline to save
riding on a tempest
that rips along a storm,
sitting on a headland
watching for the morn
gusting through the bush
the wattle sways with rhyme,
now returning to the earth
is my soul with time
At day's end, I take in the last light
seeping into the dark waters
across the bay and keep it here.
I gather the sound of departing gulls
smudged on the sky, the quietening
settle of birds in the cypress trees
along the foreshore, the giggle
of a child high on a swing
being pushed by a mothers hand.
I hold here the gentle sweep
of waves soaking into wet sand,
the slow roll of seaweed, bubbles
bursting around shells, wings
low over the water.
I draw in the evening and keep
it close with its lights
sprinkled around the edges
of the headland,
emerging stars hung soundless
in the heavens, the blinking
passage of a southbound airplane
heading into a long night.
From somewhere, the smell
of honeysuckle spilling
into the waiting air.
I make my way home, filled
with all that I have taken in,
having little space left over
to fit myself.
The sails snapped in the wind as the yacht changed tack
soon to refill as the yacht skimmed over the sea racing onwards
riding the large waves with adapt aplume slicing them apart.
Dolphins playfully following as they leapt for pure joy
spinning several times before diving down deep.
Ganging up on a lurking shark they soon send it away.
The screech of pulleys as we prepare to tack once more
as the boom crashes past to be brought up sharp
when it takes all of the free lines and sails puff up.
The ocean is sparkling in the sunlight with white crested waves
as we round the headland and now can sail with the wind
the yacht leaning far over as her gib sail speeds her on.
Now it is time to add more canvas as we flash by
the winning line now in sight and with a great cheer
from the yacht club Casaroba crosses the line in first.
A GUMMY FISHERMAN
By
Kevin L Fairbrother
The sheltered bay disguised what was to come
Around the headland we hit it head on
Four to five meter waves and breaking on top
And a wind that was building making lots of spray
A man takes many risks for a crayfish on his plate
For the pots needed to be pulled from the deep reef
Then baited with a fresh lot of stinking fish bait
Hoping to lure the wily crayfish into the pot
With the sea boiling the boat cut through the waves
Sending water and spray every which way
The fisherman holding on to keep their feet on deck
As the motors strain to keep a forward motion
The fishermen search for the buoys in the white water
As the rolling sea tosses them about like a cork in a bottle
The buoys know sighted make ready to haul the pots up
Hoping that they contain a few crayfish for their effort
There is no color in the first three pots, they are baited
Then tossed back into the rough and deep water
The last pot pulled and on the deck contains one small cray
Not a keeper, what a bummer, throw him back to grow bigger
With head down low kneeling on the deck
The rotten bait smells so ghastly get up my nose
Dry reaching, pale and feeling quite sick
I heave it up and let it flow over the side
Boy oh boy did I let the sickness flow
Breakfast, dinner and tea all in one go
I heaved it up my false teeth went with it
Over the side and into the boiling sea
Feeling miserable and quite ill, we headed back
To the bay and much calmer water
I thought about my teeth now in the water
Maybe a Gummy shark ate them up?
So now I fish the bay with a toothless mouth
And I target the Gummy Shark, hoping in vain
That one day whilst fishing, I will be lucky
And catch the Gummy that has a toothy smile
an hour before docking
it was ice cold and freezing
as the vessel like scissors
cut clean through the swell
and the ship’s horn then sounded
and woke those still sleeping
startling the standing
and seagulls as well
and the door opened outwards
on a windswept and dark deck
as a lighthouse and headland
appeared to our right
while the radar was turning
mixing mist with the morning
as we looked over railings
still wet from the night
and the lifeboat above us
secured by strong davits
dripped north sea in droplets
from somewhere on high
and the noise of the engines
grew loud and then quiet
as the spindrift and windchill
danced wild with the sky
and the lights and the silos
of europoort holland
shone blurred with bright colours
as such paintings do
and we stood there transfixed
with our backs towards england
while dawn beckoned others
to stand and stare too.
Hartlepool , My Hometown
St Hilda's bathed in sunlight Is a sight i love to see
The Marina with it's many boats, that’s the place for me
Back down to the Headland for Verill's fish and chips
Hartlepool it's my hometown
We have the shopping centre, empty units galore
And I think of all the great shops we had in days of yore
Blacketts, Sages, Robinsons, bargain by the score
Hartlepool is my hometown
I grew up on the Central Estate everyone knew everyone
Now everyone keeps to themselves, so sad the Central's gone
The town i knew it is long gone, this is sad but true
Old Hartlepool, I'm missing you
Ireland; coast and bits which aren’t
the Irish; ephemeral stuff of books
words to-ing and fro-ing
chieftains, crooks, priests, poets, playwrights
and ejitts
no more reigning, pontificating
breaking rules or playing the fool
but dark drink somehow surviving
somewhere in special, nurtured nooks
stained by the land
phrases blown and scattered in the wind
remnants here and there
or else off-planet
the island of collisions is heading
for the Arctic when the west will face north
troubles lie behind and beyond the headland
icebergs may congregate along the shore
oscillating to the warming, cooling dance
stump of mountain still surrounding
depleted bog and the sinking flora floor
still hiding lump of ancient wood and men
land bridges may reform
snakes may return
wee shamrocks still appearing
between the craic remembering
Can you get my point and drift?
It’s in my free verse and also rhyme.
They say ‘Life’s a beach’
I say, “All the time”
and there’s a beach for everyone, and all!
It accepts incoming the tidal withal.
From flotsam floating of every noxious kind,
Where you will beside the innocent the toxic find,
From grass,to plastic, garbage bags and all,
also the rancid sewers dark outfall,
And I see the littered beach
All covered & disfigured, spit headland and shoaly reach,
Then raised up with rampart fey
the most humongous tidal wave
And it is definitely and gravely shoreward bound,
Oh dear Lord, have mercy, I say,
For all of those who live nearby, and in the way
in Their lowly shed or fancy high-rise buys,
Already they suffer to live near this
Please avert your catalyst
oh!‘No’ says God, its course will run
its bounds and goals are set
As I set everyone,
Too much for me! my eyes I close
i just won’t look at scenes (that I suppose)
i await the crash! its deafening loud,
and I imagine the chaotic screaming crowd,
I wait ….. I wait….now look I must!
Before cold melts ice and rust becomes dust.
And What! before mine eyes a sight, the beach,
All pure grains of white, (are seen)
against verdant mounds of beryl green
The background sheds and townscape now stand serene;
The wave was a vision of God’s cleansing hour
Wrapt in an instant of unbridled power.
For the antiprigoligarchist was sent,
And the veil of worldly waste was rent.
There also is a literate beach
Where the antiprigoligarchist will also reach.
As antidote for pedantic bias, attention & thought
And scalar vision with true value nought
so with devoid headway misused opportunity
and selfish sway away! and
before the drift becomes a roar, better to
Clear such wasted ways from the literary shore.
If you're sitting comfortably and have locked your mobile 'phones,
I'll tell you all a story about Indiana Jones
I met him on a wooden bench whilst strolling through a park
He was mumbling incoherently about some missing ark
At some point back in history, a loaded ark set sail
The animals had disembarked according to his tale
Instead, some coins and jewellery were loaded from the dock
But several chests were not secured and the hull began to rock
I offered him some peppermints to show my gratitude
And listened hard for any hints of track or latitude
His plans seemed very tentative but he clearly had ambition
But didn't even know the name of this ark, or its position.
The headland where the ark decayed was really quite remote
And the islanders with crates of gold, they didn't want to gloat
The bodies of the final crew were never, ever found
But Mister Jones was quite convinced - that ship had run aground.
The barmaid had a hunch the wreck was east of the Azores
But she had no time for banter, 'cos she had to do her chores
If she shared her speculation, she'd be scolded by her mum -
Were it not for weekly meetings, they would not be selling rum.
I never went back to that pub to meet that motley crew
Whose plans seemed quite ridiculous, I had better things to do.
If you are ever tempted to sail away in stormy weather
Steer clear of men with stubble, wide-brimmed hats and shabby leather.
Arks are ships of substance with many planks and beams
Losing one is careless and much harder than it seems
If a fellow on a park bench engages you in conversation
Stand up to him and shout “Raid an ark of known location!”