Long Mainsail Poems
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Cold rains, wet and weary... seeping through the sky,
spectres pass ’long side me... bent, with collars high,
my visions are invisible and no one sees me cry.
Minstrels of destruction... rapping at my door,
naked anvils aching... heavy hammers roar,
their monodies of emptiness pulse, bleeding through the floor.
House of cards collapsing... sagging walls of wax,
deuces in dissension... aces slip through cracks,
the Joker’s lost and lumbers by, alone, along the tracks.
Steeple steps dismantled... muted bells below,
ruins quake and tremble... frozen in the snow,
their pains implode within my brain while pale winds cruelly blow.
Prophets tumble temples... residues of tea
highways of no entrance... paths of destiny,
where phantoms haunt my nightmare dreams, tell tales of roaming free.
Foghorns moaning lonely... waves awash in sound
silver schooner sinking... swirling round and round,
at midnight’s stroke, the mainsail broke, and driftwood drifts aground.
Silent seas misshapen... moonbeams painted rum,
teaspoons sifting ashes... fingers cold and numb,
an incandescent candlestick’s impaled the sinking sun.
Smothered fires smoking... oceans filled with ice,
lightning lashing windows... blades from paradise,
like tongues of limpid laughter licking wounds of sacrifice.
Flowing fields of flowers... silent harmony,
rolling river reveries... washing to the sea,
my love, she was my daylight bliss, she once belonged to me.
The trip was a riot of color,
It brings a myriad of queries,
Fantastic tales of utter darkness,
Views' visible roots were explored.
Mainsail surges,
pungent froth carried wave tips while,
blast swings moaning openly.
superb mountains,
Convey streams into streaming rivers,
Down slants shrouded in woods.
And the majesty of the stars,
Is confronted every morning,
Under soft white clouds,
is with each foot I set down.
I relish the quiet of the sound,
how each slant embraces,
the still raw bay.
Home to unglaciated cervids,
Gnawing animals and polar bears,
Willow grouse, deer,
Also, the renowned Chinook Salmon.
More genuine than the Arctic flow,
Afar-off state refuted,
In both word and deed,
Anyhow of these ever tender wishes.
Atop mottled strands,
I let my emotions air dry,
Orange tulips were selected,
I regained faith; I can fly.
5Th Place Contest Winner
Written: June 18, 2022
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 3 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mark Toney
Eyes of light beams pierce ocean air
as Neptune rests within his lair.
Sentinels hand-made of stone,
that keepers used to call their home;
guide travelers, sailors on their way
a lovely sight both night and day.
Though today they’re automatic,
once someone ascended to their attic;
to turn on the light and keep it oiled
so harbor and bay had no wrecked spoils.
One’s orientation was not lost,
though about the seas ships were tossed.
For the Lubber’s lines worked their magic,
in preventing any shipwrecks, tragic.
Rough navigation the lighthouse soothed,
making for a landing smooth;
ships reached port abandoning fears,
when to the lighthouse they drew near.
So thank the gracious hand that built them,
for your cruise won’t end up grim.
Hoist that mainsail with great joy,
as light to night seas they employ.
These lonely specters in tribute stand
towering testaments to ingenuity of man.
'Twas dawn and all the sky blazed red.
The tell-tales snapped like waving flags.
The keening wind was full of dread;
all surplus sails were stowed in bags.
Though somewhere on the restless main
the sea was growling in the deep.
Its purpose no one could ascertain;
but there it stirred and did not sleep.
The rigging was that of a yawl;
with a belly stuffed with fine, fat fish.
She rolled and rocked with bounty’s haul
and scuppers drained at every swish.
Poseidon’s wrath had come, indeed!
His patience done, with none to give -
he’d have his vengeance for man’s greed
and drown those sailors, none would live.
The sailors reefed and mainsail set
and lashed their helmsman to the wheel.
‘Twas raining cats and dogs and yet,
their hearts were numb; they could not feel.
A sea witch howled and sirens wailed.
In sheerest terror, on they fled
across the bounds of hell they sailed
as the sea purged all, except its dead.
The raging wind and driven spate
was like no tempest known before.
No one aboard could fathom fate,
nor could they reach a leeward shore.
Then suddenly, the main gave way;
and then the mizzen caught a wave.
Cold fury churned in foam and spray
and drowned both craven and the brave.
Today there is a silent sea
where calm belies a horrid truth,
Our ocean dies, and so shall we -
gone is the bounty of our youth.
03/24
I have made a grave navigational error
And steered my ship to a sandbar
While I waved my cap and shouted backwards from the helm
Whistling to the shore I just departed
Sailing blind at every turning of the wind was sure to end this way
But my sails were taut and pulling, so blindly off I went
I’ve been too sure of my bearing
And that hers seemed unfixed and waiting
I mourned the day our courses diverged
But now I see she’s surely moving
While I‘ve wrecked myself upon this rocky spit
Watching every passing breeze shred my unyielding sails
I see things clearer than I did before
Even through dewy lashes and a dented spyglass
That she has not ceased rowing onward
Against the very wind that brought me to this moor
How I admire the steady rhythm of her pulling
And how I wish she’d only stop a moment
It’s true her boat could never tow this mainsail
But now I look around me and see my dismal state
Tattered sails and tangled rigging
Rotting boards and splintered railings
If ever I am driven from this sandbar
This ornamental galleon will almost assuredly nose under
Yesterday I looked away to take a bearing
And I saw beyond my taffrail for the first time in a while
There was nothing to be seen
Only imagined promise somewhere beyond the horizon
If somehow I can hold this ship together
I’ll die having met my unknown fortune there
Or I could set to swimming
Hard away from the wreck I’ve coaxed this far
The galleon which I proudly drove
And leave behind my vain prancing to and fro
See how steady she rows
Eyes set firm over her horizon on a promise she absolutely knows
The gulf is wide but not yet too vast
I could swim to her in time
And pray with all my heart and soul
That a bench remains on her humble skiff
Now I’ve made myself ready to leap from the rail
I’ll surely drown if she doesn’t take me aboard
I was …
awake …
in the crow’s nest
but doing all I could to not nod off
we had been through storms that day and
all the previous night
(such was the North Bering)
so not a soul had slept
‘til now …
all was quiet at ten bells
the moon was in first quarter
but as bright as any full …
it had just peeked above the east reach
bloodshot and misty
(like the dead gaze of a friend I’d
lost in battle)
and it painted the planks in blood
shining from their thin coat of
frozen arctic fog …
the decks were ghosted but for the first mate
and he didn’t wander much on
his watch, what with such
icy footing …
he stood statuesque by the helm
watching the aurora shift shape
and with the phosphorescent
wake snaking behind us
the scene made a breathtaking canvas
of color and movement
and I chuckled to myself, remembering
a comment the captain had made:
“Naught but black-on-black up the
mast on night duty, lad -
a sorry sea of oily emptiness!” …
well, I’d known of
better skippers, not a one
yet I could tell he’d
never spent much time as a scunner
because from where I perched
high atop the mainsail -
the swells ticking off my time,
there was so much more
yes, so VERY much …
more.
Copyright © September 5, 2024 Gregory Richard Barden
I'm not a seafarer, but took a risk and dove right in,
as if from cliff height and wound up floundering
in the dark abysmal depths of a roiling ocean.
From pages of 'The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,'
I wore the feathered omen draped around my shoulders.
When a marriage ends, the mast is cracked, mainsail tattered.
The bottle was his failing; but the burden was mine.
His raging storm was a whirlpool of self-loathing.
Certain to drown if I lingered with him much longer,
I was in need of a way out of my wretched life.
Frowns were etched into my brow from doleful despair,
as we sailed beneath stormy skies on a battered ship.
My cries were much louder than the roar of the ocean,
but he didn't seem to care whether he lived or died.
I desperately fought to keep him tethered to my side
but he was the killick that kept dragging me down.
I couldn't save us both, broke free from the chain,
and watched Coleridge's boa floating in the flotsam.
I stood on the beach, searching each crested wave
but when the tide ebbed, I walked away.
Britain sets sail to find a deal.
A lengthy voyage now starts.
The captain plots the way ahead
with complex EU charts
from the Maritime Directive
in all its ninety parts.
Oh what a frightful sea to sail
to reach the land called Brexit Deal.
They cast off in a steady breeze;
the crew are well rehearsed.
But soon a storm is getting up
and brings a mighty gust.
The mainsail now has been ripped free
and flaps around the mast.
Oh what a frightful sea to sail
to reach the land called Brexit Deal.
And then with further buffeting
the rudder starts to fail.
A calm follows; they do repairs.
Now fixed they can set sail.
The ship and crew ready to go
but now stuck in a lull.
Oh what a frightful sea to sail
to reach the land called Brexit Deal.
Next day there comes a steady breeze
which clears them from doldrums.
And now they start to speed along
as then a trade wind comes.
With these changes the captain must
recalculate the sums.
Oh what a frightful sea to sail
to reach the land called Brexit Deal.
Window Dressers
Running
different
than reigning
Politicians
shortly
find
Chasing the vote
versus
crossing the moat
Very few
able
— fewer to thrive
**********
Narrative Rewarded
Like weight training
for an athlete
poetry makes you strong
Each word a rep
till failure
to bring your lines along
A verses strength
increases
when flexed the story bold
With narrative
enrichened
— the poetry like gold
************
Venture Forth
My treasure hidden
beyond the waves
the horizon
beckons on
Through pounding surf
and giant seas
a voice
is calling strong
I set my sail
the closest reach
with tiller
in both hands
On faith alone
round jagged reefs
I trust
in who I am
Through longish days
and longer nights
my course
uncharted stays
The mainsail up
the jib reset
one albatross
relays
That fortune comes
but once in life
to those who hear
its call
And venture forth
through unknown winds
into
— the raging squall
***********
Spiritual Chrysalis
Losing oneself
to find oneself
Emptiness cowers
— catharsis begins
********
Devil At The Gate
Loyal
when it suits you
Faithful
when it’s safe
Committed
to the mirrored self
Devil
at the gate
Back turned
to the prophet
Fealty
starts to burn
Treason
left on high display
Shame
— at every turn
********
Poet & Prophet
Today
is all that matters
Memory
your biggest foe
Mining the pathway
to future promise
Excuse and weakness
grow
Time an illusion
a crutch for the weak
To hobble and stumble
in constant retreat
This moment recurring
endemic when willed
the poet and prophet
— forever instilled
*********
Never To Return
If the past is empty inside you
— the future will be lost
*********
Resistance Ignored
The world
quickly bored
at the recital
of misfortune
And most
willingly avoids
the sight
of distress
The path
of resistance
ignored
at its peril
All character
only tempered
when put
— to the test
(The New Room: June, 2026)
The candle loses nothing,
by sharing its flame,
yet there are nights
when I wonder
whether I've lost
the spark itself.
A broad reach begins innocently—
a hand extended
a question asked
a stranger welcomed
inside the circle.
Its beckoning horizon is vast.
The ripples sent out,
the echoes returned
stir a sea of answers,
and a storm
of unanswered questions.
To see through another's eyes
is to discover
how fragile certainty really is
how curiosity builds bridges
where judgment built walls.
It teaches respect,
yet can erode one's own resolve.
The tree with the deepest roots
casts the widest shade,
yet must divide its strength
between the earth and sky.
The river finds the ocean,
by winding in meandering curves,
never doubting gravity's call
to its destination.
But the further my gaze extends
across the broad reach,
the harder it becomes
to find a place to stand—
committed, resolved,
and so sure.
Seeing every side.
accepting too many arguments.
forgiving too many failures.
overlooking too many mistakes.
Brings conviction itself
to its knees,
and purpose begins to falter.
And so I drift upon the tide,
rich in perspective
inclusive and welcoming,
yet poor in direction
forgetting to trim the sails.
Easing the mainsheet,
going on a broad reach,
is comfortable and forgiving,
yet slower
when off course.
Time to sheet
the mainsail in tighter,
grip the helm
lean out to fight
the heel,
to trade comfort
for conviction,
to head directly
on the compass bearing
to a true point
on the horizon.