Long Pirates Poems
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During the time before television came to our home, My dad sat there in his car on many a dark Southern night. And I was somewhere close by, enjoying a wonderful
game of Major League Baseball on the radio.
O, there were several teams in the majors like The Pirates,
The White Socks and The Red Socks were popular
teams. But in my town in Northern Mississippi, baseball was all about the Cardinals, the Dodgers, and the Yankees.
There were many sights and sounds of baseball beaming from radios and television sets. I must say that I mean no disrespect to other good and decent sportscasters,
but Harry Carry and Pee Wee Reese made us feel like we
were there in the stands.
My dad had lots of friends, but two were rivals in the game.
There was his friend, the Yankee man name Mr. Baines;
And then, Mr. Mon, his other friend, was a Dodger fan.
But my dad’s heart was in St. Louis with Stan the Man.
In the memory of my mind, I can hear those games now on the radio.
Those nights were dark and hot, but the baseball captured and calmed me.
Reading newspapers and enjoying a baseball game on the radio were two
things my dad and I shared together. But also, later on, we obtained a television. With the snapshots tucked away in the frames of my mind, after 50-plus years, I can still see the Baseball Game of the Week.
I'm rather certain that neither my dad nor his two friends ever graced the stadiums of their teams. I'm proud to say that it was through them that I developed a deep love for the game. So, in a way, when I saw two games at Wrigley Field in Chicago, they were there also; or when I enjoyed two games of the Giants at Candlestick Park in San Francisco, they sat right next to me.
They say that baseball is America’s great past time experience;
but for me, baseball was always about ‘now and then’, ‘today, and
‘tomorrow’ too. It was about a little country boy fantasizing
and dreaming today about what could be tomorrow.
Written 042010; Entry122422PS Contest, Matt Caliri, Poetry in Motion
The National Pastime, Phillip Garcia
also: (Screwed XV11 Contest, Rod Carmack; 10th Pl)
The Boat
In the harbor there is a galleon you can buy dinner on.
They sing shanty songs and talk to wild mermaids until sunset.
Then all, are quiet,
as we watch the brightness together,
touch the water in the distance…
sizzling, in silence, melting into liquid gold on the sea.
Then, ever so slowly…gone.
The music continues. The laughter grows. This is a good time.
The flag is hoisted, the bells ring, pirates have come aboard.
The gallant crew defend, the intruders are put back.
The skull is tossed into the water… the watery depths they embrace.
The cheers, tell all. The show was grand indeed.
Cutlasses flashing, muskets afire, all the players in their dressed attire.
Home ward we set the sail, a pleasant trip it was…
Adventure, wild on the high seas, for a small price.
Thankfully, only a play, as not to say…
They were not fierce indeed.
Lush sultry scents fill my nostrils
spices and exotic flowers blooms
first encounter with dark people
my, they were scarey like pirates
Armed with enormous panga's
and wickedly nasty looking knives
at almost 8 years old I shook violently
when one looked at me grinning gruesomely
I shrank back against my mother, my haven,
never had I seen such delightful sights
junk boats sailing round us, their crew
most motley, in a range of multi colors
Waving their enormous panga's at us
gold teeth gleaming, it was so scarey
I was glad to sail on to Dar-es-Salaam
many horrendous nightmares I then suffered
Little knowing that Dar was just the same
some steps I now had taken into the unknown
so many fears still lay in the future and beyond
a totally new yet dangerous world lay ahead of me
I am describing an overnight stop at Zanzibar at my young age it was a fearful very exciting experience
written 09/04/2013
contest Fragment
From shore to deep, the colors of the sea,
tan sand and white meringue bursting forth.
Can you picture the lovers on the edge
long after they're gone?
Footprints of fun
and frolic.
The ghost, of bikini and boxers
painted pretty with tropical flowers, on bods.
The ocean wall, an enigmatic blue and sand monster
like a cloudy day sky. It has the look of adventure
as it cascades.
I want to climb it’s peak,
examine it’s underwings.
Toes sink, knees deep, waist high -
I’m just an earthling enamored with the mystic sea.
When on a cruise deck, and God shut the lights off,
except for the moon
and stars,
I want to lean over -
don’t stop me as I dive with my prayers and imagination
into the frothing lullaby -
its rocking,
sloshing,
satisfying.
I hug the ocean more than any tree. It cools me,
surrounds me with
danger,
love,
romance…yes,
swashbuckles me, captures me, and lets me go.
The ocean let Jonah go and so did the great fish,
but I will not let the sea free me so easily. This salt
has it in her blood,
even standing too close
to the rocks
near the lighthouse that illuminates a warning.
Mrs. Muir saw the Captain in her dreams, full-bearded -
the cape cottage window open to the endless tide.
The danger now is not sharks nor shipwrecks
but the needles in the sand, the chasing off
of blanketed lovers by the unsavory beach pirates.
Us earthlings
must clean up our ebb and flow.
Illuminate me on pink sands. Draw me into a rapscallion tale.
I shall cross swords on the deck as the sea comes to my rescue.
There is a group of us that live around
the cul-de-sac of our neighborhood.
Jimmy is ten years old, the same age I am.
He has a big tall live oak tree in the backyard
with a treehouse we use for a clubhouse.
Marty is twelve years old.
He always wants to boss everyone around.
He has a younger sister named Becky
that always wants to join in all the time.
We try to run her off, but she is always underfoot.
Marshal is ten years old.
He wears blue jeans with a large silver
western belt buckle with a galloping horse,
cowboy boots, and a black straw cowboy hat.
The hatband is adorned with silver conchos,
and it pretends to be a cowboy.
If the weather is nice, we gather and pretend
to be cowboys and Indians and chase each other around,
or pirates on a sailing ship.
Or play marbles and see who loses the most.
If the weather is bad, we play video games.
If we fight, after a while we are friends again like brothers.
2/23/2023
Hoisted high Black flags sail,
Camouflaged by a misty veil,
A bow braced with forward guns,
Upon a ship no-one outruns,
This sight was seen through a scope,
A view of horror crushing all hope,
Terror races through the ship,
For they are within Davy Jones grip,
Bustling panic to throw weight over the side,
Anything and everything to save their hide,
Dark swells of clouds surround the merchant,
Like a sour jar of vinegar the crew fermant,
Kneeling, some pray for some type of saving,
Any rescue from what that vile ship is craving,
Villainous auras fills the air,
Causing halt to all prayer,
Will these pirates spare some of the lives,
Or send an empty ship back to their wives,
With every second the air gets thicker,
From the aft of the ship comes a flicker,
A barrage of small slugs rip through wood,
Boots and blood left where the cap'n stood,
Trepidation spotlights the first mate,
Unable to move due to sealed fate,
Through a portal all Hell enters,
For the helm was just splinters,
Without a doubt no lives will be spared,
The story of a rescue to never be shared,
A war horn sounds ringing in every ear,
Port side a figurehead in mist begins to leer,
Skeletal bones with a sickle, appears to be the reaper,
Materializing behind him the black flagged creeper,
With woods as dark as the Captain's soul,
The deck stained red from the Dutchmen's toll,
No visible crew leaves the merchants struck,
But this was not their type of luck,
From starboard side a hatchet was thrown,
Landing in the boswain's cheekbone,
Like serpents, pirates sliver over the side,
Some crew just buckled while others cried,
Hands raised high and knees into deckboard,
Now a chest soiled red by plunging sword,
Before every death was a faint wretched smell,
The kind only found rotting in a cell,
Cause Davy's crew were sentenced to jail,
An endless opaque sea faring Hell.
recall your childhood
when you were so unaware of being a child
walking with swinging arms
babbling with chatter box like a brook
unencumbered by opinions, beliefs
unspoiled by graces and airs
unaware of age and wrinkles
when everyone was treated the same
open to suggestions, real and fanciful
unabashedly self-centered
used to be being spoilt and gushed upon
tugged like puppet on adult hand strings
so readily swayed by silliness and bribes
yet so hard to be shifted away from this to that
when tantrums popped-up to show displeasure
not ashamed to ask question about difficult things
never caring about the day and date
never caring about being early or late
when all was play, and being creative
with the simplest of things.
Imagining pirates and Jolly Roger.
playing with lumps of wood in sandpit
seeing dump trucks, and bulldozers
play embellished with sound effects
grins and smiles, totally absorbed.
Perhaps its time to bring back
the childlike love of play, joie de vie
and the simple tiny-handed grasp of life
showing such freedom, liberté
devoid of consequences.
In the ocean of lyrical words and mermaid metaphors,
poetic pirates steal the gold that glistens;
floating in eloquence,
flowing with diamond tears,
but within inked skulls and bones
names of those that thieve in paper silence~
are etched across sea-glass with searing blood,
as trinkets I once wore are tainted,
and buried within hermit shores.
There, footprints echo and mirror truth of the unseen,
rippling with stolen sunsets and salt-soaked swords,
while soliloquies of the sky,
kiss the marine armor of sapphires…
I ponder, what would the sun now sing to the moon?
Are we aimless vessels ferrying venom?
Are jewels of sincerity, lost within melted memories?
Perhaps, from lagoons of lies, we learn~
life beneath the bluest of waves,
breathes grotesque rhymes woven in ice-cold green.
My friend - I’ll call her Brandi -
asked where do you get all your candy?
I said you may find this hard to believe,
but I always keep a few Twix up my sleeve.
I read about buccaneers in history books,
And I thought where did pirates get their hooks?
Later, while researching various folklores,
The answer came to me: second hand stores!
My friend, who is a soothsayer,
told me never to date tennis players.
I thought this advice was really a gem,
because love means absolutely nothing to them!
It really is a bummer
when people say age is just a number.
I think it’s totally absurd.
Age is clearly a word!
My ENT specialist, Doctor Jeff,
told me that I was going deaf.
About this - let me be clear -
the news was hard for me to hear.
While living on the shores of Avalon,
I ordered a chicken and an egg on Amazon.
Their delivery, however, was very slow.
Which came first? I’ll let you know.
On ocean's journey the wee lad set sail
slight frame a-tremble and gaunt face so pale
His fortune and fame for to seek
The grand ship had been christened the 'Lodestar'
Rugged build for adventure's repertoire
This voyage not one for the meek
To ports far from home, to islands unknown
A typhoon sprang up, the poor lad did groan
His future looked bleak
African pirates cursed and swash-buckled
Hyenas unleashed their high-pitched chuckles
Overcome, the lad couldn't speak
Ship's captain gave the order, 'Walk the plank.'
The wee lad woke just in time to give thanks
To his bedroom door for its creak