An empty packet of Gauloises,
black coffee, a croque monsieur.
An aromatic café
breakfast in the Montmartre.
Later I switch to Camels,
a bumpy ride to seek out a friend
in the sixth arrondissement,
that night I left my Dunhill lighter
on her bedstand.
The cigarette lighter
had value,
I had haggled for it in Malacca,
eventually a young Hindu guy
reluctantly parted with it
as if selling his own grandmother.
Malaysia smoked lucky Strikes,
sold as single sticks,
you could buy them at any age,
they kept them in a glass jar
on the counter like candy.
Our generation thought it
too high a risk to die old,
and yet here we are
still lingering by the La Brea tar pits
looking for smoke signs.
Categories:
malacca, poetry,
Form: Free verse
In 1947 in the Straits of Malacca near Indonesia
An old Dutch freighter the SS Ourang Medan
Sent a message out that the whole crew was dead
With the last message from the operator being, “I die”
An all-out effort was made to find the ship
And when it was found no-one responded from aboard
They were able to get on board by rope
What they found deepened the mystery
Because the whole crew were indeed dead
And in death they all had a look of terror on their faces
Suddenly smoke was seen from the engine room
The rescue crew had to quickly leave the ship
And it blew up sinking quickly beneath the waves
Taking the mystery of what had happened with it
Was it ghosts or aliens that killed them all?
Or was it a cover up of transporting nerve gas
No records about whether this was true are available
The dead crew and the destroyed ship still remains a mystery.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Categories:
malacca, mystery, spiritual,
Form: Free verse
GETTING TOO OLD
Her story told by old charts, scattered, water-drenched.
Portholes all broken, shaft and screw missing : a wreck ,
Grounded on concrete platform like an old man sitting on bench,
Battered funnel, broken hawsers, holes in deck.
Tell you stories about the old days when he mattered.
Eyeglasses cracked. Some say he has a screw loose :
Old man on a bench, like a ship in dry dock, rust splattered,
Battered hat, torn trousers, holes in shoes.
Endured war sagas at the siege of Malta,
Braved storms in the Bering Sea - ice cold,
Saw exotic island sunsets in Straits of Malacca,
With cargoes varied, they traveled the world.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Written for Matt Caliri’s Contest “Write A Backwards Poem”
Categories:
malacca, adventure, life, nostalgia, old,
Form: Quatrain
WRECKS
Battered funnel, broken hawsers, holes in deck,
Grounded on concrete platform like an old man sitting on bench,
Portholes all broken, shaft and screw missing : a wreck ,
Her story told by old charts, scattered, water-drenched.
Battered hat, torn trousers, holes in shoes,
Old man on a bench, like a ship in dry dock, rust splattered,
Eyeglasses cracked. Some say he has a screw loose :
Tell you stories about the old days when he mattered.
With cargoes varied, they traveled the world,
Saw exotic island sunsets in Straits of Malacca,
Braved storms in the Bering Sea - ice cold,
And endured war sagas at the siege of Malta.
Categories:
malacca, adventure, nostalgia, peopleold, old,
Form: Quatrain