Daddy, there are new moorings, come see!
There are shiny pontoon chains and cables,
braided ropes and colorful pennants.
The anchors and piles and buoys all new!
He arose groggily and without ambition
but allowed the boy to lead him to the quay
wherein he saw indeed, new moorings!
His heart quickened.
Badly needed, as the old were worn,
tattered, and so dangerous that ships
stayed their distance from this port
and steered further up the coast.
Work had dried with the rotted ropes,
his hope was lost to the receding waves.
Until today, when new moorings
renewed a deep faith that saves.
I slipped loose some time ago
it feels, the knot untied, cut;
depending on perspective;
gently pushed away to float
freely, wildly, aimlessly.
Some new imagined moorings
hauling steady at my line;
as they ever did and will.
When all the rivers, far seas,
oceans have been sailed upon
and longings have been sated;
I will weary and so yearn
to tie up again, awhile,
shape this berth into my shrine;
'till, new imagined moorings
do haul steady at my line.
Moorings anew are easy as thought,
Vessels tethered, fixed as weather,
By an anchor, a person, or an idea,
Sure to shore up evidence of defense, of itself.
With every wave, memory fades soft as morning fog,
Providing wet hiding and reinforcing ties,
Binding us together, on shores of security,
Like seamen seining a weir of our own making.
Forgetting respawns our willingness,
To be encircled again, within a radius of safety,
Ropes with a constricting reach, endless limitations,
As far away as the unmovable horizon in view.
Then we float into the final harbor,
Less grounded, ethereal anchorage more stable,
Rites of arrival unknown, moored in others still,
Slipping in, your past adrift, reborn under a new gable.
Are anchors fetters or do they stabilise,
acting as moorings, holding us steady,
that we may stay grounded in our comfort zone,
whilst battling fierce winds of duality?
We walk alone yet seek safety in numbers,
opting to adopt culture based on birth,
deludedly following narrow beliefs,
although in our heart, gong of truth rings not.
We feel within our bones that we are a soul,
so why then do we cling to illusion,
more so recognising that it is transient,
enmeshing mind in a gossamer web?
Employing specious logic, we justify
fear of freedom, inventing a new script,
languishing thus in darkness and rewriting
beliefs in secret code we can’t decrypt.
17-March-2023
New Moorings Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Julia Ward
The new boats came to the harbour town
for the harbour had new moorings.
Gently the boats bobbed up and down
upon the gentle water.
The newness sparkled on the boats
and the owners had new jumpers.
"Harbour Days!" the newsmen cried,
the harbour town in clover.
The opening was proud - with prince!
He came there in a hurry,
though slow to congratulate
from his home in London.
"But now he's come", the newsmen said
in advance of morning papers.
"He has come!" they said again.
Those newsmen... full of capers.
Slips marked and mapped across the intercoastal waterways
a scanning breached out of high low tidal waves,
silent, still, obscure, and not well hidden
liveaboards hold steady isolated sheltered misgivings;
embedded and anchored in place
buoys secure contested living space,
Matanzas Pass, Sarasota fields, Titusville and Sunset Bay
the Gulf Stream Key Largo flow a mainstay;
honker down between the wind, the rain, and sun
vessels sturdy and rickety, short and long - all come,
house and home hum interludes for a sing-along,
push aways and pull in tights
safeaways and derelicts amidst stormy plights
resident and transient, occupied and abandoned
faceless vacancies, sequestered and random,
marinas and harbors within hurricane holds in tandem,
dockmasters and dock slips. environmental folds alluring
beleaguered and bewildered landlocked sailors touring
in their trawlers, boats, cruisers and yachts adoring
September shelters in the Florida moorings.
The Moorings of Yesterday
Looking out at the moorings of yesterday, wondering what was.
The long pier of forgotten purpose skeletal remains peaking above the surface of ancient waters
Attempting to peer through the fog that is tomorrow,
Wondering what will be.
A moment in time to displace the here and now,
To dream of history’s future.
A day dream of a story that may or may not have been told by someone before,
Or may or may not be told by someone after.
Before a beginning of an endless ending,
A thought occurs...
searching for words in continuum of
incompleteness, it was a trickle at first, then
a free fall, cerebral fury: I am becoming expansive,
so apposed to verbatim of shrieks, only
in whispers I will talk to delphiniums,
I would walk inside the time capsule, come
and sit besides me for a while, I am tired of
this ghost town, and fleeing shadows of
waning luminories on the horizon in
half-naked blooms;on different shores
U-boats are being lowered with torpedos. I am
waiting for the hurricane
SATISH VERMA
....................................................................................................................................
a skinned or bruised knee,
battered pride, when ball games lose…
bandages to soothe…
mother’s bag, filled to the brim
were words of understanding
~
way around the bend
fast curve balls came unending…
a soft place to land
a gentle hand for mending…
my bag of tricks holds ….loving
.......................................................................................................................................
Inspired by Linda Marie's contest "Bag of Tricks"
By Carrie Richards
searching for words in continuum of
incompleteness, it was a trickle at first, then
a free fall, cerebral fury: I am becoming expansive,
so apposed to verbatim of shrieks, only
in whispers I will talk to delphiniums,
I would walk inside the time capsule, come
and sit besides me for a while, I am tired of
this ghost town, and fleeing shadows of
waning luminories on the horizon in
half-naked blooms;on different shores
U-boats are being lowered with torpedos. I am
waiting for the hurricane
SATISH VERMA
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