If only life dares us new heights to scale,
Joy and thrill of adventures, not of rest,
Conquest of crests that feels like Everest,
Life lived like cut off kites that freely sail.
There’s thrill in a risk-starved scare-less soft ride,
Nor joy in scaling a tiny hillock,
In a high-sea drama rehearsed on dock,
Romance, nor wanderlust O with a guide.
Comes seafarers’ thrill in confronting life,
In braving woes as if they’re a tame bull,
Only he lives that lives life brimming full,
He that sails through hanging on stormy strife,
Not one way wary of his wobbling breath,
He, hardly does live, dies a dismal death.
______________________________
Crown of sonnets | 01.01.2008 | life, adventure
Note: Time comes when one reflects on the life lived in the past, and wonders what if he had lived it another way. Man tends to secure a cocooned life made safer if not sure, devoid of risk and rough ride after dreaming for challenges in youth. Yet again he's left thinking about the rare joys of life missed out—if only ‘I had taken the road less trodden’! But… alas, it’s too late.
Part 2 of this poem follows.
You come down
And strengthen the feeble.
You pour down
And awaken the dying.
The frail await your arrival.
Your departure saddens the blooming fields.
There’s a rebirth at your coming;
Hope begins to wane at your leaving.
The clouds quake at your appearance,
And the sun retreats to its chamber.
We see the signs in the sky,
Even the boisterous wind that sometimes heralds your arrival.
We sit in a room,
And you enter through a partly open window.
We scamper for safety;
My mother calls it a blessing.
You hold sway outdoors,
While the children stay indoors.
They watch through the windows,
Singing sad songs.
There’s joy deep within at your descent,
But mixed feelings for the seafarers.
Convey down the blessings of the Divine,
And cloak the warmth of the Sahara.
June 14, 2025.
It is the ACT in the goal set that seals the deal
Nonetheless, many a goal are broadcasted abroad
In sheer exhilarations that fades like dusk
And at the mercy of drifting time left rot
A perfect semblance perhaps
Of seeds that by the wayside did fall
And starving fowls obviously did on them relish a meal
In the event of a year almost a farewell bidding
The goal had been stationed a beacon in the vast ocean
A compass for weary seafarers’ guide
Till safely are come ashore sure.
Morning poem
This morning, sky and sea had the color shiny grey and I could see forever and saw a man and his son on the deck of big ship, eating prunes because it was good for digesting heavy food. In my childhood prunes a rare fruit was served at Christmas for the same reason, but only in America could one get hamburgers, as told by seafarers who had seen the bright lights at place called Broadway.
The sky shifted color to everyday grey, it began raining and the morning show was over
On bowride below gentle titans peep
ghost ships of the Pacific hunt and chase -
great barnacled seafarers of the deep
beneath the waves its clear blue waters grace.
Where yon an old boneyard whaling station
fluking bulls and cows breach the feeding pod,
and dive in fabled echolocation
bones of Ahab and wreck of the Pequod.
Yet still ghost ships the old hunting grounds scout
its mystic echo whalesong far reaching,
and still cavernous mouths unmade to shout
trap by moon and tide on remote beaching.
Let no harpoon or flense sound its death throes
and may long live the shout of “thar she blows!”.
Written: July 1992
lighthouses light
seen between the oceans
seafarers guidance
HEED, my words
for at its end
his name will be
future seafarers
guide like that
of a star
HAIL, the winds
they come from the north
and just yon, a star
that none need attend
and in its glow
a wake of vessels
single sails all
HOLD, bold cold challenge
ill tides a new land
banished from their own
a place painted green
the night's of wars
brought a new day
HOME, a settlement
lay the foundation
later to be called
history or
his story
HOPE, son well in years
will make his own mark
but for now
its father's time
Red hair, beard, temper
ERIK the Red
A bird with a shadow as big as a bus
Archaic the sailors that in him will trust
Always at sea coming in from the stern
Arrogant seafarers will need to learn
Ancient beliefs all have basis in fact
As may become clear when the odds are well stacked
Adrift on a life raft?.. He’s poultry… that’s that
the pilot arrives
When the world was big, and my ship left Trinidad just
as the sun set over the blue Caribbean and women, at the dockside waved goodbye forever, or perhaps not, if the ship returned with the same crew.
The Panama Canal was efficient and American, all business
The Pacific Ocean, the ship was a tea leaf in a giant's
saucer any minute now we would disappear and become a mystery at sea, written about in seafarers magazine.
Indian Ocean, finding a small island long before Apollo
made the world into a smaller planet
The moon is a balloon, as David Niven wrote.
The world has shrunk, it is indeed a tiny place a dot in the galaxy hard to see yet we go on fighting about religion and silly political views, and the beauty of what could have been is lost in a blur of hatred
Nature is the first word that I recall,
As I gaze upon the bay, tall trees in view,
Deer and fawn wandering in my neighborhood small,
Yearning to embrace them, capture a selfie or two.
Nature is serene, tranquil in its embrace,
Providing solace to restless human minds,
Though hurricanes and twisters may cause a chase,
Tumbleweeds disguised, rolling as it unwinds.
Nocturnal realm, the next thought in my mind,
Moon's gentle glow, stars twinkling above,
Ghosts and goblins may roam, but we find,
Sweet treats on Halloween, spreading joy and love.
Navigation, a challenge in history's past,
Seafarers braved the unknown, circling the earth,
Discovering new lands, connecting lands vast,
Uniting us all, despite our different birth.
seafarers’ paradise
seven men drowned
when a ship sank under gigantic waves
seven weeks later
they appeared on the Island of Saragossa
where singing shanty is forbidden
but seaweed is served in 7 variations
by a female ship cook, the only woman
who had been welcomed
as mess-maid was not proper sailors
as for the dead they are soaking wet
it is what keep then going, and lives in caves
lit up by electric eel and blue sea stars
the carpenter has added shelves.
strict ranks are observed, the skippers have
the biggest cave, in a smaller cave, the chief steward
drink whisky from a flask that fills itself up
insist he is an officer, is in conflict with everyone.
since the island is timeless, no one knows or care
whether it is forenoon or afternoon
they listen to the cook’s bell, especially if curry is served
when it is summer, they swim with dolphins.
A life in tree-lined poetry
Once I was a cook on the high seas and worked long days
seven days a week; Eater and Christmas meant more work
baking cakes and baking bread.
It was not only tiring but boring to seafarers like solid
food that they are used to from home, which makes
cooking into a job of blindfolded ennui.
No wonder cooks turn to drink, the combination
of long hours, infinitely making meat cakes and mash
can send anyone into the abyss of insanity
For my next job, I learned to cook books and found
I had my latent talent how to make stories, to make
the numbers tally; I could sit in a soft chair doing this.
For a reason, lost in the fog of the past, I ended up
a counsellor, a strange occupation, telling the unlucky
not to drink, when at night enjoying a whisky or two.
I was found out and sacked; how shocked they were
the justly seniors took my license and nameplate on
the door, hounded me out of town.
There was one escape, back to sea and cooking stuff
long were the hours when not reading self-help books
until some said: “aren’t you the one who got fired?
What are we, if not seafarers?
Writing words and aspirations to escape,
Kraken's grasp of deep dark seas.
Of turbulent brains during the storm.
A wave of skepticism, as if love was magic.
Isn't conceivable that this never occurs.
Written: November 29, 2022
One day, a jolly fisherman called Dave,
While sailing was shipwrecked, by a huge wave.
Still gasping for air, Dave only could stare,
At a gorgeous mermaid, with long blonde hair.
Who rescued him, as he clung to a rock.
By helping Dave, to recover from shock,
She sang a soulful, sincere serenade,
Luring seafarers, set sail to give aid.
Then she submerged, with one swish from her tail.
Now who would believe, this far-fetched regale.
For all of his tales, seemed jolly good fun,
Unless there is truth, in this latest one.
9 / 6 / 2022.
Sponsor Julia Ward.
A JOLLY FISHERMAN POETRY CONTEST.
“Necessity is the mother of invention,”
Making the case for improvisation,
Seafarers would say, “jerry-rigging,”
Results can often create a sensation.
Using what’s at hand to get a job done
Sometimes new and better ways ensue
I’ve been known to fix it with duct tape
As a last resort, I’ve used Elmer’s glue.
Written August 30, 2022
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