Short Ferries Poems

The Holly

Holly,
Jolly.

Green leaf,
Motif.

Chief dec,
Bright reck.

Berries,
Ferries.

Species,
Varies.

The wall,
In hall.

Make tick,
Smile quick.

Not dour,
Not sour.

Wine flow,
‘Til low.

Christmas,
Greets us.

Dominique Webb...

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I am lost without God's grace.
As cocaine makes drug addicts happy, 
As war satisfies the appetite of an army,
As meta-sensualism quenches the burnings of a nymphomaniac,
God's grace is the codeine for my soul.
I cannot do without it. 
I will seek God's grace every day until it ferries me to eternity....

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The hours slipped away today
And then before I knew it,
It got too late to go outside;
I guess I really blew it.

The benches by the river
Didn’t have my butt to warm them.
The ferries and the pigeons
Had nobody to inform them.

Of course, I wasn’t missed at all;
The loss was mine completely,
For when I’m sitting riverside,
I write my poems discreetly....

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The media's only thing we like sordelco for the pour
Where alcoves only pair theirselves for hocus pocus bhore
When all who watch heir listen more their cautions for alt time
Wear otius ferries for their trelves of cratious varied core

And take what honor's left in them
to traceous torried gore
When all that's left to face in them
is how or right they horror...

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Seagulls squawk and pigeons coo;
What they’re saying – I’ve no clue.
They just do what they must do
To make it in the city.

Ferries float and tugboats tug;
Friends meet up and give a hug.
Maybe readers sigh and shrug – 
More musings? ‘Tis a pity!

Still, I sit outside and write
At my favorite local site,
Gazing to my heart’s delight
At views I find so pretty…...

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Once upon a time
the old songs were new
On prairies unplanted
invaders were few 

Where rivers rolled onward
no ferries or towns
All riverboat minstrels
new ages impound

The time of the season
unmeasured refrain
And cursed belladonna
tomorrow to reign

As butterfly’s wander
o’er questions unasked
A dark shrouded answer
—  the future unmasks

(Dreamsleep: April, 2025)


...

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The Beast of August   

It is gone — the beast of fire
has broken its spine
on iron storms.
We recover in dry walls.
There are ashes to be cleaned.
Some argue the date,
the precise day,
when the burning circus
finally rolled off
the pitch and patch of bald yards.

This side of the river
ferries carry shadows
from morning to evening.
On far banks
there are rumors of ice birds
hunting still blazing fish,
over raw nipping waves. 

~~~...

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