Short Tacking Poems

A fat flouncy funky flunky house sparrow bobs and bows his way tacking like a clinker built  

dingy sailing across our sea of grass catching worms fattened by May's sun and showers ....

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Will Not Receive My Backing

Trump will not receive any of my backing,
While from him are receiving a shellacking;
Total trouble make;
Being breath taker;
Sailboat turned over after all of  his tacking.

Jim Horn...

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Chet grabbed my story and claimed it as his own.
Tacking on a slightly different ending.
I kept my mouth shut about this.
War has obliterated his own stories.
PTSD dangles him in a state of web-like anxiety.
If claiming my stories makes him happy, then great.
I am glad to be of service to this Vietnam War vet....

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growing up
we now have
a son who is
compared to
a free range
chicken

he is muscular
skateboarding
cycling around
and karate but
he did go off the
grid and without

cooping up 
or telling what
was thought
to be our fence
he took German
in defense and

attacked with
tacking a flank
blitzkrieg upon
his wall and last
of all he knew to
let his hair grow 

L
O
N
G
E
R...

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Through pink glasses aiming Northward 
Arctic lights and arrows quiver 
The city life drags the final sword 
As a sugar shack lilts with the river 

The bow is his selenite 
Mantra to foe, making them shudder 
The amulet is his kryptonite 
A tiller man now with no rudder 

Longer boats to take him away await 
Tacking slowly to avoid live minds 
Leave a trail of very odd gait 
Lowering his remains below water lines...

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She came aboard my sinking ship
a death blow to the bow,
attempts to bail and keep afloat
this mariners tattered sails.

Plot a new course and navigate
in storms and angry seas,
this vessel lists in the swells
life plundered by piracy.

Now this new maidens charge
is to steer starboard side,
for a new sheltered port 
with rising tides.

This once scuttled ship
ill winds cast adrift,
is now tacking leeward
this sailors gift!...

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FEATHERED     GALLEONS


Swans -  eight white-sailed galleons

Bobbing on the choppy River  Boyne,

Without tacking, heading into the wind:

Flotilla -  organised, disciplined,

Sailing in line ahead through the spray,

Their feathers fluttering in slight disarray

As they stroked their way upstream:

White eight on a  watery light beam.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

NOTE

The River Boyne is a very picturesque river in Ireland....

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