Crystal ball, thy spirit.
Cast thee a mighty spell.
Vision sacred, let's hear it.
Voice of mine, pell-mell.
Tress and trawler, set thy hooks.
River bed to dredge.
Recipes we learned in books?
Formation, wild wedge.
Coal, control, bell toll, sail, soul.
Down the delta wide.
Wasteland, when you set a goal.
Woe, when you betide.
Chicken farm, thy tender.
Politics, tough thy game.
Doubtless, O defender.
Katabothron, quay, claim.
Current, channel. Atmosphere.
Particles, spread out.
Cloud cover, sere or severe?
Cannibal, red rout!
Trickle, stickleback. Code crack.
Fortresses, thy stack.
Under attack? Dinner pack.
Flak ahead? Shellac.
Yawndrift, yucca, yellow eyes.
Oceanic rift.
Circumspect the council's cries?
Petrify, wood. Gift.
Bank, holding of money.
Tornado, spinning fast.
Clown, well, life is funny.
Mead honey, my good ghast?
Dare to dream Ashes nightmares it seems reawoken
Token words spoken after scares & flares teams broken
Dafter peacocking then rocking no blocking just shocking
Mocking laughter of the ghost of Christmas future knocking
Host boast from coast to coast toast as England roast
Boiling..recoiling..toiling & broiling this is our last post
Our iridescent flaming proper copper haired laird
Incandescent flairs no taming his despairs we all shared
Luminescent cares blaming Bazball heirs ill prepared scared
Stoic brawler our defiant mauler on a leaking reeking trawler
Too reliant on our brilliant defiant resilient glowering giant
Big Ben set up camp crippled by his men again & ripples of cramp
Overpowering pain courses through every vein towering skipper & champ
Heart on his sleeve…makes us believe in a reprieve heroic Firestarter
Immensity of intensity.. O Captain my Captain..our smarter martyr
Broad in the beam
not much of a looker
this crusty rust-bucket
of nuts screws and bolts
is a crabby old hooker
as luck would have it
dolled up trolling for supper
at any port in a storm
she still gives good service
tho' down on her uppers
now showing her years
deep in the scuppers
yet still on the game
fishing by night for a living
not to sully or bruise her good name
tho' one might unduly call her
a 'Cruiser'
this goodly vessel is truly a trawler
I am a cruiser
on a big trawler.
A lover
of the water.
Look at it's blue color.
What's underneath is a puzzler.
Being a traveler
who looks for spectacular
pictures. I always discover
that God is the manufacturer
and complier
of beauty for this true believer.
No matter
what harbour
we pull in to.
Here
the mountains
have a fascinating
allure
as they are behind the harbour
this adds a certain
wonder
and magnificent charm to the terrain.
This place isn't plain.
I was so excited there's
a promenade. We will be walking,
talking,
and sitting
on the bench enjoying
the sights and sounds
of this new harbour.
They say in the brochure
there's coffee bars,
fish shops, and restaurants
to entertain
which makes this harbour
really popular.
Here I would of remained
if we had been able to retain
our health. As it is this harbour
will be ingrained
in my brain
from a water color
that I found
in a beautiful frame.
At the wharf I donned the Wellington boots
Of the fisher deceased, to trace my roots
And see and feel what it was like at sea
For my uncle a fishing devotee.
The clammy boots were three sizes too large.
I kidded myself that I could take charge,
And fill the boots with fishers' gait and guts
Aware the concept was deluded, nuts.
I felt the lure of expectation loom
As the trawler 'Gen' breached to break dawn's gloom
I embraced the hope of a bumper haul
Of keeper fish, not tiddlers, way too small.
I felt the surge of waves tug at the boots,
Like tentacles dragging against the roots
Which held my soles fast on the slimy deck.
The sea incessant for another wreck.
I felt fish guts, innards, blood and gore,
Slather on boots as fish were brought ashore,
And unloaded in bins brimful with ice.
At days end, bootlegging was hard but nice.
Abacus yacht boats pleasy
Banana boats are queazy
Catamaran boats squeezy
Dinghy boats all out easy
Eagle Craft boats too cheesy
Fishing boats yet so breezy
Game boats crazy uneasy
Houseboats creepy sneezy
Inflatable boats fizzy
Jet boats so smokeeasy
Kayak boats much so creasy
Lifeboats namely are busy
Motor boats mainly teasy
Narrowboats are but woozy
Origami boats leasy
Pontoon boats namely weasy
Q-Ship boats likewise greasy
Rider boats rather wheezy
Sedan bridge boats are flimsy
Trawler boats just as queasy
U-boats notably dizzy
Vessel boats sure are squeasy
Wakeboard boats easy-peasy
Xebec boats rather frenzy
Yacht boats are indeed sleazy
Zille fish boats funny fuzzy
I love to walk barefoot
along the shore
the imprint of my footprints
follows me like a shadow
I know they’ll vanish
as each wave breaks
rushing over the shingle
tickling my toes
I stop
and turn to face the sea
hoping to espy a seal
suddenly a little wave appears
and a black head pops up
bobbing up and down
in the ocean
Alas,
this magical moment
is marred
by squawking seagulls
circling overhead
as they follow a trawler
heading home
with catch of the day
I wave to the fishermen
and continue on my walk
''W'' New Poems Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
11/24/21
Drifting into a fog-bound sound
An ancient trawler with lines set
Shadowy apparitions floating around
No crew of hearty fishermen, yet
A deathly chill rolled over the pier
Villagers cautiously watched in awe
Heard moaning coming from there,
Creepier than they ever heard call
When sun swept away the misty dawn
The ghostly fishing vessel was gone.
THIRD PLACE WINNER
written October 7, 2021
especially for "Something Spooky 8 to 16 Lines" Poetry Contest
sponsored by Tania Kitchin
I set my snares in sea of dreams
to catch my share of dreams in common.
I'm waiting,
killing time playing cards
with the trawler men,
who are much better
at cards than me.
I wait to see the dreams wiggle
in the nets,
like bats, birds and fishes.
Which one will come to me?
How many will I get?
Will I throw the tiddlers back?
Or will I keep them hidden,
lest the other dream fishers
dob me in, to the trawler men
for nabbing daydream naps.
I'm all at sea,
in sea of dreams
waiting for the catch.
Don't take for truth all that you hear,
And believe only half what you see;
For when you do you oft get things wrong,
On this you will have to agree,
For people embellish the things that they say,
To add import and give it more color;
Oft giving their story a whole different turn,
Turning truth into lies like a trawler,
Dragging their net in an effort to catch,
Some poor innocent fish unawares.
Not wishing to cause undue concern,
But to make themselves look like they care;
And then when the story comes back to you,
And it's been retold a few times,
It's oft brand new news you've not heard before,
For it's changed with the passage of time;
So pay close attention to what's said to you,
And remember, repeat not a word,
For when the truth comes out and the true story's told,
And it's known what really occurred,
You'll be the one who started it all,
Trying to look wise, in the know.
Your story, your words have come home to roost,
And now it's a whole different show.
I’m a titch like a detritivous dust-mite,
Yet taller than a boiler-hauled trawler.
Little like the winter mice’ whittling bites,
Brained bigger than a floor-fallen brawler.
I have stories smaller than memoried whales,
More shallow than trills of the trenches they’ve seen.
But my weather is the wind in their tow'ring tails,
And we're tuned by the lies laid by those same submarines.
One day I'll be sea-sized and shaled with loot;
I'll look fond through palm fronds as poor as a pond.
A tale in the gauze jaws of larval brutes,
When lures limped by my eyes too small to respond.
I will be brassy like cows chewing dew,
Strange like your mammalian four-legged desk.
In my dray I feel sometimes I'm not in life's stew,
And I’ll be smaller in there than the lonely drones grown,
by cells of electricity in Battersea's beastly eggs.
How did it come to this?
Sitting on a terrace counting how many
Ships are anchored in the bay.
I know most of the ships especially
The coastal runners, the big trawler has left an ugly ship
With a crew of the last chance saloon
No self-respecting seafarer would join a ship
That empties the ocean of life.
How did it come to this?
I am watching ships come and go in the bay of Cascais.
My plans for the future have been overtaken
By the veracity of the day
Old Friends
Adrift upon the ocean’s torrent waves
two friends feel the gist of the Neptune’s knaves
they feel impending danger while deluged
the mate seeks the trawler’s bow for refuge
the trawler capsized near the maelstrom’s spur
that reeks its havoc while the dinghy stirs
behold a sight of shoreline could be seen
the closeness of land will be more serene
the ballast of the boat will rest ashore
the dinghy attached will be its close kin
and there they will remain forever more
to conger up tales the mate had inured
the mate has survived to withstand the strife
a lasting symbol throughout his life
Choices Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Sara Kendrick
May 15, 2019
#1
If you would but listen closely
You could hear her whisper his name.
This was their beach not long ago,
But it could never be the same.
It was just on that horizon -
The same point that she can still see.
He was so close to coming home
To a love that now cannot be.
A wedding dress hangs in silence.
The bouquet has wilted to brown.
Invitations lay on her desk
Untouched since his trawler went down.
The day was bright the sea was calm
'Til a rogue wave struck him abeam.
The boat was splintered - all was lost,
Perhaps just time for one faint scream.
He died in one hundred fathoms.
A lost soul that was never found.
She hears his laughter in each wave,
And thanks the Lord for that sound.
She may lose her mind one calm day.
If so it will be by the sea -
Or she may fall in love again
If Davey Jones will set her free.
11-5-18
For contest Tell Me A Story 2 for Brenda Chiri
Poem for photograph number 2, Woman On The Beach
Morning fog was parting for the day's performance,
and an audience of just me sat cross legged,
waiting for ghosts.
They appeared slowly, one by one.
Old whalers, freighters and, fifty yards out,
slate grey bones scarred with burnt sienna,
a young trawler.
A Cormorant dried its wings on the wheelhouse,
primary feathers spread, glistening ebony,
tattered like a tramp's raincoat.
The surf whispered warnings.
February 4th 2016
For contest 'The Sea shore' sponsor- Craig Cornish
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