They left Southampton with a coal fire down below,
Olympic class of the White Star Line, little did they know.
Irish-built in Belfast, one iceberg was all it took as,
with insufficient lifeboats, the whole wide world it shook.
Departing Queenstown, compartments not all watertight,
unsinkable or so they said, until that tragic night...
(almost a six-day cruise).
She was poorly equipped and, as all good Captains do
(tho' that is not his due), Edward Smith
(and fifteen hundred souls or more)
went down with the ship.
And the band played on as the ship was going down,
were they blind (drunk?), out of their minds,
they were all about to drown.
Some thought 'Bravery,' others, 'Stupidity,'
(altho' cold as ice), I can say, quite categorically,
I would have jumped ship if it were me.
Tho' it's a deep subject, rock-bottom at very best,
the play on Broadway (take a bow) you won't see,
of lost lives and broken hearts
is... 'The Titanic, In Two Parts'.
Fuse lit now, the spark ignited:
Let it burn, this love misguided.
Our future once had seemed vivid
Now obfuscated… no: omitted.
Structural damage, shock waves follow
Breach the hull and the vessel’s hollow.
Floods, and fires. Catastrophic damage.
It wasn’t watertight. We couldn’t manage.
Here I stand, now scarred forever.
Compartmentalizing to withstand the pressure.
Recycle the wreckage. Containment. Creation.
Review what survives the detonation.
We blew up. Weakness, betrayal, fright.
You left me – free to pursue the light.
Once I feared the wreckage too deep,
But beneath the wave, I found my peace.
For in the undertow I was born,
To rise anew. To live. To learn.
Never thought I'd find this place,
Where joy now fills the empty space.
So thank you, though it seems untrue,
For bursting us to something new.
Black Walnuts roll over a high edge,
the tree is too close to a sea cliff.
Walnuts dash themselves upon rocks,
only one lands on a surfing wave.
It has not been bitten,
by tunneling insects
and so it remains watertight.
On a far beach it is washed up.
A boy finds it,
he is not sure if he wants to keep it
yet he shoves it into his pants pockets.
Walking home across open fields,
he decides it’s just a rotten nut,
and throws it away.
A walnut tree will grow
where the nut landed.
This is how the planet grows -
the cast-off and done with,
are essential parts of a plan,
masquerading as an accident.
Nobody here is an accident.
There’s no time for poverty
When there’s magic in the air
So long as there’s food
There’s no need to care,
And a watertight roof
Over a persons head
And the music of trees as
He lies there in bed.
A soft sweet lullaby that
Continues through the night
Then accompanies the birds
As they greet day’s first light.
The magic majesty of trees
Dominating the scene
Unspeaking witness to
Many things that have been.
Their leaves flutter and whisper
Branches sway and creak
As if talking to themselves
Passing the news of the week.
In my little Yorkshire village
There was magic in the air
And I was so lucky to have
Spent youth and childhood there.
Knowledge comes with age
So eventually a person knows
With no longer a future there
He packs his bags and goes.
The bad things forgotten
His memory erasing the past
Ensuring that only selected
And treasured ones last.
I no longer know my village
It has quietly set me free.
But there’s that special gift
My village life gave to me
To this very day I can still
Be totally at my ease
Sitting anywhere on my own
Under magic whispering trees.
Sea alongside where they are, where they go
Undercurrent of cover, keep upset under wraps
Run a watertight routine within swim safe zone
Emit words washing white magic swell flat relax
Pervade far lands, exotic tainted by Australia
Leisure takers pack high hopes among low funds
Enamour for contrast demands modes familiar
Affluent rabid urgency, serene temples shunned
Swum lagoon lounging, legs glossy mahogany
Upscaled servers strive for measly tourist custom
Resort afforded sirens their thriving economy
Ethos of plentiful offering for Gods stay trusting
4th October
Faraway from Before
There is a stall down by the dock
Selling the freshest seafood stock.
Creatures in shells, caught just offshore.
Live oysters there for eating raw.
Each one sealed up and watertight.
To prise open it is a fight.
Down in one, living flesh slither.
Sudden burst of ocean flavour.
Only these ones you eat alive
If you expect to stay alive.
Oysters help keep men in the pink
As they contain a lot of zinc.
Tis healthy food without a doubt.
Best washed down with some Irish stout.
Now Casanova knew the score,
As he ate live oysters galore.
He knew how to play a good game
Eating fresh oysters without shame.
There is a stall down by the dock
Selling the freshest seafood stock.
Between each archway fingerprint
Remnant headstone carving intricate
Decodes dusty cold cave hieroglyphics
Dirty criss crossed city disposes its sacred
Therapist picks information, laden orchid
Reaps apples, red atoms accumulated
Unwound reveal his raw core seed
Drenches cortex, a sculptor's paste
Presses wet clay to her gluttonous shape
Vessel cool vase impervious as nature's sage
Erects their next century in verdant scape
Cracked terracotta, craft invigorates
Discerned strange through merged lenses
Eternity guaged by trajectories blended
Vehemently slapped at session end
Melted muscles dispel defences
Tutorials mould her, ripe to manipulate
Watertight tomb hosts wisdom ingrained
Eon bridging limber fingers arrange bouquet
2nd July
Sensually
Wearisome weatherman
Wears watertight wedgies
With wide well-worn webbing
When wading wherever
Warming water washes
Waterborne wastepaper
Wandering whereabouts.
FOURTH PLACE WINNER
Written May 9, 2021
for "Pleiades "W" Contest"
sponsored by Kim Merryman
7 lines with 6 syllables each checked by HMS.
Anchor buried spurs ensure attachment
Hatches battoned down forbid intrusion
Watertight twine form fidelity's augment
Underpinning intimacy, disciplined union
Ashore in our two mortal trampled petals
Synchronisity sings in branchless canopy
Rose vine vital blood throbs bloat vessels
Deviating tracks twist thorns into arteries
Wants collide on potpurri crackle pungent
Reliant psyches quiet a cyclic voyage solo
Duo devoted woven dig sea floor plummet
Adherence bouys forever's precious cargo
10th April
Blinded by shining shards of sunlight
reflecting off sandy summer shores,
give pause to wonder what unworldly sight
hides beneath ocean’s watertight doors.
The Sun, father of the shoreline
instructs his lazy children to light the way
for beach combers and bathers-in-the-brine
who worship the Sun and sand as play.
Burned flesh and scorched, fire-red eyes
accost non-believers shaking their heads,
bemused that the Sun’s brilliance belies
affair extraordinaire with the sand he beds.
The Sun and sand a reflective twosome
combining their charms and beckoning
unsuspecting lovers to a garishly gruesome
show of frivolity and a day of reckoning.
In other words:
Sun and sand, such teasers,
conspire to cruelly tempt and torture tissue –
faux pleasers.
Enthusiasts
promising romantic issue –
nets cast.
Beach waltz,
promise anew –
false
Sun and sand, such teasers,
promising romantic issue –
false
Edited 02/05/2021
beyond
commotion
the concealed
watertight door
hides a world
onto my own
an inner realm
painstakingly
mastered
the delicate
balance
of
covert
turbulence
and
serenity
AP: 3rd place 2020
Submitted on April 12, 2020 for contest STRAND PICK 11 sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 1ST
Rings, what are they ?
Those gaudy gem encrusted things displayed by those in places high and low.
Or on the other hand the kind that pricks the ear when one is half asleep.
Incessant earworm.
Authentic ring,
eternal ring, engagement ring.
I wore this lustrous band or should I say it wore me out,
ill-fitting token of affection that no longer fits.
Finger swelling pawn shop cast off,
fools gold object d’art swept up in sudsy tides only to be swallowed by a viral vortex guzzle.
Geometric arc light, stricken by its own silver rays,
silently preserving magic memories of yore,
stoically the keeper of past dalliance,
fractal shadow creep among the pigeons,
dancing fairground cul-de-sacs.
Closed loop seal a tamper proof exemplar,
clinging desperately to bonds once watertight,
impregnable,
as impregnable as any fortress.
When we are wrong (this might be trite),
the way we feel is watertight.
So what’s the deal?
How does it feel?
It feels bang on like being right.
how does one opine
with one’s eyes shut watertight?
— open wisdom’s dam
1/15/2018
7/30/16
Streetlights
Not turning on until the night
I am wrong not always right
During the day and night
Just trying to live my life
Below satellites
I'm going to roll the dice
More than once or twice
Making sure my family is alright
And helping them through any strife
As I work with a bigger appetite
Nearby minerals, and ores some of which were meteorite
Went down many rapids with beer on ice
And not every cooler or crate was watertight
Cleaned up any of my messes, never once littered during the plight
And didn't always listen or follow advice
Don't care about facebook likes
I can barely remember what exactly I wrote and typed
Below sea levels and atop the heights
I've worked with many chemicals and particles, including dolomite
All these different rituals and rites
Some of which involve a sacrifice
Fantasies and dreams about paradise
But not all can get a slice
Some end up paying the price
In ways that are colder than ice
Leaving behind kids and a wife
You want to be rude and not polite
Then go take a hike
Before I hit you with all my might
And the impact of dynamite
By: Dalton Ogletree
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