Never in secluded pools they dwell,
I speak of ornate waterfalls,
they rise and fall majestically,
near docks, wharves and piers,
sparkle, gleam, smooth flow trickle,
eye balm whirl fantastic perk on tap,
stickybeak on podium rapids,
instigator signage when our trek seems dull,
but reflection is a gem warp cataract,
kinetic rebound ocean wave backbeat,
which in fact an upfront blissful target,
hardly ever missing opal bulls-eye,
environmental bubbles that somehow never burst,
indulge outlandish fare Promethean,
spurt on vermillion lanyards pendant sweep,
dream paint sunrise clementine tincture,
daub acrylic spree through pale moon orb,
squeeze tube lambent hue past frail mandala,
eternal sepia a light touch pristine shroud,
that loiters over urban life force ripple,
flaunt your image rich abundant fire
Categories:
wharves, beautiful, care, celebration, color,
Form: Imagism
Truths, as though fairy tales, I have heard so miscellany,
That her flora and fauna reveal true theophany;
Rolling and spinning lowlands with hill-like granite blessings,
Moss misty magnificently mysterious dressings;
Romantic and luring - they say - her existential look,
Brooks, rooks, and snooks are seen in every woods and water nook...!
Temperate temperature tranquilizingly tempting,
Gardens, perennial and seasonal trends preempting;
Gold old civilization on earth stands head holding high,
Awesome islands, like handsome tree-grooms standing by the sky;
To both the sons of the soil and the strangers so friendly,
Life though flows slowly, smoothes, soothes, and breathes quietness gently...!
The aroma of flowers and herbs all through wide valleys,
History mingles, merges with mystery, and tallies;
Farmers' wharves... fishermen's wharves... all such well flourish I learn,
To explore the harbor and Victoria Pier I yearn;
Enchanting, they say, Victoria's immaculate air,
Just once! Only once in my lifetime! I long to be there...!
18 December 2022
Categories:
wharves, beauty, desire, nature,
Form: Rhyme
The canal poked like a finger
into the wrinkled abdomen
of the Port. Along its length,
ketches once bruised
wooden wharves unloading wheat
shipped from outports across the gulf.
Pigeons stalked the spill of grain
from hessian bags torn
by wharfies hooks. Port Adelaide’s
pigeons were kept well fed.
I can remember being harnessed
to a pole and taught to swim
in the cold, dark waters of the canal.
I thrashed and kicked but could not float.
I did not have my fathers dolphin grace
whose aquatic triumphs were engraved
on a silver trophy that stood proud
atop a fireplace shelf.
In its final days the canal slowed
to a halt. Wharves were empty
and gave way to rot. In the end,
dump trucks cascaded fill down
embankments until it choked.
A car park now seals its grave
where plastic bags sail endlessly
across an asphalt lake.
A shopping precinct recalls its name
in gaudy signage.
Memory still has me dangling
on the end of a pole, flailing arms
desperately searching for something
solid to hold, suspended
like a lead weight
above a cold abyss.
Categories:
wharves, father, memory, water,
Form: Free verse
The ocean rolled with white caps
Rising and falling in scattered
Wind blown sprays,
Waves breaking viciously
Upon shoreline rocks,
Jutting wharves,
Tied up little fisher boats.
Sea gulls overhead, as if angry
At the ferocity of today’s ocean
Whipped up by this autumn gale,
Shrieked in flight
As thunders roared
And
I enjoyed it all.
A W.C.Hull Poem © 2000-2022-017 (A)
Categories:
wharves, ocean,
Form: Free verse
O, elvenstone! O, elvenstone!
O, would that you could be my own.
To quest exhausted, all these years,
And not obtain those pointy ears
To sharpen sense, to hear my phone.
O battle axe! O battle axe!
For thy pursuit, my patience lacks.
Through garbage bins in fishing wharves,
Midst arguments with boorish dwarves;
My neighbor’s tree needs forty whacks.
Fine coat of mail, thy filigree
Would sure enhance the likes of me.
So tightly woven, silver, pale
Protect unwanted barbs’ assail
When getting honey from my bees.
Thou mighty blade, enchanted runes
Do grace thy hilt but not those hewn.
Sure, separating sinew, bone,
Ne’er losing edge in dirt or stone,
When Saturday, the hedge I prune.
I think that we can both agree:
When I immerse in D&D,
I get so caught up in the game,
Imagination is to blame;
Sometimes I blur reality.
----------
RPG - role playing game - I used to play Dungeons and Dragons some 40 years ago when you used dice and mapped everything out on graph paper. I imagine things have changed a bit since then...
Categories:
wharves, adventure,
Form: Quintilla
Come, let us together consider the finer things
Like mystical pyramids and fringed silk scarves
Stones that bring comfort to the aching bone
Intricate ebony statues the lonely man carves,
A secluded stroll through a shaded pine grove
The glimmer of a blue diamond in natural light,
Warm feelings borne of proud accomplishment
A billion stars shining in far galaxies in the night.
Whispered words of love under the firmament,
Wonder of the senses, feelings, touch, and sight
Intricacies of a threadlike web brown spider wove,
Cool mists that bathe the worn Mississippi wharves
Scoops of frozen custard piled high on sugar cone
A fine restaurant neither can afford, going halves,
Enraptured by intricate trills the coloratura sings.
EIGHTH PLACE WINNER
written April 25, 2022
[Verso-Rhyme]
submitted to Brian Strand Premier Contest
sponsored by Brian Strand
Categories:
wharves, beauty, inspirational,
Form: Rhyme
Just a slip of a lad as a probationary constable
I walked the beat in Port Adelaide as my fable
So up and down St Vincent Street
Then onto Commercial Road made it complete
At closing time we converged on the Golden Port Tavern
To supervise the patrons leaving there was the concern
And the Port had its characters who tarried about
With VO Invalid port as their usual shout
There was Wilfy Taylor the old boxer in his youth
Who I saw down a half bottle of port proof
And cowboy who we found lying in the sun
With his face half sunburnt and was done
These old men were from the older times
When these men had ties to the Port that would bind
As part of the fabric of the area then
The local people tolerated these warbs in the end.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Categories:
wharves, life, wine,
Form: Dramatic Verse
Back Creek Smells
My nose senses the unseen,
Like a final Act’s scene,
When I arrive near the Bay,
I sense my sinuses are gray,
From inhaling the city.
Fish scents replace the gritty,
Creosote soaked wharves,
Instead of perfumed scarves.
Smelling imitates tasting,
Licking’s like nostrils basting.
Something’s earthy of water,
Meet mother Nature’s father.
The odors of Back Creek,
Have no comfort for the weak,
But a fragrance it has,
If it was music, it would be jazz.
Categories:
wharves, life, music,
Form: Light Verse
On the edge of barren, corroded shore
Where sailors ply their trade no more
No tenured harbor gallant fleets to moor,
or docks to greet restless crew, strident commodore
No expansive peers into the mighty ocean waves bore,
or rustic wharves to accompany the dank decor
Gone are the tradesmen whose skilled hands weathered ships did restore,
and the tawny, burly arms of the itinerant, shuffling stevedore
No inquisitive merchants the cargo's value to score
Yet the drifting currents grainy sketches still store
In the eerie winds the rasping breaths of stevedores soar
Through stormy gales, commands of disembarking captain's roar
Timeless silhouettes of wafting masts hover o'er ocean floor
Apparitions of ruddy sailors from briny mists pour
Out of the steamy fog, pirate ghosts still yell encore
From foaming waves, drunken sailors one more drought implore
Categories:
wharves, age, beach, boat, career,
Form: Rhyme
I collect eyes. Burnt ones.
Of the last summer.
Arms chopped off.
By a tide of sand.
Reflections of uncollected water.
You, hunter of flowers…
Oh, wharves!
Oh, sea goings!
Winds in the sails of the white ships.
High wings.
The swelter of August swallowed you.
But today it’s September and the oval autumn.
And your voices I hear…
Categories:
wharves, nostalgia, seasons,
Form: Free verse
I collect eyes. Burnt ones.
Of the last summer.
Arms chopped off.
By a tide of sand.
Reflections of uncollected water.
You, hunter of flowers…
Oh, wharves!
Oh, sea goings!
Winds in the sails of the white ships.
High wings.
The swelter of August swallowed you.
But today it’s September and the oval autumn.
And your voices I hear…
Categories:
wharves, lost love
Form: Free verse
When the boats washed up surfless from wars
We dived from the United Fruit Company wharves
Like gulls naked in the light of their eyes
Marking where the shining metals fell
Below the howling hoots, and kiting scarves
We plucked our lunches from the sands
Then finless rose to wind again
They were entertained by our necessity
And all we worth peripheral to the hilarity
That refused us a place of dignity then
Opportunity to display ourselves as men
And sometimes my being had no presence there
I was a shadow in the jungle, an image of fear
Harboring animistic beliefs that could transform
Margins of civilize safety and shatter norms.
Categories:
wharves, life
Form: Free verse