From the bottom of a bottle in the captain's hand,
To the depths of the ocean in a foreign land.

A salty sea tale as old as time,
Woven together with old fishing line.

The wind was moderate, sometimes light,
The port was alive, a splendid sight.

The children all rushed into town,
Wearing polished boots and fancy gowns.

Old men proud in Sunday best,
Medals pinned upon their chests.

Mothers held babies in their arms,
Crosses held tightly in their palms.

The whole town gathered, one and all—
Some even climbed the harbour wall,

To witness the captain and his crew,
Setting sail for lands anew.

The crew weighed anchor and set her free;
The swell soon took them out to sea.

But past all this pomp and pageantry—
Not a soul would see what would come to be,

Only the widows all veiled in black,
Knew the ship would not come back.

Out of the harbour, she made her way—
Quick to tack and without delay.

To the untrained eye, all seemed well,
But where there's light, dark shadows dwell.

For six long months, no sight of land—
Not the journey the captain planned.

His maps and charts gave nought away,
A fate fast destined to come their way.

So in his cabin, the captain stayed,
His torment growing day by day.

Until one fateful night, the wind, it sang,
Calling the name of every man,

Whose souls lay restless on an ocean floor,
Dragged to the depths by a monstrous claw.

Dark shadows and shapes now filled the decks,
Seeking the forsaken soul that’s next.

Before the morn, the crew were gone,
Plucked from their beds, one by one.

Finally, the captain—lantern in hand—
Crawled from his cabin, a broken man.

He raised the light and surveyed the scene,
Only to be faced by the monstrous fiend.

Eye to eye—man and beast—
Gripped with fear, he fell to his knees.

The wind now whispered one final name,
The final poor soul the beast would claim.

He closed his eyes and grabbed the mast,
Whispered words, replaced by shattering glass.

The wind was moderate, sometimes light,
The port was alive, a splendid sight.

You, like silk cloth draped over life.
A perfect match for any occasion.
Me—an uncomfortable fit.
My pockets emptied.
All I am
are spare buttons
and loose change.

That drawer in the kitchen—
Where a tangle
of odds and sods.
A mismatched mixture
of nothings
with no connection,
exists.

But, should you stumble across me
on the off chance
that you might need me
in that moment—

Don’t hesitate.
Don’t think.

Slip on your reading spectacles.
Train your brightest lamp.

Try to find
where one part starts
and the part ends.

Piece by piece
It slowly builds,
A Corner,
The sky.
The colour blue.
A cloud,
The edge,
The colour red.

At the start,
It grows clearer.
With time,
Breaks apart.

I've come to that age,
when I'm starting to wonder—
about my last words,
before I'm no longer.

Will they be wise,
the words that I utter?
Or will they arrive,
direct from the gutter?

In the throes of passion,
if that's where it ends,
will my last words—
be words that offend?

Or will they be muffled—
by way of a pillow,
by a long-suffering wife;
my soon-to-be widow?

Far from the land,
and seven seas.
The mountaintops,
the tallest trees.

Beyond the clouds
that wrap the Earth,
there came a star
that fell to Earth.

'Twas not by chance
she found her way,
from her home,
a world away.

I'm like you—
I wonder why
a wandering star
should wander by.

Her aim was not
to light the way,
to celebrate
a sacred day.

Nor was it
to grace a flag,
or wind up on
a sheriff's badge.

Her aim, in fact,
to make you think,
or your heart,
to make it sink.

For this is the star
that hears the words
from the voices
seldom heard.

Voices that wish
for one last page;
the ones that wish
for one more day.

So before
you close that book,
at your inbox—
one last look.

Bear in mind
that little star,
counting wishes
from afar.