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david strickland Sep 2016
To all boating writers
Required to write several boat reviews
In a short period of time
While at a boat show:

And off I set this jolly morn
One more bateau to go
But which is which?
My stale, confuséd mind is torn
My stride along the dock is slow
Gotta work though
*******.
david strickland Sep 2016
Sunlight filters through the branches
As warm air following the cold
Hisses at the leaves
And mingles with the half-heard voice
Of a not-too-distant neighbor.
An occasional bird-call
Keeps time with a squirrel’s jerky progress;
A dog sighs and briefly imitates the trees.

And slowly in this tranquillity
Comes a sense of recovery
Last night’s excesses, felt viscerally
These past several hours, turn
To a contented glow in the afternoon sun.
Inner trembling starts to feel
Controlled. And less visible.

Breathing deeply, tasting at last
The warm freshness of the clean air
As it permeates, so softly, the tortured frame,
The gutted pores, the brutalised organs
Of this body.

Time now, too, for the mind, busily
Analyzing complaints for all this while,
To feel some ease
No more pumping
Frantic aid to disturbed ampullae;
No longer succouring the fevered nerves
Or fighting for a woolly lobe’s attention.
Now  comes that ease and relaxation,
Long fought for and hard won.

Now the battle is over and with minimal casualties,
Now reason takes over and forward progress
Can be seen clearly in the mind’s eye.
Now once again the saliva flows sweetly
To the abused palate.
Now the rasping throat is
Pacified.
And one succumbs to that sense of
Pastoral  anticipation
As the brain
And the spleen
And the  bile
And the liver
And, inter alia, the noble ascending colon
All agree
Now is the time
Now the blessed moment
Now
We can begin again.

Set ‘em up.
david strickland Sep 2016
It would be pleasant, would it not,
If in the world one found a spot
Where peace and tranquil tempers reigned,
No grudges borne nor lives profaned;
Where one could sit and contemplate
In undisturbed surroundings, fate,
Instead of devastation.

No doubt all parties have just cause,
Or think they have, and hence the wars
That scar the waters, land and skies
And in doing so give rise
To doubts of man’s professed desire
That he should rise above the  mire
Of constant devastation.

Man’s history records with awe
Long millennia of war,
And to its heroes points with pride—
A monument to suicide.
Does this prove that man’s insane
Inflicting wretched endless pain
Pursuing devastation?

So will it be man’s timeless fate:
Continuing carnage, endless hate?
Or can he ever have the will
To disobey the order: ****?
Can it come about? It may
A long night’s journey into day
Rejecting devastation.
david strickland Sep 2016
Untitled (God frowned)

Light winds hiss
Like a lover’s kiss
In the trees that here abound
And the soft-scented air
Makes me all aware
Of the days before God frowned.

The cry of a bird -
So sharply heard -
The sense of another day dying.
The cooling breeze
Precludes the ease
Of a night when my heart won’t be crying.

See the sun set
And don’t ever let
The sense that time passes you by
Stifle your soul
Let the blood run cold
Nor torture yourself with the why.

The run’s not so hard
Though emotions are jarred:
Many ways to survive will be found.
Turn to and face
Your triumphant disgrace -
And look back on the day God frowned.

— The End —