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~

there is a lighthouse churning
in the fury of the storm,
thirty-three for land are yearning,
loved ones waiting news at home;
a captain and his crew a'fight
brave souls that never cease to hope,
to bring their ship to port a'right
all pray for dawn that never comes.

fifty feet from trough to crest
she drops with groan to valley low,
to rise again with frothing peak,
her wild plunge from stern to bow
she is no place for wearied souls,
provides no quarter for the weak;
no port in sight, for thee no rest,
yet braver souls we need not seek.

her vessel old is wearing thin,
her searchers all but losing hope;
as only remnants one by one,
in bits and pieces still afloat
leaves watching world a sense of dread;
alone remains a sheen of grief,
these waters won’t release their dead;
El Faro won't you speak?

did you break apart in final hours?
or did you roll into the deep?
listing near the Crooked isle,
your precious cargo now we seek;
even one to tell your tale,
are all now lost; is all forlorn?
of those that stepped aboard to sail
will no one living come ashore?

though wreckage lost into the deep,
though family arms now torn apart,
in waves awash the mem’ries heap,
your tale lives on in untold hearts!
your souls cannot the ocean keep,
for fathers, sons, daughters, lovers,
unknown eyes for you now weep,
your names in prayer a world now utters!

all that to these waves go down.
you that ply this furied sea;
you, the brave, though lost have found
a harbor’s safety from the storm,
a port that offers welcome,
hope from strife forevermore,
safe in everlasting arms,
now rest eternal; peaceful be!

~

*post script.

this news story has increasingly gripped my attention since first breaking early last week. i began putting thoughts together earlier this week, but had hopes of publishing instead a writ ending on a joyous note.  with the Coast Guard calling off their six-day search this evening, all are now being declared lost at sea on Oct. 1st, 2015.  no joyous ending, no happy reunions... only sadness, like a sheen of grief over the Atlantic.

she was  just shy of 800 feet in length, El Faro (the Lighthouse), a US flagged cargo vessel, en route from Jacksonville to San Juan; she carried 28 Americans and five Poles, to the depths near Crooked Island, Bahamas; her last transmission- “propulsion lost, listing 15 degrees”.  

her tragic end, succumbing to the fifty foot seas of Hurricane Joaquin, leaving no survivors, none to tell her final hours; only one life ring and a body of broken evidence amongst the flotsam midst the waves.

rest in peace you brave souls thirty and three!
with your families we grieve!
a jay
native blue
squeals ugly

pushing sleep
pillowfirst
against
the grave-car
and into another
dawn
it's three winters late
when you feed his sweater
into the fire's maw.

the yarn blackening
to the satisfied
crackle of wood.

we signal the sky
smoky contrails
reaching sand to horizon.

someone,
phone the medic

i think
her heart
is breaking
glowing, a dream
    of surreal heartbeats
incandescent omniscient eyes
    knowing it seems
what I am about to think
    hope is more fearing of
daylight as I long more
    with each night, every dream
hear the ghostly footsteps
    nearer when I wake,
then in any nightmare.

There the similarities of alive
     with death outpace
the differences, dreams knit
      more peace , hope than
awakening thought, they twine from the same ball
      unrolling vice versa

the fog gets a brighter green a glow
   days get so long and gray
and dreams tomorrow
     I may stay in.
if every poet who pours out a heart
wrote a little poem just to say thank    you
the servers might freeze up

if just a little bit of what we gave
were given back
if we just stood and saw

that it is given back
gave a round of applause
to not just the famous

poets here hello poetry
would live up to all the
promises
it starts to grow cold
night unwraps stars
and amber moons,
the stream sings
with its silver-throated joys
and dreams of the skies
with their beautiful
dark
sorrows.
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