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Phil Lindsey Apr 2015
Sailboat on a purple sea
Yellow skies are all she sees
Lonely Captain at the helm
Lord o’er all her ocean realm.

Sailboat on a purple sea
Sailing through Eternity
The yellow skies reveal her ardor
Searching for inlet or harbor.
Where she can safely drop her anchor
Without hostility or rancor
Stay forever, or a day
If on a whim she sails away.
To search again for other shores
Unmindful of the ocean’s mores.
Sometimes storms impede her course
Fill her journey with remorse
Thunder sounds a deaf’ning roar
Through driving rain, can’t see the shore
Lightning bolts around her flash
As if to call the Captain brash
For thinking that she has control
Over purple ocean’s vitriol.

If ever she regrets her plight
When yellow skies turn dark at night
And midnight storms have lead to loss
She rights the ship and bears the cross
And waits for morning dawn to break
Sun through last night’s rain will make
A rainbow reaching far away
Certainly it will show the way
To steer her sailboat that day.

Sailboat on a purple sea
Yellow skies are all she sees
Buoyant Captain at the helm
Lord o’er all her ocean realm.
PwL 04/21/15
another for my daughter.   inspired by a painting she did.
Arlo Disarray Feb 2015
There's a little sailboat inside of my heart
And you have been the captain, always you
But the sea's storm has torn my sails apart
Ever since the winds of another woman blew

Now my little sailboat just sails sideways
It has no more direction or place to go
It seems it's trying to sail through a huge maze
But without you, the ocean won't fully flow

My sailboat is sad and starts to rot now
All the wood's decayed and falls apart
There's blood quickly flooding over the bow
And sinking the little sailboat in my heart
Bo Burnham  Mar 2015
Bo Burnham Mar 2015
Sully suffers from a stutter,
simple syllables will clutter,
stalling speeches up on beaches,
like a sunken sailboat rudder.

Sully strains to say his phrases,
sickened by the sounds he raises,
strings of thoughts come out in knots,
he solves his sentences like mazes.

At night, he writes his thoughts instead
and sighs as they steadily rush from his head.
J Jan 2018

By most accounts, the boy who worked the sailboat dock was an *******.


The invisible girl was slightly less inconspicuous this summer of seventeen.  Her best friends - all a grade older - had returned from their respective colleges after her terrifyingly long and paralyzingly lonely senior high school year - a year of many nights spent with a flashlight under the covers reading Stephen King or Joyce Carol Oates - and poetry - oh so much poetry - and writing sketches she'd take to SNL or Second City and screenplays destined for Hollywood in which she would also star - all of this of course for after she had fulfilled her childhood contractual obligation to be the good girl and go to college and get that degree in a nice reliable field that would guarantee a good job at a name respected company with a predictable income - and even more importantly all of which would make her parents proud and would repay the debt she owed them  for raising her to 18th birthday in August.  But now these friends were back and it was time to be a kid for one more summer.

College - freedom - adulthood - waited at the end of this last season of childhood - and the sudden realization that these crazy dreams of hers that nobody else believed in were within sight allowed her to allow herself a summer of fun.  She had worked hard.  She had earned it.  

She deserved it.

These friends had talked her into to applying for the job at the lake boat rental with them for the summer - and quite surprisingly her parents agreed (ahem, relented) to let her take the job despite the low pay and distance and hours (after much worrisome hand-wringing about the price of gas and the safety of being at the remote state park by herself before light or after dark from time to time).

And for maybe the first time - she didn't immediately retreat into tears and surrender the first time they said "no".  She fought for it.
And she won.  There was something dangerous and powerful - and also horrifying but magical - about this win.   It represented possibility.  And it invited a new boldness and mischief and nagging curiosity....

Maybe she could actually be right about the other things she wanted for herself as well.  

And maybe this suspicion - that perhaps she knew better - and this mischief and rebellion - were just what made her visible that summer. 


The sailboat boy mostly kept to himself on his dock - at first.


The girl was curious about the boy but only from a strictly academic perspective. She had heard the rumors... that he had been fired from the marina the year before for dumping gasoline on the lake and setting it on fire. Her father - having had the boy for 9th grade English two years prior - advised her that he had a bit of a reputation at that school for trouble.  Nothing criminal; but nothing to trifle with either.  Her friends - and most trusted advisors of all - told her that he could be kind of funny but he was a bit of a ladies' man and he had a notorius temper and to just try to avoid him.  

So she did.




She glanced up from the sunfish she was lost in thought scrubbing.  Once a week the sailboats needed to be scoured to keep them white for the customers who - god forbid - wouldn't want to rent a slightly ***** outdoor water recreation vehicle.  The girl liked to volunteer for this task as it gave her a chance to work alone and daydream in the sun and enjoy the beauty of the park.  She was startled - and a little annoyed - by the unwelcome interruption and wasn't quite sure what to do with it.

"Um, okay - hi - what?  What's a Jenga?" she replied hesitantly - curious enough to ask - but internally planning for this to be a polite exchange followed by a quick dismissal.

The sailboat boy smiled mischievously.  He had that side parted hair like Leo had in Titanic - where when he tilted his head the hair would fall into his eyes and he'd have to constantly push it back.  It occurred to her to wonder if he needed a haircut or if this look was by design.

"You're Jenga.  I don't really like your real name - so I'm going to call you Jenga."    Again with the smile, this time with a sorry-not-sorry playfulness to it.

The girl (newly annointed "Jenga"?) didn't quite know what to do with this either.  She was not accustomed to being noticed - let alone being approached and talked to - by anyone - let alone a  handsome boy who usually kept to himself too and everyone warned her was bad news.  But she was also irked by the insult against her name and surprised herself by engaging defensively:

"What's wrong with my name?  I like my name.  It's different.  I bet you don't know any other girls with my name.  It's a pretty cool name."

To which he responded... again with the exasperating smile - "It's too old fashioned for you.  It doesn't fit.  You're Jenga."  A pause.  "See you around Jenga."

And before she could think of anything clever enough in return, he walked back to his sailboat dock.  

She spent the rest of the afternoon trying to figure out what had just happened and stealing glances at the sailboat dock to see if he was laughing at her.  

He wasn't.  Or at least not so she could tell.


She had to find out what Jenga meant.  It turned out it's a game where you build a tower out of blocks and then players take turns pulling blocks from the stable bottom of the tower and putting them on top - creating an unstable structure.  The winner is the last person to place a block on top without the whole thing falling down.

It was also partially an anagram for her real name...but that was stretching it a bit in a quest for any kind of meaning.

She obsessed about why in the world he would say this - how it could possibly be some weird metaphor for an insult or something but came up with zilch.  The whole exchange was just weird.

She decided to let it go.. but then couldn't stop thinking about it.


The entire next week he didn't approach her again, but if they were in proximity of each other without anyone else around to hear he would brighten and whisper "Hey, Jenga!".. always with the increasingly infuriating smile - and like he thought they had some secret that nobody else was in on and they were both enjoying.

She tried eye rolling, sighing, "ugh"-ing, and politely ignoring him but he was not dissuaded by any of it.  She wasn't enjoying this game.  She was starting to get frustrated.


The next week the girl was helping with customers on the motorboat dock. There were three docks; one for sailboats (where the boy worked), one for motorboats, and one for pontoon boats - and helping out basically meant making sure everyone had a life jacket, knew how to operate the machinery, and ensuring they didn't fall in the water when they took the step from the dock into the boat.  In between customers you basically just would wait in the nearby boat house and try to keep cool.. which was what she was doing until..

"Hi, Jenga!"

And she lost it.  Forgetting all shyness and politeness she told the boy in no uncertain colorful terms that if he didn't cut it with the Jenga **** she was going to do something about it.  She didn't know what that was yet.. but... but.... something.  To which he escalated - always with that crocodile grin..

"Prove it."

"If you call me Jenga again....I'll...I'll...I'll hit you with this rope.".  Seething, she latched onto the nearest maritime accessory the boat house could offer her.

"If you hit me with that rope, I will throw you in the lake...."  Calm but teasing....  "Jenga."

What choice did she have then?  She smacked him with the rope.  And the sailboat boy - who until that second she had not thought could possibly be that strong  in all his lankiness promptly picked her up by the waist, and carried her outside to the edge of the dock.

And as promised - he threw her into the lake.


The boy was nearly fired until the girl volunteered her culpability in hitting him with the rope.  

Oddly, he hadn't ratted her out for that.

They were told to stay away from each other for the rest of the summer.  Under possible termination of employment.

Oddly, neither of them mentioned Jenga either.


They abided the rules - they remained apart - but something had changed.

She caught him watching her.  Often.  And in retrospect she had to wonder - was he only caught because she was watching him as well?


Two weeks later, the girl worked the dock on a day the boy was not scheduled to work.  A random week day when customer traffic was low - and the bosses were at some boating conference pondering the next models to peddle next year - and her time reading in the boat house ran long.

And out of nowhere - on this random week day the summer of seventeen - the boy appeared to the girl in that boat house.

And he - this dangerous, rumored-to-be-much-experienced boy - the one who could get her fired if they were caught speaking - locked eyes with this incredibly shy, overprotected, inexperienced girl he had driven crazy thus far and stated nervously:

"You... you are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.  And I'm not sure what to do.  I don't know how to talk to you."

And maybe for the first time, she couldn't look away.  She couldn't break that eye contact.  He stepped toward her - with fear in HIS eyes - and kissed her gently - and she found she - despite never having been kissed seriously before - for the first time in just about any endeavor she had ever undertaken - wasn't the one who was afraid.

She was the one who was beautiful.

She was the one who was wanted.

And they kissed for what seemed to be hours - but must have been minutes or seconds - falling to the ground in spite of themselves - amongst life jackets and rope and boat cleaning supplies.

And it was beautiful.

It was perfect.
Still refining the ending.  But also wanted to get it out there somewhat raw because I think I got the beauty of the moment down in a pretty satisfying way :)
harlee kae  Oct 2014
harlee kae Oct 2014
give me your secrets.
the ones behind the closed door,
with the rusted on lock,
because its been a long time since anyone has entered.
spread me open and lick my wounds
until i've muttered your name so many times i'll never be able to forget it.
show me something that will make me forget the hours i've spent crying.
and love me.
just love me.
as if i were a sailboat,
and you were the sea,
and all we needed was each other.
JAC Jun 2017
Diana was a dreamer.
She wished to sail away
On a sailboat made of reverie
To let her mind wander.
"Why, sail away?" you ask,
"It's such a bad cliché!
Writer, writer,
Be more original", you say.
But no, I can't, see:
This Diana wished to sail
And if you disbelieve that
She's surely destined to fail.
Diana wished to sail far,
For she knew she couldn't fly
(And talk of cliché!)
But she knew to sail a boat.
Why sail, why, it's easy:
If you knew no other escape
Wouldn't you take that route?
If you could fly, you'd fly.
So she could sail
And that, she did.
You'll notice, here,
I haven't told you why
Or where she chose to sail.
Well, I don't know!
Are you surprised?
Gosh, I didn't ask her where!
She just up and left,
But I know she's happy there.

The sailboat in question
Is a sight for sore lies:
Sails of soft green
And gold like her eyes.
It smells of the sea
And all that is sweet
And under those sails
Is such a lovely retreat.
This boat, while lovely
Requires much care:
No assembly required,
But imagination and flair
Are what makes this boat run
For, it's imaginary, of course
And only Diana can see this sailboat;
In her mind, forever, it'll be.
This was written quite some time ago, I'm intrigued by how much my writing style has changed.
You always rebelled
at the thought of obligation

Obliviously you would rather opt out
than be displayed
as a duty done in insignificance

A sailboat may be insignificant
. . . a tiny speck upon the ocean
But it sits high above the crests
I have thought of you in this sticky heat
in my self-imposed exile
Half asleep, feeling broken
in my bed that is an empty sailboat

i blindly wave out my hands
and smash them into the softness of your body
because i need better proof that you are real

i woke up three times today
each time, choking like i had been
held at the bottom of the sea with weights on my ankles
only to break surface and see that the air is still salt water

we talk of anchors
of heavy weights that keep us run aground
i stand on your anchor, feeling the sharp points dig into my feet
wrap my arms around the cold metal
from the distance i’d like to look like a mermaid with twin tails\
but i am a sailor,
straddling the difference between earth and water

i have thought of you in this sticky heat
i have wanted to sweat out my misery with you
soaking the sheets with salt water
and when i wake up drowning you would press to my mouth
the bruises i gave you in my sleep
the only dry land between us
ogdiddynash Jul 2018
(thanx all for the great suggestions)

women who wink

drive men to drink

together, glasses clink

tattoos follow in ink

and that ain’t the only thing


the tiller tied & forgot,

the slip knot jinxed

the sailboat nearly sinks


he cries aloud “you minx!”

I’m all done in,

you’ve got me sminked,^

you winking whilst me sailing on the oceans brink


she smirked and laughed that slinky mink,

“clearly you are confused - I’m a lynx,

count to cinq, don’t overthink,

join me overboard into the ****,

I’ll finish you off in the the kitchen sink

where drowning possibilities are next to nothink

promise, we’ll be quite in sync”
^Smink/To smink/Sminking/Sminked...pretty much any context you want.

When you smoke (strictly ****) and drink (alcoholic beverage of you choice) at the same time. Together these two factors get you wicked f’d up and create a great sminked out atmosphere.
Sarina  Nov 2012
sailboat sad
Sarina Nov 2012
When you cry,
I see a sailboat on your back,

but float through clouds,
their evaporate:
morph substance-less.

Taking us back to when you
thought we would be dead,
by tomorrow

and the rain let up,
though we still could sail

in its thundering paint,
like leather beads. I rolled in
the canvas, laid our name

on the vessel’s curtains.
Every glitter sparks,

this weather under our feet,
shaking and sand-greens
better than last sea.

I breathe salt when you can’t
sleep, my angel’s peach.

— The End —