#boats
Seas can be carrying tides of rocks and pebbles,
may seem insignificant yet is like the Muslim that doesn’t have to understand where the destination is yet through Allahs mercy,
can safely and surely at the sea shore.
Boats can be the modest spears that fight against the strong currents of the ocean,
Salty water can be like preferences some prefer salt some don’t so don’t over step boundaries
this can be less sinful,
Salt falling into meals can be like a water droplet falling on the hand from a leaf such can be the way Allah puts blessings onto the hand.
6h ago
Jun 3, 2026 at 12:29 PM UTC
~
*A blood promise
On the threshing floor
--a strand named Skull of Sidon.
The sunset passage
No longer a place for them,
The acceptance of absolute negation
Remedios the beauty.
Saint Fishermen churn in the waves
Crushing grapes from the estate,
Even the girl with the silver eyes,
Only then will their house be blessed.
Women uncharted,
But prisoned on watery shore,
Hum a silent prayer.
This is atonement day,
May grace be with them
In all the days ahead.*
~
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 5:35 PM UTC
Boats
on the horizon.
The sun
is painting the vessels
in the colour of
longing.
Sep 8, 2025
Sep 8, 2025 at 1:20 PM UTC
A weak sailor was I,
When she caught my eye.
A beautiful lass,
Straight from the sea.
Fair skin,
Just like the petals of the water lily.
With blue eyes,
The color of ocean waves.
Thin figure,
Cast a shadow on the sunny summer bay.
Boy was she pretty,
The kind of girl an old fisher,
Would call his finest catch.
Sandy hair tied back,
Elegance like a species of ancient lore.
And I guess,
The water wasn't just what she was for.
For back on shore,
The boat club dance floor,
Wasn't quiet full without her.
The way she'd move,
Like a shiny fishing lure.
Jan 15, 2025
Jan 15, 2025 at 8:00 PM UTC
Sailors clubs are better than the rich ones,
We've got sails instead of super boats.
The gentlemen, (the ones we've got)
Don't drink fine wines but draft beers.
There's no sparkle of gold spoons or diamond bowls,
But still a Sailor's Club is better than a rich one.
Why? Because where else will I dance,
A Sailor's jig.
Jan 10, 2025
Jan 10, 2025 at 6:51 PM UTC
The sun is hot
The birds all flock
The boats convene
Revelers serene
The drinks are cool
They make you drool
The wind blows soft
White sails aloft
Sleek Dolphins jump
The water thump
Our faces smile
For quite a while
This is the life
No thoughts of strife
Our own cocoon
Our sun - our moon
For just this while
We live in style
But all too soon
We're not immune
From noise and sound
Our senses pound
Reality hits back
Our peace off track
And yet we smile
For but a while
Thoughts of that day
When we might say
The sun is hot
The birds all flock
The boats convene
Revelers serene
Oct 29, 2024
Oct 29, 2024 at 1:30 PM UTC
How long do we get?
How many can we fit inside?
I reply like it's the first time
Gotta take pride
Have my ******* jokes
It makes them laugh
"Mind you're rowlocks" when you step inside lad's.
Watch out for the crocodiles, they escaped from the zoo.
Just over the side
If you need the loo.
Lookout for the terrapins
I can tell you think it's a joke
But it's true
Don't believe me?
I'll show a picture to you
Where did they come from?
During the winter, where do they go?
Never answer
"I don't know"
I've held many positions
From the bottom to the top
Some good
Some bad
They kept me a float
But never been happier
Helping people, inside a boat
Jul 26, 2024
Jul 26, 2024 at 5:31 PM UTC
The sun seemed to rise slowly, almost hesitantly, this morning - a yellow syrup pouring into a deep, dark blue sky. The air is hot and thick, like a low viscosity liquid. We’re going out on the boat this morning and when you have 9 passengers and crew, everyone’s toting something.
Kim and Bili have towels and a shoulder bag of sunscreen lotions and repellents, Charles has a cooler with everything needed to make breakfast omelets on the grill (the eggs have been pre-beaten, the veggies pre-chopped, the cheese grated, the meat diced).
Anna and Lisa are toting a cooler of sodas buried in ice. Leong has the “dry box” with phones, Nintendo switches, kindle readers and iPads. Leong’s rolling a luggage rack of textbooks, Sunny has a large coffee thermos, and Sophy has a bag with dry clothes for everyone.
The girls are practically running over each other in their eagerness to be last onboard because the first two get to towel the night’s condensation off everything.
I carried the lunch cooler full of Chick-fil-a sandwiches, but my main job is to check the indicators and disconnect the dockside water, drainage and electrical feeds as Charles takes the helm and begins his “preflight” before he fires up the Mercury 500-hp engines. I know we’re a “go” when he turns on the underwater lights - that’s my signal to cast off.
The engines roar to life and then purr as we slowly pull away from the dock, we girls greasing ourselves up with sunblock. The air conditioning begins to help but picking up speed is what finally breaks the hold of the oppressive heat.
As we exit the marina Charles opens-up on the throttle and that’s always a thrill. We usually ski first, before the lake gets crowded, and lounge later.
Sunny, Leong and Anna like to sit in the bow, refreshed by occasional lake spray and the wind-whipped cool. Leong likes to sit in the cabin, like Charles’ copilot while the rest of us recline on lounges facing rearward to watch the skiers.
Our summer mornings have passed like this, launching around 6 am, skiing, then swimming, studying and getting off the lake before the noontime “heat advisories” and afternoon thunderstorms.
Later, I’m relaxing in the shade, having just gotten out of the lake, and I’m on my iPad.
“What are you writing?” Anna asks.
“Oh, I write poetry and stories - mostly stories these days but there is some occasional poetic recidivism.” I say.
“You write poetry?” She repeats, as if shocked, “I didn’t think there were any poets left.”
“Well,” I say, “Most poets died, in the early flames of science, trying to prove the pen was mightier than the sword, but there are still poets around - they live in cities where they’ll try and wash your windshield if you stop at a traffic light, and they’re frequently mistaken for the homeless - or they may actually be homeless.”
“Can I read some of your writing?” She asks, after waiting through my long joke.
“Absolutely NOT.” I answer.
Jul 8, 2022
Jul 8, 2022 at 2:35 PM UTC
Between you and this dying world
Are boats carried by tidal waves
Built from pieces of love you left behind
You keep moving toward the horizon
As their anchors fall into deep ocean
Strings of forgotten fears hold you back
And prayers, from when you were lost,
Take your hand, tell you stories, and bring you back to where the sun said its final goodbyes
And you, covered in terracotta and blue
Begin to sink in the sapphire gloom
As whatever remains from your dreams
Keeps you afloat and clouds disappear
The stars bloom from midnight grey
Illuminating the way home
All for you
Jul 5, 2022
Jul 5, 2022 at 2:23 AM UTC
It’s a cool, Georgia, Wednesday afternoon - not quite 80°f. The sky is clear, and the sun is dazzling against the cadet blue sky. Its reflection is multiplied a thousand small times, creating glittering, broken mirror glares that ripple, relentlessly, across the water’s blue surface.
On the lake, if you’re not wearing polarized sunglasses, then you’re going to suffer - no worries though, we have drawers full of them. We’re on my parents' Tiara-43 ski boat, at anchor in the sheltered-cove of an uninhabited island. It’s windy, Leong and I, bikinied and fresh from the water, race shivering for our giant, Turkish-linen beach-towels.
Charles, a large, redheaded, retired, NYC cop, (who’s been my full-time driver and escort since I was 9), is our boat-captain (I am not allowed to dock the boat). Charles, a chef of steaks nonpareil, is working the grill and unconsciously swaying to the music. The aroma is mouthwatering, and my tummy is growling with anticipation.
Ashe’s “Another man’s jeans” is bumpin’ from the stereo, and I can’t help but feel this somehow beats going to class. As we wrap up and settle in our lounges, a green and white ski boat careens into view, about a quarter mile from the cove entrance.
The sight of it makes me smile. It’s going so fast that it seems to hover over the surface of the lake, only jerking slightly as the boat lightly touches-off the water. It zeros in on us like a missile, its approach flat out - perhaps 60mph (52 knots).
I knew who it was instantly - Kimmy - of course. I look at my watch - 3:30pm - she got out of school at 2:15 and must have made a hot bee-line for us using “find my friends” GPS telemetry to uncover our hidden cove location.
As the boat edges the cove lip, Kim cuts power - the boat heaves as it settles into the water and quickly decelerates. Charles, anticipating the approaching wake, secures things (spices and utensils) in the galley area. When the boat’s closer, I can see that Bili’s onboard too.
Kim and Bili are my two homie BFFs. They’ll graduate high school in 2 weeks. Kim is a small, pretty Asian American bound for Brown University, to study public policy in the fall. Bili is a tall, gorgeous, chocolate-brown Nubian princess who’ll attend the University of California, at Berkeley to study “financial engineering” - whatever that is.
When Kim’s boat is about 80 feet from us, Kim and Bili jump on deck, water-ready in bathing suits. Each girl, used to the boating-life, tosses an anchor - one to port, one starboard, and not bothering to look back, dive off the bow and begin swimming toward us.
Kim’s boat, which briefly seemed intent on catching them, jerks to a stop, like a wild thing suddenly restrained, as anchor lines catch.
When Kim and Bili draw along aside, they reach up with clasped hands which Charles uses, like a handle, to smoothly hoist them one-handed, as if they were weightless, in turn, from the water with long mastered ease - presenting them to me for squealing embrace.
As I excitedly introduce them to Leong - summer has officially begun.
May 17, 2022
May 17, 2022 at 9:13 AM UTC
These years, they ask us questions
answers that tomorrow never knows,
held in the arms of yesterday.
The weight of this dreaming
pushes the clouds onto the ground
and our fleeting conversations
with this flooding rain
breaks the boats we built
that were already too unfit
for this ocean between the clocks we build
and the time we chase
Mar 5, 2022
Mar 5, 2022 at 5:30 PM UTC
Misty mem’ries down murky highways
Of sinking ships down dark alley drains
There dreams there too have sadly sunken
With hopes of life obscurely ashen.
May these paper boats find their way out
To flow back in endless paradise
Then I’ll surely know without a doubt
I’ve set my heart there again to rise.
Though we may cross a different path
Or flow on different waterways
Please know we’ll meet there a moment too
When rivers meet at the vast blue space.
Feb 7, 2022
Feb 7, 2022 at 7:22 AM UTC
The winds from where you grew up
Strike conversations at midnight
Your thoughts, now paper planes
Take off into memory lanes
And your feet, aching soles
Search for branches, and petals
That remind you of home
The taste of sweet dates still dancing on your tongue
Sweet syrup stretches its limbs
Through your nose
Sensations of a past soaked in white noise
When did you leave it behind?
And you think back to the time
When you walked with your naïve self
Too young to comprehend
Back onto a boat
In those dreams that never escape you
Called memories
Jul 26, 2021
Jul 26, 2021 at 12:28 PM UTC
Sea calm,
Crew slept,
Dark side,
Sea kept,
Tide raced,
Waves crept,
Crew woke,
Sails prepped,
Coiled spring,
Waves leapt,
Overboard,
Crew swept,
Left behind,
They wept.
For the sea has no respect
For the nautically inept …
Jul 14, 2021
Jul 14, 2021 at 10:02 AM UTC
stick it to a wall
& sail away
go to the shore
and call it a day
to live, to lie
it's all just life
nothing's changed
just me, the same
Apr 12, 2021
Apr 12, 2021 at 1:04 PM UTC
You wash your heart with evening rain
as waves of drowsiness hold out
paper boats made of written dreams
that search endlessly for a lighthouse
to guide them home to you
Apr 9, 2021
Apr 9, 2021 at 8:46 PM UTC
I miss the sound of water
Keening past the hull,
I miss the soughing of wind in sail
And the dull thrum of the shrouds
Like oversized guitar strings
Plucked from my heart,
By fingers felt
Yet never seen,
I miss the heel of the hull as a gust
Catches the sails,
The feel of the gunwhale
Below my buttocks as I hike out,
The restored sense of balance
As my weight matches
The turning moment
Of sail over keel,
I miss that simple shared moment
Of unity and rightness
With a crew who understands,
Or sometimes while solo
I share that instant with
The great good God that made
Me and others fit
To experience His creation
I miss the water,
I miss the wind,
I miss the feel of a taut sheet
And a tiller in my hands,
The surging sense of motion
As the shore retreats
And the horizon beckons
Me forward
I miss all these things and yet
Even as I type this verse,
At the end of another day,
Another week and with another
Boatless weekend ahead,
Like all good fish heads,
In my head and in my heart
I am - still - sailing
Feb 5, 2021
Feb 5, 2021 at 12:53 PM UTC
Isn't it cruel?
How destiny
teases our future.
Having had
tall wooden ships,
we settled for
paper boats.
Sandoval
Jan 2, 2021
Jan 2, 2021 at 5:34 AM UTC
¡Ya!
Prepare the barco,
Empújalo through the scrub.
‘It’s not much further now,'
His voice sugar-coated with expectation:
The flap of the jib, the slippery release into
El agua negra.
Summer sun has baked the avenue of grasses
Into wiry nests.
‘Do not open the gate,' he fulminates.
Waiting for the tren to pass
The gaze of the pasajero
Picks him out against the lights.
Wait, cross, check, shut the gate like you kiss
A un niño.
She pulls truculentemente against his bodyweight,
The smell of greased wheels
Mixes with the **** of ducks and burgers.
Canta ella:
‘It’s many the time I’ve sung this song,
Though the wind blows like a gale’.
How many more times can he set sail?
Before he is buried in the fango
And the sea shanty disintegrates
Into the
Trees?
Dec 29, 2020
Dec 29, 2020 at 2:35 PM UTC
“At the center of our being is a point of nothingness which is untouched by sin and by illusion, a point of pure truth, a point or spark which belongs entirely to God. It is like a pure diamond, blazing with the invisible light of heaven. It is in everybody, and if we could see it, we would see these billions of points of light coming together in the face and blaze of a sun that would make all the darkness and cruelty of life vanish completely ... I have no program for this seeing. It is only given. But the gate of heaven is every- where.”
― Thomas Merton, Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander
Surprising God, how does one surprise God?
I have heard the door or gate is not locked; it is always open.
Every day I think of Mike,
he told me about the river boat he was on,
the murky river water, many small boats alongside,
action all around. He was a sailor on a ship,
what the hell was he doing on a river boat,
he often asked, even now.
Can’t remember the name of the river,
but it was Nam…
You come home from war… you are different now.
No one seems to know that, “but glad your back bro,” they say. Yes, you are home, but then there is the addiction, not of killing but of forgetting.
The time comes to report, remembering one’s service, out in the woods, away from it all.
There is that standing at attention, hair and beard trimmed, at muster for the last time…
There was a strange silence afterwards,
How does one surprise God?
I have heard the door or gate is not locked; it is always open.
Dec 9, 2020
Dec 9, 2020 at 11:43 PM UTC
Dylan Thomas went wearily, windily to the sea,
Where dogs ran and tongues wagged saltily,
Sea battered boats sang shanties to the bearded shore,
As the sea legged gulls barked and cried hungrily
The shadowy sun surrendered to a once bitten moon,
And the sand stood still by the windy wet dune
Nov 28, 2020
Nov 28, 2020 at 12:57 AM UTC
I have burned
all the boats
to reach to your shore
so my dear!
You can either
take me with you
Or leave me drowned...
Oct 11, 2020
Oct 11, 2020 at 2:47 PM UTC