#docks
Two up, two down in a North East town
On a street of grey not far from the Bay
Fishing boats line up on the quay
And people come around to see
The ships that sail on down the line
As their bows break foaming waves in the Brine
The sound of hammers, steel and steam
Ring from the Docks, through fog unseen
A shipyard horn howls in the night
The Arc lights of the Welders bright
Then creeps the Morning over the hillside
As the waves roll in with the coming tide
The sound of many booted feet
Stomping down along our street
To the Dockside where they quietly wait
For the Foreman to spread wide the gates
Men of skill now in the past
Raised those ships from keel to mast
Now but a fading memory
Of things that are no longer here
Jan 5
Jan 5, 2026 at 3:06 PM UTC
Black haired
Woman walks down
to the docks.
Her ravens land in their cage.
A ghostly ship
With a skeleton crew
Takes her aboard.
They wash away
to the forgotten land.
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 7:50 AM UTC
The intimacy of a naked skyline had always been a bit too much for the girl who had grown up tracing her thoughts on the moist windows of skyscrapers that tore through the emptiness of open skies and lonely hearts. The city would always be her first lover, the sea winds her first kiss, and the inhuman slums her first heartbreak - this wasn't your ordinary girl.
The arch of the Sydney harbour bridge reminds me of how her back arched the first time I kissed her neck and the horizon melted right in front of my eyes. The bridge's arch might be a testament to human civilization, but hers is the reason why you can someday justify the pain of your first heartbreak to your daughter as she breaks down before her high school prom. The bridge's arch might stand tall against the trials of time, but hers is the reason why you will see your past flicker in the flames fanned on every bonfire night.
But before you fall in love with the arch and wish bridges could heal all distances, you need to know there are some that even the best and the most beautiful can't.
You know, sitting on the docks of Port Jackson reminds me how I was born in the small port town of an insignificant island and I had grown up with more sand in my slippers than tongue in my cheek. Everytime you swing your legs from the edges of the dock to feel the spray of the recurring waves on your naked calves, the waves seem to sing about how they taught me never to give up on a shoreline, no matter how close or distant its breath on your face.
Its funny how I never ended up finding that Italian place by the harbour where I taught you how to soak in the flavour of a single malt scotch while you taught me how to soak in the flavour of life. Its funny because you always wanted me to find us that spot, in case we wanted to relive the mistakes we made that night.
But then I guess,
There are some mistakes, you are not allowed to make twice.
The sun setting on the city still looks beautiful from the edges of the harbour each day,
But it makes me wish we had stayed behind long enough to see the sun rise from underneath the sea.
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 3:08 AM UTC
Striking poses or putting noses out of joint, Jack Dash was never afraid to clash, to abash bosses, exposing injustice, making a splash to turn our eyes to the unjust slash to rights of men on the docks.
A boxer, a poet, a son of the ancient Borough, with heavy weight words and feather weight fists, he galvanise his brothers.
Firebrand or fire fighter he took to the fight with every fibre of his underdog frame, calling stevedores to flame to life their struggle for their rights to challenge closed doors, with a chirpy charm that was sure to disarm the hardest of hearts.
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 6:57 AM UTC
Together, each day, in San Francisco on Christmas at the wharf, following our envisioned dream,
Youthful and childlike, the dock of boats and the ocean shore, standing in front of the Christmas tree,
That day, the day I first saw you, where you got sick and they let you off, sitting only a row behind, just over to the side,
At the meeting place, on the field trip watching you at the dusty Mission from a short distance, I felt something changing inside,
Together, at the piano in the square, playing our song "The Busride," our busride we share, that fateful day,
Every night, our whimsical moments together, in the ivory golden light of the moon, both asleep and at play,
The sidewalk, she runs toward me with her backpack, giggling she tries to smack me with it, then I remember,
You running towards me, clutching your lunch pail trying to land a friendly blow, three innocent lovers, September,
She's always been like a sister to me, and you, playful and boyish, like a total opposite, such unique treasures,
Breaths taken like the sea, onward like this music of hours, magical notes washing up on the shore in even measures,
Together, wishing and dreaming a dream so true, the petals I pick, the field of endless flowers,
I'm still on that bus, tomorrow, now and for all time, for the rest of my life, every moment, this eternal bus ride of ours,
Rain falling on and on to impart,
bringing the flowers a cordial of life,
With her laughter echoing afar.
That day-our busride, together...
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 8:10 PM UTC
The oceanic wind did not rescind but instead it found its form.
Gathering in strength and gaining much in length at the centre of the storm.
Building attitude it would not exclude from the frigate sailing true.
But with its destination now a defication the seas discarded with the crew.
Land-Ho, it came, did this hurricane bringing with it such a wave.
Like none had ever seen was this water screen that was bound to misbehave.
Throwing all aside like an unruly bride who was aiming to get her way.
And what lay ahead was a heap of dead as the big one came to play.
On its way inward it had done no good to the vessells on the sea.
Throwing craft around and causing men to drown it wasn't going to let them be.
Breaching many shores like unruly ****** the waves would spread there grisly pox.
From the nearest beach to the out of reach destination of inland docks.
Catastrophe - spelt with a capital C was the headlines in the news.
Every seaside place had a weary face that was filmed by camera crews.
People died that day many swept away as the nearest towns did flood.
Even tracks were failing with the trains derailing while water washed away the blood.
Many homes were wrecked as they did disconect and the oceans did divorce.
With those like you and me as they watched TV as the waters swam there course.
Many got up high and watched their fellows die on this day that would not be.
Forgotten very soon as before high noon we were dismantled by the sea.
It's all over now and we will somehow continue with our lives.
We'll bury our dead and we'll count the heads of our lost husbands and wives.
They'll be laid to rest and we'll then invest in the massive clear away.
But when that wind gets up it'll hit us in the gut but all we can do is pray.
The world cannot be tamed and does not feel ashamed when it strikes from out of the blue.
However we prepare nature doesn't care and will do what it must do.
We think we're in control but we're just on parole from what nature has to throw.
And we'll hope that day never comes our way but we can never really know.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 7:51 PM UTC
The sunset is beautiful
I only wish you were here
to complete the evening
If you were
what would we do?
Where would we go?
Perhaps we'd just stay here
sitting on the steps
standing over the water
leaning on the buildings by the docks
simply talking
about how life has been
individually, several miles apart
Familiar our exchanges might be,
no small thanks to
our fancy flatscreen devices,
I'd still want to hear each word
while we do whatever we desire
because you'd be here
and we'd be together
at last in person again
laughing, smiling, jesting
holding and stroking each other
poking and patting in this place and that
all while looking out at the sunset
although I wouldn't want
to look away even if I could
from those deep brown eyes
flowing with the tone of your soft skin
and the groomed lines of your elegant hair;
perfect as a pristine painting
whether afar or in the details.
I only wish
that you were here
beside me.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC