#seafaring - Hello Poetry

Fifteen men on the dead man's chest— Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of *** Drink and the devil had done for the rest— Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of *** Gold doubloons and pieces of eight— Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of *** Pockets of gold is the sailor's fate— Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of *** Gentlemen [cough] of fortune and fun— Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of *** Have the most treasure under the sun— Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of *** Got me a ***** on every shore— Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of *** Love 'em and leave 'em and leave 'em sore— Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of *** Jolly Roger ***** in the breeze— Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of *** Life is a sport on seven seas— Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of ***

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Apr 4, 2025

Apr 4, 2025 at 11:09 PM UTC

You'll never know how near the edge we came, sailing past the world that's known to men. Your ignorance, good Captain, was to blame for the risks we took. You do not ken how fragile was the ship, nor how the crew was suffering in waters cold, beyond our charts of isles and straits, the seas we knew were far behind us, out of sight, long gone. I guided us through danger, reefs and shoals; the crew were stalwart, never letting fear overwhelm their courage, though we rolled upon our beam-ends, bringing shipwreck near. You'll never know the gauntlet that we ran to set your feet so gently on the land.

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Jan 26, 2020

Jan 26, 2020 at 6:10 PM UTC

TJRadcliffe

The Navigator Speaks

You'll never know how near the edge we came, sailing past the world that's known to men. Your ignorance, good Captain, was to blame for the risks we took. You do not ken how fragile was the ship, nor how the crew was suffering in waters cold, beyond our charts of isles and straits, the seas we knew were far behind us, out of sight, long gone. I guided us through danger, reefs and shoals; the crew were stalwart, never letting fear overwhelm their courage, though we rolled upon our beam-ends, bringing shipwreck near. You'll never know the gauntlet that we ran to set your feet so gently on the land.

14

I sat beside my dear old friend, Who’d gone and died last night, When in our boat on gentle seas, I saw a welcome sight. In the distance stood an island, In the brilliant evening sun, Atop, a lighthouse standing proud, I knew it was the one . It sat atop a rocky plot, A gray and barren place, Where in it’s majesty around, It lit its shining face. There had to be someone there, I thought to myself inside, I started to bury my now dead friend, At the turning of the tide. I walked around to see him there, My Captain standing fervent, He said with a smile warm and glad “Well done my faithful servant.” He lead me to the lighthouse, Where a feast had been prepared, Where many other sailors were waiting, While the lighthouse mirrors flared.

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Feb 18, 2015

Feb 18, 2015 at 8:15 PM UTC

daniel-thorne

Lighthouse Island

I sat beside my dear old friend, Who’d gone and died last night, When in our boat on gentle seas, I saw a welcome sight. In the distance stood an island, In the brilliant evening sun, Atop, a lighthouse standing proud, I knew it was the one . It sat atop a rocky plot, A gray and barren place, Where in it’s majesty around, It lit its shining face. There had to be someone there, I thought to myself inside, I started to bury my now dead friend, At the turning of the tide. I walked around to see him there, My Captain standing fervent, He said with a smile warm and glad “Well done my faithful servant.” He lead me to the lighthouse, Where a feast had been prepared, Where many other sailors were waiting, While the lighthouse mirrors flared.

24

This is the last time I write about ships; the mighty seafarer, clasping in the deep. The last time the esoteric tides capriciously change their erratic minds, left torn between rousing up to fight and solemnly crawling into the shapeless night. I’ll haul, I’ll haul. Outward bound, I’ll haul away from the safety of the buoy, through a thousand spiralling knots, batten aground and set anchor upon the recondite bay. I’ll avast the journeys where the compass takes an unprompted turn, where celestial proves consort to nautical woes, awoke awash amidst the darkened shallows. This is the last time I go back and fill vast depths, bearing right, then left, across the beating breadth. This is the last ring of brash audacity resonating in chime with the gull’s hooded pride, the last of the salt and sway commandeering the longitude of each tumultuous ride. I’ll roll, I’ll roll. Hanging on behind, I’ll roll with the salted souls of Nelson and Hook as they furl and collide, hand over fist, drawing the curtains from their chariot’s majestic height. I’ll gybe and set back to sail, quarrel with the rushing sands, and grace every fractured notion that tooth and nail can siege the devil’s rest and forge currents capable of hustling both vessel and man. This is the last of the gallant endeavours, set adrift from buccaneer’s voyage to a solitary pulse at the end of storm’s tether. This is the last stern embrace of Poseidon’s harrowing howls, the last of the rapturous applause mordant as it rises and swirls, the last time I wrestle away from his scaly hold. This is the last time I change tack and set course into the path of the sound, where finally, the tides settled I’ll release control of the helm.

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Aug 4, 2014

Aug 4, 2014 at 8:26 PM UTC

jacob-sanders

Seafaring

This is the last time I write about ships; the mighty seafarer, clasping in the deep. The last time the esoteric tides capriciously change their erratic minds, left torn between rousing up to fight and solemnly crawling into the shapeless night. I’ll haul, I’ll haul. Outward bound, I’ll haul away from the safety of the buoy, through a thousand spiralling knots, batten aground and set anchor upon the recondite bay. I’ll avast the journeys where the compass takes an unprompted turn, where celestial proves consort to nautical woes, awoke awash amidst the darkened shallows. This is the last time I go back and fill vast depths, bearing right, then left, across the beating breadth. This is the last ring of brash audacity resonating in chime with the gull’s hooded pride, the last of the salt and sway commandeering the longitude of each tumultuous ride. I’ll roll, I’ll roll. Hanging on behind, I’ll roll with the salted souls of Nelson and Hook as they furl and collide, hand over fist, drawing the curtains from their chariot’s majestic height. I’ll gybe and set back to sail, quarrel with the rushing sands, and grace every fractured notion that tooth and nail can siege the devil’s rest and forge currents capable of hustling both vessel and man. This is the last of the gallant endeavours, set adrift from buccaneer’s voyage to a solitary pulse at the end of storm’s tether. This is the last stern embrace of Poseidon’s harrowing howls, the last of the rapturous applause mordant as it rises and swirls, the last time I wrestle away from his scaly hold. This is the last time I change tack and set course into the path of the sound, where finally, the tides settled I’ll release control of the helm.

4