"bowsprit" poems
silent march past abandoned store
working the burger has got me teary eyed
Bowsprit kicks me into 7th and I stop,
and I stop.
ears ring, head spins, goodbye
I'm moving to Lund to hug the red wood.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 10:09 PM UTC
Too much alone
Too much afraid
Too much unknown
Too much paid
To let us go
By the way
For no show
So they say
Could I tell you a story
Ole storyteller
Like bees buzzing flowers
With some honey on hive's mind
It's a modern tale
That has sat sail
All sewn up
At a rate of knots
That black book
Bought with blood money
Dares to say it holds a name
Spar - with these throat barnacles
(Alternately feeding and fighting With their feet)
bowsprit [bee block]
know your ropes, carried away deep six
It's a thieves cat o nine tales
Captain of chewing the fat
Or combing the cat
I've never seen (one) better
Dunnage topping a tonnage
From that trusty barrage
I'm everything on top and nothing handy
An eye splice on a short rope
Given and giving leeway
Haven't got a clew for true whence such hails from
...
So... She measures faces with her heart and hands
And a camera lens for a few
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 2:29 PM UTC
I ride on her coat tails,he sails at odd angles and angels come calling,
stalling for time,pretending, I mime I can't talk and walk to the bowsprit to spit in the ocean.
In that slow motion of epiphany I see what will and can never be and it all becomes clear to me,I spit again in the sea,cross my fingers for luck,tell the angels to f.....
No,
I don't swear out loud,I want the good Lord's protection,in signs,more mimes,they get what I'm meaning.
The moonbeams gleam off deck boards as the pendulum swings,things are taking shape and the ship sings through the waters,but later in the doldrums where the dolphins knit sweaters and the daughters of sirens play canasta with mermaids while braiding dreams with the seaweed,
I need to take a fix on the noon day sun, a hand on my gun lest the latitude betray me,I lay in a course for the Island of Tahiti where the girls sway and greet me,the old dog from the sea.
It's easy to be a madman on the sea when the salt is your spice and I've never thought twice about the angels sent packing,just went on stacking up bookmarks to feed the circling sharks,stark and unfriendly would the sea ever lend me a bed to lay down in?would this ship that I sail in ever founder,I flounder and flail but I sail into the moonlight,on a bright night you'll see me until the sunsets will free me to the tidal eternity of the sea deep within me.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 1:09 AM UTC
Far off in the distance,
a thousand dreams or so,
a winged syren beckons
of land, of hope, of home
An alluring vision rises,
between port bow and port beam,
above the windward gunwale,
above the Devil's seam
The main and mizzen struggle
against the howling wind,
the staysails strain
against the sheets
hauled taut and closely in
But the course we follow
cannot reach our destination true
We must tack and then again,
until our bow is set dead on,
and find a steady
wind and fair
to fly above
the pounding waves,
to free the maiden's hair
Just beyond the bowsprit,
a thousand leagues at sea,
the flying jib will lead us where
our spirits find their peace
Mar 1, 2010
Mar 1, 2010 at 7:48 PM UTC
Catching a star, rushing forward the frigate,
Through the storm ahead, the bowsprit of his high,
But ahead all the same abyss without borders,
The desert of black waters in silence of latitudes.
Cracks and groans bom-topgallant topmast,
Chiseling strong ezelgof,
Mars and Ray converged with parrel in battle,
With a dream - to get rid of the shackles.
The wave growls, rolling terribly,
And with the power of the wind jib-boom mast on the beats,
And a low, menacing sound of the cello,
It is suddenly heard from the blackening heights,
That drill groans together with a heavy wind,
The key of the forgotten Symphony are trying to find,
And torn violin strings - moaning times through the centuries,
And killed the brave men among depths.
The thunder storm is rushing with noise, howling,
Shaking stars in heavens,
And the thunder echoes it a disparate,
And the frigate is hurtling on the sails.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 6:15 AM UTC
She stood and she watched as the storm came in
With the wreck of the Unicorn,
Its forward cabins under the swell,
Its masts so high and forlorn,
Her sailors dashed on the wicked rocks
To colour the blood-red foam,
‘Oh where, oh where is my sister Kate,’
She cried with a blood-red moan.
I reached on out and I spread the shawl
To cover her auburn hair,
The wind and rain in our faces as
I stood by the wall, with Claire,
The wreck was merely a hundred yards,
Was foundering near the shore,
With not a single man on the spars
Where the sail had billowed before.
We heard the bowsprit grind on the rocks,
The rudder tear from the post,
And Claire gave out the cry of the lost
To call for the customs boat,
The waves came thundering onto the shore
Flung spindrift high in the air,
Its mist obscured what the waves had lured
To drift in a mute despair.
‘How may I save my sister Kate,’ she cried,
But I couldn’t tell,
The Unicorn was coming apart
Was bound on its trip to hell,
And Kate by locking her cabin door
To keep out the surging sea,
Had forged herself a coffin before
The schooner had ceased to be.
We found her there in the flooded room
With the wreck cast up on the shore,
The moment the storm had shed its gloom
And the sun shone bright once more,
With gentle currents making her sway
And seaweed caught in her hair,
She held a locket her sister gave
With the line, ‘Bon voyage, Claire.’
David Lewis Paget
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 3:26 AM UTC
I say “Which wrist?”
Her hands twitch as she reaches down
Pulls up the sleeve with such strength to reveal
The places she tried to carve herself anew
Like a bowsprit to guide her ship
I say “It’s like Van Gogh
Because Michelangelo didn’t deal
With those hues of red
And I know you feel like a Picasso painting
But you are a never-before-displayed original
Valued priceless because the world knows
You are incomparable”
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 12:49 AM UTC