"captained" poems
for Mark Richards
It was a spur of the moment thing -
One message freed us from Tuesday’s calling -
The next offered a morning's sailing.
So rather than spray water for Rocky's plants,
We skimmed over Carter Lake’s, crystal waves
With steady and ample winds at our backs.
Boaters and tubers speckled the waters
While verdant foothills smiled assent
From every shore and horizon.
Captain Richards skippered his Flying Scot
Toward the far off shore before tacking our
To and fro way back to the mooring ball.
In years past Mark had captained the Health works
For all the good folks of Pennsylvania,
But this morning he guided a much smaller tiller.
So we sailed and sailed under fairest of skies
In a swift and charmed little craft
Mark chose to call, Spur of the Moment.
Robert Charles Howard
Jul 26, 2022
Jul 26, 2022 at 6:29 PM UTC
**All Hours of the Night
That range of time is too random
to be alone in the dark with yourself
It's the loneliest time to think you over
because like the sweetest stanza
of the prettiest poem no one will ever read;
we were pointless
If I can recall
you said so yourself
My faith in the possibility had been exhausted
My heart...
I've since changed the lock
with no bother about a spare key
Sounds like some slick ****
a poet assigned to you would say
I found a reasoning you should try yourself...
I trust nothing;
I know me too well
to believe I can talk myself into getting over you
You must be proud of yourself
the way you get all up in me right under my nose
My defenses though... just in case
My personality splits
All Hours of the Night
I captain this hook
and refuse to pardon heartbreakers
with three strikes at love
I rob in the hood
I'll take everyone for everything
and give anything I can get away with to you
Those are my instincts
There's nowhere to go to get around yourself
I work like a fool
but when the struggle rises above my head
I learn to swim again
What's a synonym for dope boy
Started as a runner
Stick up kids out to tax
when bust your gun
is all you've got going for yourself
Around and around
and I hate that I love your badside
All Hours of the Night
By the rim of your ears
and nape of your neck
To the point of your *******
and past your belly's button
Until my mouth found your flower's fruit
and sipped its juice;
Until your *** was trickling down my chin
I wanna lick you senseless
Imagine that...
I thought you were ready
but knew about the clause in your description denouncing heavy lifting
And our love was like dead weight back when
At least there's that...
I'd have to eat the blame one way or the other
I've seen you zing it from your index finger
at everyone but yourself
You ain't for this life
A mountain lion
would knaw off it's leg to escape capture...
Is that a chill or a phantom sensation
All Hours of the Night
You were on some other **** yourself
The way you captained this hook
and made me wanna pardon heartbreakers
with three strikes at love
Those are your instincts;
Never trick where you lay your head
Keep your family close and your haters closer
Improve yourself
Progress
Prevail
And money before good ****
Sounds like some slick ****
a demon assigned to a poet would say
in the condescending tone
you've owned
since the very first frame
I found a reasoning you should try yourself...
I trust nothing
You must be proud of yourself**
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 5:55 PM UTC
Once upon a time in an alternate universe not too long ago
I met the cheekiest babe from the other side of the world.
She went by Smurfette, she loved to call me Papa Smurf
and Vanity wasn’t gay, the ******* just loved himself too much.
She always sat by the window, detoxicating herself of verses
cranking out a few lyrics, scoping the city in the trenches.
Of the love we waged never wavering and waving a white flag
“I’m gonna put you to bed” were all our wars went to die.
But I was more than alive, inside the land from down under
called her Daphne the Nymph, the voluptuous Greek Goddess.
Wanted to raise little Koalas together in our Kangaroo farm
in every kiss we traded souls, in every breath we lost our lives.
And we gained them again back when the Jitneys were blue
our sweat-drenched bodies overtaken by some strange voodoo.
Every ship we embarked on was lost in the Atlantic without return
James Bean captained our vessel, holding it together with crazy glue.
In New York City locked lips inside a phone booth, it was euphoria
she was already born a Queen since she hailed from Astoria.
Our Bohemian Rhapsody blended like Cheech & Chong on a ******
her pouty lips, ****** smile, five years later how can I forget her?
Her voice, beautiful sparrow, vocal chords stone carved like no other
and yet normally speaking she sounded like the Crocodile Hunter
Soaked the landscape of her essence, remembrance without a beat
the song she wrote about us, plays in my heart eternally on repeat.
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 12:23 PM UTC
Our house is full of ships. A painting on each wall.
Some schooners, racing single sails,
18th century warships, some American,
some French, most British
and captained by Nelson. There are fishing boats,
less although, they're lining the staircase
leading down towards the basement.
The bathrooms house small
single frames, big enough to fit in your palm.
Maybe 25 portraits or so. All of them going fast,
the water rushing beneath the bow,
cutting through black-blue waters.
These were painted, hand-drawn and hung
by my father. Now a financial advisor. And cold.
But underneath, I know, still loving.
I haven't seen his brushes, his paints.
But he drew these boats years ago.
And I can't stop thinking,
every-time I **** wash hands or ****
about the artist he was and why paint these ships.
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 1:44 PM UTC
There once was an old maid who lived by the sea.
She summoned words from the waves, like Poseidon, the king.
With each splash on the shore, a tale would be spoken.
It was said when she spoke, dreams turned to pictures in the air,
and danced all about, likes leaves on a mid-autumn day.
Men came from far and wide to hear stories from this maid.
One day when her patrons gather around, she told of a maid
from a far distant town. Fair and young, she was a wife to the sea.
She swore a vow, to stay as pure as her love, for all of her days.
She captained her ship better than any man, even the kings
of the oceans who loved the sea long before she ever touched air!
When the Lords saw her past no words need to be spoken.
For the most noble of words were not as powerful, as the ones left unspoken.
Across the lands men spoke of her beauty in their traveling tales.
Though she gave them no notice, for she only cared for ocean air.
The world grew to know our fair maiden as the Lady of the Sea.
To our stories woe, there was a man who wish to be her king.
When the Lady of the sea, made harbor on one summer day.
The man and his host waited in the shadow, to make war that day.
Our lady, sorely outnumbered, made battle more fierce than ever before spoken.
As the sun begun to set, she yielded for her men and named that man her King.
On that blood bathed beach a wedding took place, to darken our tale.
And so with the rise of the moon came the rite of wedding night. Though the sea
never forgets any vows that was spoken in its air.
The lady woke from her slumber and went to breathe the salty sea air.
Yet she smelled nothing but the munade smell of day.
In panic, she ran with haste toward her true lover, the sea.
As she went to step into her water, her foot felt like fire! It was spoken
that the her cries could be heard around the sea, if we trust the tales.
The man who wanted her to call him King,
ran away from the lady and left her to her true King.
All around her, the pain she felt radiated into the air.
Her sea had forsaken her. Now all she had left was her tales.
Banished from the sea, to the end of her days!
Her only thing left, was the words spoken
from the sea.
Now our lady, tells tales by the sea, of days
when she left the words unspoken
when she was the Lady of the sea.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 4:36 PM UTC
I am reminded that the women before me also had their bodies turned into sinking ships.
Captained by reckless men
who abandoned deck,
When their words could no longer be used as anchors.
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 5:53 PM UTC
A lone Muslim weeps alone
Mind entirely westernized
Heart in the Middle East
Shown by his father how to love
With faith of course
And to find peace with himself
A country built on blind pride
Unfortunately yields ideal life
Four planes taking ****** detours
Captained by servants of Allah
To die as martyrs in His name
The lone Muslim sits in a classroom
Silence during the 12th anniversary of 9/11
A peaceful religion forever stained
The teacher prints out pictures of Muhammed
And hands one to the Muslim with a smile
Almost asking for retaliation
Every night he prays to the clouds
Allahu-Akbar Allahu-Akbar
Identical with cries of the Taliban
Irony fills the air
As pictures of Muhammed come to mind
A lone Muslim surrounded by smiling bigots
Who can't help but ask if Jihad exists
Or question if Ramadan works
Judge his every move
And deny their prejudice
A lone Muslim weeps alone
As he remembers the day he lost his heart
The day conformity was shunned
A man rejected from love due to religion
Turns into a terrorist
And begins to walk with a suicide vest
Peace and love for everything
Now replaced by guns and hate
Political parties staining beautiful thoughts
Preaching American hate and Muslim supremacy
Things Allah would be proud of
My religion will always be stained
"Allah forbids you not
With regard to those
Who fight you not for Faith
Nor drive you out of your homes
From dealing kindly and justly with them
For Allah loves those who are just"
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 1:25 AM UTC
If yesterday was an old man,
He would be old by now.
His hair and lashes would
Be full of shining grey hair
And walking with a Kane.
He would probably be frail
And proudly speaking of the
Good old days marred with
Conquests and exploits from
From his youthful adventures.
The intricate details of his flamboyant
Years and youthful antics and shenanigans would bring sparkles
To his old wrinkled face.
There would be tears in his eyes
When lamenting on love and sorrows...
Squinting his eyes and fumbling to
Find faded photographs hidden away
In ancient boxes from dusty shelves.
If yesterday was an old man,
He would speak between bad dentures
With shaky voice of an aging legend.
He would go on and on with tales
Of all the places he has been and
Calling the old names of cities and
People long gone but alive in his
Now on and off and fading memories.
He would talk about voyages taken aboard old vessels packed with ancient
Cargoes and Slaves and whale oil barrels.
He would recount stories of monsters
At sea and great beasts that once roamed the earth when it was young
And green and void of pollution.
About places and people and various
Cultures ,would be captivating stories
That young people would only imagine and listen in absolute awe, almost to a point of envy for his rich stories of a good life once lived in the past.
If yesterday was an old man, he would have a repetoire of ancient skills and knowledge that no one has today.He would talk about locomotives and steamships captained by bearded old sailors with horse drawn couches driven by hardened cowboys and couch men.
If yesterday was an old man, he would talk about world war one and two like it was just yesterday.
If yesterday was an old man, he would know more of yesterday than today.
#IvanBrooksPoetry ©️
4.16.2019
Apr 17, 2019
Apr 17, 2019 at 4:24 PM UTC
how do I steer
a rudderless ship
will I capsize
be dragged down
into the cold hostile
sea not knowing
where to harbour
no island in sight
in the stormy night
wandering along
searching blindly
the coast.
how do I captained
a barren ship lost
if not for the light
the house bring to
weary souls saviour
like the Noor of God
reach out as a beacon
to shine as a warner
over the foggy sinners
guiding through
the crazy madness
a safe passage way
to return home.
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 9:30 PM UTC
Stark staring planet
captained by fools
carrying a cargo
of hatred;
watched in the dark by
an audience of jewels
embarrassed they once
were related.
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 12:39 PM UTC
Your bow is all elbow,
a flank of forearm that is
supporting and simply cradling
my imagination
where a dozen or so
lifeboats hang off starboard
in case things get too much
I, captained by your sturdy arms,
nip up to the crow’s nest
for a sip of spiced ***
for a bit of warmth and
perhaps more—
a full beard that reminds
me so much of Darwin
I feel certain I am on the Beagle
and hungry to shoot some
lame birds one by one!
Your shoulder
where I can sleep forever—
come sharks and eat my catch
while I whisper poetry,
summon ghosts and
**** off Hemingway,
whose macho act was betrayed
by his pain-filled eyes
and sensitively painted
one-word skies
You, my aching hull
in human form,
rocking gently as the sea
slows our progress
knowing we are
wishing away time too often
the working of the gyro
prevents my seasick blushes
we do not yet know each other
that well but all is fine as I see it,
your arms really are made of
shipworthy wood and
beneath deck, where I will sleep
tonight above Atlantis’s cesspit,
we just bounce off each wave,
getting closer and closer to the moon
but not yet arrived,
has sleep come too soon for me tonight?
I’ll rest and stretch and groan
like weary ****** do
once Surya helps me turn out the light
—Yes, once my ship did start to sink. I called until my throat was gone and ended up swimming a good distance until crucially a boat came by and pulled me out of the sea. I remember thinking: I should feel more grateful to be alive. I went back to where it sank and retrieved a few personal items, then I sat on the beach a wept as if the whole thing had just hit me.
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 12:03 AM UTC
Waves crash at her feet
as the fog gathers round,
whispy at first
but waxing thick.
A chill creeps down her spine
as she looks out o'er
restless sea and blanketed night.
Though storm she knows
draws near,
she finds herself unmoving,
only slightly afraid
of the immeasurable approaching force.
But upon the rock she stands...
tall and firm...
A warrior of satin heart
a silver tree in a gulf of black--
a sparkling soul
captained only by her Christ.
She stands alone,
unmoved, ready for the dark...
ready to weather
the war of Saturday.
Jul 4, 2010
Jul 4, 2010 at 10:19 AM UTC
You are the stormy seas
Waves emanate from below the surface
Erupting with frothy ferocity
To capsize vessels
Captained by those who won’t commit
To anything but leisure.
But those seas are mine
To navigate through torrent and storm
Firm against the waves
I will not abandon ship
But will hold tightly
Till the calm waters.
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 5:17 PM UTC
It's been days.
Though it feels like weeks.
I know now that nothing stays.
Especially things that are unique.
I don't know what's happened.
Yes, I admit I'm lost.
But this ship that we both captained.
Has been both tipped and has been tossed.
What role can I now play.
Other than just a man.
Now that it's been days.
There's no other role that I can.
I don't have time; I have to start,
And I may seem strange for a while,
But I'll dig my heels into my heart,
Grind my teeth and wear a smile.
Aug 23, 2015
Aug 23, 2015 at 10:58 PM UTC
Christ never captained a challenger tank
never worked in a bank
never sold door to door
never asked any followers
to follow him into a war and yet
we let him hang
didn't give a toss
fashioned him into a silver cross and
wear him 'round our throat,
Note to self...
never follow the crowd.
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 11:31 AM UTC