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He sat all alone, drinking jim beam and coke

Looking out as the waves crashed ashore

He kept to himself, drinking jim beam and coke

As the storm winds would batter the door

He'd only come in when the weather was rough

Sitting alone, drinking Jim Beam and coke

Looking out at the waves never saying a word

Just this man and his Jim Beam and coke

He'd lived all his life in this sea faring town

Working ships from the time he was ten

He grew up real fast on the high roiling seas

Doing work that was best left for men

His father had run a small fleet of five

Chasing cod up the Grand Banks each year

But as cod stocks declined and the fishing died out

His old man sold off his old gear

One boat was left, a shrimper, it was

It was christened the "Bain of my Life"

It was a jab at his job, but as his dad liked to say

"I named the **** boat for me wife!"

They ran this old boat till the paint was worn off

Fixing nets, running traps and old lines

Catching shrimp, heading home....and time after time

Getting soaked in the stormy old brine

He sat in the bar looking out as the waves

Grew and intensified more

With his Jim Beam and Coke, looking out to the sea

And dried peanut shells crushed on the floor

When the fair weather came, he was never about

He was down by the ships holding court

For as sea farers go and tellers of tale

He was the best one they had in this port

He told of the time that their boat had been hit

By a wave twice as tall as the ship

But his dad kept her up, and they only lost pots

And the "Bain" proved she couldn't be flipped

On fair weather days he would  start out his day

At the Church of the Maritime Witch

It was a small little bar, serving breakfast till ten

And the bartender there was a *****

At least that's his word to describe Betty Jean

He would call her this name and then grin

For he'd known  Betty Jean for his whole ****** life

She was this old seafarers sister, his twin

She'd run the old bar for about 40 years

Took it on when she lost on a bet

She 's been there ever since and she won't tell a soul

How she lost and why she's never left yet

But, on days like today, she'd shut down the bar

Batten windows and hope for the best

For with 90 knot winds and just plywood and nails

Her bar would be put through a test

So he'd come up here drinking Jim Beam and coke

Watching out to the sea past the break

He watch for the ships coming in from the storm

Seeing just how much sea  they could take

He'd name 40 men who he knew lost their lives

Facing death on the water to fish

But there only was one for  who he'd give up his place

and that was his eternal wish

His son was lost out on the bubbling sea, chasing cod

When they knew there were few

He was out on a ship that was captained by him

and a small, inexperienced crew

His son was swept off by a swell straight from hell

It was two miles long if an inch

He was working the nets when the rogue wave did hi

ttaking his son, two pots and a winch

He'd spent fifteen years searching daily for him

His body had never been found

Davy Jones held it fast in the depths of the sea

To which his sons soul forever was bound

He gave up his search and he never went back

Never fished for a shrimp or a cod

He'd just sit on the dock watching out at the waves

Praying silently this prayer to God

"Please give me my son, so I can bury him whole"

"Let him surface so he can find peace"

"I only ask this, for my sister and me"

"And for his daughter, my dear little niece"

"We've waited for years for a sign...even small"

"Just to show us that your job is done"

"I'll never go out on the water again"

"Regardless of how strong they run"

"I ask you dear Lord, for his body to see"

"So we can consecrate him back to the earth"

"This is all I ask, and I will ask no more"

"Just how much is my dear son's life worth"

With an amen and a smoke to finish it off

He'd head back to his sisters to sit

He'd drink Jim Beam and coke till "the *****" sent him home

With a hug and a kis and a "***"!

But on days like today he'd watch waves crash ashore

Hoping no more were lost to the sea

Drinking Jim Beam and coke, sittling all on his own

Wishing God would set his son free

If you're down by the docks when the weather is fine

Look for him and he'll tell you a tale

But don't ask about that terrible night

When he lost his young son to a swale
derick gibbs Apr 2014
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
conceit and contentment. averages for good reason
because why would a flame be ashamed of its heat
Robert C Howard Jul 2022
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
Ottis Blades Nov 2012
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.
Chase Graham Jan 2015
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.
Darren Apr 2015
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.
My first Sestina
L Oct 2014
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.
I captained logs lovingly across
a musky pond
to hang stars on this date
when so much happened.
Let’s wake in the missed-me morrow
and I’ll try to recapture it.

6am

My aroused heart pounds with the eager
pecks of new world sparrows
feasting on a found pile of saltine *******
crumbs.

With these easier pickings, they can gloss
over hypothetical seeds lost
and the unfortunate insects
still trapped in their tightly wrapped buds
while emitting
a silky trickle of pollen sweetened tears
I might have once confused as joy.

8am

My mouth is a cast iron bell
robbed of its moistness
and the service of a tongue that would rather be
surgically cut without
the requisite anesthesia
than extol with slithering anticipation
the downfall of cold-blooded prey.

A grubby grimace can’t
switch off the cockle-less warmth
gazed by an elegantly impolite swan,
but amazingly cottony soft escapes can
be ginned with the bait of a choirboy’s tender
“Have mercy!”

10am

My nutmeg brown irises are diced
fresh and tossed into a ***
where spiced hot they’re shown
the urgency this yet-to-be plucked rose feels
when the mid-morning light
accumulates with enough heat
to bake the earth chocolate.

The tattered edges of her puckered lips
glow an ardent shade of pink and make
a beacon, signaling kingly butterflies to abdicate
their aimless flutters and jet
directly toward her alluring realm.

Noon

My usually cool tips can’t maintain
their aloof trance and they trip
red with sudden blushes over the damaged
clasp on a school girl’s lunch box
crayoned with lemonade kittens,
their wordless greetings.

It’s unlatched to reveal no magic
pressed in the chunks of pickle loaf,
but the foetid and desperate
fruits of a wish for can’t-stay-at-home mothers
to be released from the wages of others’
drudgery.

A squirrel drags her white bread
and dappled meat onto the play lot
where the child’s storm-cloud stare
breaks with the flash
and low rumble of laughter.

2pm

My soles crave the touch of loose-dirt
roads, but it’s my ankles that meet
brambles and are torn by their tiny kisses
from which a rubbery
beauty of sappy drips trails back
to grow pastel primavera blooms.

Their long, tapered necks
and delicate, glassy horns blow
the modulated notes of an icy hymn.

Its diamante flecks freckle
the hovering blue before falling
to press these young,
painted plants into a frieze
and free them from wilting.

4pm

My nape aches for the subtle
weight on not supple joints
between thick fig branches
powdered with a maquillage of snowy dust.

No one care can snap them
or keep them from sheltering
the grazes of constantly bleating sheep.

Candy floss wool is tinted
jonquil then apricot then cherry
as the distant and fiery ball of a sun
slowly descends to the quenching
splash in its night-deposit bucket.

6pm

My unencumbered back gently rolls with a raft
adrift on ripples raised
when unknown aquatic creatures
stir in a shallowly cupped liquid.

Their pleasant plunks and gleeful gurgles
are carried on the crisply creeping evening
air to wash away
the unsavory wafts of salty rumors.

Here I can’t scent the far-removed
oceans racked by hunger’s
chilling frissons and the pundit’s
raging rants to at all-costs maintain
the elevation of market-priced pap.

And I drifted off...
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License.
Dr O Feb 2014
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"
Ivan Brooks Sr Apr 2019
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
Yesterday as an old man means everything new would be looked at through the old way.
Mohamed Nasir Sep 2018
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.
Noor in arabic means light.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2014
~Introduction~

I written here of late, under many guises and persona in order to let my work find its own unsolicited audience.
 This however, I must post as myself, for it is for my crew and longtime friends here.  
Even more so, I  must dedicate it to our Sally, who would not accept my repeated, intentionally, muddied "well" as an answer acceptable to any of her questions,  Thus, she inspired, and matriarched this prayer poem into existence.  As for the execution, the executioner takes me alone, as it should be, well and proper

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Well

wonderful multipurposed word
accumulates nuances like eyelashes,
dropping daily, but all there come the new dew's diurnal arrival

ask yourself
what rises,
what wells up
comes first foremost fired up,
when, parsed, passu from you lips
this faceted word wonderful nugget,
called, know to you as

....Well....

but before I bring you on
this compassed pointed
journey to dig deep a well mutual,
compulsed to present the ending,
of this voyage,
something never rightly done
but something
that charms, delights me insanely
and so,
that with a little mark,
not even a full fledged letter,
joins us too, well and proper,
my fellow poets,
I give you,
I leave you,
I join you
as

we'll
together:

thoroughly, soundly, carefully
so much more than mere sufficiently,
better than plain good and satisfactory,
yet, not well enough for the task in my hands solely
mark this word duly, fittingly

for in possession of intimate knowledge
of you and yours, and you, of mine,
so well we know, well we write
this new poem,
a cooperative dig,
trust and friendship lie in the near surface water table,
beneath our picnic blanket where verses are fed
grape and cherries, lip to lip,
enhancing each other's wellness on a summer Sun~day

momentarily, I am of less-than-well health or peaceable mind,
but that impropriety,
shelved for now, a lesser matter,
for I must behave like one of Bo's sheep,
good little boy, all my taled words well behaved,
for in the good company of my fellow crew and mates,
all that is shared here and now,
must be pleasing and good, even as
my welling tears are daring to be
clouded joyous side effects interrupting
our prosed companionship!

by the bay,
by the quiet crescendo of gentling waves,
I write, here where I write so well, so freely,
in my chair by the dock that awaits your first flesh coming,
this bay wide, deep, but no so wide that I cannot see the
old, prosperous, whale-oil receiving harbors on the other side

this bay to the Atlantic is borne,
so worry not, water for all aplenty,
and the words that float on top,
yours, if not more than mine,
awaiting your fetching, taking,
for have I not have more than my share drunk?

on the beach,
amuse bouche made,
bored, dug and gored in white sand,
littered with well-worn pebbles,
many little hidey holes,
within each,
a new poem captained and captioned,
a treasure hunt,
well beyond their prior good well hunting

but to a tour de force we enterprise,
fetch a shovel, *****,
and many little red, and yellow pails,
to the garden, to the park, to the strip of weeds
tween the concreted pebbled sidewalks, and dig

dig well and industriously, a few inches, a few feet,
for I am bringing all that fulsome bay water to you
magically from underneath,
only need to hear you scratching above,
to know thy location,
and inceptioning your well, with crystal fluid plenished,
thus, you need not wait to join me till you
reality can

this well,
is as an addition,
a well sensed joining,
our beings improved by us intercoursing,
for as well as could be
is a
could not be better than
from
water shared and poems
sourced and spilled thereof,
noel hymns born
fresh well water amniotic fluid

Lord!

listen well,
I command thee,
(for you and I, are well intimated)
I commend this motley collection of
wordsmiths to thy care, find them well
keep them that way

in every possible way,  
insure their inspiration wells to never be dry,
their modest frames well cared for,
leave them lives of good nature,
free of rancor

if shelter needed,
my ship's wells safe, secured, and many,
give them to me for care and repair

if they satisfactory, express,
leave them
well enough alone

These words have gushed,
torents poured from places deep and rarely seen,
so my prayer is not an everyday wishful thinking thing,
heed it well,
for I cannot be
everywhere simultaneous yet

encounter me now,
prima facie, finger to finger pointing,
know the ink in the well my pen drinks,
miraculously never ends
and so many things I need,
have promised,
poems that, well,
I write to you as needed,
with caution discarded,
demanding this exceedingly
and you cannot well refuse

We'll,

my mates and me
by the  bay
write together,
that
I eager await well,
that newly hallelujah day

~~~~~~
Well

—adverb

in a good or satisfactory manner: Business is going well.
thoroughly, carefully, or soundly: to shake well before using; listen well.
in a moral or proper manner: to behave well.
commendably, meritoriously, or excellently: a difficult task well done.
with propriety, justice, or reason: I could not well refuse.
adequately or sufficiently: Think well before you act.
to a considerable extent or degree (often used in combination): a sum well over the amount agreed upon; a well-developed theme.
with great or intimate knowledge: to know a person well.
certainly; without doubt: I anger easily, as you well know.
with good nature; without rancor: He took the joke well.
—adjective

in good health; sound in body and mind: Are you well? He is not a well man.
satisfactory, pleasing, or good: All is well with us.
proper, fitting, or gratifying: It is well that you didn't go.
in a satisfactory position; well-off: I am very well as I am.
—interjection

(used to express surprise, reproof, etc.): Well! There's no need to shout.
(used to introduce a sentence, resume a conversation, etc.): Well, who would have thought he could do it?
—noun

well-being; good fortune; success: to wish well to someone.
—Idioms

as well,
in addition; also; too: She insisted on directing the play and on producing it as well.
equally: The town grew as well because of its location as because of its superb climate.
as well as, as much or as truly as; equally as: Joan is witty as well as intelligent.
leave well enough alone, avoid changing something that is satisfactory.
well2
—noun

a hole drilled or bored into the earth to obtain water, petroleum, natural gas, brine, or sulfur.
a spring or natural source of water.
an apparent reservoir or a source of human feelings, emotions, energy, etc.: He was a well of gentleness and courtesy.
a container, receptacle, or reservoir for a liquid: the well of ink in a fountain pen.
any sunken or deep, enclosed space, as a shaft for air or light, stairs, or an elevator, extending vertically through the floors of a building.
Nautical.
a part of a weather deck between two superstructures, extending from one side of a vessel to the other.
a compartment or enclosure around a ship's pumps to make them easily accessible and protect them from being damaged by the cargo.
a hollow compartment, recessed area, or depression for holding a specific item or items, as fish in the bottom of a boat or the retracted wheels of an airplane in flight.
any shaft dug or bored into the earth, as for storage space or a mine.
—verb (used without object)

to rise, spring, or gush, as water, from the earth or some other source (often followed by up, out, or forth ): Tears welled up in my eyes.
—verb (used with object)

to send welling up or forth: a fountain welling its pure water.
—adjective

like, of, resembling, from, or used in connection with a well.
bones Apr 2015
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.
little wonder the stars stay so far away..
James Gable Jun 2016
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
******* 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.
Part Six of The Man Who Longed to be an Oyster (see collections)
Adolph Hamilton Jun 2016
Love in the doldrums a place of storms and squalls ,with light shifting winds

The crew mutinied soon after the voyage began, but I cannot quit I must try again

This ship that I sail on this unforgiving sea, has a wheel and and a sail that won't respond to me

Please get me out of this horrible place.storms every night ,no wind in the day, my sails to embrace.

For years I've captained this vessel of doubt . attempting to right its ill fated course.i cry in the night my ship for a horse.

To scuttle this ship is all I have left .to send it and it's misery to the watery depths

Love drowns slowly in a calm sea. resolute to my faith I take a deep breath.
Lm Bernal Oct 2014
I can't seem to figure out how to
Anything that's is nothing well beyond most
I pant and sieve you winner spot through
Everything has this something spelt we yawn chose
Decide to make sense of the feelings that aren't solely emotional
Play victim place blame I hope everyone sees the tear reflect
Deep writhe create cents ****** and peeling at harm closely irrational
Days well spent laced claims I wrote every none these fear affects
But no more time for stupid plain and simple when the standards you set
Are above what you will ever expect
And but stop no wrong is what I get
Its routine after six days I mirror what shines
So full pastel and haze I hear her gut...spine
I've got saint nicks naughty list with a compendium of my flaws
But there can't be a haughty miss sin duh explain to them blood soaked paws

But here's where things take a twist like
Undear fair painstaked make lists finite
I'll save my breath with your three flaws and not try to reconstruct your paper walls
And then again
And then again
And then again
There we went again
Here we go again
The gloves are...not all the way on just like this love for you its finger nail deep beneath the skin I let you win as you insist that my love don't persist and that all I consist is of tryst and false bliss in my own mess but no no no my only miss I think I should finally take a hit squeeze and missdirect as you say I'm a control freak but to lazy to do anytimg palms cut string free so you win soak in the belief you are my hip o' critical to face and speak the worst...I meant words that need to be heard not now but first hide behind wrist in glass chains coated in tares deep within your hair warehouse of wearmse...and dig me into your earth's dirt and hurt and flirt and blurt to the berm about my error report and burst the urns of metamettled self respect and discontent with loves intent to forgive and pretense to pretend to fore get self right us depend, anci of persons all d. Out the door and through the neighbors hoody tighten the string to the is all cough n gusts of self pit e turn it team work out the probable it tee it off down the disk course of Mize pinnacle ought tomb ashes word-of cheek to sheet teeth to concrete but feelings abstracts don't Co interreaction for your lustrousity that pumps ***** like monuments of the dead and the villian played out to dyer for the story must always end so I contend bed time eternal lines destroy and maim-tain positive loss cause and affectional misdewreck it all forlorn the cause breath take a pause and paste the wasted hate pros claim mist true tha foul knitting grisly tails of fend ding in finite leadin breed of my sad is ticks fuel done relation to ships will captained with jacked spare old detales a resting develop mind with the plank tons under her toe like dancers on a soul


Happily ever
Wearms is a mixture of wares wear like erode and worms or wyverns or wyrms


And to place it you can optionally add where and we're and were


Dyer is mix of pyre dire dry fry dye die
Chenoa Jul 2010
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.
We all face our storms, but as fierce as they may come, if only we stand upon solid ground and ready ourselves for whatever comes, then we'll get through it. The term "saturday" in the poem refers to the character's last battle.
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.
On Instagram @insightshurt
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Both sides of the Arbela militia remained frosty, failing to tear the wrath of the throne from the depths of the charter and from the expropriation of the votive temple, in view of the strength of leaders who were reinserted and rewritten from the plaster of Parnassus, where the beatifices Mortals are seen competing without having references or additions in the washer that predominated by chance referring to athletes and gladiators who were not, but today they could be spiked in the crushing Syntagamatarchos table, captaining two units all with their abdomen semi open, re liquidating again the entrails by the Ghosts of Shiraz, who came from Roknabad (also known as Aub-e Rokní), from an underground channel that carried water from the spring to the city from a mountain located ten kilometers northeast of Profitis Ilias, from where until then they were commanded, with dispatches of their designs before a voluntary prodigy that emancipates a perplexed Meltem i that he was haphazardly swirling in the funerary fields, but descriptive of returning to the fields their souls, which abstained after ephemeris towards a knowledge resigned to abide by it, and to get rid of transcendental limitations commanded by his blowing, and not his body that was clouded before the conspicuous epistemological reason flashed and relaxed when comforting them for having to calibrate their bones when they returned to Mosul. The Colosso pedestals were breaking when it intimidated everyone to flee to their homes, in this way it calmed them down from the quicksilver of the world that was no longer their typical dwelling, from a dwelling of transit to a story that deals with the flys that are they hover, pretending to be the same, banishing themselves from the pain that rises up the cervical spine and that dismisses the ridiculous voices of Aeschylus with their acting choruses that they seemed dilapidated in cries impossible to personify. The ******* brave pieces of deployment began to drain from the secondary positions of the penultimate physicalities of suffering that one felt without being affected, rather it manifested itself in the contents of an essential muscular container, of the subsistence of the cosmos installed in what does not think nor decide on its retraction. Vernarth and Alexander the Great knelt in front of the larnax of the torments of mercy, like ***** language that lashes out rhetoric in rebellions of thousands of hoplites who expiated themselves from their hands, empty spiked race contained in the perjury of Zeus, enrolled in apocryphal images in tombs of those who were going to be faced with pseudo refractory that was recluses of the fleshless breath, but anarchic when trying to return to their places of origin of warlike Tikun.

The traits of annihilation were shed from buried reanimates that became slime in the reverie of a mythological God who never accompanied them and invited them from a cohabiting sun, which was only the fantasy of irresistible permutations. It should be noted that the subplot was in intangible interfaces that would never be stitched together as an annexed story, but the words of parapsychology were captained by themselves more than the sub plotline that transcended the apostrophe of death, and the Pronoia of the Peri Kousmos. The doors of Patmia were finally released and speculative vines re-flowered were Lotos and Astragalus, as courtesies of Operandi and impairment that replaced the ****** elderberry, with chalks that made the winter raging when Persephone rampaged what was merely monthly erratic of those who exiled her. The senses of Patmos were the property of his Institution, which was what it is and is not, for a holistic consequence of fast ideology but of minimal intuition, which lay in multiple reasons for tissues that were filled with crop fields, animals in Magna prairies that agreed to serve the man who loved him, in which the causes were two meters before the limen that sent her off the cliff in other causes of confusion, in a real creation of zoological Hellenic neuroscience, where all forms of mythology were made of submithology, always at the side of man but this time redeemed from the origin and cause, they only persevere to offend a certain space of ignorance where the like all prevaricated by large amounts subordinate to their lineage, in the kingdom of paradises from which only animals protect the doors that only Cerberos and Cherubim open, scrutinizing food for them and making use of them.

Patmos was remade of all the waterfalls that completed the rigors of the precept, and not the chaos that subordinates cognition to make night day or day night, pouring specimens that were and will be ignored but extremely useful for the preservation of the body of the unsupported objective and sumptuous, but of a systemic nature that does and sustains it. The Souls of Helenikká and Trouvere graced all the inhabitants towards a comprehensive evolution of the ***** of dreams, giving it the fruits of conservation where the lords of the future will have to bow to the laborious principle of the Mashiach, conciliating the arrest of the stars and not of what is reactive of an invasive action. Thus ended this subplot rhetoric of intuitive formality and metaphysical channeling character, leading them through plumbing that led from what was coming out from the Raedus Codex, from the wind tunnel, and what was coming in from here identical to its elevation towards the direct apotheosis of the Megaron that was splendid in four composition buttresses with more than two drops of laudanum, which will be insignificant ***** to save the cosmos from falls of vitality in the conclusion of Vernarth.

Saint John the Evangelist after several sleeping episodes of his spiritual experience, reappears in the sucker of modality and intentions that the drops of laudanum manifested to fill the pain of Vernarth's tragedy, and those that are manifested to him that they became resurrected entelechies of component solutions speculative, that were reborn from certain internal devastations, and that returned vague automata to the Achaemenids that emerged from the depths of this professorial subplot, to bring them with the simplicity of lexicons that were loving realities that would lie behind the veils of illusion, transgressing properties of a totalizing daphnomancy. Due to his parliament, Áullos Kósmos eliminated himself braided from the road when he expresses fatigue and regret, calming the reasons in the flight from himself. He starts from demoralization and hidden impotence of the Hoplite that would not come out of himself, because it is a frenzy of consternation that makes him start from the unshakable grief of his compassion, without reaching the surface of the ethical plane.
Battle of Patmia Part VI
Midnight Apex Aug 2015
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.
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.
way back in the 1960s
was a hard time for me
i was kidnapped and thrown to sharks
which made me scared to do some things
i couldn't be a typical Australian
because of the great steve bradley
but i tried to show everyone i loved life
despite of what he did
way back in 1965 my brothers last life bill woodfull died
and he had no reason to come back
he was a famous cricketer and thought he found his peace
but then as he floated around the cosmos looking for his purpose
he noticed that not everyone gets the perfect life he had
he felt bad for greame  thorne
you know being taken away so young
while he was an old man who captained Australia through the body line test, and in 1969, greame thorne became me (brian allan)
and i was loving my new life with my new family
and despite me being thrown to the sharks
i still loved my poppy splashing me with the hose
and in the year of 1971 bill woodfull entered in my family as
my brother (chris allan), and i was excited to have a brother
even if buddha and athena put him in this family to make me
feel great after my tragic time in the 60s
we watched cricket and chris played cricket
and i went to watch him
we had our fights like all brothers do
but the spiritual bond of a old time famous cricketer helping
a fallen child was always there
he played cricket with me even if his friends wanted him to
go over his house and we pretended we had our own cricket teams
my brother remembered don bradman from his previous life
and wanted to be like him
and we had a lot of fun playing backyard cricket you know
real famous cricketers helps kidnapped kids even in spirit
we had a lot of fun together and we tackled each other on the bed
we had our teddy bears and cuddly toys as our families
and we pretended we were fathers to all of our cuddly toys
it was fun
we watched music chart shows and played Aussie rules in the front yard and i used to listen to my brother play his and other peoples music, it was fun and very exciting
we used to get in trouble and i wasn't very normal like i didn't play up that much, but my previous life was scaring me, but that wasn't
my brothers fault, you see if you see a famous sports star helping a kid who has problems, well my brother's previous life did it to my previous life
my brother wrote a song for me and gave it to me on my 40th birthday and i took him to the club for his 40th birthday
and now i am 51 and he will soon be 49, and we had a  lot of fun
seeing it all started as bill woodfull coming in to help out greame thorne, ya know make him love life
my cricketers were
dean massey
joe massey
sam binny
and more including myself

my brothers cricketers were
trinnen
botany
laitlat the fast bowler
and more including himself played as aussie cricketers too
i liked to use peter sleep
my brother liked kim hughes
so greame thorne thanks bill woodfull  for helping him through his next life
brian and chris allan
Brother Jimmy Aug 2021
Oh, a scoundrel met a pretty maid
And he fell so hard it hurt
And he set about to being near
Her countenance...and skirt...(wink!)

Well, it turned out that this pretty maid
Was betrothed a while back
And so the scoundrel tarried there
And made to plan-out his attack

The scoundrel was overjoyed to find
The rascal was gone at sea
And the lovely maid he so desired
Was a tad inclined to flee

And one happy day he kissed her
And the world melted away
On an island not far south of here
And they both knew from that day

For a while they loved in secret
‘Till she shirked her foul plan
Of playing the role of officer’s wife
To (let’s face it) the wrong man

And the scoundrel tried to straighten up
And he set himself to workin hard
He’d ask the maid to marry him
‘Fore the sun was over yardarm

The maid was a pirate captain’s daughter
So one sunny day, with trembling heart
He walked along beside the Pirate
Attempting to sound smart

And he told the Pirate his intentions
Conveyed politely what he had planned
And with carefully chosen respectful words
Asked for his daughter’s hand

And the Captain said it was fine with him
If his daughter would consent as well
And if the scoundrel would treat her right
Remaining atop the swell

Well, the Pirate was a handy man
With blunderbuss and musketoon
And jabbing with his cutlass
By the light of the silver moon

He captained well his ship
Through breakers plenty tall
And not till he was seventy two
Did our dear pirate captain fall

On that day the ocean rumbled
And a gale was on the water
And the ship on which we sailed
Tossed and tore the pirate’s daughter

We trembled there in silence
For each crew mate held their breath
While the hungry sea kept roaring
And the breakers talked with death

And monstrous creatures from depths below
Around our ship did gather
Knocking hard at the timbers
Working the sea into a lather

The Kraken on the starboard side
Leviathan to port
And the sails were torn and tattered
And the yardarm was cut short

The main mast it had splintered off
And the ship was tipped and tossed
Disastrous destruction from the deep
Meant the ship was nearly lost

And again and again the waves they crashed
O’er the scoundrel and his wife
And he and the Pirate’s daughter
They held on for dear life

And amidst the many perils
And the never ending storms
The scoundrel and the pirates daughter
Learned to raise their arms

The held their arms high in the air
As down each swell they raced
As each fresh peril they endured
And each disaster, bravely faced

Praying they’d have it figured out
How to navigate these icy squalls
Without the pain and angst
Pinning them against the walls

They’ll say, “Here comes another”
But smile with strength and cheer
And though the night will rattle them
The morn’ll be smooth and clear

And when they cling to each other
And to God who sees it all
They’ll be anchored safe in harbor
Protected from the squall

Though the tempests are never-ending
And they can’t quite see the way
When they cling on tight throughout the night
And hold each other through the fright
And pray to emerge into the light
They’ll embrace the bright warm day
This poem was something I wrote for my wife recently.
Background:
When I met her she was engaged to a guy in the Navy who’d been out to sea for 6 months. She was 19, I was 21, (her fiancé was in his late 20s) …we worked at Chi-Chi’s waiting tables together.  
We hung out with a whole group of friends after work and became very close.  She asked me to play guitar at her wedding. I declined.  And at some point professed my love for her.  And she professed hers for me. It was terribly romantic.
We ve been together now for 28 years (23 married)

NOW:

Found out on 8/2 at 3:30 AM that after nearly 22 years of marriage and 3 kids, that she’s been ******* a guy named Enrique… and they’re in-love.

I thought I’d post this anyway.
For ***** and giggles.

(Filed for divorce this morning.)   ******* yay
Levi Johnson Nov 2018
There's a part of me I left with you
Tucked between some pages
I've been a little incomplete since

It's been so long

And despite there being so many parts
Just lying about
Of every color, every shape, size and weight,
Some being so close to the one I gave away,
None of them fit.

Not a single one

So I guess I'll have to find you
Ask politely for it back
Without knowing if you have it
Or if it's still intact.

Kept it safe

Did you know
Magellan never made it
Completely around the globe?
His ship did,
Kind of funny I suppose.
I'm beginning to feel
More like the ship
Than the man
That once captained it.

What happened?
A day out
with my brothers, my sis' and all the family
Morecambe by the sea,

there wasn't much sand back then
but we didn't mind
man said, 'don't look at the sun or
you'll go blind'.
dad told us that during the war
he captained a tank,
he couldn't drive a car though.

Dangling strings that caught on to those things that clung on to the strings, one needs patience to catch a crustacean and we had lots,

ice cream and jelly tots for tea, 'eat them slowly and they'll last longer'
sage advice
but they tasted so nice and gone.

we kids,
the knicker focker glories
made up from the stories
we think we were told.
Ken Pepiton Oct 2020
The sellers out weigh the buyers, thus the worth
of each  attention instance, is measured
in fractions of sense
possibly conveyed, through
eyeball focus points and linger length,
click
must
be measured twice, to insure proper cutting,
concise division of soul and spirit
demand
compliance --
everybody knows, Leonard Cohen said so.

Maydjathank,
couldabin a bribe, a gift in secret.
Couldabin mo'habiting ways of winds,

cold
comes aslidin' down the mountain,
as the sun shines into shadowed cañons
in the east,
forcing night's coldest winds to
hide here
with us until this vale
as well
is warmed and life returns
to cold reptilian things.

Are we so far from feng shui
essentially?
Have we forgotten hot and cold,
both good,
but lukewarm, we can
bite into and chew
and swallow,
welcome
warming wind spewed in dawn
and dusk from the ******
mouth of beauty
singing al-
together,
signal a
way wu wu wei,

Here comes the sun, its alright…
- the voice of Edward R. Murrow
- ahem ificator, clear soto voce

(in Chinese thought) feng shui is a matter
of fact, a way things work,
a system of laws
considered
to govern spatial arrangement
and orientation in relation
to the flow of energy (qi),
and whose favorable
or unfavorable effects
are taken into account
when siting and designing buildings.
From <https://uci.officeapps.live.com/OfficeInsights/web/views/insights.immersive.html>

You knew.

So, you knew. So
what if you never thought it today?
What if I made you recall a Hong Kong sized hole,
in your morning ritual, some missing
rightness that banishes the fetish
of cold and dark being evil,
lifts the thought
of warm and light being perfect,
faces the fact
of hot and bright being tolerable, for a season,
each day

shift time and harvest, seeds are forgotten…

summer is the time we grow,
after all as before the
fall, when leaves and nuts,
fall, torn from limbs by winds running from
the coming cold,
as our world spirals into ever as if on course
captained by a commander,
steered by dead reckoning,
with Sirius our center,

we ain't dead, it's day again. Time to write
a reason war would not stand under,
weave a story,
form a shelter for the after noon, ah Succoth,
a tradition.
Do you recall the building of a booth,
with your daddy, in your youth?

Were there brush arbor revivals that ended
in the burning of all the branches
that bore the fruit we take to
make todays of all tomorrows.?

Such branches as bore fruit last season,
pruned and gathered to
burn in the fall, the
bonfires of humanity, given as thanks,
or taken as task.

Was that the idea?
Celebrate knowing how things work, when
we know and obey things like feng shui,

the idea that there are reasons for motions,
in winds and rains and sands…

shift, sands, change the signal ssssss in winds we hear
under the hummmm of
bees? no, amber, humming
amber rubbing matters
of considerate worth. Electric hmmmmm.

Measuring man, measure the worth of attention.
Ask if knowing is worth the effort to effect
a decision to cut
the pattern with no jig to hold the pattern true.

Eh, no iambic pentameter to distract
attention from words as agents
of effect, taste, feel, wish
desire,
come beginning to middle,
come to an end, a pointed time

smell imaginary strawberries, know, you know,
call the cause a terpene and use it in shampoo,
taste
no sweetness but see, mind's eye, remember, see

tiny wild strawberries that don't look like
that smell, you might miss them,
if there were no old stories of
such things being found
by children wandering alone along rabbit trails,
grown ups have forgotten.

LA Central Market, seldom seen at dawn
or any time of day by any but the servant bots
embodied in contented men who know
fruits and veggies all serve tastes,

Tastes are tested, ripe or green, too ripe or
ready in three days, sitting in a paper bag,
on the kitchen window ledge above
the fountain of flowing water,
hot and cold, on demand.

Is this not my promised land, for today?
Hello Poets. What good may we do today?
Kiernan Norman May 2023
You can’t outsmart yourself.
You wouldn't be land-locked and writing this
if you could.

      Let’s try something different. Let's find a boat. We’ll meet at the bow, and try to forget what we know. We can start over. We can put our memories on ice and our hearts on hold. We can grow new lungs, and new eyes and our bones won’t ache in the salt water. Let's read the stars, captained by someone born without a lily in their teeth or a map in their pocket. They’ll have an anchor to choke and a rattle to keep us awake.
      Let's sip the coffee of a woman with roots that run deeper than the earth, and speak the steady language of not-wanting. We can learn sea songs, cover our dreams with thick, acrylic paint, and bring our ghosts to life at preapproved parties. We’d all get along so well. I’ll undo the sound of my voice. You'll sweat out the nicotine. We'll eat strange fruit at balmy ports, acquire a taste for the rind, and our scars won't open; we'll be positively flush with Vitamin C and the pipes we've learned to whittle.
    You’ll start to crave the way I smell like rain, taste like salt. I’ll show you what to do when your compass points left and you find yourself on the wrong side of the decade. I'll create a perfect starfish staccato, which is a dive I'll invent and perfect two days in. We’ll build a dream house out of sea glass, learn ***** jokes in morse code, and share a bunk with a man who claims he was born a crow and misses it every day. He might take our bones home to his blind wife after this voyage. He might make flutes from our thighbones, hock them around shipyards, or he might ask us to write his eulogy. He might be the guardian angel for someone who drowned centuries ago, or he might be God. We're fine not yet knowing.
      We're on a boat, after all. We can do shimmery things, like tangle our limbs and kiss in nooks where the light doesn't touch. We can dive for pearls in the shadows of our own thoughts, and keep the sun on our faces. We can all learn to swim like angels and walk like saints. I’ll show you how to make a secret place inside yourself where you can wrestle unspeakable things and then send them into the storm.
      Let's drink cider in the hull, lose our sealegs,  and trace bumpy roots to an older, kinder world. Then let's sit very still and believe in it. Let's tie that kindness around our wrists. Practice our knots or not. Let's pass the bottle back and forth while we trade secrets with winter finches telepathically.
      If we feel like it let's fall in love. Maybe with each other. Maybe with something else entirely.    
      Let’s talk about things we've never said aloud, let's try to put some of our sticky longing and heavy heartbeats into some kind of language. Or let’s pretend the city is only as large as our pockets and as static as the space between our chests. Let’s go back in time and see what would happen if I didn't kiss you on the West Side Highway six months ago. Maybe there’d be nothing to pout over, nothing to pine about. (Heavy heartbeats always find something to pine about.)
      Let’s walk to the sea, let's forget what we know. Let’s start over. I’ll take the train in and we’ll meet for brunch. I won’t get red and loose-lipped from too much sun and *****, and I won’t look for black cats in highrise windows. We'll talk about things that don't sting and the city won't mind the bleak things I say.
      After playing on the pier and not kissing, we won’t walk East, swaying. We won’t stumble into a church and genuflect, then slide into a pew, softly join the Rosary recitation. We won’t bow our heads, or stumble through the Apostles Creed (where was that one during ten years of catechism?) We won’t say Amen with our chest, study the stained-glass, and  our legs won’t leave sweat on the kneeler after we stand.
      We won’t barrel back into daylight where we’re old friends who don’t kiss and I’m still a prize- My cheeks can flush but I won’t let the mimosas get on top of me, or you get on top of me. like it was only a little bit inevitable. I won't babble; completely unhinged and hopeful, or drop my grace somewhere on an elevated train as dusk cradled us both in blue. I'll polish that part of Brooklyn with my poise, not my plea. I won't pray again on the train home, (not on my knees and slipping, but still on my knees and slipping.) I won’t have to meet rueful eyes in the window reflection with only one poem on my lips, ‘Have Mercy on me, Oh God-‘
      I won’t have to sit sad and scalloped alone on a midnight Metronorth, bewildered and blanched, because we’re not here, we’re far away and out to sea. I’m still a prize, and we never have to say ‘Amen’ at all.
early 2023, shaking off dust
Crafted one year ago today
yours truly – hopefully self plagiarism okay
worse case scenario,
I would meet ill fate re: kenway
named after Assassin Creed
Black Flag's protagonist.

"Yo, I totally Kenwayed that guy."
by Bilbusbagginzies

Passive stance, but aye agreed
and did promise to pledge troth
faster than greased lightning airspeed
once the missus temporarily
ceased menarche regarding monthly bleed
became in family way with child
thee eldest, whom one day may breed,
when permanently settled
or opting out begetting offspring,
alluded daughter much more mature,
cuz parent trap truly ensnared me,
and I nearly capsized
manning figurative prairie schooner,
I captained poorly
barely surviving emotionally
analogously shipwrecked existence
I must forthrightly concede
done dirt cheap ***** deed.

Unlike das papa, first born proactive
taking preventative measures
to avoid begetting offspring
with college manual, she carefully plots
being masterfully persevering
enroute to notch curriculum vitae
with two additional years of schooling
University of Pennsylvania degreed
well self groomed for succeeding

at aforementioned Ivy League
years before taking
advanced placement courses
at Harriton High School
yielding to positive advisory feedback,
she wisely did heed
shipshape smarts anchors ahoy mate
passed academic challenges
with flying colors
well seasoned life, yes indeed.

Wherefore sexually reckless
behaviour, though I eventually wed
future mother housing zygote,
nevertheless did bungle responsibilities
to exponential powers of ten -
experienced challenges to exceed
capacity of yours truly to handle
whacking thru jungle of lady love
until...making head way
verboten fruit fricasseed
essentially purring kitty
I petted and proceeded to feed
pitched, hitched, ditched

libido in throes of monkish celibacy,
procreating analogous to filigreed
custom made jewel of denial,
bubbling self cleaning oven,
plus compelled tug get ***** freed
after being ****** asthma gumweed
glommed, where male member
tiptoed thru tulips playing ukulele
playing biological equivalent
risque business "Russian roulette"
pregnancy eventually guaranteed.

Unlike me wily ***** cocked,
limp bizkit primed to hawk kitty
then future spouse did not intercede
once peppy begged, connived,
to forego birth control and test virility
attested, claimed, *******, et cetera
arousal without prophylactics keyed
sowing wild oats courtesy yours truly
didst adeptly beg, burrow, knead
testosterone totally tubular
lil trouser snake did proceed
letting call of wild take lead
tube steak king claim for fatherland
heady after slurping boot legged mead
stifled unnatural prime mate years
pent up ****** urge, thus did supercede.

Thence sore relief yours truly did need
for swearing against wearing raincoat
at seminal moment blithely releasing seed
subsequent expense imposed
on fecund counterpart
with snoop doggy dogg speed
generating prickly heat
inducing ***** fied stampede
appetite for reproduction
struggling with common sense
(particularly lacking gainful employment)
raising and supporting young ones
incurred courtesy one or more progeny
needs and wants of offspring,
who sprouted like loco crazy ****,
as greater demands imposed
on their mama and papa.
Passive stance, but aye agreed
and did promise to pledge troth
faster than greased lightning airspeed
once the missus temporarily
ceased menarche regarding monthly bleed
became in family way with child
thee eldest, whom one day may breed,
when permanently settled
or opting out begetting offspring,
alluded daughter much more mature,
cuz parent trap truly ensnared me,
and I nearly capsized
manning figurative prairie schooner,
I captained poorly
barely surviving emotionally
analogously shipwrecked existence
I must forthrightly concede.

Unlike das papa, first born proactive
taking preventative measures
to avoid begetting offspring
with college manual, she carefully plots
being masterfully persevering
enroute to notch curriculum vitae
with two additional years of schooling
University of Pennsylvania degreed
well self groomed for succeeding

at aforementioned Ivy League
years before taking
advanced placement courses
at Harriton High School
yielding to positive advisory feedback,
she wisely did heed
shipshape smarts anchors ahoy mate
passed academic challenges
with flying colors
well seasoned life, yes indeed.

Wherefore sexually reckless
behaviour, though I eventually wed
future mother housing zygote,
nevertheless did bungle responsibilities
to exponential powers of ten -
experienced challenges to exceed
capacity of yours truly to handle
whacking thru jungle of lady love
until...making head way
verboten fruit fricasseed
essentially purring kitty
I petted and proceeded to feed
pitched, hitched, ditched

libido in throes of monkish celibacy,
procreating analogous to filigreed
custom made jewel of denial,
bubbling self cleaning oven,
plus compelled tug get ***** freed
after being ****** asthma gumweed
glommed, where male member
tiptoed thru tulips playing ukulele
playing biological equivalent
risque business "Russian roulette"
pregnancy eventually guaranteed.

Unlike me wily ***** cocked,
limp bizkit primed to hawk kitty
then future spouse did not intercede
once peppy begged, connived,
to forego birth control and test virility
attested, claimed, *******, et cetera
arousal without prophylactics keyed
sowing wild oats courtesy yours truly
didst adeptly beg, burrow, knead
testosterone totally tubular
lil trouser snake did proceed
letting call of wild take lead
tube steak king claim for fatherland
heady after slurping boot legged mead
stifled unnatural prime mate years
pent up ****** urge, thus did supercede.

Thence sore relief yours truly did need
for swearing against wearing raincoat
at seminal moment blithely releasing seed
subsequent expense imposed
on fecund counterpart
with snoop doggy dogg speed
generating prickly heat
inducing ***** fied stampede
appetite for reproduction
struggling with common sense
(particularly lacking gainful employment)
raising and supporting young ones
incurred courtesy one or more progeny
needs and wants of offspring,
who sprouted like loco crazy ****,
as greater demands imposed
on their mama and papa.
from the Harris-Walz front
where liberal minded socially progressive
electorate doth agonizingly grunt
targeted in crosshairs scoped out
eager and ready to be mortally wounded
courtesy notorious big headed
(and bigoted) infamous
for bearing arms
as if going on a hunt
as attested to him and recorded for all of posterity on March 14, 2019 at 3:05 EDT by Analysis colunist Philip Bump, (a national columnist for The Washington Post; before that he led political coverage for The Atlantic Wire. One of the paper’s most read writers, he focusses on the data behind polls and political rhetoric), he recorded one of the most famous and insightful lines Donald Trump offered on the campaign trail in 2016 came during a stop in Iowa, shortly before that state’s caucuses.
“I could stand in the middle of Fifth Avenue and shoot somebody and wouldn’t lose any voters, okay?” Trump said, mimicking firing a gun with his fingers. “It’s, like, incredible.”

"Blast it!!" I am gunning for the glib gal
versus MAGA sugar daddy
gesticulating his arms akimbo,
whose lowball unflattering unprintable
pet phrases for Kamala
indicative of a short, and nasty brute,
whose vile (hints) might be excusable
if he suffered epileptic seizures grand mal
drops names of ruthless dictators as his pal,
who sport trademark coiffed hirsute
allocating, designating, ginning, jumpstarting,
and mandating excessive monetary resources
for his poofed hair courtesy project 2025
and then when confronted becomes immediately mute
and does a spot on rendition of Marcel Marceau
engaging in ******* with a *******.

"Arms akimbo" is an adjective or adverb that means having your hands on your hips with your elbows turned outward. For example, "She stood there akimbo". The word "akimbo" comes from the Middle English phrase in kenebowe, which means "at a sharp angle". The word was first recorded between 1375 and 1425, and may come from the Old Norse phrase i keng boginn, which means "bent into a crook".

After watching some
of the Democratic National Convention,
mainly the first and second nights,
I felt tears of joy rapture
welling up inside me
after listening to such
brilliant, fantastic, nuances
sounding out monologues
utilizing English language
to maximize stellar oratory,
which lengthy list of speakers follows suit:

On Monday, delegates heard from former Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, first lady Jill Biden and the president himself.

Tuesday's session featured addresses from former President Barack Obama, former first lady Michelle Obama, Sen. Bernie Sanders, Illinois Gov. JB Pritzker and others.

Wednesday night heard from former President Bill Clinton, Gov. Josh Shapiro, former Speaker Nancy Pelosi and Walz.

Here's the full speakers list for Thursday:

Minyon Moore, chair of the 2024 Democratic National Convention Committee
Invocation by Everett Kelly, national president of the American Federation of Government Employees, and Imam Muhammad Abdul-Aleem of Masjidullah Mosque of West Oak Lane, Pennsylvania
Presentation of Colors by the Illinois State Police Honor Guard
Pledge of Allegiance by Luna Maring, a 6th grader from Oakland, California
Rep. Veronica Escobar of Texas
Becky Pringle, president of the National Education Association
Randi Weingarten, president of the American Federation of Teachers
Sen. Alex Padilla of California
Marcia Fudge, former secretary of Housing and Urban Development
Rep. Ted W. Lieu of California
Sen. Tammy Baldwin of Wisconsin
Rep. Katherine Clark of Massachusetts, House Democratic Whip
Rep. Joe Neguse of Colorado
Mayor Leonardo Williams of Durham, North Carolina
Rep. Raja Krishnamoorthi of Illinois
Sen. Bob Casey of Pennsylvania
Sen. Elizabeth Warren of Massachusetts
Rep. Jason Crow of Colorado
Rep. Elissa Slotkin of Michigan
Rep. Pat Ryan of New York
Rev. Al Sharpton
Members of the "Central Park Five": Dr. Yusef Salaam, member of the New York City Council, and activists Korey Wise, Raymond Santana and Kevin Richardson
Amy Resner, former prosecutor and friend of Harris
Karrie Delaney, director of Federal Affairs at the ****, Abuse & ****** National Network
Lisa Madigan, former attorney general of Illinois
Marc Morial, president of the National Urban League
Nathan Hornes, former student at Corinthian Colleges
Tristan Snell, former New York State assistant attorney general
Gov. Maura Healey of Massachusetts
Courtney Baldwin, youth organizer and human trafficking survivor
Deb Haaland, secretary of the interior
John Russell, content creator
Rep. Maxwell Frost of Florida
Rep. Colin Allred of Texas
Joint remarks on "A New American Chapter": Anya Cook, Craig Sicknick, Gail DeVore, Juanny Romero and Eric, Christian, and Carter Fitts
National anthem by The Chicks
Kerry Washington
Joint remarks by Meena Harris, Ella Emhoff and Helena Hudlin
D.L. Hughley
Sheriff Chris Swanson of Genesee County, Michigan
Rep. Lucy McBath of Georgia, joined by Abbey Clements of Newton, Connecticut; Kim Rubio of Uvalde, Texas; Melody McFadden of Charleston, South Carolina; and Edgar Vilchez of Chicago.
Gabrielle Giffords, former member of the House
Performance by P!NK
Sen. Mark Kelly of Arizona
Leon Panetta, former secretary of defense
Rep. Ruben Gallego of Arizona
Gov. Gretchen Whitmer of Michigan
Eva Longoria, actress and film producer
Adam Kinzinger, former member of the House
Maya Harris
Gov. Roy Cooper of North Carolina
Vice President Kamala Harris.

Shoot! Thar haint no other candidate
within a bajillion miles
worth celebrating with unbridled fête
cuz the other contestant
(hands down) ranks as ingrate
man dragging fetters shrilly mutters,
the opposition mumbles,
no you don't get away with freedom
them words to ****, cuz
against peace mongers
this republic for liberty,
which country stands under
the grateful dead
someone must liberate
the ship of state
one must steadily operate
even courtesy motley skeleton crew
captained, governed, and trumpeted
by weird Wharton wimp
linkedin to leitmotif reprobate
with lips he doth undulate
poisoning the fresh air
and poll looting the audiological
and visual realm of vulnerable listeners
courtesy radio and television waves.
Winston Churchill (novelist)
(Nov. 10, 1871 – Mar. 12, 1947)
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
For the literary career of the British statesman of the same name, see Winston Churchill as writer.

Born November 10, 1871
St. Louis, Missouri, US
Died March 12, 1947 (aged 75)
Winter Park, Florida, US
Occupation Novelist, writer
Genre
Non-fiction
Short story
Historical fiction
Notable works
Mr. Crewe's Career
Mr. Keegan's Elopement
Coniston
The Crossing
A Far Country
A Traveller In War-Time
Spouse Mabel Harlakenden Hall

​(m. 1895; died 1945)​
Children 3
Winston Churchill (November 10, 1871 – March 12, 1947) was an American best-selling novelist of the early 20th century.

He is nowadays overshadowed, even as a writer, by the more famous British statesman of the same name, to whom he was not closely related.

Early life
Churchill was born in St. Louis, Missouri, the son of Edward Spalding Churchill by his marriage to Emma Bell Blaine. He attended Smith Academy in Missouri and the United States Naval Academy, where he graduated in 1894. At the Naval Academy, he was conspicuous in scholarship and also in general student activities. He became an expert fencer and he organized at Annapolis the first eight-oared crew, which he captained for two years. After graduation he became an editor of the Army and Navy Journal. He resigned from the U.S. Navy to pursue a writing career. In 1895, he became managing editor of the Cosmopolitan Magazine, but in less than a year he retired from that, to have more time for writing.[1] While he would be most successful as a novelist, he was also a published poet and essayist.

Career
His first novel to appear in book form was The Celebrity (1898). However, Mr. Keegan's Elopement had been published in 1896 as a magazine serial and was republished as an illustrated hardback book in 1903. Churchill's next novel—Richard Carvel (1899) — was a phenomenal success. The novel was the third best-selling work of American fiction in 1899 and eighth-best in 1900, according to Alice Hackett's 70 Years of Best Sellers. It sold some two million copies in a nation of only 76 million people, and made Churchill rich. His other commercially successful novels included The Crisis (1901), The Crossing (1904), Coniston (1906), Mr. Crewe's Career (1908) and The Inside of the Cup (1913), all of which ranked first on the best-selling American novel list in the years indicated.[2]

Churchill's early novels were historical, but his later works were set in contemporary America. He often sought to include his political ideas into his novels.


Churchill at his home, Windsor, Vermont
In 1898, Churchill commissioned Charles Platt to design a mansion in Cornish, New Hampshire. Churchill moved there the following year and named it Harlakenden House. From 1913 to 1915, he leased it to Woodrow Wilson, who used it as his summer residence. Churchill became involved in the Cornish Art Colony and went into politics, winning election to the state legislature in 1903 and 1905.[3] In 1906, he unsuccessfully sought the Republican nomination for governor of New Hampshire. In 1912, he was nominated as the Progressive candidate for governor but did not win the election and did not seek public office again. In 1917, he toured the battlefields of World War I and wrote his first non-fiction work about what he saw.

Sometime after the move to Cornish, he took up painting in watercolors and became known for his landscapes. Some of his works are in the collections of the Hood Museum of Art (part of Hopkins Center for the Arts at Dartmouth College) in Hanover, New Hampshire, and the Saint-Gaudens National Historic Site in Cornish, New Hampshire.

In 1919, Churchill decided to stop writing and withdrew from public life. He was gradually forgotten by the public. In 1923, Harlakenden House burned down. The Churchills moved to an 1838 Federal estate, part of the Cornish Colony called Windfield House (now called Hillside) at 23 Freeman Road in Plainfield, furnishing it with items saved from the fire.[4] In 1940, The Uncharted Way, his first book in twenty years, was published. The book examined Churchill's thoughts on religion. He did not seek to publicize the book and it received little attention. Shortly before his death, he said, "It is very difficult now for me to think of myself as a writer of novels, as all that seems to belong to another life."

Death
Churchill died in Winter Park, Florida, in 1947 of a heart attack. He was predeceased in 1945 by his wife of fifty years, the former Mabel Harlakenden Hall.[5] He is featured on a New Hampshire historical marker (number 16) along New Hampshire Route 12A in Cornish.[6]

Churchill and his wife had three children. Their son John Dwight Winston Churchill was married to Mary Deshon Hand, daughter of Judge Learned Hand.[7] Another son Creighton Churchill was a well-known writer on wines.[8][9] Journalist Chris Churchill of Albany, New York is his great-grandson.[10]

The British statesman
In the 1890s, Churchill's writings first came to be confused with those of the British writer with the same name. At that time, the American was the much better known of the two, and it was the Englishman who wrote to his American counterpart about the confusion their names were causing among their readers.[11]

They agreed that the British Churchill should adopt the pen name "Winston Spencer Churchill", using his full surname, "Spencer-Churchill". After a few early editions this was abbreviated to "Winston S. Churchill"—which remained the British Churchill's pen name. The two men arranged to meet on two occasions when one of them happened to be in the other's country, but were never closely acquainted.[12]

Their lives had some other coincidental parallels. They both gained their tertiary education at service colleges and briefly served (during the same period) as officers in their respective countries' armed forces (one was a naval officer, the other an army officer). Both Churchills were keen amateur painters, as well as writers. Both were also politicians, although the British Churchill's political career was far more illustrious.[13]

Works
Novels
Mr. Keegan's Elopement in magazine format (1896)
The Celebrity (1898)
Richard Carvel (1899)
The Crisis (1901)
Mr. Keegan's Elopement in hardback (1903)
The Crossing (1904)
Coniston (1906)
Mr. Crewe's Career (1908)
A Modern Chronicle (1910)
The Inside of the Cup (1913)
A Far Country (1915)
The Dwelling-Place of Light (1917)
Other writings
Richard Carvel; Play produced on Broadway, (1900–1901)
The Crisis; Play produced on Broadway, (1902)
The Crossing; Play produced on Broadway, (1906)
The Title Mart; Play produced on Broadway, (1906)
A Traveller In War-Time (1918)
Dr. Jonathan; A play in three acts (1919)
The Uncharted Way (1940)
Ryan O'Leary Sep 2020
And, we are surrounded
by water, to boot, but at
least now I can see why
they made the biggest
county of Cork, because
up north where they are
experts in sinking, they
have a county called Down,
Belfast being part of it
and as we are aware it was
home to a submersible liner
known as the Titanic which
was captained by a Scotsman
who apparently thought the
iceberg tip was an isosceles
igloo that Eskimos used as
an outside toilet with a long
drop, when the S Bend was
frozen at the local ******
which was called the Isobar.

— The End —