"caravel" poems
An enchanted caravel beside the quay,
sailing away from its intimate port
The ocean breeze will decide the way,
seeking adventure of any sort
A siren enchantress, a beautiful sound,
as the ship is precariously careening
A beastly Kraken has been found;
The enchanted crew beseeching,
“Let us please continue our Journey, beast”
The Siren and Kraken seem charmed
The mystical creatures could care in the least,
if the magical crew was harmed
And so the caravel took up its sail,
and turned it on its side
Taking to the skies it would not fail,
among the stars it will hide.
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 4:00 PM UTC
We should be finished by next fall. Last autumn was a good time and I hear history repeats itself. Sleeping under trees, smoking Lucky Strikes and tending to our hobbies. Lackadaisically bent over antediluvian scrapbooks, I hear this winter's to melt into a flood. The ark is under way, we should be finished by next fall.
It was something in the calm drift of the clouds or the tick-tick of the water meter. There was us and then there was them. We were flushed, the world was bluffing. There was us:
Deep breath.
We were the lost children roaming 'round Cair Paravel; the boxed kit youth unboxing on a caravel watching hypnotic YouTube videos and firing fire out of firewood; that was when I fell. Beside the flames under cover of conversation of God and Hell and all the proper nouns that we fear so much. But fires burn out, so let's be civil. We should be finished by next fall.
But how can I be civil when I hope that your spit flies back in your face; that when you flick your wrist, your muscles tear because I've torn too. It's torn past the heart into my legs, immobile, and my arms, useless. These hands are cramped and shredded; scraps and pieces and bits, drill bits carving their way in. You carved your way in. They say an animal in a tailor-made niche is an animal in a found home. So carve away, carver, we should be finished by next fall.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 6:37 PM UTC
set down on satin lining
velvet box laid cautiously
placed on top of other cargo
for the voyage on the sea
strands of precious shining stones
stowed in Captain's quarters
second mate stood by to guard
it was the Captain's orders
secured and safely in the hold
I had no need to fret
the lateen sails were readied
drawn up the mast and set
sun shone brilliant, sky so clear
along Africa's gold coast shore
the journey would be smooth
captain couldn't have asked for more
with Portugal as destination
and royalty waiting there
crew's footsteps scurried on the deck
there was excitement in the air
the caravel set out to sail
'twas in the sixth month of the year
that traditional wedding time
and the date was coming near
the date I had to be delivered
for the princess bride to be
to be worn above her ***** fair
sparkling gems from 'cross the sea
I'll match her love-filled eyes
and complete the four required
not sure of old or new or borrowed
but for blue she'll have sapphire.
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 2:34 PM UTC
Across thousands of miles
you lay your claim on me
with your purple stockings.
My body is your riot, full
of blood's disobedience
& a climbing incandescence.
I am your lamp. Coyly
you insinuate provocative
thoughts. I'm helpless,
I'm guttering like a candle
on a caravel, burning
despite the danger.
Thousands of miles, but
there is only me and you
and a thin, thin stretch of purple.
Jun 16, 2019
Jun 16, 2019 at 2:39 PM UTC
You are somewhere between
my coffee eye and
the toffee thighs of
the earth, bunching
into mountains,
scaffold to rivers.
You are something between
the wide words of Andric and
the wide words of your own,
a caravel in
the high tide
of my chest.
Apr 30, 2019
Apr 30, 2019 at 1:35 PM UTC
I like to dive on a sunken wreck
If the sea is not too rough,
The seabed’s littered with carcasses
I never can get enough,
They range from the Roman caravel,
With the huge, high mounted prow,
To the dinosaurs of steel, from wars,
Still roaming the oceans now.
Some of them lie not far offshore
So the water’s not too deep,
I can trail an oxy line down there
Up to a hundred feet,
But a scuba tank I would have to thank
For the freedom to explore,
Deep in the bowels of a sunken ship
In the search for gold moidores.
I dived one blustery Autumn day
In a well known coastal rip,
The sea rose up and carried me off
Away from my chosen ship,
But through the gloom of that Autumn storm
There loomed an exciting shape,
The remains of a Spanish Galleon,
Blown way off course by the Cape.
All I could see was the galleon stern
With the Bon-Adventure mast,
Broken off and above the mud
It had settled in, at last,
I wriggled in through a window frame
And I found the Captain’s den,
Complete with the Captain’s skull and bones
Back from I don’t know when.
The figure sat at a writing desk
Sprawled in an ancient chair,
The wood of each was well preserved
And so was the Captain’s hair,
A flintlock pistol lay on the desk
Next to the dead man’s hand,
A bullet hole in the bleached white skull
As the ship sank into the sand.
I knew that gold lay under the mud,
I’d have to come back and search,
But just as the storm was blowing up
The galleon gave a lurch,
It freed itself from its clinging grave
And started to float away,
And I swam out as it disappeared,
Lost to this very day.
For somewhere under the heaving sea
It sails, but under the swell,
Back where its sailors sailed before
When they were consigned to hell.
It roams abroad with its hoard of gold
And may well settle again,
Along with its phantom Captain, but
Will never be seen by men.
David Lewis Paget
Aug 19, 2017
Aug 19, 2017 at 10:47 PM UTC
So, I left the land that has seen me grow
A land where crops were watered with tears
Full of hope, full of questions
What if my demons could swim….
Will I be met with treasures or foreign arrows?
Shall I taste *** or blood?
A fertile land or the plague?
Such myths were told about those far-away places…
I have heard about palaces full of gold
Islands inhabited by mermaids
Leviathan and krakens
But all I can feel is the wind rushing through my ears
Last night I caught up with my fears.
Different place, different live?
Now it is the sea that is tasting my tears.
Tonight if I don’t sleep with the sirens, I’ll be sleeping with my doubts.
Jan 29, 2019
Jan 29, 2019 at 1:24 AM UTC