Gauguin or Michener
horizon lust inspired,
The South Pacific desired.
From early childhood on.
Fiji in the 70’s all alone in
A Personal journey of self
and world discovery.

From the big island of
Viti Levu, embarked
on native small boat, fifty
miles out to the Yasawa group.
Reaching tiny Yaqeta with
300 souls living close to the bone,
No Running water, or electric spark
glowing. Remarkably bright stars
shine at night, no city lights showing
to hide their heavenly glow.

Unspoiled Melanesian Island people
Meagerly surviving only on the sea
and a thousand plus years of tradition.

I welcomed like a friend of long
standing, with smiling faces and
open sprits. Once eaters of other
humans beings, converted now to
Methodist believers.

Their Island beautiful beyond belief,
Azure pristine seas in every direction,
Coral reefs abounding with aquatic life.
Paradise found and deeply appreciated.
I swam and fished, played with the kids
and laid about in my hammock, enjoying
weeks of splendor alongside people
I came to revere, generous and loving
at peace with themselves and nature,
Embracing a stranger like a family member.

My small transistor radio warned big
Cyclone brewing, of Hurricane proportions.
My thoughts turned to Tidal Waves.
The village and all those people
living a few feet above sea level.
Tried to express my concerns to
my host family and others, getting
but smiles and shrugs in return.
Spoken communication almost
nonexistent, me no Fijian spoken,
Them, little English understood.

It started with rain, strong winds,
Worsening building by the minute.
The villagers’ merely tightening down
the hatches of their stick, thatch houses.
Content it seemed to ride out the storm,
As I assumed they always did.

Shouldering heavy backpack
I hugged my friends and headed
for high ground, the ridgebacks
of low mountains, the backbones
of the Island. Feeling guilty leaving
them to their fate from high water.
Perplexed, they ignored my warnings.

In half an hour winds strong enough
to take me off my feet, blowing even
from the other side of the Island.
On a ridge flank I hunkered down,
pulled rubber poncho over my body,
Laying in watershed running inches deep
cascading down slopes to the sea below.

The wind grew to astounding ferocity,
Later gusts reported approaching 160
miles per hour. Pushing me along
the ground closer to the cliff edge
and a 80 foot plunge to the sea below,
Clinging to cliff with fingers and toes.

For three hours it raged, trees blowing
off the summit above, disappearing into
the clouds and stormy wet mist beyond.

A false calm came calling, the eye of the
Cyclone hovered over the Island, as I
picked my drenched self up and made my
way over blown down trees and scattered
storm debris to the Village of my hosts.

Most wooden, tin roofed structures gone
or caved in, the few Island boats broken
and thrown up onto the land. Remarkably
many of the small one room “Bure” thatched
huts still stood. Designed by people that knew
the ways if big winds.

The high waves had not come as I feared.
Badly damaged, yet the village endured,
As did most of the people, some broken
bones, but, mercifully, no worse.

Back with my host family, in their Bure,
new preparations ensued, the big winds I
was informed would now return from the
opposite direction, and would be even worse.

For another four hours the little grass and
stick House shook, nearly rising from the
ground, held together only by woven vine
ropes, and hope, additional ropes looped
over roof beams held down by our bare
hands. Faith and old world knowledge
is a wonderful thing.

Two days past and no one came to check on
the Island, alone the people worked to save
their planted gardens from the salt water
contaminated ground, cleaned up debris and
set to mending their grass homes. The only fresh
Water well still unpolluted was busily used.

With a stoic resolve, from these self-reliant people,
life seemed to go on, this not the first wind blown
disaster they had endured, Cyclones I learned
came every year, though this one, named “Bebe”
worst in the memories of the old men of the island.

On the third day a boy came running,
having spotted and hailed a Motor yacht,
which dropped anchor in the lagoon on the
opposite side of the Island.

I swam out to the boat and was welcomed
aboard by the Australian skipper and crew.
Shared a cold Coke, ham sandwich and tales
of our respective adventures of surviving.
They agreed to carry me back to the Big Island.

A crewman returned me ashore in a dingy.
I crossed the island and retrieved my things,
Bidding and hugging my friends in farewell.
I asked permission to write a story about the
storm and the village, the elders' smiles agreed,
they had nothing to loose, seemed pleased.

One last time I traversed the island and stepped
Into the yachts small rowboat, my back to
the island. Hearing a commotions I turned
seeing many people gathering along the
shores beach. I climbed out and went among
them, hugging most in farewell, some and
me too with tears in our eyes, fondness, respect
reflected, shared, received.

As the skiff rowed away  halfway to the ship,
the Aussie mate made a motion with his eyes
and chin, back towards the beach.

Turning around in my seat I saw there
most of the island population, gathered,
many held aloft small pieces of colored cloth,
tiny flags of farewell waving in the breeze,
they were singing, chanting a island song,
slow, like a lament of sorts.

Overwhelmed, I stood and faced the shore,
opened wide my arms, as to embrace them all,
tears of emotions unashamedly ran down my face.
Seeing the people on the beach, the Aussie crewman
intoned, “****** marvelous that. Good on 'ya mate.”

Yes, I remember Fiji and Cyclone Bebe, most of all
I fondly remember my Island brothers and sisters.

                                    End

Dear Ms. Doering,

     Over the past two months of free reading I have read the book, Unbroken, by Laura Hillenbrand. The genre of the book is biography since it retells the life of Louie Zamperini during World War II. The book contains 496 pages. I chose this book because my brother and mom read this book and absolutely loved it. They showed it to me, and I decided to give it a try.

     This book is about Louie Zamperini who rises to become a track star at UCLA and a member of the 1936 Olympic Team in Berlin. In Berlin he meets Adolf ****** and also steals one of ******’s personal flags. When WWII breaks out, he enlists in the Army Air Force division and becomes a crewman on a B-24 bomber. After passing training, he is sent overseas where he is shot down over the Pacific Ocean. He survives a record 47 days at sea on a life raft only to be captured by the Japanese. They move Louie to a training camp and somehow he lives despite horrible torture and treatment to be released after the war ends. One key topic in this story is how people from all walks of life, including superstar athletes, joined the war cause. This really stood out to me because nowadays you can barely get people to think about war let alone get professional athletes to join the army in a time of need. One literary element that stood out to me during the course of the book was indirect characterization. We learn about how Louie feels about going into war by his description of the setting. He describes the land by being “empty” and “ghastly” which tell us that he is somewhat scared and uncomfortable about the war.

     I found this book to be a lot more interesting than some other biography books that I have read in the past. Some biographies are very boring, but this one contained events you might see in an adventure thriller. This might possibly be the first biography that I really enjoyed reading. I would recommend this book to anyone looking for an adventure book while also wanted to learn a little bit about the history of WWII. This book is a little long with a lot of words but isn’t a particularly hard read.

     One thing I noticed while reading this book is the constant loss of life there is during time of war. I always thought that death came in spurts during war but it seems like there is lots of death that the media and the common person doesn’t notice. I am doing great on my free reading goals this trimester and don’t see any reason to make adjustments. The book I plan to read next is, The Book Thief, Markus Zusak. My mom read this book and really enjoyed it so I thought I might as well give it a try.

From,
Matt McDaniels

The call me...Captain Swurve.
They call me Captain Swurvey
They say my heart's half gone
As it's plagued with rot and scurvy!
They said I'd chase the sunset
And drink us all to drought
I said nay boys, I'll follow the tides
And leave no liquor-starved crewman without.
Now, as the legend rests
Just like the setting sun
I'll dream of pretty wenches
That did my poor heart shun
And raise my flask o' whiskey
And tip up my old gun
And wish that it was ***.
Surrounded by the sea
Of people looking over me
The captain that I've always wished that I could have the ***** to be,
Is not exactly what he seems.

I'm the captain, sodden and somber.
I own no land, and I owe no man no man's land, which is a place I've chosen to wander.
Take that as you will, I take wasteland as a million metaphors, dried up, littered on, desert that used to be a golden shore. Back then Bikini Babes would just come to right up you and ask you to rub tanning lotion on their backs, and you somehow didn't even have to flirt to feel attractive.
                                                     ­             This place doesn't exist.
                                                      I made it up. That beach never had any water.
There was no such thing. Like perfect pitch, or total bliss or uncontrollable mental disorders.        

Yeah, I owe barrenness to y'all. I'd never get any peace and quiet, or the zen of a much needed vacation
                                           without that feeling you get in a crowd of total isolation.

It's hummmmmmming....of a million minds, a crowd of buzzzzzzing bumble *******, deciphering my metaphors.
**** metaphors, listen to what I speak, when I'm not up on a pedestal.

You know I used to want to be an astronomer? Just a fun fact.
Not because I never had enough tact to be an actor,
Just because I was always rather apt
                    to just sit back
                                   and watch the
rapture.

Bowl of popcorn over here on the left.
Bottle of **** right here on the right.
And the most beautiful woman God could create, raining down her fiery scorn on me, loving every minute of this cataclysmic *******.
I am Captain Swurvey       and       I        like      to      ****.
Everything beautiful is useful to me,
Everything else just *****.
And whether I want you to or not, you'll probably believe every word I say.
STOP.

I am Captain Swurve
And I am sailing swervingly
Unsettling the neighbors and uprooting your search for worth and immortality.
I do it because people with a purpose make me nervous,
Looking only at the surface
                                           You never go much deeper
                                            And I'm skimming along on that surface,
                                             But all I ever yearned for was the chance to dive overboard
                                               And drown myself in the deep end of your ocean.

I'd like to see your coral reefs, and be swept up by all sorts of riptides, and undercurrents, and
maybe
just maybe
I'd really love to see the bottom before I die.

I imagine all beautiful lights. That no one has ever seen. It's another world down there. And well...

                                                        ­                                          You know I've always wanted to see your Marianas Trench...

Switch around, we're in space, I'm sailing through the sun storms, desperately reaching as far out as I can only to crash on the rocks of your atmosphere.  Reeling off, and spinning past millenia, knowing there would never be enough space in the universe to keep us apart for too long. You couldn't hear me scream, but if you'd let me in there...you would have heard the battle crying inside me. If your brain's synapses are stars, then your heart is one insignificant little planet amidst the skies that by some stroke of hell managed to create life as I know it.

That metaphor
has been done before
I'm used up
i'm not original BUT
GOD
**** IT
I can't be the only person who's ever fallen in love.         I wouldn't ever want to be.    
Because then you wouldn't see much in me. Without these seeds... It'd be kind of like a wasteland.
But *******,
I am so glad
That humans learned how to plant.


Talk about self-absorbed, this kid writes a poem about his own celebrity persona which he pretty much invented! Well, there have been some modifications I can't take credit for.

You choose what you want to believe about me.
But I am just a person
My name is Captain Swurvey.

...

The small stone fell from a ledge
in a study somewhere
and dropped into a travel bag.

Later the bag was picked up and carried away.

Much later still it was put in a car
being placed on the back seat. The car was
then driven to a port where it was taken off
the seat of the car and carried on-board
a cruise ship. The cruise ship was about
to sail up the Norwegian Fjords. It sailed
there quite frequently, though not
exclusively as it also sailed
around the Mediterranean Sea.

The bag was taken to and placed in
one of the luxurious staterooms.The
owner of the bag and her husband
were celebrating an important event
by enjoying a journey that they had
always promised themselves. The bag
eventually ended up on the deck as the
husband had fetched it for his wife
for an object that it contained. In
getting that thing out, the small
stone got caught up in it somehow
and was pulled out of the bag and
fell onto the deck of the ship,
whereupon it started to roll about.

Ultimately the stone found its way
to the stairs down to the lower deck
where it found a gap to lodge in. The
cruise ship sailed into the fjords
during a sudden heavy storm causing
much turbulence not only on the ship
but in a number of the passengers
stomachs, one of whom, a drinking man
I chance, could not contain himself,
and he was violently sick. The storm
abated however, and all was well.

A crewman took on the task of
cleaning up after the apparently
bibulous gentleman and washed down
the deck, and in doing so, washed
the small stone through a gap,
specially there for the deck washing
purpose, and into the fjord whereupon
it sank to the very deep bottom.

Such are the mysteries of life, but
in that one pebble's journey you can
gauge the unpredictable future of
every man, woman and child and creature
on Earth.

Isn't life utterly bewildering?

It is unlikely that the ever-moving tides
in the fjord will not have moved it elsewhere
many times since it fell in off the ship,
out of the bag, out of the car, into the car,
into the bag, and off the shelf
in the first place.

How it arrived on the shelf is
a story for another day.

Utterly bewildering!



©Joe Wilson - The pebble of life...2014

At dawn
               thunder rises and lightning falls
A black spot in middle of a road
Closer and closer – a wobbling black spot
A bicyclist unaware of the gods

Slow-pedaling through a nowhere of despair
A corpse, fragments of skin still on its bones
It turns and grins, a crewman on that ship
And in its veins that rotting albatross

At dawn
              grimacing through rotting-teeth breath
A wereling wobbling in existential death

One who is capable of bringing a life on this Earth,
Why is considered nothing but dirt?

One who was before worshiped for all our needs,
Why today disrespected to fulfil our inhuman deeds?

One who, for our good, is ready to have the forbidden fruit,
Why is it so difficult to return her the gratitude?

One whose purity and warmth is filled with magic,
Why her everyday is made tragic?

Never underestimate the power of a woman,
As the ship sinks without the most important crewman.

Seeing someone every day
is not seeing them,
not in the way of knowing
ourselves, marked by a milestone on a rocky trail
or a spring growing back with azaleas and pollen
and a canopy of elms.

Instead the confetti of moments we’ve traveled together
whirl into the patternless vortex of now
and we don’t know where we find ourselves.
  
Yet I thought of you the other day
and a painting you gave to me when we first loved.
It showed a man diving into the ocean toward mermaids
Who sat on an island, watching.

Next to the image were words from a Jerry Butler song,
“Isle of the Sirens,” about a ship’s crewman lured by temptation.  
"The voices got louder
They sing beautiful things in my ear
I must go to that island of women
I must see these creatures I hear
Love is blind and desires have no fear."
The captain warns him that surrendering
to the siren song is a betrayal.
"Keep course, cried the Captain
Ignore them and let them be
Straight ahead, cried the Captain
Set on by and stay free
Remember laws of mutiny"
The man jumps anyway.
"'Old man, you know nothing
Of temptation
And desires are heaven to me.'
And off he leaped into the sea."

When you showed this to me, at first I thought I
was the man, giving in to temptation.
Only later did I understand that you were the man,
A black woman hearing a siren song
from a white man who lured her with desire and love.
We know the fate of those who leap at the sirens’ lure.
You broke the laws of mutiny.  

Something in my daily cogito has kept this memory close,
reminds me that you leapt
And you’re still here.

Here we are now, in the time of COVID-19,
alone together, shut out of the world,
sleeping in each other’s shadow
bored by each other’s demons,
walking past the blank of each other’s  mirrors.
But I still hear that song.  
Can you still hear it, love?  
Would you still make the leap?

Language is a man made construct
Just like time which, I don’t know about you but it always leaves me ******
Yet how is it that a thing created by us
Can decide which words are fine and which are a cuss?
And how is it that this wide intricate system
Can spread hatred across nations but also instill wisdom?
I’m confused at the concept and why it’s misused
Some are enriched by it and others abused
Why do we sling racial slurs at our brothers
And shout things we wouldn’t dare say in front of our mothers
She’d slap you into next month if she heard the words coming from your mouth
I don’t blame her one bit it brings us back to the old south
It’s disgusting and vile
Each awful word should be held up on trial
Let’s rise up together and eliminate the feeling of being low
And let’s please band as a team and silence Jim Crow
Because no one deserves to feel like they’re less than human
No matter if you’re a CEO or a day and night crewman
I don’t get the point of wasting this gift
On the feeble minded idiots who think they’re so swift
But in reality they’re just ignorant and insolent fools
No more useful than broken and rusted garden tools
I’m not saying we should get rid of them
I’m just saying their presence is as about as appealing as phlegm
And I don’t know about you but I think that ****’s nasty
And I think our whole world needs to change beyond vastly
Because by not educating these people who think they’re hot ****
Our society grows more divided slow bit by bit
And before we know it we’re moving back in time
Regressing from our progress and adding more grime
To the already difficult world we live in
The ice that we tread on is getting quite thin
And I’m telling you it’s time for us to make a change
And if no one agrees then fine I’ll seem deranged
But I’m so sick and tired of the anger and violence
I hate the news and these killers who are crazy and tireless
You may think I’m getting political but that’s not my intent
On making a difference is where I’m hell bent
Think what you want and do just the same
But when your family is in danger then who will you blame?
You didn’t act for a cause or voice your opinion
Now you might as well be a follower or one of the mindless minions
Running around like a headless chicken
The moment it affects your life only then will you quicken
And it’s comical to me how the politicians they stammer
Because there lives aren’t in jeopardy yet still outside we clammer
And their doors are made of prejudice and history
Why it’s doomed to repeat itself is clearly no mystery
It’s happening now, don’t you see it taking place?
These high and mighty ******* are trying to save face
But come on we know what’s really going on
They expect us to hold hands and sing a peaceful song
But we won’t and we’re ****** and signs only get us so far
It makes me sad reading about another person plowed down by a car
Or this time was it a van?
What’s next? Will the people ask for a ban?
As I told you before I’m not getting political
It’s actually repulsive yet some think it’s trivial
We blame the things that people use to ****
The guns and the weapons that give them the thrill
But what about the other things that cause more death
Like cars and alcohol or even ******* ****
I’m sorry it doesn’t makes sense
I’m doing my best and hence
This obscure piece of writing was born
About sharing it with the world clearly I was torn
But I decided it would be worth it
And in the current situation might fit
Say what you want and still I’ll stay moderate
But if you use your words for evil
You better be ready to get hit and swallow back wads of your own ****** spit
Because no one is having a plate of what division is serving
Every single person on this earth is unique and deserving
And why we can’t all just love is a thought too beyond me
I hope for a world where our eyes open and see
I can’t even keep it all straight
All the incessant backlash and insurmountable hate
If you don’t use your words then what’s the point of our language
How about we use it for good and get rid of the anguish
I know this was long and thanks for bearing with my message
Now let’s all work together because I’ll be ****** if our generation is just another percentage

A glorious ship sets sail,
Robust engines begin to fire.
A billowing cloud marks their trail
Whisking along, climbing higher.
Soon to find they’re moving frail,
Over-capacity, the engines tire.
Panic… passengers want to bail
Before the ships fatigue is dire.
“The ships too big to fail”,
Assured the disguised liar
Over the radio in a voice so stale,
He sold the tickets to every buyer.
Acting like there’s no need to worry
The crew continues out to sea,
News on board spreads in a hurry,
The passengers whisper quietly.
The crewman shouting, “all aboard!”,
They look around, only to see,
Transport of the vaulted horde
As their count exceeds capacity.
For profit loomed so temptingly,
Blighted the soul in greedy begrime,
Of that owner who sits at home,
The culprit in this unwatched crime
As the magistrate declared he’s free to roam.
Back on the ship, the haul is flooding,
So abrupt, they had no time.
Sinking further to the depths and sure to drown,
They let out a last and desperate horn to chime,
As water rising—muffled the sound.
“We’ll do everything we can!”,
Exclaims the man who’s pockets lined,
Pays off investigators to seal his plan,
A freak accident without blame to find,
Invisible strings puppeteer,
The death of thousands into happenstance,
Foul play at the hands of a financier,
Onto his next venture without a second glance.
Perhaps one day a corrected fate
Will rise in the eyes of history,
And right the legacy of our current state,
Shedding light on the darkness of the shadow of inequality.