"ferries" poems
Sometimes
I feel a well
dug deep
into my heart
I try to stop it
but it quickly
becomes ocean
and overflows
into great tsunami
rises over all the levees
rushes past dams
breaks down tall
city structures,
edifices crumbling
in its path
all the squid and octopi
skitting forth
in wild pulses,
tentacles entangled
in doorways and rooves
slipping through narrow
window-openings
as they pour ink
in clouds,
shifting shapes
in cephalopod excitement
while blue whales
and humpbacks
breach over bridges,
phosphorescent jellies
light up
the dark streets of
my arteries
electric eels illuminate
the alleyways of
desolation's thick syrup
and I cannot stop it even
if I wanted to,
these darkened,
swirling waves
I am both floating and flying
like a jumping manta ray
curling around the ferries
bobbing in seahorse iridescence
weaving between buses
as if they were corals
And when the storm subsides,
colorful rockpools form,
rich in diversity
It is there,
in between the
multicolored ***** and
succulent shellfish,
in a mermaid's
voluptuous smile
and turquoise eye
that I see you,
so crystal clear
I could reach out
and bring you to me,
holding you tight
until the
gentle break
of
morning
Sep 3, 2017
Sep 3, 2017 at 5:31 PM UTC
Welcome Back To This, Your Isle
The rabbits beneath the deck,
Even the pesky deer who eat the shrubbery,
Sea creatures, living and spirits of the dead,
Lying on the paths and in the creeks of Silver Beach,
All inquire:
Was it better wherever you went?
Were the:
Bears, hiding in the forests outside Berlin,
Eagles, double headed, of Russia
Herring, fried, creamed, wined,
From the vendors on the docks of
Helsinki, Riga, Visby and Tallinn,
Salmon, smoked and cured in Stockholm,
More impressive,
Tastier than our striped bass,
Island cohorts of yours, who waited patiently
For their chronicler to return?
Did the Little Mermaid and her Dolphin
Guardians of the Port of Copenhagen
Welcome you more warmly than your friends,
The ospreys, lizards, turtles and owls
Who overwatch your steps and safety
When hiking in Mashomack Preserve?
Are the interlacing tidal creeks,
Woodlands, fields, salt marshes and the ragged,
Irregular but charmed coastline of this cherished island
Any lesser than those of Scandinavia?
Are the sea-going ferries that transverse the
Baltic Sea and the Gulf of Finland,
More poetic than the Menantic or the Lt. Joe,
Who carry you swiftly home to us?
The National Geographic people say that in
Tivoli Gardens, The Amerikaner (ha!) waffle ice cream cone
Is one of the ten best in the world.
Guessing they have not made it yet to the
Tuck Shop for some Moose Tracks!
Were you unaware that our isle settled before
Peter the Great ever envisioned creating the grand
Boulevards of his capitol, St. Petersburg,
Route 114 was a traveled forest path,
By settlers and Indians, not serfs.
Of the Treasures, the Gold Room of the Hermitage,
The Amber Room of Catherine's Palace,
Wrote not a single word, we observe.
Your attentions, they did not deserve?
The answers all, self evident.
Here, surrounded by the gentle breezes of
Long Island Sound and Gardiners Bay,
Sweet and salty flavors of the Peconic atmosphere,
Words unlocked, from your eyes to the page fall,
Smudged by joyous tears, for the muses of the island
Have embraced you yet again and rebirthed
Inspiration, within their comforting, sheltering grasp.
Silver Beach
July 22, 2012
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 4:50 PM UTC
The salted air elates a feeling of real real.
And by real real, I mean the realist real there is.
Child like intuition and loss in present ecstasy
Underlying a layered and angsted mind.
I loved a psychopath as a best friend
But finally
His confusion clawed at my chakras with convoluted and displaced passion
But on Protection Island
I feel
Protected.
Whether the next sunrise meets me through the dingy drapes of a budget hostel, awash in a strange and urban melancholy wrapped warmly on all sides
Or on a windy beach with the blue flow of sparkled wash and distant cloud capped peaks and Dover-beacon ferries which remind me of novelty globes and my father
The buzz of early morning travel as a child
I will be fine.
To lighten my load I hid The Dhamapada and St. Francis of Assisi in the hopes and faith that they would be left in peace blanketed in underbrush
Being peacefully caressed by ocean wind and the beautifully dilapidated wood-house
The protectors warm grin of welcome.
I want to feel okay again
And I feel like okay is finally waking up from her peaceful slumber
Returning from vacation to remind and comfort my unassured and pummeled mind
Like a lover returning from a followed dream
A long, warm embrace which says it all
No words for I love you
Just a feeling and oneness as old as the world itself.
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 4:52 PM UTC
I float paper boats in the rain
Water ferries them from lane to lane
On them I write morning, evening and noon
Just to see how they vanish how soon
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 1:11 AM UTC
The recipe for chocolate dipped strawberries
fresh ripen strawberries red and plump
given by the sugar plum ferries
Belgian chocolate wrapped in a 1/2lb bag
carefully selected picked by hand
just for you was written on the little tag
Place a pan over the heat on a low setting
wash the berries but be gentle and soft
to perfection of confection you are heading
Take the chocolate pieces one at a time
place them in the pan to slowly melt
be patient everything is just fine
Stir the chocolate in a very slow pace
careful now don't let it burn
this isn't a cook off or a race
When the chocolate is melted remove from heat
next you dip the strawberries till its covered
then place your berries on cookie sheet
Place berries in a cool place so it don't melt
freeze the rest of what you didn't use
I believe a little bit of bliss you felt
When you and your man are cozy in bed
have your confection ready to be served
give one to him so you can be fed
I'm sure he will ask where did learn this
all you have to say from a recipe
then you give him a passionate kiss
Nov 17, 2009
Nov 17, 2009 at 8:25 AM UTC
Ferryman, ferryman don't come for me,
the children sing freely
in the bright sunlight.
When gathered together on a dark
stormy night...
they pull covers over heads
to stay out of sight.
He takes the coins
from the eyes of the dead.
His payment for the travels
he plans ahead.
When payment is made
he guides his guests
to make their final hopeless quest.
He beckons with a gruesome smile
and they board his craft with little guile.
The river is swift...the river is long...
He ferries them right along until he
crosses the river when he blows his horn.
He looks around and all are gone.
It is said on dark lonely nights,
the Ferryman is out to fright.
Who dares to board his ferry boat
are the dead who have lost all hope.
When innocent children hear his horn
they run like hell to beat his harm.
Oct 17, 2010
Oct 17, 2010 at 7:40 AM UTC
You tripped off your feet
Then stepped on something that pip,
It goes boom; and you go woom!
You reached the heaven,
But got rejected—
So you entered hell,
Full of wiles, trying to be
The villain in their eyes;
Yet, Satan was out of the house
Fighting angels and God for wows;
With no choice Charon ferries you
Back to where the happy are few.
Aug 26, 2025
Aug 26, 2025 at 10:36 PM UTC
Sweet sounds of waves softly lap
On flecks of sun dipped copper sands
With gentleness the water swirls
In a kiss of frothy love on land
Splash of oars on a cobalt sea
While songs of sailors wane and fade
Aboard the ships of destiny
A cruise on an ocean's serenade
The sea gull swoops, oh hear the cries
Flap of wings fluttering the dock
Ferries roll on routes of spice
Midst the clap of waves on rocks
Crests of water heave and ebb
Touched by scales of coral scents
Whispers born in the wind
Sing of pirates, silk legends
In murmurs 'twixt rippling waves
Dreams float 'neath a setting sun
Whisked like boats in a river's flow
That sail across to meet oceans
Love notes of romance in the waters
Rhythm at feet, soaking wet
Dancing waves stir the heart
In a melody from the ocean's breath
In cadence pleasant when tis dark
On a night when moon and stars are laid
When the sky shines with silver light
The breeze plays music of mermaids
Though now no storm, 'tis serene
Soon the winds will ravage, rave
On this quilt of aquamarine
In a cacophony of thunderous rage
But for now, 'tis the conch, the shell
That sings those songs of the sea
I close my eyes and drift away
Swept by its magic and mysteries
Oct 31, 2016
Oct 31, 2016 at 10:04 AM UTC
dinner Greenport-side, watching the shuffling ferries do
their sworn duty, a back ‘n forth wearisome toll,
while we sip a rose and a PBR, respectively and with respect
no enthusiasm afterward for anything but an early off to bed,
and slip into pj’s asap
me in my knackered wholly Hanes fundie knickers,
no thinking required
but she
retires, re-attires in a summery combo,
a gray sweat t-shirt and green and white
plaid pj pants
which she is unawares are my favorites
cause they lop off fifty years,
a teenage woman re-incarnate recreated
cause her figure now womanly full,
better than then
morning awake l, a disturbance of the peace,
recall a snuggling a wake up hug,
and her bottoms conspicuously
gone missing
over break fast I inquire
over yogurt and berries and a
smoked mozzarella omelette,
what happened to those plaid bottoms?
assuming I was innocent of any transgressions
as best I could recall
with a sheepish childlike grin,
that made look like she was twenty again,
to match the now yoga toned body,
she confesses:
forgot to tie the bowstrings
and they slipped down to my ankles
blessed and cursed I thought!
too much of a gentleman to take advantage,
AND my situational awareness was slipping badly,
but when a poem comes across,
ready and pre-writ,
I’m still young enough to grab aholt of it
and never let go
6/23/18
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 2:42 PM UTC
ONE pointed starfish
clinging for life
waiting for high tide
TWO small children
string along side
the gentles waves
THREE ocean ferries
hopeless tourist traps
whale watching- no avail
FOUR sneaky seagulls
begging for food
stealing your lunch
FIVE murky footprints
imprinted in the sand.
Attached to them? Memories.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 4:32 PM UTC
the big easy
is hard lives,
what gives
this rainy city
so sublime,
it's almost a pity
that streets are lined with ****
pests and rats in the alleyways
how did things get so ******
or have they always been?
overpasses with people
lying underneath
so many homeless
it staggers the mind to think
bread bags and coffees
floating in the wake of the ferries
outnumbering 10 to 1
the loads that they carry
all the old growth
coming down
all the gold of their headpieces
tinfoil hats fashioned from crowns
no jazz or blues can save them
from the fate that waits
an engraving reading,
here lies what once was a haven
May 18, 2021
May 18, 2021 at 10:07 AM UTC
some railway station food shops
are open now,
unlike when we first moved here
when everything would shut Saturday afternoon
the flea markets in the Tiergaten & at
the Mauerpark
are over-ridden with people
selling kitsch
it's early autumn and there
are still ferries on the Havel
& Spree rivers
& a juggling act & a couple of musicians
blend in with graffiti
in the evening we'll go to the B-flat
club & listen to Australian jazz
no need to worry
if the transport runs at night
or whether the stars will shine
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 9:43 AM UTC
Wings beat to overtake.
Now, above you like a fire shot
In a silent film the rush begins.
Wings fold inward, the air turrents,
Streams, as a ball swirling in a tube,
Grey bullet in the barrel,
The slide to the **** and the talons,
Make their mark before the hitch.
Soft plosives bearly sounding,
Crake, blood cupped in the claws,
From the breast and the rose
Heart, now in a tail spin,
Nostrils whine in the fall.
No jury just but a sup of the faded
Heart by one raging one.
The wilted wings are stirring
To the last as the pointed
Wingman ferries, the wholly bred,
Quarry of perfection, jolts
And jilts, and His scythe of feathers
Holds sway in the whirl.
As the God-made creature
From high heaven flies
The mourning dove must die.
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 12:13 PM UTC
a series of quatrains
Anchor’s bound for hell as it falls
Sadly I watch the fast rope slip
It is gone, I need a strong sip
From a sailor’s bottle, land calls
In a boat, earth and moon move you
these deceptive cargo ships hide
the stash of smugglers, I choose
To rock back and forth with the tide
Such fearless ships save lives at night
and daytime too but not for thanks
for it also ferries heartbreak
when lovers part on boarding planks
A message in a bottle lost
was found on a cold Cornish coast
The message read “darling please
know my love will swim across seas”
I daren’t live by sea much longer
Oh! what I’ve seen, fear gets stronger
with every lapping slurp I hear:
the drowned whispering in my ear
Once I fished in this bay of shells
My line was frayed from reeling sharks
A blue whale fought me three miles out
In his bowel I awoke at last
Boat or ship? For now ‘ships’ they fly
A rocking chair, without duty
They float, enchant, sink but don’t cry
shipwrecks are a thing of beauty
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 11:56 PM UTC
Someday I shall dwell
In a townhouse by the square
Surrounded by a picket fence
Which guards yellow daffodils
The color of butter, the scent of cheer.
A strip of the town shall be laid
In cobblestone, each side of the road
Embellished with tall, San Francisco buildings
Each its own, and each a new hue.
In the morning I will wake
The same time as the sun
And amble down the seashore
Discerning every seafull, eyeing every seashell,
I shall smile as the wet sand
Squelches through my toes
And the tide comes in,
For I will be happy.
In the afternoons, I’ll laze about,
Meet a friend for coffee,
I shall linger at the bay where the ferries come in
Smell the salt as it spritzes my skin.
There will be a cheerful man on Mondays
Who pushes a white cart up and down streets
Wielding balloons of every color
For giggly children, hands covered in lollipop residue.
I shall smile at night
When the moon rules the sky
And gleams through my window,
For I will be happy.
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 12:56 PM UTC
Stop reading, I tell you;
there is no resolution coming.
Only laments and curiosities,
incursions into the soulless depths of mesonoxian thunder,
maybe a note on the desirability of warm socks,
but no satisfaction.
Don't expect a mournful awakening,
nor deliberate (or otherwise) profundity.
-disregarding the note on warm socks, of course-
I have given you warning, and if you continue,
the burden of exploration falls on you,
for consideration is the ferry to insight,
of which this text is built strictly without.
The boatman may ask that you pay with your wisdom
and refuse those that have no treasures to offer.
Would that not be the most desirable life?
Where we live to learn and when we have,
the boatman ferries us into the undying waters?
And those refused must wander and wonder
why they were excluded, where wisdom is birthed,
realizing that they are exactly as intelligent as they work to become,
to which the boatman might say, "Welcome aboard. Tell me more."
Allegorically speaking, this notion is nonsense.
Metaphorically speaking, completely absurd.
Practically, it's practically insane,
though actively, it is inanely preferred.
Alternative to apathy and pageantry,
wherein the boatman has empathy for those without wealth.
There is no true truth, only real observation,
so stop trusting my judgment and go create it yourself
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 4:18 PM UTC
Wings beat to overtake.
Now, above you like a fire shot
In a silent film the rush begins.
Wings fold inward, the air turrents,
Streams, as a ball swirling in a tube,
Grey bullet in the barrel,
The slide to the **** and the talons,
Make their mark before the hitch.
Soft plosives bearly sounding,
Crake, blood cupped in the claws,
From the breast and the rose
Heart, now in a tail spin,
Nostrils whine in the fall.
No jury just but a sup of the faded
Heart by one raging one.
The wilted wings are stirring
To the last as the pointed
Wingman ferries, the wholly bred,
Quarry of perfection, jolts
And jilts, and His scythe of feathers
Holds sway in the whirl.
As the God-made creature
From high heaven flies
The mourning dove must die.
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 12:38 PM UTC
Vivid with love, eager for greater beauty
Out of the night we come
Into the corridor, brilliant and warm.
A metal door slides open,
And the lift receives us.
Swiftly, with sharp unswerving flight
The car shoots upward,
And the air, swirling and angry,
Howls like a hundred devils.
Past the maze of trim bronze doors,
Steadily we ascend.
I cling to you
Conscious of the chasm under us,
And a terrible whirring deafens my ears.
The flight is ended.
We pass thru a door leading onto the ledge—
Wind, night and space
Oh terrible height
Why have we sought you?
Oh bitter wind with icy invisible wings
Why do you beat us?
Why would you bear us away?
We look thru the miles of air,
The cold blue miles between us and the city,
Over the edge of eternity we look
On all the lights,
A thousand times more numerous than the stars;
Oh lines and loops of light in unwound chains
That mark for miles and miles
The vast black mazy cobweb of the streets;
Near us clusters and splashes of living gold
That change far off to bluish steel
Where the fragile lights on the Jersey shore
Tremble like drops of wind-stirred dew.
The strident noises of the city
Floating up to us
Are hallowed into whispers.
Ferries cross thru the darkness
Weaving a golden thread into the night,
Their whistles weird shadows of sound.
We feel the millions of humanity beneath us,—
The warm millions, moving under the roofs,
Consumed by their own desires;
Preparing food,
Sobbing alone in a garret,
With burning eyes bending over a needle,
Aimlessly reading the evening paper,
Dancing in the naked light of the café,
Laying out the dead,
Bringing a child to birth—
The sorrow, the torpor, the bitterness, the frail joy
Come up to us
Like a cold fog wrapping us round.
Oh in a hundred years
Not one of these blood-warm bodies
But will be worthless as clay.
The anguish, the torpor, the toil
Will have passed to other millions
Consumed by the same desires.
Ages will come and go,
Darkness will blot the lights
And the tower will be laid on the earth.
The sea will remain
Black and unchanging,
The stars will look down
Brilliant and unconcerned.
Beloved,
Tho’ sorrow, futility, defeat
Surround us,
They cannot bear us down.
Here on the abyss of eternity
Love has crowned us
For a moment
Victors.
1.7k
Wings beat to overtake.
Now, above you like a fire shot
In a silent film the rush begins.
Wings fold inward, the air turrents,
Streams, as a ball swirling in a tube,
Grey bullet in the barrel,
The slide to the **** and the talons,
Make their mark before the hitch.
Soft plosives bearly sounding,
Crake, blood cupped in the claws,
From the breast and the rose
Heart, now in a tail spin,
Nostrils whine in the fall.
No jury just but a sup of the faded
Heart by one raging one.
The wilted wings are stirring
To the last as the pointed
Wingman ferries, the wholly bred,
Quarry of perfection, jolts
And jilts, and His scythe of feathers
Holds sway in the whirl.
As the God-made creature
From high heaven flies
The mourning dove must die.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 1:20 PM UTC
Wings beat to overtake.
Now, above you like a fire shot
In a silent film the rush begins.
Wings fold inward, the air turrents,
Streams, as a ball swirling in a tube,
Grey bullet in the barrel,
The slide to the **** and the talons,
Make their mark before the hitch.
Soft plosives bearly sounding,
Crake, blood cupped in the claws,
From the breast and the rose
Heart, now in a tail spin,
Nostrils whine in the fall.
No jury just but a sup of the faded
Heart by one raging one.
The wilted wings are stirring
To the last as the pointed
Wingman ferries, the wholly bred,
Quarry of perfection, jolts
And jilts, and His scythe of feathers
Holds sway in the whirl.
As the God-made creature
From high heaven flies
The mourning dove must die.
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 2:47 PM UTC
the corner shop near the railway station
opens now unlike when we came here first
when everything would shut on Sunday
the flea market in Mauerpark
is over-ridden with people selling kitsch
but we always go and we love it
everyone is so cool here that I think being cool
isn't hip anymore,
the street is a sea of hipsters in black
it's early Spring and there is still
no ferries on the Spree
but if you walk down the right street
you'll catch a couple of musicians
maybe a juggling act
that blend in with graffiti and art
in the evening we'll go to the TV Tower
like tourists
pretend we can afford dinner in the revolving restaurant
two hundred and three metres high
and look over the cars on the road to Berlin-Mitte
that look like graceful glowing bugs below
we'll get have a cocktail with dinner in Caramba
in the square (just one)
and listen to light German jazz
with no need to worry
if the transport still runs at night
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 5:16 PM UTC
THE SHADOWS PALMS
STRETCHED IN THE EBONY ROADS
MUSING ON THE BLOCKS OF RUGGED STONE STEPS
GARNERED AND GATHERED BY CHAFED PALMS.
STRADDLING OVER THEM
THE DEEP FURROWS AND HEATED BROWS
NOW BROWN AND TANNED WEARING
A RUMMAGED MOUSTACHE OF CLIMBING VINES.
EVERY STEP AMUSES,
A MUSE THAT DOES NOT CEASE TO AMUSE,
IN THE HEAT OVERDOSES.
AND WHEN THE ARECA PALMS PALIPATING
IN ARRAY
HOIST ABOUT LIKE ROWS OF MEN DOPED
IN CEILED BANKS OF DISTRUST
A CYNICAL NILA CRIES ,
HER PLUNDERED SANDS.
NOW THE SUNKEN FERRIES ,
HAVE APPEARED AT HER BAY,
AND PAINFULLY CHAFE EACH OTHER.
A ***** FROM THE BOTTOM
STIRRING THE BELL FOR THE REQUIEM
PAY THE FERRYMEN.
FOR THE WAYFARERS WAFFLED WRITINGS
ARE ADDRESSED
TO THE MEN WHO PLASTERED HER WALLS ALONE
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 1:31 AM UTC
My only hope today, is that rain can wash
The rusted colored stains of blood away
Dirt; like Earth, caked upon my face
Hides the smile
Buried down beneath
I sit stranded in the sand
My hell a carousel shore; forever trapped along a beach
The waves here, don’t swell and crash the same
They linger static like a message never read
Tell me then; wherein lies the difference
Between a broken heart and being dead
Every touch is cold, the only warmth I’ll ever know
Has been swept away, down the cloudy gray gutter drains
Like little villages lost to hurricanes
No trace or tracks to lead me back
To the boy I was before
This lonely island lacks a dock
No passing ferries and only planks to walk
A salted sea of crooning souls beneath, call for me to join the deep
This symphony of sirens
Draws me ever close to silence
Jul 26, 2021
Jul 26, 2021 at 12:45 AM UTC
Let me forget that I exist
Become a speck, blending in with the atmosphere
an observer to the insides of my head
Sound ferries its cargo of meaning into our receptive minds
Loud are thoughts although constructed with silent sound
Imagination waits at the bench
while thoughts play rough and tumble
jostling and shoving ,
following the rules of consciousness' game
But at night when the stadium clears
images rush out, they dance and cheer
sneaking past the fetters of
language and reason
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 9:33 PM UTC