"galley" poems
In the cold grey light of the sixth of June, in the year of forty-four,
The Empire Larch sailed out from Poole to join with thousands more.
The largest fleet the world had seen, we sailed in close array,
And we set our course for Normandy at the dawning of the day.
There was not one man in all our crew but knew what lay in store,
For we had waited for that day through five long years of war.
We knew that many would not return, yet all our hearts were true,
For we were bound for Normandy, where we had a job to do.
Now the Empire Larch was a deep-sea tug with a crew of thirty-three,
And I was just the galley-boy on my first trip to sea.
I little thought when I left home of the dreadful sights I'd see,
But I came to manhood on the day that I first saw Normandy.
At the Beach of Gold off Arromanches, 'neath the rockets' deadly glare,
We towed our blockships into place and we built a harbour there.
'Mid shot and shell we built it well, as history does agree,
While brave men died in the swirling tide on the shores of Normandy.
Like the Rodney and the Nelson, there were ships of great renown,
But rescue tugs all did their share as many a ship went down.
We ran our pontoons to the shore within the Mulberry's lee,
And we made safe berth for the tanks and guns that would set all Europe free.
For every hero's name that's known, a thousand died as well.
On stakes and wire their bodies hung, rocked in the ocean swell;
And many a mother wept that day for the sons they loved so well,
Men who cracked a joke and cadged a smoke as they stormed the gates of hell.
As the years pass by, I can still recall the men I saw that day
Who died upon that blood-soaked sand where now sweet children play;
And those of you who were unborn, who've lived in liberty,
Remember those who made it so on the shores of Normandy.
________________________________________
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 3:07 PM UTC
Tool of desperate confrontation
Object of pride for a grateful nation
In Baton Rouge on the mighty river
Kidd rests proudly
376' length overall, Fletcher Class destroyer
Like every ship, of oil she does smell
When I boarded her, she had something to tell
I was with a scoutmaster, my son and the boys
Concerned with their fun, and the making of noise
But late in the night, as quiet set in
Kidd started whispering, to my within
She spoke of the men who gave up their lives
Their children, their girls, the tears of their wives
Thirty-eight men, in fiery fuel
Hell's agony touched, a death so cruel
Fifty-five more, burned badly that day
Defending our country, our homage we pay
Visiting sailors will stand at attention
… and for a young Kamikaze, scarcely a mention
The big war was over, Kidd passed her test
Now to San Diego, for a permanent rest
But as men will prescribe, it didn’t last long
Kidd went back into action, near Korea’s Kaesong
When in Baton Rouge, you can visit the Kidd
If you’re bold, listen carefully, just as I did
You'll get half of the story, the rest we don't know
The men who have fallen, to Kidd's mighty blow
Let's set a new tone and have us some fun
The Kidd's crew were pirates but they didn't run ***
Those flat-tops were fancy, their flyers elite
In the galley was ice-cream, their reward and their treat
When a pilot was downed, Kidd quickly steamed
Then radioed the skipper, "your man for ice-cream"
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 5:46 PM UTC
THE noon was as a crystal bowl
The red wine mantled through;
Around it like a Viking's beard
The red-gold hazes blew,
As tho' he quaffed the ruddy draught
While swift his galley flew.
This mighty Viking was the Night;
He sailed about the earth,
And called the merry harvest-time
To sing him songs of mirth;
And all on earth or in the sea
To melody gave birth.
The valleys of the earth were full
To rocky lip and brim
With golden grain that shone and sang
When woods were still and dim,
A little song from sheaf to sheaf-
Sweet Plenty's cradle-hymn.
O gallant were the high tree-tops,
And gay the strain they sang!
And cheerfully the moon-lit hills
Their echo-music rang!
And what so proud and what so loud
As was the ocean's clang!
But O the little humming song
That sang among the sheaves!
'Twas grander than the airy march
That rattled thro' the leaves,
And prouder, louder, than the deep,
Bold clanging of the waves:
'The lives of men, the lives of men
With every sheaf are bound!
We are the blessing which annuls
The curse upon the ground!
And he who reaps the Golden Grain
The Golden Love hath found.'
2.9k
Valiant galley set sail
adrift through the Dardanelles.
Her masts, backs straight,
composed as Venetian dames
in familiar basse danse.
Sunset floats amongst the sea mist
silhouetting the capital's skyline.
The holy dome of the Αγία Σοφία
eclipses the light.
The Lady makes port,
at the City on the Seven Hills.
Gentle entrance to the beating heart
of the bustling district.
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 7:59 AM UTC
I am the ******* son of Nero,
the sad product of licentiousness.
A fact about my life
that I should really mention less.
My mother was a famous Queen
or so it is that I am told.
Unable to acknowledge me,
to the slavers I was sold.
But pirates attacked our galley
a few miles out to sea.
Bold, daring, fearsome men,
their life appealed to me.
Plundering, fighting on a ship,
I loved the pirates life.
Until one day I floundered
and took me a beautiful wife.
She bore me two boys and a girl,
I gave them all my affection.
Mourning the loss of my childhood,
my severed parental connection.
The children grew and flew the nest,
so leaving just two alone.
Then the plague paid a visit,
my grief weighs heavy for my home.
So now I am just a humble poet,
Withdrawn and cold, but serene.
Throwing words at a paper audience,
waiting patient for the final scene.
Well, wait there a while longer,
this ******* is not quite done.
I am not so ready to die just now,
that epilogue is yet to come.
© Pagan Paul (19/04/17)
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 10:44 AM UTC
Hidden deep in the galley at sea far from the front
Washing pans and floors and sometimes onions
Never a shot fired at nor its distanced boom heard
Now proudly badged, poor, unemployed, a veteran
Strutting in the town square openly carrying
Seeing fear and respect in mocking eyes
And gratitude in sneering smiles and sarcastic lips
But utter despair and pity to those that truly loved
Now old, lonely, far from those who once cared
Sharing truths on the net when away from Facebook jail
And calling out fake news with evangelistic fervour
But touch Trump, and even jihadists cow before his ferocity
Oct 13, 2021
Oct 13, 2021 at 7:14 AM UTC
When Death resolutely comes
Abrupt with his deadly summons
Tarry not like a galley slave
But like a courteous warrior behave
Do not waver and do not droop
As if you are to be hung on a loop
Never dread lying under the dust
With the body in a narrow vault ******
Know, it is only when seeds rot
That fresh and florid lives sprout
So when it is time to go
Strut like an indomitable foe,
With swinging hands and head held high
To be welcomed by angels of the sky
With the music of clanging cymbals
And the rising rhythm of sounding bells
Into a kingdom, bright and cheerful
And a state far radiant and blissful
Where the sun shall never set
Where blessed souls will joyously meet
Where Truth and Beauty preside
Where peace and bliss abide
Ousted out of terrestrial space
You’re enfolded in God’s sweet embrace
Jun 2, 2017
Jun 2, 2017 at 9:36 AM UTC
The western wind is blowing fair
Across the dark AEgean sea,
And at the secret marble stair
My Tyrian galley waits for thee.
Come down! the purple sail is spread,
The watchman sleeps within the town,
O leave thy lily-flowered bed,
O Lady mine come down, come down!
She will not come, I know her well,
Of lover’s vows she hath no care,
And little good a man can tell
Of one so cruel and so fair.
True love is but a woman’s toy,
They never know the lover’s pain,
And I who loved as loves a boy
Must love in vain, must love in vain.
O noble pilot, tell me true,
Is that the sheen of golden hair?
Or is it but the tangled dew
That binds the passion-flowers there?
Good sailor come and tell me now
Is that my Lady’s lily hand?
Or is it but the gleaming prow,
Or is it but the silver sand?
No! no! ’tis not the tangled dew,
’Tis not the silver-fretted sand,
It is my own dear Lady true
With golden hair and lily hand!
O noble pilot, steer for Troy,
Good sailor, ply the labouring oar,
This is the Queen of life and joy
Whom we must bear from Grecian shore!
The waning sky grows faint and blue,
It wants an hour still of day,
Aboard! aboard! my gallant crew,
O Lady mine, away! away!
O noble pilot, steer for Troy,
Good sailor, ply the labouring oar,
O loved as only loves a boy!
O loved for ever evermore!
1.7k
Although thy hand and faith, and good works too,
Have sealed thy love which nothing should undo,
Yea though thou fall back, that apostasy
Confirm thy love; yet much, much I fear thee.
Women are like the Arts, forced unto to none,
Open to all searchers, unprized if unknown.
If I have caught a bird, and let him fly,
Another fowler using these means, as I,
May catch the same bird; and, as these things be,
Women are made for men, not him, nor me.
Foxes and goats, all beasts, change when they please,
Shall women, more hot, wily, wild than these,
Be bound to one man, and did Nature then
Idly make tham apter t’ endure than men?
They’re our clogs, not their own; if a man be
Chained to a galley, yet the galley’s free;
Who hath a plough-land casts all his seedcorn there,
And yet allows his ground more corn should bear;
Though Danuby into the sea must flow,
The sea receives the Rhine, Volga, and Po.
By Nature, which gave it, this liberty
Thou lov’st, but Oh! canst thou love it and me?
Likeness glues love: and if that thou so do,
To make us like and love, must I change too?
More than thy hate, I hate’t; rather let me
Allow her change than change as oft as she,
And so not teach, but force my opinion
To love not any one, nor every one.
To live in one land is captivity,
To run all countries, a wild roguery;
Waters stink soon if in one place they bide,
And in the vast sea are more purified:
But when they kiss one bank, and leaving this
Never look back, but the next bank do kiss,
Then are they purest. Change is the nursery
Of music, joy, life, and eternity.
1.6k
12 BARS
Twelve brazen bars, one frozen lock!
Confined, sublime, an ancient Roc
endures inside a barren cage,
her catacomb in sundown sage.
Of former days there is no trace
except displays of fallen grace –
Twelve dreams, abiding in her place,
are free, inhabit yawning space:
12 DREAMS
... of wings unfurled, and seething eyes
that dredge the depths of dawning skies,
devining clouds that cling below,
once ice, dissolved in morning’s glow;
... of clutching winds that carry free
above an anguished leaden sea,
dispersing dust of distant stars
midst chunks of chain in slave bazaars;
... of swooping to a silent shore
to perch beside the ocean’s roar,
at last to feel the sobbing breeze
message the leaves of rooted trees;
... of stalking strays and twilight tramps
within the fog of lighthouse lamps
that blink forlorn through caldron nights
in search of shades of errant Kites;
... of darkling vast deserted lands,
with shadowed stones on windswept sands,
where ghosts of Moorish maidens lost
disgorge faint groans in mourning frost;
... of blotting out the bloated moon
while feathers beat a banshee tune
and glimmers dance and prance aglow
upon a pearly pale plateau;
... of tasting cool torrential rains,
beyond the realm of binding chains,
and sipping freedom they exude
in quite drops of solitude;
... of vanquishing a galley crew
aboard a ship in midnight dew,
beneath the pierce of seagulls' screams
that mock the strands of scarlet streams;
... of sating once an aching craw
with tearing beak, with ripping claw,
and echoed by an eldritch screech
while feasting on abandoned beach;
... of restive thoughts and weary wings
that drift on haze in smoky rings,
obscured within the opal shroud
of her resemblance in the crowd;
... of croaking caws in broken rhyme
in winter woe, in summer clime,
while building nests of sundown sage
beyond outside a barren cage.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 8:28 AM UTC
Viewboat,
After viewboat,
Passing.
Viewboat,
After viewboat,
Water.
Silent,
Hollow’d galley,
Drifting
Viewboat,
After viewboat,
Bypassing
Viewboat,
After viewboat,
Swans.
Steady,
Eternal force,
Moving.
Viewboat,
After viewboat,
Passing-by.
Viewboat,
After viewboat,
Open
Sultry,
Quiet hymns,
Resounding
The boat,
As refuge,
To love.
The sound,
As incense,
To God.
The water,
As life,
To men
Viewboat,
After viewboat,
Haven.
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 6:48 PM UTC
*I am a fragrant lily
soft as morning dew,
strength of mother lioness
protecting her cubs
I am nonsense, clever,
sensual & extravagant
I can make your day
or break your heart
Take care of business,
roar in the bedroom
appetizer in the galley
I could raise your sun
or blow your mind
Be your concubine
or take control
I am tender inside
and out
with a soul
of titanium
I bend but
don't break me
I am woman
in purest form*
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 2:54 PM UTC
Waiting for the ferry
I found a piece of Delft, or so I thought,
Blue white and shining on the rock beach at St. John's,
Mixed it in with unfamiliar coins of Canada
Dreaming of a foundering ship,
The dish and how it might have looked
Stacked on all the others in a busy galley
Ages back when it and she were whole.
I walked along the rounded stones made slick with growth
And watched the tide sweep out so fast
It seemed the ocean raced to find its home.
You lingered by the picnic tables.
I saw you check your watch six times,
Wondered at your sharp fixation,
Your sense of past and future,
How it might survive me.
Later in the empty bar,
Amidst the dreaming roar of engines
And the splashing underneath our hull
I thought I heard you laugh but I was wrong.
You were huddled by a table
Peering pious in your half filled glass.
The laugh I heard came from a stranger.
A fisherman I came on later on the deck.
He pointed towards a far direction
Misting emblems of his home.
He said he missed his wife.
I envied him.
I was moving far from mine.
The closest thing to memory,
Those foreign coins
And small white fragments
Jostling close to silence
In my pocket.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 10:16 AM UTC
In the old days,
you could sit
next to the galley
& get really juiced.
Pretty stewardesses
would slip
you small bottles
of fire water &
you could live large
in any seat.
And you could
actually relax,
talk with the pilot &
eat some grand meals.
Oh, did I forget to say
that check-in
was a breeze,
if you sneezed,
they said,
"God Bless You."
But now
they ain't playing games,
it seems stress has taken over.
How insane,
we're questioned
about our first born
& where we come from,
prodded & searched,
4 ounces of this,
4 ounces of that,
is all the liquid
that they allow.
Holy cow,
no nail clippers
& you can't even quip,
'cause they're not smiling.
O Jesus, I miss
those good old days,
back when flying was fun
& now they **** with all of us,
to keep a few terrorists on the run.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 9:08 AM UTC
nestled in the fist of fury
followers following followers
machine numbers generated
to the size of egos
the devils henchman lurks
saturated by cryptic code
destruction embedded
in his fused brain
waiting
to puncture your alterego
and spill your conscience
into a crucible of sacrifices
on the altar of recognition
indecent pictures
bloated for primetime consumption
on the sidewalks of galley slaves
surfing social media
with oars of phony cosmetic
happiness. where do you stand?
welcome to a world of make-believe.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 27 days ago
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 5:54 PM UTC
7/30
11:20 am
no luddite me.
no longing for the good old days.
from one oft abused little phone,
I, while bathing royally
in my cowardly four
legged lioness tub
got my music,
my reading list,
sports pages,
and if so inclined,
shoot off a quickie,
a poem for your
grateful nation
appreciation.
all of which
causes me to
issue a heartfelt
happy cry apology
dame as the
of the prehistoric
techie avanti,
Flinstoni
yabadabadoo!
which does not deserve
the opprobrium returned of
"Shut Up, Please"
coming from the the galley
kitchen where the women are
doing their whatever
gossipy kitchen thing.
not to be accused of non-responsiveness,
I, reply as the techno Fourth Tenor,
"can't hear you, why don't you text me!"
happily issuing another,
but in a more
thoughtful basso,
yabadabadoo!
quietly whispering
a self satisfying
follow up
vincerò!
ogdiddy nash
Aug 6, 2017
Aug 6, 2017 at 3:18 PM UTC
The dew drenched garden on a crisp Autumn morning.
Birds singing their song as you start your day.
Mist rolling over the Hunter Hills & down the galley, creating a lite fog throughout the town.
Your shoes become slicker with moisture, flicking drips into the air as you crunch through the leaves on your walk to school.
Teeth chattering as you make your your journey, steam rising from your mouth a constant reminder of the porige you had for breakfast.
Young & oblivious to the beautiful scenery that surrounds you.
The days when the worst part is facing possible detention.
If only I knew then just how easy I had it.
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 6:34 AM UTC
When is when is when is
The next moment I will stand on this shore, looking out into the bay?
Who will I be and how will I see this same scene then?
How will I see again, the morning rising illuminating the tide, it’s misted glow refracting in all directions?
How will I hear again, the gull’s cry, a higher song hovering over the soft sway of the water, it’s lapping connection to the shore, gone now but always on its reverberating journey back?
How will the water feel on my feet, in early spring and then in ebbing twilight? Will I stand strong and blooming, or will I hunch and wither in decay, in memories of a long forgotten brighter day?
Will the salt spray still fill my nose, will its memory be etched in me always?
There is no sure way to know, no sure path we can follow, I say to myself.
When I return I will be him and he will have came from me, formed in the bubbling foam of my memories of this swaying sea.
But in my melancholy daze upon departure,
a vision appears to me as if a dream:
“Be gone!”
A mirage of the goddess Brizo comes to me, sitting alone in a galley bobbing along with the waves.
“Be gone! Hold not your journey in contempt, be scared not of the changing tides!
You have your vessel as I have mine, the sea is strong but not impassible!
Adjust your sails, redirect your mind, the wisdom of the sea follows, to any height you can climb!
The power is you, shed light on what you know to be true, look in the water and be calmed, know that you are you!
Be gone! Go from me, away from this fading part of your journey,
There is still much of the world to see!
Do not linger, do not hesitate,
Do not be contented, with a hazy view of the sea from your seat on the shore!”
Mar 8, 2021
Mar 8, 2021 at 12:54 PM UTC
On the deck of the HMS Randalls
Were sorry array of antiques
They would amble about in their sandals
To a chorus of ominous creaks
The crackle of bone upon gristle
With a litany grumbled above
Just give them the slip
If you feel a grip
Like a handful of dice in a glove
In the galley of HMS Randalls
Where the tables were ******* to the floor
There’s a chef with a dwarf where his leg was
He was bombed in the Argentine war
If you ask him about his ‘prosthetic’
He just winks and he taps on his nose
But the dwarf will admit
That they make a good fit
And a noteworthy total of toes
At the engines of HMS Randalls
With her overalls smeared with blood
Stood cannibal kind of mechanic
By the name of Veronica Spud
Her hunger has never been sated
Or her eye been the source of a tear
Her teeth have been chipped
Into screwdriver tips
And a spanner protrudes from her ear
On the bridge of the HMS Randalls
Sits the captain, Geronimo Spent
His unblinking and pallid expression
Say he left but he never quite went
But he puts on his hat and his jacket
He fastidiously logs his report
With a secondary list
Of the passengers kissed
As he figures that life’s too short
**
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 7:44 PM UTC
The thunderclouds circle the Valley.
Soothing sounds from the darkest formations.
Send me off shore, One with the Galley.
No one shall miss thee, let there be little doubt.
The waves have risen and lowered; Littered with evil stench.
My guts hit the Stain, never again to be the same.
Just trying to forget, curse this haunted skin.
Being unable to forget, I'm a ******* living life in pretense.
Blue, blue, blue; the one color I see or touch.
Feeling helpless until eventually, i too turn blue.
Only then, do I count my blessings. No use for crutches.
Treat every human as if they were the last hearts blessed.
Land ** Finally, everything I have waited for.
These sands are clouds. My date with the almighty is here.
The one who stenches the darkness with Ammonia.
Does his best to keep those haunted souls at bay.
Fire is also Blue,
Thus hell might be too.
Fight for me, lord of Orion.
It's Heaven, I should have praised before departure.
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 1:47 PM UTC
Low light and the murky air
Damp, lurid; dust parade
Stale breath and the pounding of soft wood
Stage set, waiting for life
Walls set so high among the purple sky
The hills but glancing over the parapets
Icy hot stone turning me away
Perhaps the gate is on the other side?
Music starts, blank stares
Somehow betray a thought
As movement becomes grace, grace becomes meaning
And for once a call beckons
And the walls begin to tumble
Chipped by every sigh and every turn
Waters rush through the hills, sweeping aside
Sage brush and hot sands, charging
To drown out the scared girl’s cries
Yet they seep through the cracks
And lift you up
I had sent a ship to these shores
And the polished wood moaned as it came
Happy tidings of wealth and good-fortune
Its sails flapped in the winds
As I ponderously shoved it on course
Tentative as a mother releasing her child
The cold winds shake and maim
The crack of the heavens scare and restrain
The heaving hearts of the galley crew
Between the charming bay, engulfed by flame
Flares that failed and faltered when needed most
As the crew found themselves dashed against the rocks
It is odd to see this city, where my wares were bound
Inundated, gloriously awash
Perhaps my wares will float right through the gates
And betray effort and worry and care.
Because they are still out there
Floating through lurid seas, waiting.
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 12:31 PM UTC
As the majestic eagle loves his air,
Climbing, twisting, up his wispy stair,
Mocking Icarus’s too-soft wings,
For power holds the raptor o’er grandiose things,
Most a splendor, ardent in his realm,
As the captain at his galley’s helm
Is one with the sea,
Do I long to be.
I would have join me now a kindred soul,
One forged in the same heart-fires, o’er crippled Vulcan’s coal,
One who in the mold, so malleable
They matched my form, quite unbelievable.
But rather than by limbs, I would be wrought, as was his heart,
By scorn from woman loved, so as to start
A passionate, burning melancholy
Transcendent of society,
So to live, as if by freedom’s feathers,
And fly the sun, no melted wax, as brothers.
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 8:54 PM UTC
By S E T
Those Shelter Island nights,
When the air hung sweet and salty
and the shell-laced, pebbly sand
still felt jagged against your toughened feet,
Inviting and profound
You walked with your best guy friend,
Tawny, and burnished from the summer
side jobs, gap tooth and lightly nasal
desperately wanting not to hear his yearning
paens to your best, most glamorous friend
lamenting her leaving
Who'd been up for half the month,
She of the glittering auburn hair
and TV roles, and heartthrob drummer brother,
and even then, deep, throaty laugh,
Wondering if she'd go for hick, Long Island him,
Instead, to feel his teen-age muscled lips
bear down on yours, even if you fidgeted
with desire and uncertainty, half-longing to bolt
Never letting on that second fiddle
was not your instrument of choice
Crossing the warm road to (pinch yourself)
board Chuck's yacht
The only one you knew who had a yacht,
not a grand affair, with modest galley and monk-like sleeper
but a yacht no less,
And drink the bootlegged verboten
beer delicious, slightly acrid,
Stealing away, out the kitchen door
after the small stones clattered against your sleeping window,
Your signal to renounce the troubled house
for a midnight ride down paradise cove.
Aug 28, 2016
Aug 28, 2016 at 5:15 PM UTC
All of this just so happened
With the saying of one simple phrase
"Beam me up Scotty"
Was all The Captain had said
But all that came aboard
Was Captain Kirk's toupee
Never did they see James again
After that fateful day
Now Captain Kirk's toupee
Is the one that's running the ship
Barking out its orders
From where the Captain once sat
It's little wonder the toupee and the crew
Don't see eye to eye
As it continues throughout its screaming
Can't you see I need more warp drive
With Scotty hollering back
I'm giving her all that's she's got
Thinking the whole time the Captain's toupee
Would make a good galley mop
Spock while all this is happening
Struggles to keep a straight face
Which is really hard for a Vulcan to do
When dealing with a demanding toupee
Of course like James T. Kirk
His toupee has a thing for alien gals
Which leaves the ladies throughout the galaxy
All with a bad taste and hair in their mouths
And not to mention the trouble with the Klingon's
Now they have no idea what to say
How in the world do you wage war
When your arch enemy is a bad toupee
It's little surprise this all lead to a mutiny
Of the Starship Enterprise crew
The day they grabbed the toupee
And ran to the transporter room
They all wondered what took them so long
The idea it was so blatantly simple
As they beamed away Kirk's toupee
Down to the surface of the Planet of Tribble's
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 5:54 PM UTC
Sweet caress, Mexico calling Beauty
Heaven casting shadows on body
Melting into shore-sprayed ocean waves
Dribbling lifetimes through the galley
Space time warfare being shunned
Baja rising mojo rising
Knowledge knows nothing
Uniformed eyes
Scanning celebrated islands
Off the coast, way off from town
In the depths of solitude
In the current of infinity
Where Riders Ride, and Angels fly
Where life has forgotten to die
Rivers, Waterfalls, Cliffs
Falling crest liquid chest
Milking the ***** of Nature's kindness
Seek salvation in the fish of water
With no sake or care, but just the season
Washing air over warm
Combing through atlas place
Gutter rhyme spilling into the conversation
And the mouths of fate choke
Leaving silence to beckon hope
And from the silence comes the now
And the now shall bring later and tomorrow
And life will roll on
With briskness of clouds and truth
Aching itself into the moment of face
Loving every minute of the hour
Forgiving hopelessness as bad company
And saddling the wandering again
'Cause even at the end of the road,
There's always the ocean still to go.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 6:16 PM UTC