I caught a tremendous fish
and held him beside the boat
half out of water, with my hook
fast in a corner of his mouth.
He didn't fight.
He hadn't fought at all.
He hung a grunting weight,
battered and venerable
and homely.  Here and there
his brown skin hung in strips
like ancient wallpaper,
and its pattern of darker brown
was like wallpaper:
shapes like full-blown roses
stained and lost through age.
He was speckled with barnacles,
fine rosettes of lime,
and infested
with tiny white sea-lice,
and underneath two or three
rags of green **** hung down.
While his gills were breathing in
the terrible oxygen
--the frightening gills,
fresh and crisp with blood,
that can cut so badly--
I thought of the coarse white flesh
packed in like feathers,
the big bones and the little bones,
the dramatic reds and blacks
of his shiny entrails,
and the pink swim-bladder
like a big peony.
I looked into his eyes
which were far larger than mine
but shallower, and yellowed,
the irises backed and packed
with tarnished tinfoil
seen through the lenses
of old scratched isinglass.
They shifted a little, but not
to return my stare.
--It was more like the tipping
of an object toward the light.
I admired his sullen face,
the mechanism of his jaw,
and then I saw
that from his lower lip
--if you could call it a lip
grim, wet, and weaponlike,
hung five old pieces of fish-line,
or four and a wire leader
with the swivel still attached,
with all their five big hooks
grown firmly in his mouth.
A green line, frayed at the end
where he broke it, two heavier lines,
and a fine black thread
still crimped from the strain and snap
when it broke and he got away.
Like medals with their ribbons
frayed and wavering,
a five-haired beard of wisdom
trailing from his aching jaw.
I stared and stared
and victory filled up
the little rented boat,
from the pool of bilge
where oil had spread a rainbow
around the rusted engine
to the bailer rusted orange,
the sun-cracked thwarts,
the oarlocks on their strings,
the gunnels--until everything
was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
And I let the fish go.

A storm is raging on the frothy sea
Mountainous waves toss the vessel all around
The ravaging gales impale with a deafening blow
Raucous sheets of salty spray
soak and pelter             to and fro

A bucket bails the raged sloop
She moans and groans as she’s flung about
A sailor sails ― A sailor endlessly bails
Engulfed alone in the perfect storm

Two oars are manned on the stormy seas
The halyard torn and ripped from mast
To row and bail is an impossible feat
It’s hard to tell when you've sprung a fateful leak

The captain mans the forlorn skiff
There'll be No white flag of surrender flown ;
   " I will go down with my ship! "
  A furious soul             laments life’s toil
As violent waves crash the gunnels hold

He screamed out loud,    
         " My time has come ! "
                  " My ship is sinking!!! "
" Her broken pieces ne'er to be found ..."

The rampart boat, well fortified yet built to fail
Plummets from hills of oceans pitifully tall

Cracks are leaking where the lurid light gets in
But so does the briny water, will drowning soon begin?
Lost hope floats the helpless, fearless one man crew
His soul now guides the ether voyage ―


A vessel drifts lifeless on the empty calming sea
Nothing but it can be seen for miles of skies
The free board is deep the salty water high
Two apathetic oars lay silent, is a lost soul inside?


                     ©  Harlon Rivers

Cross the surf, broken white
In tiny splash, sprinkling bow and pulpit
The small prow, driving forward to the main
Catches the quick wind.

The Amitie sits anchored twice,
Its hull by sand, shoved round its keel,
The high tide line stretched
Slack across barren beach to hooked cast iron.

The fisherman mourns today, life is gone
From Amitie, small daughter lost.
The paint of her namesake fades
While gunnels dry in early summers sun.

Tomorrow she will be out again
Loosed with tide, beyond the surf
Families still need fed, fish need caught
The money to trade for the living.

In shortening she made me jam roly poly
a Jezebel in a grand fully furnished way aglow
with bold basement statements broad brushed full on
to glaze the way to a plum job whole storey mission
proclaiming sofas as soft as any humble pin cushion
stuffed with unfinished symphonies in a mansion
booming out to empire builders' biggest guns
tended by harems of belly dancing bumble bees
burbling alongside a myriad of louder hues
flowing into bouffant hairstyle shrubs brushed
and blow dried into blooming privacy bushes


but outside she transformed
yet served by outsize platters
prolific with blazing seasonings
glazed with enough sweets
to satisfy a pudding feast
laid before a sumptuous appetite
comforting peahens with broad beans
ripened beside horizons of warm salads
dressed by blooming strawberries
pores plumped up from ladles
dunked deep as finger buns
into sloppy icing barrels
awash with hoarded nuts
of sweet toothed squirrels
engorged to dozing on branch barges
full to the gunnels and slow wallowing
in troughs laden with fatted chugs
rambling across rolling oceans awash
with tranquil rafts of whales nibbling
each morning on shoals expanding
beyond shallows into deep new ports
to offload uncontainable cargo
swung low on sweeping vista nets
dragging tree trunks packed like Jumbo
to land with a thump in wide sided carts


splashing and rocking slowly on their ways
until mopped up by richly saturated bales
of overgrown Danish butter grass pats
resplendent amidst dollops of luscious
double churned cream gateaux farm gates
open for cuddling golden syrup spoons of heat
spreading mellowness deep into the sponge
of unfolded meadows with encyclopedic knowledge
accumulated into increased volumes of decisive “belle”
resounding excitedly across the hills of plenty


chirrups bumping cheekiness into narrow valleys
to settle hawk eyes wide open to opportunities
accumulating it all in seam stretched sack boasts
of the good life storehoused bigger than most
but ready to collect and offload refreshment
like the slow but steady wobbling airships
stretched out resplendent across hay loft skies
fluffed up between a sweating Queen bed cumulus
keen to bounce into cloudless heady ensembles
swung high over thigh slapping oompah band hills


in a tug-of-war snapping heartstring restraint
and low frequency waves of contentment
she apportioned herself and me in generosity
celebrating a fully stocked love stacked larder
sweet with chock-a-block huffs and puffs
and then glad sighs of expansive success
in relief a schmooze diorama all she was after
Summer's glorious bamboozled ardour

blob of mercury
flat level
with boats
sunk up to
gunnels
mirrored images
the colour red
into the silver
shining
shapes of shore
buildings upside
down
half way along
running
our inlet
singular calls
pierce the deafness
in this morn
of a man
going insane
with
sleepless

Near silent, the sound of water split,
By the keel of a masterful helm,
The shine of the wheel in the cool eves' sun
Reflects perfect rigging, secure to the turn.

A soft billowy ride, water and sail
All clouds of contentment from a masterful helm,
Not a ripple or wave crease the strong hull
And the wind pulls the full sail in tow.

The flash of white waters crest over the bow,
Mother Wind in her prerogative change
Mighty crash as she breaks over wild wave
Listing to gunnels, wave upon wave.

Tack end and turn, jibe, pull the main
Button to a masterful helm
Bring her steady deep keel, love the wind
Stow the lines, such cause for the love of a sail.

I caught a tremendous fish
and held him beside the boat
half out of water, with my hook
fast in a corner of his mouth.
He didn’t fight.
He hadn’t fought at all.
He hung a grunting weight,
battered and venerable
and homely. Here and there
his brown skin hung in strips
like ancient wallpaper,
and its pattern of darker brown
was like wallpaper:
shapes like full-blown roses
stained and lost through age.
He was speckled with barnacles,
fine rosettes of lime,
and infested
with tiny white sea-lice,
and underneath two or three
rags of green **** hung down.
While his gills were breathing in
the terrible oxygen
—the frightening gills,
fresh and crisp with blood,
that can cut so badly—
I thought of the coarse white flesh
packed in like feathers,
the big bones and the little bones,
the dramatic reds and blacks
of his shiny entrails,
and the pink swim-bladder
like a big peony.
I looked into his eyes
which were far larger than mine
but shallower, and yellowed,
the irises backed and packed
with tarnished tinfoil
seen through the lenses
of old scratched isinglass.
They shifted a little, but not
to return my stare.
—It was more like the tipping
of an object toward the light.
I admired his sullen face,
the mechanism of his jaw,
and then I saw
that from his lower lip
—if you could call it a lip—
grim, wet, and weaponlike,
hung five old pieces of fish-line,
or four and a wire leader
with the swivel still attached,
with all their five big hooks
grown firmly in his mouth.
A green line, frayed at the end
where he broke it, two heavier lines,
and a fine black thread
still crimped from the strain and snap
when it broke and he got away.
Like medals with their ribbons
frayed and wavering,
a five-haired beard of wisdom
trailing from his aching jaw.
I stared and stared
and victory filled up
the little rented boat,
from the pool of bilge
where oil had spread a rainbow
around the rusted engine
to the bailer rusted orange,
the sun-cracked thwarts,
the oarlocks on their strings,
the gunnels—until everything
was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
And I let the fish go.

The small dinghy drifts
on the surface of the sea
its grayed gunnels, hull
and vacant crossbars
betray its age
but its persistent float
speaks its worth.

Without a bold goal
its life at the mercy of currents and winds
it drifts
but still it floats.

It would be easy to feel pity
for this tiny rudderless vessel
to condemn it to the depths
for its aimless oblivious
drift.

But this modest creation
a dinky dinghy
still floats
rises, falls, bobs,
and wobbles
a survivor of sojourns
she remains

a mocking
clocking
launch
of hope.

a blank
sheet
is all I
want
to
fill
up
to the
gunnels
and
sail
away
to a
distance.

London’s hot
it steams after a night of thunder
the parched ground shows signs of run off
leaves cluster amidst lime flowers
beaten to the soil by the deluge in the darkness

the people and their movement
seem slower in this airless humidity
even the conversations sound quieter
as if the storm softened their bark
as the day unfolds in the bright light
the brief freshness of last nights downpour is a dream

lunchtime in a small Italian bistro
the green of pesto as fresh and promising as springtime
outside the humidity sets the pace of afternoon
always a little awkward in the heat
London slows to a shuffle
unwilling or unable to fully accept a Mediterranean day

eastbound weekend underground train
heads overground for Liverpool Street
an air conditioned sardine can
filled to the gunnels
noises blending and contorting
to make a music as yet unfound

moving through it on a breeze,
in a daze, removed yet present
words cutting my pathway home
London is hot
it waits for another night of thunder