"leeward" poems
We were west of the Azores,
Five days out of New York,
when we spotted the Mary Celeste.
She was listing to Leeward
But still under sail
with no obvious sign of distress.
Briggs, Her captain, I knew
as a man good and true
And his shipmates
were capable men.
We hailed, but no answer,
So I send men aboard
To find out what had become of them.
Her cargo intact, just one lifeboat gone
And a rope that trailed aft in the sea.
Something had caused them
To abandon their ship
but why was a mystery to me.
There are storms on the Ocean
As winter draws near;
A sea grave was his crew's likely fate
Or else they were drifting
Ever farther from shore
with nothing to eat on their plates.
I gave thanks to God’s grace
that cold, indifferent Fate’s
bony fingers had not touched on me
and I wept for my friends
of the Mary Celeste
who would never
come home from the sea.
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 11:49 AM UTC
Your leeward left lays
steeped in shadows,
as a perfect line flickers
outlining your silhouette.
Incandescent light makes
porcelain of your skin.
Its honest touch embraces
you with artificial moonbeams,
airbrushed and pale.
I watch your chest rise,
as you inhale the
atmosphere you have
created with your presence.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 5:53 AM UTC
When I met you, it felt like a dream come true,
Finally met the coffee that’s my kind of brew,
The type of someone who’s my style,
In tea, you’re my chamomile.
Entering your ship was the best,
I can feel my heart finally at rest,
Watching the sea looked serene and still,
See with you, that’s how my soul feels.
The waves became unpredictable,
Accurate leeward was impossible,
Some parts of you were locked in the fo’c’sle,
Hence, I must learn how to drive this vessel.
Captain, without you the ship isn’t stable,
You’re safe inside while me outside, struggle,
You have your priorities, I don’t want to interfere,
But hope you’ll be with me ‘til the storm clears.
Maybe it’s not safe being with you,
Entering your ship wasn’t the right thing to do,
My decision is still clouded with fear,
Should I just jump or stay with you here?
Nov 19, 2023
Nov 19, 2023 at 12:05 PM UTC
I’m small enough to cry for those with frozen teardrops
who can’t get up off the side of the road to die in peace
So I'll abide in this polar freezing cold silent deliverance
where a hollow warmth hides the tears that aren't for
cryin’ alone
There’s a bitter arctic wind blows right through the tree trunks
there’s no shelter leaning on the dream of the leeward other side
This winter isolation grasps on impatient pieces of frayed light
like hope a mustard sized seed of shine may move venerable
mountain peaks
Who ever knows how long salvation lasts ? They said he died
sleeping on a cardboard comforter and blue plastic tarp duvet;
a holey old coat stained with all what went wrong in life …
And .., I feel a sickening guilt of a warming fire's thickening
smoke
The chimney’s icicles drip an angel’s frozen teardrops
But .., I can’t find no heaven in this big ol’ world ...
wild is the wind ... January 4th, 2017
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 11:10 AM UTC
I am surprised to see
that the ocean is still going on.
Now I am going back
and I have ripped my hand
from your hand as I said I would
and I have made it this far
as I said I would
and I am on the top deck now
holding my wallet, my cigarettes
and my car keys
at 2 o'clock on a Tuesday
in August of 1960.
Dearest,
although everything has happened,
nothing has happened.
The sea is very old.
The sea is the face of Mary,
without miracles or rage
or unusual hope,
grown rough and wrinkled
with incurable age.
Still,
I have eyes.
These are my eyes:
the orange letters that spell
ORIENT on the life preserver
that hangs by my knees;
its ***** canvas coat;
the faded sign that sits on its shelf
saying KEEP OFF.
Oh, all right, I say,
I'll save myself.
Over my right shoulder
I see four nuns
who sit like a bridge club,
their faces poked out
from under their habits,
as good as good babies who
have sunk into their carriages.
Without discrimination
the wind pulls the skirts
of. their arms.
Almost undressed,
I see what remains:
that holy wrist,
that ankle,
that chain.
Oh God,
although I am very sad,
could you please
let these four nuns
loosen from their leather boots
and their wooden chairs
to rise out
over this greasy deck,
out over this iron rail,
nodding their pink heads to one side,
flying four abreast
in the old-fashioned side stroke;
each mouth open and round,
breathing together
as fish do,
singing without sound.
Dearest,
see how my dark girls sally forth,
over the passing lighthouse of Plum Gut,
its shell as rusty
as a camp dish,
as fragile as a pagoda
on a stone;
out over the little lighthouse
that warns me of drowning winds
that rub over its blind bottom
and its blue cover;
winds that will take the toes
and the ears of the rider
or the lover.
There go my dark girls,
their dresses puff
in the leeward air.
Oh, they are lighter than flying dogs
or the breath of dolphins;
each mouth opens gratefully,
wider than a milk cup.
My dark girls sing for this.
They are going up.
See them rise
on black wings, drinking
the sky, without smiles
or hands
or shoes.
They call back to us
from the gauzy edge of paradise,
good news, good news.
2k
The fisherman tells the sea
that he promises to weather its storms.
The sea tells the fisherman
that she promises to carry him
to adventurous lands
upon her leeward waves.
As for me,
I promise we will be okay
as the winds blow the shingles
off our tiny, little house.
I promise we will be okay
as we follow the maps
and navigate the roads
while the radio sings static,
our hands clasped together
at your knee.
I promise that the rain
will radiate diamonds,
that reflect the gleam of your eyes,
onto the shores,
into the sea,
onto me,
and especially onto you.
We will find hope inside the clouds.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 1:38 AM UTC
for the missed and the missing
~~~
lea - a tract of open ground, especially grassland; meadow; land used for a few years for pasture or for growing hay, then plowed over and replaced by another crop; untilled; fallow
~~~
In the Lea Field
And again that man
in the fallow fallen field,
grasps his own tiller,
looking ahead, downwind, leeward to plow,
impatient to cut rows of upturned earth
to grow markers,
plant seeded rows of words
and again that man
presumes time,
planting a yearly crop of
hoped for just enough time
but it does not suffice -
enough and sufficient time
will not grow in the lea field
this year
Now a man comes to mind,
living and dying
in a lea field
the man too,
field fallen fallow like the grassy meadow
that once fed his overcast gaze
yet the man believes still,
word seeds of lea poems prior planted
fullsome in their dormancy,
potent with patience,
shall not always remain so...
they are
bridges-in-waiting,
un-til,
ready once more
for the missed to
till
anew
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 5:54 PM UTC
How the rains came
wild blue in waterfall tears
magenta orchid clouds to wear
Oh, the tropical winds
leeward, an ocean blowing in
plumeria flower waves
a blissful turquoise bay
lay of fragrant floral sands
warm breeze to carry
this wild ocean breadth
far and off to foreign lands
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
The great blue heron haunts the reedy bank,
and combs the midnight waves with razor eyes.
He trolls the river shoals on spindled shank
then beaks his prey with sudden, swift surprise.
In shadowed silhouette his figure begs
my mind to plumb the depths of darkened mire.
But diving there, I rise with naught but dregs,
no meal of meat, no answers to inspire.
The heron pauses thoughtfully mid-stride
to preen his dusky feathers in the glow.
He ***** his crested head to leeward side,
then darts, once more, with certainty, below.
Aloof to prying gaze of passersby,
he lifts majestic wings on moonlit sky.
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 7:21 PM UTC
A serene cottage upon a dreary hillside
Where my mind's listless galaxy of neurons
Synapse in the absolute darkness,
Is painted in Victorian hues, cold and haunting.
Dejection rains down from the leeward sky
With nothing harkened save for the ocean's
Stormy roar and a desolate lighthouse,
Beckoning through the fog and memoirs of the past.
The deeper my soul is carved out with sorrow,
The deeper the hollow can be filled with joy.
But alas, I feel nothing of joy but only a void
Left by the dagger of yesterday's darkening tragedies.
I feel the rain soothe my skin and kiss my cheek
Like the sweetest lover on midnight's embrace,
Yet my moth-eaten quilt of memories only seems
Enough to shelter our legs but ne'er our feet.
My heart feels the warmth of an autumn fire,
Kindling in the crisp rain, bleeding beneath
A rose where we burn in the endless torture
Of our own despondence.
I can feel the blood in my veins turning to fire
As I imagine her fingertips unzipping my spine
As though it were full of secrets and mysteries
Unbeknowst to myself...
I can feel the inferno that rages within my aortic arch
Every moment I imagine losing myself within her
Eyes, glimmering like an eclipse over a midnight
Sea...the Sleepless Coventry.
She unlocks my secrets and weaves them in the bouquet
Of tendrils in her hair like ribbons of crimson and light,
Waving in the vehement northerlies with numbing scents
Of argan and spice.
Her body is but a canvas wrapped neatly around a
Paper mache skeleton, the most beautifully tragic
Foundation known to humanity...
She arrives right on the equinox to set fire to my sorrow,
Intoxicating me with her kiss and infecting me with her smile.
And so enters the conflagration of my soul,
An annihilation of light, blackening my coronary
Artery whilst shooting smoke through my cinnamon
Whiskey tainted veins.
'Tis hard to look through such a misconstrued lens
As such, the Vena Cava Kaleidoscope...
Where the flames burn through the galaxy of neurons
Expending the harrowing memories as its fuel.
I can see the magnetic alloy of her Cobalt eyes reflecting
The fire that consumes me from the inside out.
She pulls on me like the moon pulls upon the tide
As she whispers with her soft, enamored sigh.
I burn in my silent knowing, my liquid mind
Awakening in fervor and strange euphoria.
I burn for the Aurora Infinite.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 3:08 PM UTC
Listlessly
Hope?
Hairy
A hippopotamus slain
Leeward shores
Drifting days
A cup that can't be raised
Hours and hours of counting your flowers
Etch
And pray for pain
Toga way
A he I say
And swirl down the drain
Memories-emotions
Nothing never gone
Conflating with hating
Regurgitating
Til all of it is gone
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 12:25 PM UTC
Crashing surf on roiling sands
Bouldered with volcanic might,
Westward storms howl from the sea
Battered seagulls shriek in flight.
Pale dune grasses thrash to leeward
Scattered shafts of milky light,
Wild and storm caste portraiture
Of cruel sea's eternal might.
Searching eyes across this tumult
Reaching gaze amongst the foam,
Sodden gown to clinging body
Frantic eyes in cold waves roam.
Desperately she seeks the lover
Hauntingly she calls his name,
Writhing seas consume her words
Crashing surf dispels the blame.
Sad solitude in loneliness
Outstretched slender arms so frail,
Yearning for that tender kiss
And for his cold, dead features pale.
Rain soaked girl on lonely outcrop
Railing at a raging sea,
Lost within unfeeling vastness
Unobserved by all...but me.
Marshalg
On the wild & remote, black sand beaches of Taranaki
20 November 2010
Nov 15, 2010
Nov 15, 2010 at 11:06 PM UTC
There it looms, a life like mountain/ sheathed in fynbos, all shades of green/ while the cape drags in reluctant seaweed/ and the wind makes contrails of my hair/
I ascend too with the heather, the rooibos and the hottentot/ We climb/ now a collective of exaggerated beauty/ defiant in wind, spray and fire/
There are leaves as prone as a flat lined heart/ reeds as resilient as a returning pulse/and we all watch the hope of yolk/ of a Sunday sun dipping into the ocean/promising to rise again/
We creep up the leeward and the windward/ ensconced in the spiral of a soul entropy/ determined to survive every rock and crevice/ to hoist ourselves up the flagpole of the cosmic plan/
Mar 8, 2021
Mar 8, 2021 at 2:45 PM UTC
the breeze tastes of strawberries
and the sun
swaying towards the horizon
in the deepening sky
pleasures my metronome thoughts
like her hips
as the music catches her
rolling and tumbling
when the rhythm in the salted air
matches the one she finds
pulsing
in the place she goes
on moonful nights
where crescent beaches linger
singing in her hands
with mother of pearl choirs
strung around her shoulders
in the ashen light
waves roll in
cresting on her
powdered sugar *******
and coral reef lips
leave their mark
crimson stains
on a leeward palm tree
having run aground
under a sky spread map
of misaligned stars
I search for grace
in the shadow of her eye
Aug 19, 2024
Aug 19, 2024 at 12:09 AM UTC
oscillating back and forth
head tilting from leeward and windward
an abstract puzzling my imperial gaze
a Van Gogh in waiting
perchance a reflection illuminated
in broad mesmerizing strokes
some tantalizing insightfulness
else a superficial escapade
do the color menageries
stray my mindfulness or hold attention
each vivid hue enlightenment
to soothe & provide enrichment
is my inspiration desperation
to find meaning in the simpleton
gravitating and debating
between beauty and gargoyles
does incredulous creativity scare me
or woo me into submissiveness
the artist plying servitude
into mine cavernous cavities
Alan Scales’ exhibit of
Turquoise Abstract Landscape II
provides fodder for my mind
to exponentially explode
Andreas Simic©
Apr 22, 2022
Apr 22, 2022 at 10:58 PM UTC
May I have a slice, please? Plain would be fine...
a plain slice of happiness
no sir, I don't have Cancer or MS,
I'm not not a paraplegic or quadriplegic,
haven't served my country and lost limbs,
I'm nowhere near as heart sore as so many,
my plain pain is just -
plain but powerful
in a plainly powerful way
is it possible that
when I feel
that life has taken a nose dive
when it crashes,
I'd prefer to sink than swim?
is that ok?
hope so.
drown in molasses of every day,
try that an any age,
struggle with every decision made,
wrestle with forces that come
at you from every side of life...
wry smile, wry groan,
there is no explaining,
when you chose one thing over another
it is one that missed out
that,
of course was...
is my heart shattering,
my tiresome immobility,
lessened because it is
unseen on
the outward unbound,
leeward side?
is plain pain somehow
insufficient, lacking in
character?
the delirious mystery
of my thoughts
doesn't need spicing,
oregano or basil,
sympathy cards,
and tsk tsk cluckings....
but the steady erosion of exhaustion
weakens me in ways
that leaves me
asking, hoping,
for just
a plain slice of happiness
how can that cost so much?
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 10:03 PM UTC
We were west of the Azores,
Five days out of New York,
when we spotted the Mary Celeste.
She was listing to Leeward
But still under sail
with no obvious sign of distress.
Briggs, Her captain, I knew
as a man good and true
And his shipmates
were capable men.
We hailed, but no answer,
So I send men aboard
To find out what had become of them.
Her cargo intact, just one lifeboat gone
And a rope that trailed aft in the sea.
Something had caused them
To abandon their ship
but why was a mystery to me.
There are storms on the Ocean
As winter draws near;
A sea grave was their likely fate
Or else they were drifting
Ever farther from shore
with nothing to eat on their plates.
I gave thanks to God’s grace
that cold, indifferent Fate’s
bony fingers had not touched on me
and I wept for my friends
of the Mary Celeste
who would never
come home from the sea.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 11:26 PM UTC
there is a delight unique
(which is mispronounced
by all, actually, u-nee-cue)
after thousands of poems
composed and disposed,
smack dab read, two- fab-you-lust-
fulfilling new(new (to HP), anyway)
poets who have left me
brighter but blue
with one option, two problems:
*De doc he say, son you in a bad way,
wake to neon flashing ear to ear,
a l t e r n at i n g
smiles and grimaces,
face flashing
unceasingly
like a lonely
orange red Hotel sign
irritating the dark, all night long*
two poets,
offering either hope or despair,
and I am bereft and bewildered,
by two new to me poet~scriveners,
with such distinctive and oppositioned
positional views of life expressed so well,
making my Pity #9, feeling prissy and yet prophetic,
as these two make want to cry/smile with every read
of theirs…and throw in the crying towel…wet with tears …
*and the summer breezes, carries us leeward,
to the sheltering side of my island*
READ THEM!
(see below)
Aug 8, 2025
Aug 8, 2025 at 2:11 PM UTC
Look for me in spite of what you see
Stop drifting leeward, keep an eye on the goal
Quicken all your senses and tune me in
I will do my best to soothe your soul
Despite this illusion that is now fooling you
I know you and love coming
to the rescue
The things you’re seeing now
aren’t quite the true
Each event is perfect
from a certain point of view
Way past the spectrum range
that’s audible
Block out the extraneous to get an inner vision
Tune in your ears, this frequency is laudable
My voice will make the fusion; my eyes will make the fission
So before you try to smell the flowers from underneath
Before you take that J. Urbonas rollercoaster ride
Visualize your picture of the spirit with the wreath
And try and try to follow
sans pomposity or pride
Illusion has within it, a glimmer of the real
An imperfect model of what’s there when we break through
Don’t be guided only by the feelings that you feel
Nor by the coldness of the calculating you
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 5:57 PM UTC
Tidal emotions
Ebb and
Flow
Coming and going
With the phase of the moon
Or day of the week
In remission they sit
at Times
leeward of the conscious mind
Somedays a deluge
Engulfs
Me
Others, more mild,
The water stands
unstirred (but still there)
most days though, I find
that I'm wallowing
Infatuated in a warm drizzle
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 11:55 PM UTC
Laying awake
Praying for my soul
Taking the ticking seconds in
As they flash by quick and instant
Leeward Receding
Backward stars into the distance
My mind will wander towards that
Strange astral
Unknowing lack of will
Hoping that maybe I'll land on some
Toadstool of another view
After I've gorged my fill
There's gonna be some string
That my soul rides back home
Following it like a dipping power line
Oscillating along the ***** road
But it's all relative
Maybe It will come in an instant
Crashes through the door and out I go
Reaching down the barrel
For lost time
Maybe I'll do it to myself
A crumbling temple in the sand
Reaching ever higher in the mind
As it all erodes out beneath
And like a tree
I fall
And nobody is there to hear me
All that'll be left is this
A word, a thought, some dream of bliss
I can't claim to know.
Had I known,
What future had been sowed
Perhaps I would have found a better way
Back home
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 1:27 PM UTC
WORDS!
APHORISMS,
THOUGHTS,
PHRASED
CURATE
AND SPAKE
FOR
SPIRIT'S NAME!
I give you
the fire of the soul
The blood of the earth
The dust of the aether
In the gasp of the known
A liquorious draught
That tickles the throat
Where providence sat
And closed heaven's door
HISTORICAL SPAT!
Spittle and drivel
The fleshy sacks grovel
While Satan
Clawed his nails
at the sand
Of souldom!
Cast amidst the stars
And Not moving very far
A *****
No more
And Gamorra absorbed
Before that perpetual want
of more
HERE, AND NOW!
the scent of battle on the wind
Sulfur and toxic gas
Humans behaving mad
Leeward of the path
Struggling and daft
Illiterate and crass
Fallow fleshy sacks
I am in love with it all!
A raving lunatic with
romantic comedic timing
And no taste for time
dining
But on the feast of the bone
And savored moment
I will be alone!
Except for you, poor soul
Who reads in these words
Your own fated toil
I miss you, I love you, from even beyond the pale
My words float in the clouds
And scrape the sentimental trails
Back home once again,
Maybe find my next trend
Or Hear HIS next sermon
And go tell a friend.
Sep 18, 2019
Sep 18, 2019 at 12:28 PM UTC
Where do we go for sanctuary?
Tossed by turbulent waves in storms of time,
we scramble for a leeward shore.
Where can we find security when
violent winds rise to splinter our shelters -
cursing dreams to oblivion?
How can we conjure hope
when famine, disease and bitter tyranny
stalk us in the shadows?
The answers lie within us
where means and tools for restoration live
and empathy is our guide.
Gifted with imagination’s plow,
we envision re-cultivation of the thirsty soil -
so prescribed by our creator.
We think, and so we care.
we care, therefore we act and sacrifice.
The future is our calling.
Reason, trust and community
must ever be our strong and worthy foundations
and capstones of our sanctuary.
Apr 24, 2020
Apr 24, 2020 at 5:13 PM UTC
We were walking, the painter and I,
Across the plain and towards the hill.
The moon had waxed into her glory
Causing the zephyrs to sigh.
We rested awhile at the foot of the rise
Nestled in a comfortable silence.
The night moved on languid feet
Passion hidden under a serene guise.
We took the path on the dark leeward
My golden quill our only light.
The painter promised a spectacle
And anticipation fueled my climb
Cherry Blossoms swirled in the wind,
As we stood on silver bathed ground.
A man stood at the edge of the hill,
His hands on the railing, waiting.
Under the tree he stood.
The flowers hiding the wrinkles
Of his suit and his skin.
His gaze fixed upon the moon.
My friend and I sat against a boulder
And waited with him.
The wind whispered with the flowers
And the Sakura tree sang to the night.
The song was impossible,
Yet hear it we did.
Violins and keys, flutes and harps -
A haunting tune of longing.
And as the song rose,
A woman stood beside the man;
A bride clad in a moonlight gown,
Her veil of starshine trailing behind.
The man took her hand,
And the woman drew closer.
And groom and bride,
They danced among the flowers.
Wrinkles were smoothened
Trembling hands strengthened
Faltering feet trode sure
And wilting heart bloomed anew.
Happiness perfused the air.
Cruelly brief the phenomenon would be -
So the man knew, and chose to forget.
He held on to the past and danced.
We sat there, intruders and fools,
Too ashamed to look on,
Too enthralled to look away,
Until sleep hid them from our eyes.
The melody rains with the petals,
Tears dance with the smiles.
The waltz of the weary hearts
Lasts as long as the moon.
Jun 17, 2025
Jun 17, 2025 at 8:38 AM UTC