"maritime" poems
I recall inheriting my first bike.
Solid steel.
Pink as a Maritime sunset, only more bright.
I remember replacing my sister's bike after two long years of back-n-forths -- two years of childish insults and character building -- as I choose to see it.
The thing was invincible -- rain or snow.
Save the rust, which had its way.
I missed that old bike for a time...
It was sentimental, as they say.
My next two broke down fast -- they were hardly comparable.
When I was able to buy my own, the excitement was unbearable.
What a beauty 14", titanium dirt jumper,
Canadian made Norco -- Red, it gleams.
Even to this day, twelve years downstream.
It's too bad it hasn't grown with me
Because I'm having trouble giving it away...
We've spent a short lifetime together
And I know I will rue the day
I forsake my childhood
And take
Three hundred dollars
In its place.
Aug 10, 2016
Aug 10, 2016 at 4:47 PM UTC
High up above our war-torn city,
On Snapper hills sit the old lighthouse.
For years in storms, she did her duty
Rain or shine without any kind of excuse.
High above our beautiful sandy shores,
Just like a good mother, she watches
not only over vessels but those
Who lost hopes and suffered all kinds of damages.
The light she flashes has for years,
Served as a perpetual beacon of hope
For those with bad memories and fears,
those traumatized by wars who still can't live and cope.
High above Monrovia, she stands
Watching the resilient people below
Survivors of the deadly Ebola strands
Who once refused to bow their heads low.
High above she sits, beyond the Montserrado basin.
At night her light remains the star of the city,
That has endured moaning and crying,
A city that has seen the good, the bad and the ugly.
The old lighthouse still stands there today,
directing maritime traffic at night
and flashing light over our beloved city
That for years witnessed a ****** and senseless fight.
IB-Poetry©️
2/19/2018
Feb 18, 2018
Feb 18, 2018 at 10:33 PM UTC
The first new star flashed waves of blue tonight ,
securing my belief in the afterlife
A grove of ferns lit my imagination
For I became a shipwrecked captain -
that stumbled upon an island nation
Exploring the deep jungle without machete ,
potable water nor compass
Knee deep in mangrove forest
Tropical winds whispered and moaned
A lean-to of fronds became my maritime home
In the presence of a million stars
An army of sand ***** paraded before -
their newfound master from near and afar
Crashing waves lulled a poor sailor to rest
The whispers of Poseidon
A dream about a lookout in the crows nest
Counting orbs in the tail of the Milky Way-
with visions of mermaids , ghost ships and rogue waves
Aug 1, 2018
Aug 1, 2018 at 9:05 PM UTC
Letter, letter born to return to sender--
extra-marital, maritime, marine, mercy, mercy mine--
two drinks in; four from home,
letter, letter born to return to sender--
.38 special, sexless, spiteful, spitting, spitting rites--
three drinks in; three from home,
letter, letter born to return to sender--
double-decker, drugged, dangerous, daggers, daggers dried--
four drinks in; two from home,
letter, letter born to return to sender--
clusterfucked, fancy-free, foreign, fine, fine unwind,
five drinks in; one from home,
letter, letter born to return to sender--
ether cloud, Evelyn, earthware, everyday, everyday signs--
six drinks in; on the carpeted floor,
letter, letter born to return to sender,
whitewashed, weakly, wounded, wishing, wishing for home.
Dec 17, 2011
Dec 17, 2011 at 3:24 AM UTC
1302
I think that the Root of the Wind is Water—
It would not sound so deep
Were it a Firmamental Product—
Airs no Oceans keep—
Mediterranean intonations—
To a Current’s Ear—
There is a maritime conviction
In the Atmosphere—
6.9k
There's something about the sea:
In feeling a force of nature,
So much stronger than yourself,
Surround you in its embrace.
There's something about the waves,
Their raw power,
Their cool, demanding strength.
And there's something about his hands,
His voice, his eyes.
The way his body pulls mine under,
Like waves,
Indomitable, forceful,
Alive.
And I'm floating.
I'm sinking.
I'm thrown around in the current.
In his arms: the sea;
The breath he steals
Then grants it back.
And I pray only
That the tide never subsides.
Aug 28, 2022
Aug 28, 2022 at 4:56 AM UTC
*Tybee , the Masters sonata of wind , crashing wave , sand and tide , Alpha and Omega of rippling current , mighty Savannah River completes her southern journey here .. As Sailor , ****** and maritime entrepreneur , embark , having left the security of her shore into the mighty , unforgiving Atlantic , her Lighthouse , a living testament to sacrifice , safe return to port as well as those forever lost at sea*
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 4:31 PM UTC
We walk upon the dock,
skinny dipping swimming in our Moonrise Kingdom,
in the sea we swim with saline skin,
as the Moon rise ascends with Mars patiently waiting,
where are we,
we are in a place many call paradise,
suppose that’s as good of a word for it as anything,
raw rock lobster ceviche no married time just maritime,
mirrored minds,
looking through the Looking Glass,
brewing brines,
the home brewed stew is cooking fast,
there are plenty of fish in the sea,
it’s just up to you to cast,
the only problem with magical moments,
is they are always gone to fast,
basking,
in her stare,
brackish
taste in the air,
Her eyes reflect the light of the Moonrise,
the shine reflects from moon to hair,
and we are both grateful for each other,
because we could be anywhere in the world but we are here,
her eyes reflect the light of the Moonrise,
she is as soft as white sand beaches,
but her shell,
her shell is as hard as stone crab no ceviche,
teach us,
teacher,
show me the Love,
class is always in session,
show me the Light,
show me the truth in your lessons,
blessing,
this world with her touch,
she commands where she goes,
she stands steady when she walks,
which is quite a contrast,
to this sea which sways below this dock,
we dive in,
alive when,
we swim,
within the waters with our bare skin,
bare skin,
under the light of our Moonrise Kingdom,
no where else to be but where we are,
so we’ll be here until Kingdom come…
∆ Aaron La Lux ∆
from Hollywood's Heartbeat
available worldwide 7/7/16
Jun 11, 2016
Jun 11, 2016 at 6:42 PM UTC
Friggin' the best of
All maritime words
Like
Lash the friggin' tops'l
Friggin' foresail
Fifteen friggin' frigates
Five friggin' fathoms deep
Flotsam friggin' jetsam
Friggin' me timbers
Friggin' boson's mate
Scrub the friggin' deck
Aye aye, friggin' Captain
It just feels so right
As spicy as Jamaican ***
It rolls right off the tongue
Like a wench's pearl
Just like a friggin'wench's pearl,
Mate
r~ 28Feb14
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 8:00 PM UTC
###
today
I went to the beach in search of epiphany.
I was hoping to find her among the clouds,
witnessing her morph into an ivory shape that would
probe my unconscious into fashioning
some big epiphany
out of her silver linings,
relentless against the beating winds.
or perhaps
unearth him beneath the patterns of cracks in rocks; and
he would weave a veiny trial to
lead my psyche into navigating
the big epiphany
after testing his infallible focus,
relentless against the beating waves.
instead
I felt the sea spray tease my toes
the maritime breeze whip my face
the scraggly sand stab my heels
the roaring waves crash against the jagged cliff
I did not find epiphany.
all I found
was that again
I felt small.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 5:15 AM UTC
These city lights look for all the world to me
like some spellbound amnesty
but in reality
they are the building blocks that bring the nights
so I can see
what is to come and what will be.
Like ships at sea that head to port
we're caught
and cast upon the waves like bread to be dispersed
saved ,reborn and nursed by those well versed
in maritime and chandler's stores and sending those back through revolving doors to drown again,
and how the night pours down on me
slipping quickly through the city light where the building blocks become another knock,a twist of fate,and being cruel would stand and wait,while I, the traveller stand and hesitate
to go on
to stay?
an end to an end or a beginning that would send me some hope,no pope here to bless me or you,just another city night to fight and fit tightly through until the morning comes and runs my fears away.
I stay and am obliged to those contributors,interlocutors who saw me,spoke, and watched me as I broke upon the morning shore,
score one to me and city nil
until tonight
when we will fight again.
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 1:01 AM UTC
I dwell in the Arctic Ocean,
And cope with cold, ice and snow,
I'm a large predator,
And create fear wherever i go,
I'm Ursus Maritimus - the Maritime Bear,
I hunt for fish beneath the ice,
I know they are there,
I'm gorgeous and cuddly,
But you best beware,
If i ever catch you,
You'll be fixed by my steely glare.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 6:12 AM UTC
I hold my cards
close to my chest
on this night that is
oh so close.
No fan
to blow
air into my face,
not that it would
matter anyway.
The air
would just
remind me
that it is hot
this summer night.
I am drinking beers
while the fruit flies
are sharing with me.
No sense
in picking them
out of the cup..
more will arrive.
The woman
who lives upstairs,
how can she ride her bike,
on such a summer night.
I hear her,
it's the sound
of rowing,
a creak-creak-creak.
88 Willow,
the building with eight dwellings.
Through the open window
I hear a dog barking,
maybe two, three blocks away.
This building that I live in,
where the walls
are so thin
you know that
they have ears.
Have ears to hear.
Creak-creak-creak..
the woman is rowing,
her rowing machine rows
out into a great big sea
of imagination,
where there
is every kind
of sea creature
that you can conjure
up in your mind.
And her
boyfriend, a fine
painter and sculpture.
He wants to do the
cover of my next book..
And I think, like that's ever going to happen.
My good friend
was over tonight,
he told me a story about
how he proposed
to his 'maritime' woman.
She cried and she cried
after she saw the ring,
not because it was so small,
but because she was
beside herself
in joyful delight.
I envy what it is they have,
but what they have
requires work, hard work.
They have one tried and true
partnership.
We talked about
reaching out to extended family,
as well as brothers and sisters in blood.
Me, of my own,
my father is turning eighty.
Eight decades and I know him not.
He fought
in the Korean War
and I've yet to ask him
about it.
Not once in my life time
has he even smelled
the wartime memories
that I am sure waft up
on occasion.
Now back to 88 Willow.
There is a drunkard
living in a basement apartment.
His legs are going
from wet brain.
He only calls me when
he is drunk.
He has two drinks and
he starts fumbling worse
than a line backer
intercepting
a foreword lateral pass.
I don't want to move,
though I know I have to,
to keep on keeping on,
I've got to move,
I have to move.
© 2013
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 10:37 PM UTC
No towering, flowering, landlocked tree
Will weep for the waning life of thee
Forgive them, friend, they never saw you smile
Forgive them, friend, they never saw you grin
To mistress maritime you were married
For her you lived, so with her be buried
Below the surface of sorrowful sin
Where above breathe hateful and hollow men
Solar shadows spin and empty seas flow
Though they are bereft your supernal glow
Forgive me, father, I can't seem to smile
Since you died, father, I can't seem to grin
(And from the waves we are ******
(And unto the waves we are ******
Jun 9, 2010
Jun 9, 2010 at 9:14 PM UTC
I would brush my hair thrice a day
For her, my love
And with every stroke
I would sing the song she is so fond of.
I tie it in a dark blue ribbon
That reminds me of her,
I would walk for days
To smell her salty lure
Whistling winds steadily blow
Each strand of hair
Into a whirlwind
In the summer air
She caresses our hull
And we meet her
With open arms
We collide in a perilous blur
Her fingers engulf us
Wrapping and curling
Around the island of hope
That is now as worthless as tarnished sterling.
I feel her gently nuzzle my toes
dandle my ankles and past
She blanketed my body
And I held steadfast
Her icy touch gave me chills
And I looked to the mast
Strong and anchored
To a ship that would not last
As my last breath disappeared
I saw my hair
Floating in the whirlwind
That is now in the sea’s care.
And after all that
I say my last prayer
For not one to hear
And no one to bear.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 9:48 PM UTC
this old year in its last hours
checks its tie
its coat tails
its long trousers
spats
its insalubrious look
gets ready for one last stand
at the times square of our minds
sick in singapore she wrote
i rather be caned that live one more day
and i concurred i rather she'd be caned
than i
here in ohio i hear some winter birds
i swear and i attest
their forlorn cries carry far
and sometimes i believe i see their shapes
remotely flitting far
their cries carry far
here in ohio
where the winter snow came and went in two whole days
its surprising whereabouts both seen and felt
now we are back to flimsy silver lace affixed on
windows
infirm in beijing she said
they all spit!
i took that as a sign she was getting well
here in the post soltice winter there is hope
for longer days ahoy
the maritime soul departs in yet another lost boat
inexplicably tied to the date
sick in mazatlan she said the water makes me puke
i heard later she bought a boat to sail from the west coast
down to the panama canal then up the east coast to new yor
k
that was her plan
but no she gave it up after she bought the boat
she realized she would have to fill it with ***** and nothing
else
choice give up the ship or sink under the influence
i hear the "Rosa Linda" i still tied in long beach pier
I mourn such passing as the days
disclose and hide in a foggy patina of misremembrance
see this was her coat her gloves
the angle of her visor gave us more of her
than i can just now tell i cant even remember the color
of her eyes
and yet firmly believe that we once met
as i get ready to welcome a new year
back to the chalk line
on your marks
ready
set
go to my habitual everyday
here in ohio some winter birds
pester the air with their calls
perhaps they know something about time
I don't know
anyway, let's go meet another minute hour or day
sick in
ohio i say
Jan 24, 2010
Jan 24, 2010 at 3:19 PM UTC
You were fourteen in Dr. A.’s class
when on that day you proclaimed
to have learned nothing and on that
day Dr. A. held no doctorate degree.
You were fourteen in Dr. A.’s class
when bodies: sick, overweight, in-shape
fell from buildings and into to TV screens
into history books, only to be stuck forever
in a New York newsreel in their Tuesday
outfits with Monday night’s love and touch
brewing, aged and earthy, from their falling
lives. If you listen closely on the eve of this day
the wind still whispers their scent of perfume
trails, still whispers what really happened
that busy day in the clouds, in the sky.
I was ten and can’t recall where I was
or in whose company but like the waters
stretched between Europe, Africa, and the
America’s, I was (am) far removed, was (am)
still putting together the blue-black lineage
of my triangular history that drowned
in the salty waters stretched, flowing
between three continents. But fifteen
years later, we (you and I) have overcome
the billowing black clouds of Tuesdays
the Monday night upsets, and the routed
maritime of our ancestors. 15 years later
you are still alive with your blue eyes
and clear face, are still four years my senior
are still my guiding light and sight of sun.
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 11:59 PM UTC
in the manufactured waves of chlorine
my feet stand on concrete shores
and tiles grappled with maritime life
of dead leaves that have crept its way
in an ecosystem of unnatural residents
with sunken treasures buried beneath
the heavy blankets of swimmers' feet
a child's lost pair of goggles gleams
in the crevices of the ceramic seabed
sunbeams bounce off the plastic
an underwater mirage for the pool's
regular inhabitants armed in spandex
these are the common sights
of The Public Pool
and it's in the rare quiet moments
of carefully constructed serenity
when you are the sole ruler of
your concrete public pool kingdom
when your camp has been pillaged
by a thousand 5 year olds garbed
in their best hot pink speedo suits
and equipped with the best water guns
maintaining their positions like
a modern Praetorian legion swathed
in modern day mass-produced tunics
huddled in formation with limbs afloat
assembled and hungry to conduct
a carefully constructed battle of dominance
when the water surrounding you
suddenly feels too warm
it's too warm for it to be the chlorine
and you look up to see their leader –
their leader in the speedo silicone swim cap
is flushed as red as her speedo suit: a sight
against the synthetic cerulean landscape
that you realize:
you own nothing in this world
even the public pool gets invaded
even the public pool gets ****** in
so you might as well enjoy shallow ends
and every little joy life has to offer
the universe will **** itself eventually
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 4:28 PM UTC
True as the oceanside bonfires ..
Embers that parlay their very existence ,
at mercy of Poseidon's petulant expanse ..
Gale-borne , maritime id ...
Devout seafarers in perpetual , celestial
navigation ..
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 11:52 PM UTC
at dawn, the shoreline:
waxed and waned and always there,
crawling towards the moon
light on the breakers.
a dull roar and sand grains spin
weary, angry foam
until it is gone
and the sun comes out and the
fishers' lines are full.
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 9:39 PM UTC
Think of me not as some maritime devotion,
born upon the salt, suspended in the air,
our friendship but a spit of land, a temporal
bank set upon its tidal death through erosion.
Tarry not on your scattered desk of grey matter.
The folded notes and pencil shavings you hoard,
in the sorry hope they’ll fall to a collage of memoirs
and make sense of all this, their endless chatter.
They talk in circles, double-dealing confidants,
so free of tongue, yet so confined in spirit.
In haste they claim unto you their longing
for the fame, the glamour of the on-screen debutants.
Still stubbornly, you cling to those memories anew.
A memory of a memory, a doctored past is
a game of whispers, to colour in the grey,
to fill beauty in the present, to set ourselves askew.
So you rest with sad grace, thinking on what’s gone.
You make a bed and twist in the sheets of old deceptions,
your pillow case of cigarette ash, wasted petals;
instead, old friend, here are my words to lay upon.
So think of me not as some wasted emotion,
born upon the haze, a clinch of jutting bones,
our friendship but a stretch of truth, a temporal
face set to fade, in all of life’s commotion.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 8:23 PM UTC
People laugh around a plate of moving squid
They are served
abalones as appetizers:
you **** the animal out
and devour him.
Everything here is maritime:
Wheel, ring, buoy, compass, fishnet, gargoyle
I am illiterate for the menu,
but I devour the fish I pined for
Outside in the fish tanks some light is breaking
I see air bubbles rising.
Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 6:19 AM UTC
Terror-struck now, they bow their heads and shed their tans like snake-skin suits
As the inevitable full extent of the reckoning unfolds
And the scrolls are unrolled before their disbelieving eyes
These self-professed Titans now turn to pallid ghosts
As the great myth of invincibility
Shatters like a champagne flute - blasted by a soprano’s high note
And they who grew fat upon the flesh of others
Are pulled down into dripping caves and dragged through labyrinthine tunnels
Meanwhile, far away from off-shore maritime law, the true nobility
For so long held in grim captivity -
-They, driven by love, truth and empathy
Rise and fly like sprung angels.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 6:39 PM UTC