"oarsman" poems
"Swing is the mythical moment in rowing. When the energy an oarsman puts into the boat seems to perfectly propel the hull forward, when the crew moves in unison and the boat slides over the water, when the output seems to generate more energy and a grueling pace seems infinitely sustainable, a boat and the rowers aboard feel "swing."
Swing is trust. Trust that you can do your own and the boat will fly because of everyone. The moment of swing is the moment seared into the memory; a moment to be relived in recollection."
Swing I know.
Swing is when my
living words
fall and flow so fast,
they complain, to me,
Keep up, Keep up!
We are in unison in a moment,
forever sustainable, forever lived,
and forever relived,
a myth created,
a recollection
collected and preserved,
singing:
Swing low, sweet poet,
Comin' for to carry us home;
Swing low, sweet poet,
Comin' for to carry us home.
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC
I dreamt
of becoming
an oarsman
on the
rowing team
fervently
pumping my
arms to
the cadence call
as the craft
chased the
twilight
moon
under sequential
bridges
but woke up
remembering
my buoyancy
is like unto
a large
rock
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 6:06 PM UTC
I would make an attempt at reaching Hell one morning , I shall return with an omen or some type of sign . Search for the infamous Lake of Fire , the Prince of Darkness himself or demons flying about ! The Sulphuric Abyss of Christian fable , Kingdom of Hades as told by the ancients ! A gold piece placed in mouth to pay the oarsman , skipped across the River Styx without fear of retribution ! I dare any demon to replicate the horror of Vietnam or Afghanistan , Iwo Jima , Gettysburg or **** of Nanking ! Walk in the shoes of the Veteran that witnessed Omaha , Utah and Normandy Beach ! The Underworld is not for physical torment nor payment for Earthly sin ! Hell is the black hole of space , swallowing souls , returned to mans past , reliving the atrocity of war forever and a day !
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
Winged caterpillar
That frees my soul,
Sets my mind to dreaming,
How the hand of man
Out plays the God,
Makes love
To its master.
With fondled fingers, you paint
A dumb firmament, the way
Light dazzles as it breaks
Or how the itching rain
Taps a teasing melody as it falls
To the lover ground.
Beloved of Orpheus
Whose wove you coiled in-
Vents a garment of bird song loom,
Content my breath
The way that water wells
And lolls into puddles
Nesting not before the hot,
Harpy steam.
O melodious pool,
Undulating lake, frame
To emotive vapours, without
Ship you ply in wakes.
The oarsman plucks the main,
Your body is the sail,
Drunkard winds and warblers,
Blow hard, but fail my ears,
Atone as well, the wretched sounds of day
For they are sour spells, and but a fools
Trash canned movements, in a state
So needy of weeding,
Mere sound is soiled
The way you rake.
Evolution spreads,
As stones do,
When moves the river bed,
Grace, in violence,
Sparkles as it blooms,
Like an ears creation—
Rose on the tomb.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 1:04 PM UTC
Hanging in a leaden sky
Gulls, in tight formation, fly.
Heavy snow's cascading flare
Sodium sharpness filling air.
Heaving waves carousing fen
Ocean's scent, aloft.. .and then
The skiff with oarsman pulling tight
Materializing from the night
Braving, now, a heavy sea
Puffing pipe, irreverently.
Oblivious of mounting gale
Abandons oar to set a sail
Skimming sharp to gravel beach
Shrugs aside hazards reach.
Wading into pounding foam
Smiling thought of *** at home.
[email protected]
Feb 15, 2025
Feb 15, 2025 at 11:13 PM UTC
Winged caterpillar
That frees my soul,
Sets my mind to dreaming,
How the hand of man
Out plays the God,
Makes love
To its master.
With fondled fingers, you paint
A dumb firmament, the way
Light dazzles as it breaks
Or how the itching rain
Taps a teasing melody as it falls
To the lover ground.
Beloved of Orpheus
Whose wove you coiled in-
Vents a garment of bird song loom,
Content my breath
The way that water wells
And lolls into puddles
Nesting not before the hot,
Harpy steam.
O melodious pool,
Undulating lake, frame
To emotive vapours, without
Ship you ply in wakes.
The oarsman plucks the main,
Your body is the sail,
Drunkard winds and warblers,
Blow hard, but fail my ears,
Atone as well, the wretched sounds of day
For they are sour spells, and but a fools
Trash canned movements, in a state
So needy of weeding,
Mere sound is soiled
The way you rake.
Evolution spreads,
As stones do,
When moves the river bed,
Grace, in violence,
Sparkles as it blooms,
Like an ears creation—
Rose on the tomb.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 2:19 PM UTC
A hollow point bullet , fired , rifled through barrel , targeting steel resolve , fragmenting , striking ten combatants with one fatal shot ! A wood canoe with confident oarsman , fighting thirty foot ocean swells , hurricane winds and storm surge ! Swan dive over Horseshoe Falls , disappearing within the rocks , returned to the surface laughing , emboldened and unharmed ! Pressure cooker explosives , detonated beside large crowds with zero injuries , homicidal schizophrenic empties his magazine in a theater with no casualties ! Random killing in the name of religion with just cause , fundamental rationality ! Convincing people to try compassion , tolerance and moderation ! Forgetful , carefree , unharmed , thankful citizens impinged , ***** by the three percent , courtesy of Wall Street !
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 4:19 PM UTC
Winged caterpillar
That frees my soul,
Sets my mind to dreaming,
How the hand of man
Out plays the God,
Makes love
To its master.
With fondled fingers, you paint
A dumb firmament, the way
Light dazzles as it breaks
Or how the itching rain
Taps a teasing melody as it falls
To the lover ground.
Beloved of Orpheus
Whose wove you coiled in-
Vents a garment of bird song loom,
Content my breath
The way that water wells
And lolls into puddles
Nesting not before the hot,
Harpy steam.
O melodious pool,
Undulating lake, frame
To emotive vapours, without
Ship you ply in wakes.
The oarsman plucks the main,
Your body is the sail,
Drunkard winds and warblers,
Blow hard, but fail my ears,
Atone as well, the wretched sounds of day
For they are sour spells, and but a fools
Trash canned movements, in a state
So needy of weeding,
Mere sound is soiled
The way you rake.
Evolution spreads,
As stones do,
When moves the river bed,
Grace, in violence,
Sparkles as it blooms,
Like an ears creation—
Rose on the tomb.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 3:59 PM UTC
perhaps and maybe
in another time and place
i could have entered into forever with you.
it was a short bliss,
a melding of minds.
but the tides were not in our favour,
our ships drifted apart.
and i watched from the shore,
as you crashed upon the rocks.
and now you flounder,
drawing breath and drowing,
in turn.
and i wonder if i could save you.
and i have so many words i want to tell you,
i have so many fixes i could give you.
i see that you can be so magnificent,
if not at the mercy of the sirens.
i can no longer be your oarsman,
i can no longer mend your sails.
i am sailing another current.
but i want to help you chart your course,
i want to show you the stars to follow.
you are lost,
and the only captain that can mend you,
is living in your mirror.
Jan 26, 2010
Jan 26, 2010 at 11:06 PM UTC
.
Winged caterpillar
That frees my soul,
Sets my mind to dreaming,
How the hand of man
Out plays the God,
Makes love
To its master.
With fondled fingers, you paint
A dumb firmament, the way
Light dazzles as it breaks
Or how the itching rain
Taps a teasing melody as it falls
To the lover ground.
Beloved of Orpheus
Whose wove you coiled in-
Vents a garment of bird song loom,
Content my breath
The way that water wells
And lolls into puddles
Nesting not before the hot,
Harpy steam.
O melodious pool,
Undulating lake, frame
To emotive vapours, without
Ship you ply in wakes.
The oarsman plucks the main,
Your body is the sail,
Drunkard winds and warblers,
Blow hard, but fail my ears,
Atone as well, the wretched sounds of day
For they are sour spells, and but a fools
Trash canned movements, in a state
So needy of weeding,
Mere sound is soiled
The way you rake.
Evolution spreads,
As stones do,
When moves the river bed,
Grace, in violence,
Sparkles as it blooms,
Like an ears creation—
Rose on the tomb.
Oct 12, 2016
Oct 12, 2016 at 2:45 PM UTC
Winged caterpillar
That frees my soul,
Sets my mind to dreaming,
How the hand of man
Out plays the God,
Makes love
To its master.
With fondled fingers, you paint
A dumb firmament, the way
Light dazzles as it breaks
Or how the itching rain
Taps a teasing melody as it falls
To the lover ground.
Beloved of Orpheus
Whose wove you coiled in-
Vents a garment of bird song loom,
Content my breath
The way that water wells
And lolls into puddles
Nesting not before the hot,
Harpy steam.
O melodious pool,
Undulating lake, frame
To emotive vapours, without
Ship you ply in wakes.
The oarsman plucks the main,
Your body is the sail,
Drunkard winds and warblers,
Blow hard, but fail my ears,
Atone as well, the wretched sounds of day
For they are sour spells, and but a fools
Trash canned movements, in a state
So needy of weeding,
Mere sound is soiled
The way you rake.
Evolution spreads,
As stones do,
When moves the river bed,
Grace, in violence,
Sparkles as it blooms,
Like an ears creation—
Rose on the tomb.
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 1:51 PM UTC
Winged caterpillar
That frees my soul,
Sets my mind to dreaming,
How the hand of man
Out plays the God,
Makes love
To its master.
With fondled fingers, you paint
A dumb firmament, the way
Light dazzles as it breaks
Or how the itching rain
Taps a teasing melody as it falls
To the lover ground.
Beloved of Orpheus
Whose wove you coiled in-
Vents a garment of bird song loom,
Content my breath
The way that water wells
And lolls into puddles
Nesting not before the hot,
Harpy steam.
O melodious pool,
Undulating lake, frame
To emotive vapours, without
Ship you ply in wakes.
The oarsman plucks the main,
Your body is the sail,
Drunkard winds and warblers,
Blow hard, but fail my ears,
Atone as well, the wretched sounds of day
For they are sour spells, and but a fools
Trash canned movements, in a state
So needy of weeding,
Mere sound is soiled
The way you rake.
Evolution spreads,
As stones do,
When moves the river bed,
Grace, in violence,
Sparkles as it blooms,
Like an ears creation—
Rose on the tomb.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 4:03 PM UTC
placid mirror
in the colding sun
reverberating yellow
in strokes of orange
a rusty dark floats
with a bluish touch
of an absence
the oarsman
is not there
the night cloak
roars nearby
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 10:36 AM UTC
resting on his oars,
listens the barcarole far;
drooping eyelids close!
May 21, 2018
May 21, 2018 at 3:21 PM UTC
Winged caterpillar
That frees my soul,
Sets my mind to dreaming,
How the hand of man
Out plays the God,
Makes love
To its master.
With fondled fingers, you paint
A dumb firmament, the way
Light dazzles as it breaks
Or how the itching rain
Taps a teasing melody as it falls
To the lover ground.
Beloved of Orpheus
Whose wove you coiled in-
Vents a garment of bird song loom,
Content my breath
The way that water wells
And lolls into puddles
Nesting not before the hot,
Harpy steam.
O melodious pool,
Undulating lake, frame
To emotive vapours, without
Ship you ply in wakes.
The oarsman plucks the main,
Your body is the sail,
Drunkard winds and warblers,
Blow hard, but fail my ears,
Atone as well, the wretched sounds of day
For they are sour spells, and but a fools
Trash canned movements, in a state
So needy of weeding,
Mere sound is soiled
The way you rake.
Evolution spreads,
As stones do,
When moves the river bed,
Grace, in violence,
Sparkles as it blooms,
Like an ears creation—
Rose on the tomb.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 2:21 PM UTC
Tides were turning,
are we going upstream or downstream,
not sure,
are the clouds darkening or clearing up,
not sure of that either.
Can a blind oarsman
steady his ship?
Can a rudderless ship
survive the storm?
Heart’s not a sheet of glass
to be broken by a pebble
thrown by a passerby.
Strength of the muscle is in its wisdom.
Anoint it with intuition.
Losing the knights
may erode a powerhouse, yet
castling the king side,
will build an impenetrable fortress
with lowly pawns.
King will rule.
Kingdom will reign.
Remember.
You are not the only
one on this type of a boat.
Nov 10, 2019
Nov 10, 2019 at 6:34 PM UTC
Strong is the beat beneath my shirt
Strong are the feet that beat down dirt
Wrong was the thought that stopped my flow
Strong is the oarsman's blow, blow
Soft is the moment in between
Soft is the noise that scrapes a scream
Course is the friction on my skin
Soft is the face of sin, sin
Heavy is the heart that drags it through
Heavy is the start of the mark I queue
Steady is the air that sears my lungs
Heavy is the course begun, gun
Light is the soul that bears me now
Light is the beam that blinds allow
Dark is the warmth that gives me sleep
Light is the life I reap.
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 5:48 PM UTC
I checked into the lobby of her one room apartment,
darkened corridor filled with paintings of Jesus.
The fountain throbbed in the hall of this hotel,
shuttered windows,
subtle innuendos,
three knocks.
The night was hot and black,
clothes stuck to our shirts.
The story is about summer and you,
and her dark little island of a room,
and all of her crooked roads,
that had their footprints in my odes.
She was born under the star of Venus, three stars above me.
Her light blue eyes, filled with humbleness, softly saddened.
Her painter's eyes, mercury mouth at the biblical times.
Hair that was colored like wine dark sea fell down on her breast,
on lips that looked like bare roses,
blushing with blood, eating themselves with desire.
I was a wounded soldier, long afloat on a ship less sea.
Deserted and displaced from the war.
A war between the black and white,
A war between the man and the woman.
Utopian infant, Eutopian mother.
Born into this life, thrown into this world.
We entered the darkened room, and purposely didn’t turn on the lights.
She through her house keys and bag on her bed, lit a cigarette.
Offered me one, however he took some of my own.
Looking into her eyes through the smoke, where the moonlight floats.
Lit lamp that was hanging from a distant boat.
Now I saw, there was a painting by Arnold Bocklin hanging on the wall.
spoken word:
A small rowing boat is just arriving at a water gate and seawall on shore.
An oarsman maneuvers the boat from the stern. In the boat, facing the gate, is a standing figure clad entirely in white, a lone loon dives upon the water. Just behind him, there is a festooned object commonly interpreted as a coffin. The tiny islet is dominated by a dense grove of tall, dark cypress and willow trees. The Mephistopheles is just beneath him. As siren grabs him from the of the edge of the boat, underwater.
And she wraps up my tired face in her hair
And she hands me the apple core,
Two birds in a cage, drinking lovers wine and eating bread.
I'll stop in the middle and skip things between me and her. (It comes to us all, soft as a pillow)
The oarsmen has gone
And the loons have flown for cover.
And me I am on trail, in the funeral of my lover.
Feb 5, 2021
Feb 5, 2021 at 5:02 AM UTC