"pico" poems - Hello Poetry

They set off from white rocks, red geraniums, blue tile, and let the green sea lift and drop their ships far above the white foam waves. The stony islands that were home were swallowed in minutes by the hungry Atlantic but they hunted the big fish, the giant whales with human eyes who rolled and sang and swam in oceans a continent away. They came from Sao Jorge, Sao Miguel Faial, Pico, Terceira, Horta - Nine island emeralds set in a black volcanic chain, neither of the old country nor the new: Halfway there and halfway gone - secret jewels of the Portuguese sailors. They sailed into unknown waters, south around tropical shores where dragons smoked and writhed on the rocks and birds with brilliant red and yellow plumage rose in clouds around their heads. Then north, and north, north again to colder waters where sea lions barked and lunged at the strange massive wooden beast that coursed the waters, strung with brown bodies swaying on the lines and cursing the sails. North still they swept casting contemptuous eyes on the cheap turquoise waters and monstrous slow turtles of the Sea of Cortez. Coming up from the desert, past the palms and the yucca, the Joshua tree and Spanish daggers, they chased their smooth grey prey, riding the vast Pacific on their wooden island, herding the leviathans onto their spears, adventurers with an audience of only gulls and sky and seal. Until they sailed too close one day to a rock-strewn shoreline and saw the golden hills. Gnarled oaks like grandmothers from home with orange poppy jewels at their feet, missions strung like beads in a ruby marked rosary. The boats slowed, ****** in by a Scylla of soil rich and brown and loamy waiting to be seeded with grapes and apricots peaches, avocados, lettuce, alfalfa, fertile and heavy with sweet promise. And the whales sang and the lions barked and the gulls cried but the sailors were entranced, encharmed, ensorcelled. The treacherous sea, the mysterious deep, the stony jewels of home, called and wept and waited in vain for the sailors - beached and grounded - cutting not waves but earth, tracking seasons not whales, seduced by dirt.

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Nov 29, 2014

Nov 29, 2014 at 9:51 PM UTC

jenn-nix

San Joaquin Sailors

They set off from white rocks, red geraniums, blue tile, and let the green sea lift and drop their ships far above the white foam waves. The stony islands that were home were swallowed in minutes by the hungry Atlantic but they hunted the big fish, the giant whales with human eyes who rolled and sang and swam in oceans a continent away. They came from Sao Jorge, Sao Miguel Faial, Pico, Terceira, Horta - Nine island emeralds set in a black volcanic chain, neither of the old country nor the new: Halfway there and halfway gone - secret jewels of the Portuguese sailors. They sailed into unknown waters, south around tropical shores where dragons smoked and writhed on the rocks and birds with brilliant red and yellow plumage rose in clouds around their heads. Then north, and north, north again to colder waters where sea lions barked and lunged at the strange massive wooden beast that coursed the waters, strung with brown bodies swaying on the lines and cursing the sails. North still they swept casting contemptuous eyes on the cheap turquoise waters and monstrous slow turtles of the Sea of Cortez. Coming up from the desert, past the palms and the yucca, the Joshua tree and Spanish daggers, they chased their smooth grey prey, riding the vast Pacific on their wooden island, herding the leviathans onto their spears, adventurers with an audience of only gulls and sky and seal. Until they sailed too close one day to a rock-strewn shoreline and saw the golden hills. Gnarled oaks like grandmothers from home with orange poppy jewels at their feet, missions strung like beads in a ruby marked rosary. The boats slowed, ****** in by a Scylla of soil rich and brown and loamy waiting to be seeded with grapes and apricots peaches, avocados, lettuce, alfalfa, fertile and heavy with sweet promise. And the whales sang and the lions barked and the gulls cried but the sailors were entranced, encharmed, ensorcelled. The treacherous sea, the mysterious deep, the stony jewels of home, called and wept and waited in vain for the sailors - beached and grounded - cutting not waves but earth, tracking seasons not whales, seduced by dirt.