"sailmaker" poems
~
Hand and needle,
weapons of mass protection.
Mending day called solace,
bitterness in every stitch.
When all guides disappear
the hand begins to tremble,
that is the material point.
Listen to the water,
the sea is full of memories.
It knows everything,
it feels nothing.
A rage is building.
The sails unfurl,
the wind follows.
A hundred years of
traversing the deep
on a ship full of opiates
and other distant mermaids.
This blood vessel,
cresting the heart of the wave,
you will never completely cross
this body of water
until you learn to trust
the hands that hold back
death and it's squall.
Even now they drop anchor, singing
into the starry sky:
*"Gather ye fishermen's wives
As thy men roll out to sea
Pray one and all
Thy sails hold strong this day..."*
~
Dec 26, 2024
Dec 26, 2024 at 4:33 PM UTC
Father what can he be
but a sailmaker
braving the winds
on the high seas
What can he be
but a glass blower
of birds on lighted wings
come home to sleep
Father a family ghost
knocking to get in
What can he be
but a face in the window
a hand on the door
a step melting the snow
under the trees
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 5:20 AM UTC