The men kept to themselves:
they were waiting for the swiftness of the last cyclists.
The women kept to themselves:
they were expecting the death of a boy on a Japanese schooner.
They all kepy to themselves-
dreaming of the open beaks of dying birds,
the sharp parasol that punctures
a recently flattened toad,
beneath silence with a thousand ears
and tiny mouths of water
in the canyons that resist
the violent attack on the moon.
The boy on the schooner was crying and hearts were breaking
in anguish for the witness and vigilance of all things,
and because of the sky blue ground of black footprints,
obscure names, saliva, and chrome radios were still crying.
It doesn't matter if the boy grows silent when stuck with the last pin,
or if the breeze is defeated in cupped cotton flowers,
because there is a world of death whose perpetual sailors will appear in the arches and
freeze you from behind the trees.
it's useless to look for the bend
where night loses its way
and to wait in ambush for a silence that has no
torn clothes, no shells, and no tears,
because even the tiny banquet of a spider
is enough to upset the entire equilibrium of the sky.
There is no cure for the moaning from a Japanese schooner,
nor for those shadowy people who stumble on the curbs.
The countryside bites its own tail in order to gather a bunch of roots
and a ball of yarn looks anxiously in the grass for unrealized longitude.
The Moon! The police. The foghorns of the ocean liners!
Facades of *****, of smoke, anemones, rubber gloves.
Everything is shattered in the night
that spread its legs on the terraces.
Everything is shatter in the tepid faucets
of a terrible silent fountain.
Oh, crowds! Loose women! Soldiers!
We will have to journey through the eyes of idiots,
open country where the docile cobras, coiled like wire, hiss,
landscapes full of graves that yield the freshest apples,
so that uncontrollable light will arrive
to frighten the rich behind their magnifying glasses-
the odor of a single corpse from the double source of lily and rat-
and so that fire will consume those crowds still able to **** around a moan
or on the crystals in which each inimitable wave is understood.

Granite plaque in a tulip bed, end to the Oregon Trail.
Teminus for ordeal by ox and prairie schooner,
where slight survivors began rejuvenation,
the wretched fortunate refusing a backward glance,
children with ancient faces set atop skeletal frames
tried desperately to remember what it meant to play.
Manifest Destiny's broken terra incognitae rested.

Swamp Mama Johnson's concert in the park,
a blues-to-the-wall celebration of life and love,
was a saxaphoned shibboleth for offbeat orphans.
Homeless youth played hacky-sack in time;
a baglady danced with the little girl with Downs;
a camera rocked on the shoulders of the PBS man
--- Olympia gave hommage to ghosts in the gazebo.

there is a slump in my life
every thought is with itself in strife
tension that can be cut with a knife
every moment with angst is rife
to do any work, i am lazy
people will soon call me crazy
there is a lot i need to do
and think about too
people are relying on me
been banged on the head like a tee
i am frustrated can’t you see
kind sir, will hear my plea?
it is going much worse than you think
life’s a boat with a hole, going to sink
there are blue skies above me
but I’m headed to the abyss of the sea
darkness hitting me head on
spirit’s taken a dive
life’s so far been a con
slap on the face, not a high five.
years to go before i sleep
or is it? will it be sooner?
the outlook is rather bleak
feel like a dead fish on a schooner.
theres a picture on the wall
blue skies and leaves in the fall
i wish i was there
anywhere but here
i wish i was someone else
anyone but myself
the pressure of disappointment is on me
stinging me time again as a bee
i want to go back to being dust
that is my only lust

For Grace Bulmer Bowers


From narrow provinces
of fish and bread and tea,
home of the long tides
where the bay leaves the sea
twice a day and takes
the herrings long rides,

where if the river
enters or retreats
in a wall of brown foam
depends on if it meets
the bay coming in,
the bay not at home;

where, silted red,
sometimes the sun sets
facing a red sea,
and others, veins the flats'
lavender, rich mud
in burning rivulets;

on red, gravelly roads,
down rows of sugar maples,
past clapboard farmhouses
and neat, clapboard churches,
bleached, ridged as clamshells,
past twin silver birches,

through late afternoon
a bus journeys west,
the windshield flashing pink,
pink glancing off of metal,
brushing the dented flank
of blue, beat-up enamel;

down hollows, up rises,
and waits, patient, while
a lone traveller gives
kisses and embraces
to seven relatives
and a collie supervises.

Goodbye to the elms,
to the farm, to the dog.
The bus starts.  The light
grows richer; the fog,
shifting, salty, thin,
comes closing in.

Its cold, round crystals
form and slide and settle
in the white hens' feathers,
in gray glazed cabbages,
on the cabbage roses
and lupins like apostles;

the sweet peas cling
to their wet white string
on the whitewashed fences;
bumblebees creep
inside the foxgloves,
and evening commences.

One stop at Bass River.
Then the Economies
Lower, Middle, Upper;
Five Islands, Five Houses,
where a woman shakes a tablecloth
out after supper.

A pale flickering.  Gone.
The Tantramar marshes
and the smell of salt hay.
An iron bridge trembles
and a loose plank rattles
but doesn't give way.

On the left, a red light
swims through the dark:
a ship's port lantern.
Two rubber boots show,
illuminated, solemn.
A dog gives one bark.

A woman climbs in
with two market bags,
brisk, freckled, elderly.
"A grand night.  Yes, sir,
all the way to Boston."
She regards us amicably.

Moonlight as we enter
the New Brunswick woods,
hairy, scratchy, splintery;
moonlight and mist
caught in them like lamb's wool
on bushes in a pasture.

The passengers lie back.
Snores.  Some long sighs.
A dreamy divagation
begins in the night,
a gentle, auditory,
slow hallucination. . . .

In the creakings and noises,
an old conversation
--not concerning us,
but recognizable, somewhere,
back in the bus:
Grandparents' voices

uninterruptedly
talking, in Eternity:
names being mentioned,
things cleared up finally;
what he said, what she said,
who got pensioned;

deaths, deaths and sicknesses;
the year he remarried;
the year (something) happened.
She died in childbirth.
That was the son lost
when the schooner foundered.

He took to drink. Yes.
She went to the bad.
When Amos began to pray
even in the store and
finally the family had
to put him away.

"Yes . . ." that peculiar
affirmative.  "Yes . . ."
A sharp, indrawn breath,
half groan, half acceptance,
that means "Life's like that.
We know it (also death)."

Talking the way they talked
in the old featherbed,
peacefully, on and on,
dim lamplight in the hall,
down in the kitchen, the dog
tucked in her shawl.

Now, it's all right now
even to fall asleep
just as on all those nights.
--Suddenly the bus driver
stops with a jolt,
turns off his lights.

A moose has come out of
the impenetrable wood
and stands there, looms, rather,
in the middle of the road.
It approaches; it sniffs at
the bus's hot hood.

Towering, antlerless,
high as a church,
homely as a house
(or, safe as houses).
A man's voice assures us
"Perfectly harmless. . . ."

Some of the passengers
exclaim in whispers,
childishly, softly,
"Sure are big creatures."
"It's awful plain."
"Look! It's a she!"

Taking her time,
she looks the bus over,
grand, otherworldly.
Why, why do we feel
(we all feel) this sweet
sensation of joy?

"Curious creatures,"
says our quiet driver,
rolling his r's.
"Look at that, would you."
Then he shifts gears.
For a moment longer,

by craning backward,
the moose can be seen
on the moonlit macadam;
then there's a dim
smell of moose, an acrid
smell of gasoline.

It was the schooner Hesperus
  That sailed the wintry sea:
And the skipper had taken his little daughter,
  To bear him company.

Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,
  Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
And her ***** white as the hawthorn buds
  The ope in the month of May.

The skipper he stood beside the helm,
  His pipe was in his mouth,
And he watched how the veering flaw did blow
  The smoke now West, now South.

Then up and spake an old sailor,
  Had sailed to the Spanish Main,
“I pray thee, put into yonder port,
  For I fear a hurricane.

“Last night, the moon had a golden ring,
  And tonight no moon we see!”
The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,
  And a scornful laugh laughed he.

Colder and louder blew the wind,
  A gale from the Northeast,
The snow fell hissing in the brine,
  And the billows frothed like yeast.

Down came the storm, and smote amain,
  The vessel in its strength:
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,
  Then leaped her cable’s length.

“Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,
  And do not tremble so:
For I can weather the roughest gale,
  That ever wind did blow.”

He wrapped her warm in his ******’s coat
  Against the stinging blast;
He cut a rope from a broken spar,
  And bound her to the mast.

“O father! I hear the church-bells ring,
  O say, what may it be?”
“Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!”—
  And he steered for the open sea.

“O father! I hear the sound of guns,
  O say, what may it be?”
“Some ship in distress, that cannot live
  In such an angry sea!”

“O father! I see a gleaming light,
  O say, what may it be?”
But the father answered never a word,
  A frozen corpse was he.

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
  With his face turned to the skies,
The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
  On his fixed and glassy eyes.

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed
  That saved she might be;
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,
  On the Lake of Galilee.

And fast through the midnight dark and drear
  Through the whistling sleet and snow,
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
  Towards the reef of Norman’s Woe.

And ever the fitful gusts between
  A sound came from the land;
It was the sound of the trampling surf,
  On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.

The breakers were right beneath her bows,
  She drifted a weary wreck,
And a whooping billow swept the crew
  Like icicles from her deck.

She struck where the white and fleecy waves
  Looked soft as carded wool,
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
  Like the horns of an angry bull.

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
  With the masts went by the board;
Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,
  **! **! the breakers roared!

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
  A fisherman stood aghast,
To see the form of a maiden fair
  Lashed close to a drifting mast.

The salt sea was frozed on her breast,
  The salt tears in her eyes;
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-****,
  On the billows fall and rise.

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
  In the midnight and the snow!
Christ save us all from a death like this,
  On the reef of Norman’s Woe!

Alone within my emotional wilderness

A reverie along memory lane when, this lviii sea sunned
row man (stills paddles in oarlocks and serenely quizzically,
lackadaisically, and harmoniously drifts) along the slip
stream of time. Awash on his figurative manual navigated
opportunistic prideful quintessential schooner reflects,
regales, and revisits ebbing lapsed instances (fast receding
into the past time, when psychological instability grounded
fragile my self esteem (generated venting, steaming, and
piping hot brickbats). As a newly minted harrumphing,
grubbing, and floundering dada enmeshment (analogous
to a fish caught in a net, hence quickly ricocheting, rabidly
splashing, and sloppily thrashing) predicated my foray
into das fatherhood. Aye experienced nearest approximation
Bing battered, rammed, and torpedoed from glomming
(par for the course riot ting heaps) necessarily imposed
adult responsibility. Such metaphorical motoring across
avast Battle Creek with no landfall in sight, this then nada
so Grand Turk (key in the straw) Otto man continually
snapped, cracked and popped. This human ping-pong
fitbit part player papa felt akin to subjection re: thralldom).
At this juncture in me cross currents of existence I can
harken back to those most exhausting, fatiguing, and
grueling endeavors. Hindsight offers this aging baby
boomer the luxury to cast astern. Retrospective leisurely
trawls along the shoals throes of fatherhood allow,
enable and provide and opportunity to scrutinize per
chance, where arises this on account of the empty nest
syndrome. Ordinarily the wife (i.e. missus to appear
more formal), would caw out my name nonstop….
”Matt”…”Matt”…”Matt”…, but she opted to organize
the cluster of assorted household items at the apart
ment (located in Crum Lynne – Ridley Township),
we hope to move within a fortnight. Thy spouse
volunteered her own mini reprieve by setting order
to the miscellaneous fixings gradually amassed,
appropriated, and gifted thru out the twenty plus
years of marriage, which hodgepodge of personal
possessions downsized whence circumstance dictates
evaluating goods having keepsake meaning versus
anomaly of belongings to be unloaded, repurposed
for someone else, or ordained as unworthy to schlep.
Alone asper like a very brief sabbatical from marriage
finds stillness amidst the white noise of the whirring
fan. Thus, I sit here ruminating how to dredge up
some idea for a poem,  (non) fiction or essay. This
husband became acclimated, conditioned, and em
bossed with a mate a tete for two plus decades,
whereby both thee dos delightful daughters on
Track 742 heading west. Honest to dog, I miss
the role of fatherhood when either off spring
(with an age difference of approximately twenty
five plus months) romped, scampered, and trotted
as toddlers, and upon childhood, thy little girls
found exultant excitement dashing higgledy-
piggledy, hither and yon, to and fro across the
playground as most glorious human indulgence.
Despite the plaintive wail vis a vis Juliet saying
goodnight to Romeo (…parting is such sweet
sorrow) haint pleasurable atoll. Hitherto un
known that during the most vexing, trying,
and quaking bouts when both kin of thy ****
fought like angry cats would there transpire
the occasion of sincere tearfulness ululating
vain warbling. Now a pang of nostalgia arises
when I drive past their happy go lucky stomp
ping turf, or reflect on answering the trumpet
call to chauffer one or thee other to amusement
park, play date, mall, favorite toy store such as
Fivebelow, birthday party, et cetera. Even
certain tunes recalled to mind and/or heard
being broadcast across the audio logical spec
trum a cause for moistened tear ducts. Wince
with sadness also mixed with sigh lent bundled
expostulations of joy. Both progeny metamorphosed
into able bodied, minded and spirited lasses,
whose attainment far exceeded any projections
internally forecast. Initial onset of parent role
found me all thumbs. Prior to begetting two
darling dames, this chap spent disproportionate
number of hours sequestered within some hide
away, which frequently happened to be the
designated bedroom at 324 Level Road, College
Ville, Pennsylvania, 19010. Never did thee major
rit tee days of mine life point to babysitting or
working with that chronological demographics
comprising the adoring blessed innocence,
murmuring newborn obliviousness, that bespoke
penultimate unsullied, utmost virtue necessitating
interaction with tender infants beckoning being
cradled, endearingly fondled, demonstrably easing
fondness gripping heartstrings issue jetblue kinks.
Aye felt pitched headlong into this foreign territory,
and initially experienced utmost awkwardness when
attending, pampering and pulling (albeit gently)
upsy daisy, the nascent hint of autonomy. Remembrance
and recollection of élan, joie de vivire, and yea those
ear splitting threshold of pain screaming tantrums
all boxed into tidy wholesome Zen announcing
nuggets of greater meaningfulness and absolute
value. The above long winded reverie intended and
meant tubby a semi biography, but leave hit up to
his hie n hiss, he went way overboard, and will give
a one line summarization to describe his i.e. yours truly
life sentence fate decreed. He (this Anglophile chipper
chap lived under duress of extreme anxiety, obsessive/
compulsive behavior, panic attacks and essentially
schizoid personality disorder for the greater part
of his life and hard times, which raw bits would
warrant fleshing out to extrapolate how these psychic
pitfalls represented critical factors at various and
sundry turning points in his life.

Precious may the hard veil of widowhood be drawn back at least for the time you read this

Secret location of Oline Indain sacred ground marriage and burial ceremony  in proximity of Carmel Ca it is a natural place first and foremost but you can see the
Orderliness of man’s hand not much is disturbed it would be foolish to mess with perfection but the sea
Side flowers they stand five feet tall and at the top they plume into the most perfect white well these
Are laced around this half circle horse shoe a perfect concert pavilion and by placing them like military
Troops evenly across and then line after line one in front of the other what trembling glory when the sea
Breeze enters its like it says pardon you won’t mind look at this as it moves ever higher it like seeing the
White gowned saints in worship as they undulate and sway in unison by this great tender moist hand
From deep rich waters what bedevilment is on display that is the back and then across the white sand
Two hundred feet table top smooth this bed that soothes your feet to the point relaxation travels up the
Whole of your body this is a natural fixing of tension dispelling any thoughts of frowns and at both ends
You have identical cliffs that tower in the sky you find yourself in the center looking at one and then the
Other at nature’s perfect handy work I found its good you are standing and are cradled by a soft face of
Sand because as you peer at the lofty heights at times you can have dizziness over take you and you
Topple over know harm now you can set and study the plant life that flourishes as it shares its life with
The rocks especially the scrub bushes how they twist and give a bitter smile through knarled prickly
Shoots but how they amaze when they have such a small tenacious hold and as you find yourself finding
How much you admire them your mind and soul understands and feels how you know the feeling of
Their scraping that has removed some unwanted mire on the order of the barnacles that attach them
Selves to great ships and great fish with this cleaning of negative thought now free you turn to the
Climate of mood stirrings nowhere else can do it like the sea and the haven it provides you bank afire
Outside up against the cliff not in your sea side shack this is the time to muse and it is the time when
Guest come the whispered name of this cove is the cove of lost loves the waves break gently and rush
Over the beach when they approach the water mixes’ with the moon light a different white is mingled
The mystery of all that distance and the darkness it has pierced and then to come to this place in
Particular with the rhythm of eternal knowing that only the sea can know just beyond the breakwaters I
Know they are coming because it is always preceded by a great misty cloud then it appears a schooner
Fast and sleek several sails that draws your mind to them they are there festooned in glory tonight
Someone from home I can’t tell you how but their spirits come this is the breaking waters that have one
Purpose they draw to gather here to touch the broken hearts hear heaven speaks at lands end it
Matches their situation they come bound by tearful sorrow of loss and separation here they wear a
Garland of flowers they are unique and are only found here the moment they are placed on their head
As long as they wear them all memories of death is erased and the only knowledge they have is the
Flood stage of first love how it felt and what it meant Iva and terry has this surging through great
Coursing torrents the sea pulls from one side the land calls with familiar sights and sounds they swirl in
Love’s boundless waters they wear cloth like white terry cloth airy as the thoughts that holds them in
Richest peace you can look in the eyes of the one you love anyplace but when death has laid its heavy
Hand on a life then you need this secret place that is so powerful it can leave Iva at home and leave
Terry peacefully sleeping but here they can move with the eternal rhythms outside normal existence
Breathe taste the sea air it’s uncommon as we really are inland you are confined by a rigid reality come
Among glory first hand it will begin to break earths hold and you can soar and walk hand in hand with
The Acute loss that plagues you holds one another by the fire it is the soul and spirit that we truly love
Look to The sea be renewed on these shadowed calm waters the privacy of them are for you both the
Sea is Generous it provides abundantly now it flows with gentle tenderness it awakens souls that are
Adrift it gives a cherished refreshing to those who the Bain of death has burned with a fiery sorrow here
The sand is more than cool and wet your steps will include visions prepared before the earth cooled it
Will give new stronger perspective brush through the willow that hangs laden with the moisture of the
Sea within its shelter take notice of its spines bending divinely as they create a shelter of benevolence
May you Iva and Terry also find a brief reunited happiness in this sheltered cove in the midst of a golden
State where wonder is possible

TO HELL AND BACK FOR CAPTAIN JACK
her sails are set all hands on deck she's off by early light
her hull it dances on the waves like lovers in the night
she's on her way to nowhere it's a place she's been before
no latitude or longitude no charts to show the course
her cargo is a mystery her destination is unknown  
she's sailed by men who long ago in some way lost their souls
her wooden hull will creek and bend till her sails they find a breeze  
with grit and spit she rides the sea with a crew of broken dreams

Cause- to hell and back for Captain Jack be it devil or the deep
       no man or sea shall take their ship they'll fight and die to keep
For captain jack old captain jack and the  schooner Albatross -
      they'll brave the storms of unknown worlds no matter what the cost    
Cause- to hell and back for Captain Jack be it devil or the deep
       no man or sea shall take their ship they'll fight and die to keep

they're beggars thieves and highwaymen no place to call their own
they wear barnacles for britches with skin  leathered to the bone
summer heat or winter cold still they sing their sailors songs
as they climb the ropes take down the sails through the worst of storms
they tell their tales on bar room stools of maps and chests of gold
or sing their songs and drink their *** until they pass out cold
some nights they'll pay an ugly ***** so they won't sleep alone
but better men be hard to find who call this ship their home
  
Cause- to hell and back for Captain Jack be it devil or the deep
       no man or sea shall take their ship they'll fight and die to keep
For captain jack old captain jack and the  schooner albatross -
      they'll brave the storms of unknown worlds no matter what the cost    
Cause- to hell and back for Captain Jack be it devil or the deep
       no man or sea shall take their ship they'll fight and die to keep

by vjkelly  (c)2015  (1-1400253851) FROM my song 'TO HELL AND BACK FOR CAPTAIN JACK'

Harvey Wallbangers In Times Square was
her teaser, a Mai-Tai bang in Taipan, once
or twice her kisses so, sweet he trembled;
as she let him taste her Irish Coffee making
his Rob Roy so, **** hot and bobbing.

It sprang forth with a twang for her Firewater;
engorging the Latted Espresso between her thighs
as Egg Cream threathened to explode,
dipping into her lustful Brandy Alexander;
spillage between her Champagne Cocktail,
cheek to cheek.

She asked me if I wanted a sip of her Coffee Royale;
I said I wouldn't mind being coated in her behind's
libation, drowning ourselves in lust of a throbbing
nightcap; while I slap each cheek in rhythm in a state
of osmosis.

Drinking from her Schnapps; my mind sailed the
sevens seas of her lubricious ocean; riding her Schooner
as waves pushed me within her lagoon with each motion,
slinging Deep Shots; full of emotion, moaning baby! your
Snifter is so, **** wet; swilling your Dom Perignon
and me, just before morn, intoxicated in your elixir
of life; smiling a lopsided smile still tasting your
luscious liquor.

So, we staggered back to bed; laid bulbed
head in inviting peninsula on the shore of
Demon *** Isle and some more I smiled,
absorbing in slurps her coveted Olive Martini,
lapping like a newborn kitten smitten with her
Mint Julep's robust lips; while Lime Rickey
dipped his straw in ebbing shores; sipping
as we eagerly explored, clawing my back.

I in gentlemanly fashion opened all her doors,
as she infiltrated me in every light; mouth
covered in Hot Buttered ***, tasting from
Highballs to every Gimlet of body with skilled
tongue of a bartending artist.

Tasting salt rimmed glasses with hungry tongue
lashes in places so, naughty I flicked out Mickey
Finn; nibbled her in bites of delight front to end,
such a naughty appetite we fed; breathing in heat
like Green Dragon's brew, going down south of
Manhattan's lower eastside; drinking up her **** hide.

She said baby! it's time to ride; Igniting each of her
rooms with Bullshot Cocktails in flaming explosions;
I couldn't get enough being drenched within libations
of her ***** ocean.

Drowning in waves of ardent spirits like a bolt of lightning
poured through us from head to toe we flowed in slow mo';
sweet bon apetits of ecstasy complete, swallowed nice and
neat; spent, bathed in Brandy Smash of a contented bash,
inebriated in slumbered splashes.

wasted in her folded sashes...

I am swept up on the ocean of your love, and my devotion to you knows no bounds
my heart pounds as waves uncover me and you lay lightly on my sea,I think that we will always be,
always.
We may age
mellowing upon the page we write,
we may fight
make up and kiss,
this
perhaps is destiny and we
destined to be
in love forever on our sea.

A baby's smell.
A rare seashell.
The things sublime
that make you rich.

A wishing well.
A gambler's tell.
The quilts of time
that have no stitch.

An ocean swell.
A schooner's bell.
The poet's rhyme
that has no niche.

r ~ 30Jan14

In West Virginia they dig tunnels or a great big hole,
to extricate from Mother Earth the substance known as coal.
For centuries the coal was burned and smoke would fill the air,
but coal became outmoded and demand's no longer there.

So many miners were laid off as mines did stall or close,
and in Coal Country incomes dropped and unemployment rose.
But Donald Trump made promises to fix the miners' strife,
by saying he'd bring Old King Coal a-roaring back to life.

So Trump reduced the regulations that bring jail or fines
for harm to the environment from power plants or mines.
But all this is irrelevant - Trump has no magic spell
to make the world want coal again. To whom will these mines sell?

Trump may as well have promised to bring back the horse and cart;
for tinkers, whalers, schooner sailors, a rich and brand new start.
For Trump will promise anything and sell his very soul.
Next Christmas his reward should be... a big old lump of coal.

The schooner

On the flatland between the vales, I could see the sea
I had walked uphill for a long time, after the downhill
and the way to the coast, it was easy, but it was
getting cold, I wore a light navy uniform (Furlough)
I saw a protest house of worship on its own no other
Houses nearby this place would do.
I fell asleep, awoke and heard ***** music, the church
full of matelotes singing psalms; the paster spoke
of redemption and the glory of God.
I saw a superb sunrise continued my walk to the coast.
In the morning an open café, I told the girl behind the
counter, where I had slept, she looked confused as far
as she knew the church had been torn down, it was
built of planks when of a schooner ran aground with
the loss of all hands.

Dusty cobwebs
hang on a boat
and it's not even my
boat, but Mark's
memory.

A parked schooner
on the Chesapeake
Bay is a perfect home
for a spider.

The easy life,
where everything
is either food or
lethal threat.

Now I understand
what Ueshiba says;
there is no sport.

I spin filigree strands
hoping to catch,
fishing or bait
cutting on a *******
boat, a spider
who sometimes mistakes
mate for morsel.

Rotten rotten wood is much more black than it is brown.
Ridden of a schooner made of hell and wiccan bells.

Ringing in my shower was fire made of taxes and wet wax.

I  hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hatevv hate hate hate hatevv hate hate hate hatev hate hate hate hatev hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hatev hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate

Cold rains, wet and weary... seeping through the sky,
spectres pass ’long side me... bent, with collars high,
my visions are invisible and no one sees me cry.

Minstrels of destruction... rapping at my door,
naked anvils aching... heavy hammers roar,
their monodies of emptiness pulse, bleeding through the floor.

House of cards collapsing... sagging walls of wax,
deuces in dissension... aces slip through cracks,
the Joker’s lost and lumbers by, alone, along the tracks.

Steeple steps dismantled... muted bells below,
ruins quake and tremble... frozen in the snow,
their pains implode within my brain while pale winds cruelly blow.

Prophets tumble temples... residues of tea
highways of no entrance... paths of destiny,
where phantoms haunt my nightmare dreams, tell tales of roaming free.

Foghorns moaning lonely... waves awash in sound
silver schooner sinking... swirling round and round,
at midnight’s stroke, the mainsail broke, and driftwood drifts aground.

Silent seas misshapen... moonbeams painted ***,
teaspoons sifting ashes... fingers cold and numb,
an incandescent candlestick’s impaled the sinking sun.

Smothered fires smoking... oceans filled with ice,
lightning lashing windows... blades from paradise,
like tongues of limpid laughter licking wounds of sacrifice.

Flowing fields of flowers... silent harmony,
rolling river reveries... washing to the sea,
my love, she was my daylight bliss, she once belonged to me.

from the sizzling southwestern sun
we stepped into the beer stenched shadows
of the Blue Agave Lounge
left lizards in the street but there were plenty inside
lurking in dark corners, their bodies draped like the dead
faces in pools of beer on ancient formica

we were killin' time
and brain cells
and any lingering ambitions
that lurked in our dark corners

on the wall behind the bar
was a "Felix Garcia" original
some desert artist
who doubtless killed some of his own time
in the blue shadows
of the Agave

the painting, unblemished by the dying around it
was of a schooner
white masts full in blue skies
rolling on purple waves
headed to some blind horizon
far from the Blue Agave

drunken eyes digested this
and perchance wondered
if it reached some blissful port
or took men to a deeper doom

if we could only ask Felix
but he is not to be found
and he may not know
for in the Blue Agave
hidden from the light of day
dreams are drenched in darkness
and tomorrow is a land the lizards fight to forget

My body rippled as I swam into the river that ran through the town,deep and muddy brown with water washed down from the hills.
And rippling, I got my wish and turned into a silvered fish with golden fins to help me swim, down, down, down and deep within and under water.

Glad I brought a snorkel tube.

With ruby eyes and skies that faded into black,I watched a rack of pilchards passing,no sooner followed by a schooner of gadding tuna who watched two angel fishes trying to copy flying fish and failing.

A sail appeared,quite weirdly in the deep which keeps its secrets free from damp,
and then a lantern shone on me, a voice boomed out,
'what make are ye,
starfish,garfish,cod or roc?

A shock to me under the sea to be accosted by a skipper with a lip of larceny and what would I answer,could it be that I should not swim in the sea?
A fish
a wish,
one unfulfilled and killing off the thought I'd ever be
a citizen
of planet sea.

A midnight ship with silver sails
And hoisted flags with scarlet tails
Is whisked by winds of golden gales
                    Descending from the skies above.

And though the decks are wet and soaken,
Still the hull is swift and oaken
So the course remains unbroken,
                    Trailing wakes of turtledoves.

With storm departed, then no sooner
Comes, unseen, a pirate schooner
Neath the nighttime, light and lunar,
                    Pouncing with a push and shove.

Though hope seems lost, a cyclone saves
Dispersing foes and other knaves
With frothy foamy ****** waves
                    Which strike like leaden leather gloves.

Secured, the ship has safely landed
- Left behind, the pirates stranded -
Passers-by are smiling candid,
                    Knowing not the worth thereof.

For hidden in the wooden hold
Is treasure bursting unforetold
- Far more than diamonds, thyme and gold -
                    It brings unbound a brother’s Love.

A far Country

A place that freely creates a state of mind the silk tapestries that flow and hold the shimmering glory
Told by exotic locals Madrid of Spain Tangiers of morocco Istanbul Turkey the music’s beauty strains

Through side streets and hideaways where love is discovered by chance or design only know this life
Crackles as a consuming fire the dance sweeps you along through mystery’s eye the smoke floats in

Layers in clubs with names that echo old Hollywood movies possibly you will feel that you have been
Introduced to Bogey and McCall a walk of desperate hours that spill out into rolling hills where laughter

Escapes your throat as if you were a long time prisoner and finally you find yourself suddenly free a
Richness pervades your soul as you stole away on this secret schooner with a stranger you traverse

Warm waters and calm seas a voiceless place where more can be heard as you slowly attune you inner
Being to rhythms at first foreign and then so natural stones in a jungle with writing left by other

Adventures that no longer could stand the staid and endless boredom now the sounds and sights hold
Danger that brighten the senses you were nothing but a tortured soul but now as if years have fallen

Away you feel as if you delved into centuries of secrets that have opened up to you because you took
The steps of chance and found a friendly world waiting to accept and adorn you with riches never

Seen in the safe life that only seeks shelter in the howling storm where all rootedness is torn loose
You go to a place of discovery where random harvest are stored lovers know their location as passion

Swells you rush across great waters and finally spent you drift into inland waters a cove of rest to abide
In after chaos of the stormy sea now when you speak there is a deep understanding that flows again on

Silk as at the beginning within has been created a sense of belonging whether you visit an African’s hut
Or a villa in France you are the spice of India or the bundles of silk that flow back from the desert

Caravan not just in the present but in ancient days to old Cathay you are a master in your own right
You set with the sheiks of the desert and they marvel at your presence of mind and it liquid quickness

That is as cool as an oasis and smooth as cool water to the parched tongue you are as the wayward wind
You come and go as you please mighty mountains you ascend or you’re brushing through the black

forest Your fitting place is a castle grand all because you decided life is a dream to be lived not an ordeal
to Endure get your ticket at freedom’s gate get on board child it’s never too late

When ships set sail, their masts held high
Daunting flags, painting the sky
With rails gold rimmed
And sails sharp trimmed
A crowd appears, waving adieu, goodbye
Thunderous roar, unequaled praise
Wind catching sheets
Anchors raised
A bell rings softly and waves do lap
Against the hull of a wooden throne

From far off shores this scene is spied
With two friends of oars we've always tried
To reach for that deck
In fervent eye
Climb on board or surely die
Tattered clothes, sailors cap
Smudge on cheek
Shirt of burlap
We push off deck
Yet crowd is gone
A journey ventured with bright sun dawned

Water ripples with our wake
Small and steady pulses we make
Though we row to catch schooner bold
As we creak of wooden old
Land gestures for us to stay
Why venture out on choppy bay?
Whispers roll and caustic laugh
With sun beat oars a line is set
No motive sweeter, nor regret
Sweat beads mix with salty froth

Cutting across the water green
Battleship chugs with billowed steam
A voice escapes you as you scream
Sputtering away, with muted cries
And oars but stop
Far from home
As head does drop
Splintered hull tears apart
We're left to cling to shattered planks
And fight to stay afloat

Alone
With far off yacht a speck
Atone for water slapping neck
We groan with defeated boat and deck
Driftwood in salty surf
Connecting with shore
We walk back to land
Imprints swallowed by golden sand
A new rowboat to be procured
Again we build to flag down our Brig
And stand upon its polished bow
We persist to where we are but now
As we strive to grasp victory bell
We strive ever onward
To sail with our destined
Caravelle

Dreamer
Honolulu the magic of you can it be true?
To each visitor you adorn with vesture of joy.
Pulsating ebbing and flowing the place of peaceful knowing.
The trade wind gently tugs loosing the tangled spirit.

The honored dead of punch bowl and Pearl whisper softly.
Life contrasts with death but gives birth to harmony.
The dead guide the living into a higher arena.
We are called and pressed by the common that are now lofty.

The palms are swaying distant isles they bespeak.
Romance they softly announce lovers come to life.
The magic of a thousand moon lighted nights the heart ignites.
Love’s fire burns away all the cold the night is for lovers bold.
This land of the dream walk emotions rise and fall like the surf.
Vision of white sails a schooner racing upon turquoise waters.
Just follow the far horizon the spirit unbound freedoms turf.
Know all the ports with exotic names but claim none as home.

Never forget the Islands of Hawaii they are a font of love.
Today cement and steel take the place of the grass huts.
Still there is a spirit that pervades as gentle as the mourning dove.
The cliffs are kissed with a garland of mist the mark of riches.

So if your soul is low come the heights you will know.

You are in heaven, when she loves you.
You are in hell, when she scorn.
Her eyes have the power to shrivel your soul down to an insignificant little raisin.
Her smile melts bodies into congealed mush.

Without her say so, I’m merely anonymous,
A vagabond, some *****,
Trotting through the fields, outside of her heart,
Hoping to gain entry past the gates.

The scent of her, intoxicating,
Like laughing gas,
A jovial inebriant,
As tranquillizing as her wholesome chortle.

Who or what am I, by comparison,
Without her eyes, her skin,
The taste of her lips,
A sip of blackberry brandy.

Her legs, more perfect, refined than David,
Between them, the Holy Grail of contentment,
Where life begins, where it can end,
At her say so— her command.

******* crafted by the hands of God,
I marvel at the sight of such beauty,
In such a grotesque world,
That she owns with her movement as graceful as the wind.

She makes me quiver, like salt on a slug,
As her silky, slick locks flip over her shoulders,
Those shoulders, help me,
Forget Greek architecture.

How dangerous it can be,
To tread through the seas of her love,
Anticipating rogue waves,
This schooner musn’t capsize.

Dancing with her, as if the last two on Earth,
I sway her body, closely against to mine,
Her passion radiating against my desire,
Bound to create a combustion greater than the Big Bang.

And that Big Bang, where our everything meets,
Her breaths, short but sweet,
Her gaze pierces through my existence,
As I force confidence daring to look into her eyes,
While I aim to satisfy her every desire.

If I should be so bold, so foolish,
To take her for granted,
May my soul burn in Hell,
For all of everlasting.

I’m nothing without that woman,
Women, thank God for ‘em,
For there is no greater rendition of Nirvana,
Accessible to mankind.

cradle me to sleep
like a child out to sea
cradle me to sleep
set sail let us dream

we'll sail on an old pirate ship
chasing treasure and gold
we''ll capture an old schooner
travel on oceans silk road
we'll follow an old sea captain
watch him chase an old white whale
look to see if there's an ouroboros
swallowing his very own tale
we'll watch colors sing and dance
across a star-filled ancient sky
see if the man in the moon
winks as we pass him on by

cradle me to sleep
child-like setting out to sea
cradle me to sleep
 come and sail with me

we'll pause at a long lost island
to look at an old wishing well
gold roman coins looking back
as we bid them fond farewell
laugh as we stand at bow
dipping into ocean swells
hear them ringing in our ears
as we pass old mission bells
watch as St. Elmos fire plays
lighting up the blackest night
moving up and down our lines
marveling at such a sight

cradle me to sleep
let's set sail out to sea
cradle me to sleep
hold me as we dream

A sad shanty

We had sailed the seven seas
the schooner I met in the tranquil bay
she had a figurehead made of mahogany
anchor chain made of silver
and her deck was scrubbed every day.
Alas beside her a brig made of the same
timber as the schooner
and had never left the safety of the bay.
Side by said we slowly heave but our
dream of the south seas has been suspended

Your friends' new place is by the Red River;
You notice the wood signs hung on their wall:
Stencils with the first letters of their names
comprised of corks from bottles they emptied
and another--"Pasta and wine, good times".
When they talk, it’s about
parties with beer, wine, and ***** spilling
out of cups, down dresses onto the floor;
recalls of day-drinking
and smoking cigars on the balcony
in college and oh, just last-night’s partying
yes, at Jason’s wedding
reception in the Ramada ballroom.
Don’t forget the leprechaun loop of bars
downtown on St. Patrick’s.
or the party buses that bring you there;
the first stop will have a schooner waiting  
with Long Island iced tea.
This talk of drinking makes you all hungry,
at Barbacoa you order tacos
and margaritas.
and think of ordering another round.
Another day, you drink pink lemonade
at Olive Garden and ask, How would it
taste in a cocktail?
At work, coworkers laugh off a hard day
and someone says, “I need a drink.”
And someone adds, “We all need drinks.”
At the bonfire on Saturday night,
someone laughs about the campus’s bikes
being thrown and found in the Elm Coulee
and another adds, “We like to drink here.”
Someone says, “That’s why I have a big cup.”
Who needs a bike anyway? They have cars.
Some of your friends drinking are driving home.
When the cup passes to you, you sip some.
The fire flickers and blows smoke that flies
into the wind over the rest of town,
over a river that can’t quench its thirst.

This is a poem
made by her hand
a poem of marks
you can read
left to right

right to left
any which way
an ascemic script
it tells a tale
late in the day

beside a river still
sunlit clouds vast
in a Maytime sky
down on the mud
and shingled shore

these found things
arrived at her feet
as they do when
waiting for her
dear hand’s touch

upon their metalled
forms rusted and
rivered by the daily
tides the diurnal
wash and dry of

weather and watered
river mud-coloured
beside boats bedded
in the river bank each
plaqued to remember

thirty wooden boats in all
that plied a river’s journey
there and back once
to and fro now
charged up high

on Pulton shore
a motorized trow
a top-sail schooner
Edith and the
New Despatch

steel and concrete
barges Severn Collier
and Mighty Monarch
lying hard into the silt
a yard at rest

a grave of vessels