"schooner" poems
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.
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 4:59 PM UTC
Pale and swift the moorings lie:
Roosting on the masts were nye.
Peculiar was the indigo
in the water's moonlit glow.
The ship was ailing through the night
casting wayward, staggered light.
And oceanic tides were bound
to throw the ship into the sound.
But though the water pulled and fought
the Phantom ship could not be caught;
The cargo stayed and sat to mull
well within the sturdy hull.
It was a most peculiar eve,
though the average won't perceive.
The queer and devient, however,
noticed that the sky forever
loomed with great intensity
with clouds as far as eyes could see.
What secrets held this murky water?
Burning mysteries, growing hotter?
I was there, I hope you know
I have a ship, my own, and so:
remembering that eve's deception,
I take my boat in that direction.
Standing now to face the sea,
deciding where and whom to be.
For pale and swift the moorings lie;
Roosting on the masts are nye.
Distinctive be that indigo
in the water's moonlit glow.
Yet ** My schooner dipp and quaff
And with that, I must be off.
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 7:17 PM UTC
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
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 4:22 AM UTC
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
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 4:42 PM UTC
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.
2.3k
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.
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 7:14 PM UTC
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
Jan 16, 2019
Jan 16, 2019 at 9:44 PM UTC
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.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 11:03 PM UTC
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.
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 3:13 PM UTC
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.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 11:13 AM UTC
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
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 10:45 PM UTC
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.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 3:06 PM UTC
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.
Nov 23, 2023
Nov 23, 2023 at 9:50 PM UTC
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
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 9:36 AM UTC
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
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 11:13 AM UTC
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.
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 4:14 AM UTC
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'
Aug 23, 2015
Aug 23, 2015 at 11:59 PM UTC
our local hotel
is a great gathering place
it is a fine place
for the boozers to congregate
after a schooner or
an eighteen gallon keg
all of the patrons
are smashed
out of their heads
many are unable
to walk a straight line
and some flake out
on the foot path
to sleep overnight
the beers is made
of the best hops and yeast
that's why the drinkers
partake of a goodly amount
our local publican
has happy hour on Friday nights
and the customers
gorge themselves
with plenty of free *****
usually by half past ten
all the drinkers
are hanging over the bar
they can hardly stand up
after consuming so much ale
it is always
dry weather
at a bush hotel
that is why
there is such
a thirsty clientele
the local watering hole
has heaps of liquid amber
on tap
so if you are in or around
our parts
drop in and have
a pint with us
as we wouldn't want
you to die
for lack of refreshment
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 8:38 AM UTC
My string is tangled, balled and mangled
Tied in knots from every angle
No spool to use and hard to tie
So long ago it used to fly
My kite my kite
My kite so high
I used to run against the moon
With kites above a lake of loons
We made a schooner in the sky
Their bills the keel, my kite the sail
My string the rope, the mast their tail
And as I watched, my bird ship fly
Into the sun above the sky
I lost it blinded, by the light
Through water eyes into the night
The loons came back, a thousand wings
Their music song a lake in spring
The bird ship gone, my kite ablaze
My string had vanished in the haze.
I see a wisp in the moonlit sky
Like first sight from a morning eye
The clouds came closer thin and slack
And at my feet in tangled black
My string My string
My string came back.
I threw my tangled ball of string
At crescent moon in early spring
With loons it flew toward new dawn light
A magic hand was formed in flight
Caught by the loons in feather hands
The knots untied on desert sands
And at my feet, my string did land
My thread was tangled, balled and mangled
Tied in knots from every angle
Unfurled above by feather hands
Above the foggy desert sands
I took my feathered string and ran
Ran toward the dawn
New kite new kite new kite in hand
Oct 9, 2020
Oct 9, 2020 at 1:03 AM UTC
she was given to tragic speechs
at a whisper in the rainswept night
at the top of the cliff
overlooking the bay
the same place she sat and watched his
ship set off to sea
she still remembers seeing him
there high in the rigging
unfurling the sail
and recalls that he may have waved fare thee well
that the last time she would ever see him
the last voyage
of that schooner
which lay broken at the bottom
of some distant sea
with all hands forever to stand at the rail
looking for homecoming
forever seek familiar shore
for a wave dancers last waltz
and there they shall lay
brothers of the sea keeping eternal watch
while pulling line
and singing songs handed down
generation of seafarer to the next
she dreams of him tonight
as she lay thirty year distant
from that stormy night
thirty years waiting to go join him
in the halls of the Almighty's kingdom
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 5:11 PM UTC
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
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 11:41 AM UTC
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.
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 5:24 PM UTC
Lara sat
beside him
in the old
city of
Dubrovnik
sipping wine
better than
that coffee
you're drinking
is that so
he replied
gazing at
her beauty
in morning's
bright sunlight
yes it's so
and what's more
healthier
I'm ok
he boasted
even though
you kept me
from my sleep
with demands
for more ***
she sipped wine
small finger
sticking out
kind of posh
can't keep up?
he liked her
long red hair
the dark eyes
the red lips
sipping wine
the milky
coloured ****
yes I can
he replied
but she knew
that he lied
she had to
drag him from
his slumbers
wake up his
slack member
ease it in
to harbour
like a wrecked
old schooner
how's your dreams?
about me?
he sipped slow
his coffee
maybe so
he replied
maybe not
but she knew
that they were
he called out
in his sleep
no more ***
Lara dear
as he lay
on his back
his eyes closed
his member
once more slack
he knew it
knew he had
dreamed of her
her parted
fleshy thighs
and the lips
of her fruit
wanting him
one more time
more coffee?
she asked him
to keep you
from slumber?
I'm ok
he replied
want more wine?
she sipped slow
finger raised
not just now
I am fine
but she lied
he knew it
another night
coming up
more wine drunk
more *** talk
more kisses
but his mind
and member
just ready
just waiting
for slumber.
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 1:53 AM UTC