"shanties" poems
For 21 days I saw changes wrought
by the freedom of 22 years
Secrets of razor wire straight and taut
Speak of those who continue to fear
I saw nature’s beauty in land and face
As black heel continues to rise
Via school, ambition they prep for the race
Even as secretly despised
What’s changed in Soweto? I did not live
But photos and newsreels survive
Pictures of shanties bulldozed to give
Whites room to extend their hives
Now malls; monuments to white retail
Built on Mandiba’s words
Polished chrome and marble hail
“Happy” workers in a black-faced world
Monuments ringed with vendors tribal
Carved goods for sale and cheap
The rands they make do not rival
What multi-nationals’ continue to reap
Happiness is shallow until sundown
When the curtain of decorum lifts
Showing reality’s new shanty-town
Where space and plumbing are gifts
I wonder if He would be okay
Seeing his people so used
As pawns for labor with little say
As black is seldom excused
The young know the time is now
As old hatred’s in shallow graves
To be unearthed by book and plow
Keeping dreams from stunting and fade
Oct 12, 2016
Oct 12, 2016 at 8:48 AM UTC
I can’t help but wonder if we have crossed paths
Over and over again, tangling each hello
Catching a hint of mischief when we first bumped into each other
And how easy it was for us to slip into
Conversations, plotting to take on the world
But first things first, we have to catch the moon
And hold the stars ransom in our back pockets
I swear we were pirates singing sea shanties
And conquering cities, but now we settle
For late night dance parties, and one shot, two shot, three
And sure, we are invincible, and I can’t help but wonder
If we have crossed paths over and over again
Our stories layering, life long friends
Or maybe arch nemeses, and each time
Tagging out a new adventure
Where we are chasing after each other
I swear we were renegades, young rebels
Questioning authority and pushing boundaries
Now, we collaborate artistically
Broadcasting in a world of social media, one shout, two shout, three
And sure, we are strong, and I can’t help but wonder
If we have crossed paths over and over again
Our history repeating, kindred spirits
Or maybe pieces of the same soul, and each time
We meet, we find a part of ourselves
We had forgotten
Jan 28, 2021
Jan 28, 2021 at 1:29 AM UTC
*This poem is dedicated to the memory of Admiral Albert ***** Potter who displayed amazing bravery by wearing full drag through several major sea battles. He was cashiered for insisting the Admiralty rename his ship HMS Butch instead of HMS Fearless. In fact the vessel was eventually renamed HMS Damp **** because it was full of ******
A life on the ocean wave, **
In the olden days of sail
When England's ships were proud and brave
And their crews were very male.
The Captain stood upon his bridge
Looking smart and flash;
But below the decks, the orders were
*** and *** and the lash.
The bosun went to the main gunroom,
**** Deadeye at the ready;
Initiation time had come
For little midshipman Freddy.
"Strap him o'er that cannon, lads!"
Roared the hirsute fellow,
"Gag his mouth securely, lads,
In case he tries to bellow!"
The sailors did as he had bid -
Refused and they'd be punished -
And they knew their turn would come
After the bosun had finished.
The bosun went up the poor young lad
And soon was going strong;
Midshipman Fred looked rather pained -
The Bosun was THICK and LONG.
Then came the turn of the other men
And they set to with a will;
Little Fred could not say no
Until they'd had their fill.
What a life our sailors had then,
Always singing shanties;
When men were men and big and butch
And cabin boys wore silk *******
A life on the ocean wave, **
With the rolling sea and the spray.
Sinking the Frogs and murdering Wogs
Kept England's sailors so gay.
OLÉ! OLÉ! OLÉ! OLÉ! OLÉ! OLÉ!
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 6:37 PM UTC
His eyes are like the ocean. Deep sea green songs leave his pale lips. Just like the waves arrive and leave so does he.
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 6:23 PM UTC
A nerd bitten by the charity bug,
Spoke of slum children’s education
And shining darkness in their eyes.
In the shanties ,the water flows
Like a shadow in cloudy daylight
And smells bad to the kind rich.
My check glistens in the dark
Like a meteorite on a dark night
In the next moment it vanishes
In the depths of hunger and belly.
Other men have fat bank accounts
But are spiritual for soul-hunger.
Poetry sounds crassly out of place-
One would wish the black sewer
Is not talked about in prose as well.
May 20, 2010
May 20, 2010 at 6:07 PM UTC
Adrift on her very first voyage
With the sea coursing in through her bow
Lay the cruise ship, the S.S. Lumbago
There was scarcely a chance for her now
But Ahoy! On the western horizon
In a flurry of yellow and green
That ender of blight and a damsel’s delight
And he’s always on cue for his scene
It’s Sir Patrick Stewart!
And his Luxury Budgerigar!
It’s got seating for seventy people
And the service is well above par
There’s an adequate medical unit
And a modest but elegant bar
What more could a man ever dream of
In a Luxury Budgerigar?
Well…
The forests of England were burning
So the foxes escaped to the city
The badgers had taken to looting
And the squirrels had formed a committee
But who should arise from a manhole
With a confident gleam in his eye?
That destroyer of woes with a spring in his toes
And he’s quick with a witty reply…
Sir Patrick Stewart!
And his Luxury Budgerigar!
With adjustable hose pipe attachment
It’s got wheels like a feathery car
The forests were dowsed and the fauna re-housed
With a three day retreat at a spa
It’s a thing to admire and surely acquire
The Luxury Budgerigar!
But…
Susan was stricken with sorrow
Twas her darkest, most fearful hour
A spider had wrestled her out of her bath
And set up his home in the shower
But who should jump out of the wardrobe
With an innocent look on his face?
That singer of shanties, remover of *******
And first in an obstacle race
Sir Patrick Stewart!
And his Luxury Budgerigar
With a sucker for spiders and beetles
That deposits them into a jar
There’s a tiny wee restaurant to feed them
It was given a Michelin star
A remarkable thing with retractable wings
Is a Luxury Budgerigar
So if you should be in a pet shop
And you see just the critter for you
Please heed this advice: make a note of the price
Then proceed to the back of the queue
When you ask for your preference of creature
Should it whistle, slither or waddle
Do as Sir Patrick Stewart did
And opt for the Luxury model
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 4:51 PM UTC
Copious amounts of lava
seeping over the table
steaming mugs of java
cutting off the cable.
Rara Avis is a Latin term
no sneakers for me today
eaten by the Conqueror Worm
during the month of May.
Date **** drugs
and Sugar Twin
white punk thugs
chasing Rin-Tin-Tin.
Rainbows of black
babies howling out loud
guerilla attacks
a huge raver crowd.
Windshield wipers
with ribbons attached
little sticky diapers
and gates made of thatch.
Alphagetti monsters
smoking a jay
card-carrying punsters
greasy burgers on a tray.
Cute cotton *******
on lithe little nymphs
disappearing shanties
owned by drugged-up pimps.
Rhymes gone bad
a little cash in my pocket
hanging at the pad
and watching Davy Crockett.
People eating doughnuts
***** up on the beaches
hips that do the low strut
and blood ******* leeches.
It all comes down
to a single final thought:
was the Queen's big crown
really traded for a ***
Aug 4, 2011
Aug 4, 2011 at 11:15 AM UTC
RED barns and red heifers spot the green
grass circles around Omaha-the farmers
haul tanks of cream and wagon loads of cheese.
Shale hogbacks across the river at Council
Bluffs-and shanties hang by an eyelash to
the hill slants back around Omaha.
A span of steel ties up the kin of Iowa and
Nebraska across the yellow, big-hoofed Missouri River.
Omaha, the roughneck, feeds armies,
Eats and swears from a ***** face.
Omaha works to get the world a breakfast.
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585
I like to see it lap the Miles—
And lick the Valleys up—
And stop to feed itself at Tanks—
And then—prodigious step
Around a Pile of Mountains—
And supercilious peer
In Shanties—by the sides of Roads—
And then a Quarry pare
To fit its Ribs
And crawl between
Complaining all the while
In horrid—hooting stanza—
Then chase itself down Hill—
And neigh like Boanerges—
Then—punctual as a Star
Stop—docile and omnipotent
At its own stable door—
1.8k
The election is upping the antes
for a White House surrounded by shanties.
May we brace for a fall
when the winner takes all.
(*Let the other side **** in their *******
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 4:48 PM UTC
Look at us pseudo clever race of ignorance,
Addicted to entertainment our only common
Pleasure filled pain. We will fight to maintain
An uncomfortable satisfying false reality
A reality where we all are individuals controlled by
Another uncontrolled individual.
Through a maze of tunnels lies the mystic wastes
Smoke filled shanties makeshift villages and,
Dim lit ***** dens
The marijuana plants in the basement
Grow into the hard wood floors of the cigar rooms
Of an ancient aristocrat mansion
No infested with the ***** demons of the wasteland
Goats amongst sheep, the bring rolled joys
To dying black hearts of the innocent sinful
Humans in our civilized chaos.
Renaming our creators for the simple bliss of renaming a unnamed
Uncreated creator.
Feb 13, 2012
Feb 13, 2012 at 9:28 AM UTC
"Death's gaze ever present on it's tentacles
A weight of power unformidable
Crashing down upon its victims"
Beware the Kraken! A monster of seas
The one sung about in many shanties
Marauding, ripping, and crushing its victims
This a myth by which the crew schisms
But the unsteady seas beneath the hull
Bubbling and boiling, the ocean calls
Unleashing from the bowels of the deep
A beast of lost worlds, oceans it reaps
The Kraken, awaken, outstretches it limbs
The skies are blackened, the heavens dim
With tyrannical force he unfurls his power
The mast snaps, wood shards and splinters shower
Fearful men aboard are pulled to a watery grave
Oceanic law, for this crew of knaves
The last aboard the teetering deck
A captain standing tall within the wreck
Howling at the beast below
Again tentacles high above the sea grow
Dragging the wreckage into the water
Appeasing the beast, the great destroyer
May 10, 2010
May 10, 2010 at 8:46 AM UTC
Mysterious , Tennessee nighttime wind , what fables do you bring on a cool Spring eve .. Tales of Mountain 'lore , of whispering rivers and moonlit hollers , black Bear antics and coonskin chapeaux , pristine valleys and hillside shanties , Memphis Riverboats and Elvis Presley .. Cascading brooks , foggy morning dales and Bluegrass pickers , Dulcimers , twisting highways and Nashville Telecasters ..
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 8:52 PM UTC
hunched over, a brown-skinned army,
picking, the field soon to be stripped of its bounty;
they will move to the next one, fast,
before the fruit falls to the ground
"los ninos, los viejos tambien"
the young, the old ones also help, though
they are slower and tote less a load
when the day is done, they build fires
for the frijoles, and to keep the night's spirits
at bay; they sleep in the shanties, the sheds
the master provides
the next day will be the same, though maybe
not as hot--maybe a rain will give them respite
from their labors
a gentle, short shower they pray,
for a storm might lay ruin to the crops, the treasure
they borrow only long enough
to basket and truck
not even a cloud visits the white sky
so the stooping, the loading drags on without relief
but from the north, a cool wind does blow
in it they hear a voice without cords vibrating,
yet one that speaks a language their hearts know well,
telling them their toil is to be brief, yet eternal: that winter
only whispers now, but soon commands all to rest
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 1:20 PM UTC
A life on the ocean wave, **
In the olden days of sail
When pirate ships were proud and brave
And their crews were very male.
Captain **** stood upon his bridge
Looking smart and flash;
But below the decks, the orders were
*** and *** and the lash.
First Mate **** went to the **** deck,
His willie at the ready;
Initiation time had come
For trainee pirate Freddy.
"Thtwap him o'er that cannon, ladth!"
Roared the hirsute lisper,
"Gag hith mouth thecurely, ladth,
Thilenth hith evewy whithper."
The pirates did as he had bid -
Refuse and they'd be punished -
And they knew their turn would come
Once First Mate **** had finished.
The lisping brute went up the poor young lad
And soon was pumping away;
Poor little Fred looked rather pained -
As he wasn't really gay.
Then came the turn of the other men
And they joined in with a will;
Little Freddy could not say "no"
Until they'd had their fill.
What a life our pirates had,
Always singing shanties;
When men were men and big and butch
And the skipper wore silk *******
The pirates' frigates ruled the waves -
Good sailors feared them coming;
If captured, they'd be condemned
To a life of seaborne bumming.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 6:01 AM UTC
I wrote a poem on the mist
And a woman asked me what I meant by it.
I had thought till then only of the beauty of the mist,
how pearl and gray of it mix and reel,
And change the drab shanties with lighted lamps at evening
into points of mystery quivering with color.
I answered:
The whole world was mist once long ago and some day
it will all go back to mist,
Our skulls and lungs are more water than bone and tissue
And all poets love dust and mist because all the last answers
Go running back to dust and mist.
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THE HIGH horses of the sea broke their white riders
On the walls that held and counted the hours
The wind lasted.
Two landbirds looked on and the north and the east
Looked on and the wind poured cups of foam
And the evening began.
The old men in the shanties looked on and lit their
Pipes and the young men spoke of the girls
For a wild night like this.
The south and the west looked on and the moon came
When the wind went down and the sea was sorry
And the singing slow.
Ask how the sunset looked between the wind going
Down and the moon coming up and I would struggle
To tell the how of it.
I give you fire here, I give you water, I give you
The wind that blew them across and across,
The scooping, mixing wind.
1.2k
When I travel, I find home.
Home is so strictly defined and constricted
****** in, forced to **** in,
Constrictions put forth by suffocating friends
Where small towns tighten the rope
It has placed around my neck.
I am the dog on the leash that is surrounded
By every tree and every ball in the biggest park
Who is tied to the tree and forgotten
Beaten and told to stay.
We grow up being force fed the idea of thinking small,
Staying small, working small, living small
But this world is too big to live small!
I travel and find the people that I call home
I find the shacks and shanties and weathered souls
And every single person you and I will meet,
Mutual or not,
Knows something that you and I don't know
And if that doesn't spark enough curiosity,
Get out of the house.
There is so much to learn and so much to absorb
And maybe your house is your home
Everyone, at some point, has a home,
Some just travel with you,
Others you have to find.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 8:53 PM UTC
BY day ... tireless smokestacks ... hungry smoky shanties hanging to the slopes ... crooning: We get by, that's all.
By night ... all lit up ... fire-gold bars, fire-gold flues ... and the shanties shaking in clumsy shadows ... almost the hills shaking ... all crooning: By God, we're going to find out or know why.
1.1k
We built a ship beneath the stars
And drew an anchor from the rocks
We dug up treasure amongst the sand
And found our refuge in the docks
We birthed our home upon the waters
And set sail on the glistening blue
We eagerly climbed the rafters
And fell in love with the sea view
We sat under a carpet of stars
And sang sea shanties from long ago
We tanned on the decks all day
And told stories of sea monsters below
We dived down to the ocean depths
And caught the finest fish
We surfed and danced all the waves
And then dreamt about all we wish
We never stopped exploring
And had a hunger for more
We traveled England and the world
And sailed to every shore
Oct 8, 2021
Oct 8, 2021 at 9:10 AM UTC
charismatic charlatan cloaking reality
smile, the day is new
many a mark still to be worked
and left in squalor; penniless and without hope
it is a good show you put forth
standing in front of a waving flag
speaking of unity and the dreams of freedom
I see the puppet strings, marionette style
eyebrows raise and hands wave
all while Jesus saves and teens rave
craving sustenance I reject the normal modes
seeking instead the dark corners and shabby shanties
where the real humans live
none of this post cold-war propaganda, only hate and fear for the unknown
broken dreams litter cracked sidewalks
dead grasses stand brown in the crevasses
longing for water or sunlight
both of which were banned in the last election
subjugated lonely folks stand single file
awaiting the stamped hand
signifying meat for the masses
if you are not procreating, your digested in the new American machine
shocked, I **** my head thinking of my youth
blue skies and free cheese
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 2:43 PM UTC
Silence is the memories of late night truck stops
Some sticky September serenades of noise
And just legal cleavage
The dawn rises too early
With the whipping snap of a bitter wind
Romancing the trees, grass, and man-made nightmares
Of construction, pavement, and steel
We are alone here some voice echoes
Reassuring that no one will ever be with anyone
And the dying days of our light is just that
Left hanging in the whimpering breeze
*Traveling to foreign shores with seaside shanties
Of mermaids, sirens, and demons of the depth
One day we will rest in Davey Jones’ locker
Telling stories of our youth to rusted seashells
Waiting for a sun to rise beneath the trenches of dead whales*
Sep 17, 2011
Sep 17, 2011 at 6:39 AM UTC
I saw a little boy
running across the street,
He had a satchel on his back,
but no shoes on his feet.
Don't know what struck me,
I ran from the window to the balcony,
To get a better view of the child.
I felt a strange pang in my heart
to see him run past the shanties.
My eyes followed him till he entered one of the houses
with brick walls and thacthed roof.
Yes, he's one those million children
who still dream of school.
Do you believe in angels?
Well, now, I do...
Yet it makes me wonder,
Doesn't He deserve a good life too?
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 11:53 AM UTC
another hull breach
most of her fortune slips away
suckled by the undercurrent
her shanties are bottlenecked messages
entangled in self-accusation
listing through distress and tide
she flags toward more sympathetic waters
love is the bright iris of balmy weather
a ballast for threadbare optimism
she makes berth in tiny lips
that pardon her insufficiency
emptiness, a welcome refuge
projected under the twinkle of satisfaction
mirroring devotion
May 30, 2019
May 30, 2019 at 12:12 PM UTC