"shanty" poems
Searching my heart for its true sorrow,
This is the thing I find to be:
That I am weary of words and people,
Sick of the city, wanting the sea;
Wanting the sticky, salty sweetness
Of the strong wind and shattered spray;
Wanting the loud sound and the soft sound
Of the big surf that breaks all day.
Always before about my dooryard,
Marking the reach of the winter sea,
Rooted in sand and dragging drift-wood,
Straggled the purple wild sweet-pea;
Always I climbed the wave at morning,
Shook the sand from my shoes at night,
That now am caught beneath great buildings,
Stricken with noise, confused with light.
If I could hear the green piles groaning
Under the windy wooden piers,
See once again the bobbing barrels,
And the black sticks that fence the weirs,
If I could see the weedy mussels
Crusting the wrecked and rotting hulls,
Hear once again the hungry crying
Overhead, of the wheeling gulls,
Feel once again the shanty straining
Under the turning of the tide,
Fear once again the rising freshet,
Dread the bell in the fog outside,—
I should be happy,—that was happy
All day long on the coast of Maine!
I have a need to hold and handle
Shells and anchors and ships again!
I should be happy, that am happy
Never at all since I came here.
I am too long away from water.
I have a need of water near.
31.5k
Porous asphalt,
And bandaged, quilt
Homes puncture the
Neighborhood,
Which reads like a tattered
American flag; all
Coke Ads and weight loss
Billboards,
Half-burnt houses slant,
Like the hills of San Francisco—
Our own makeshift cable
Carts, limping up
And down the inclines.
We are slowly being burned
By our once golden sun—
Having been taught to
Bleach ourselves
Pale, tucked shamefully
In the shade.
Makeshift shanty towns
Which smell of mildew
And processed laundry soap,
Flimsy tin roofs
Tied with Kleenex and
Pizza Hut tarpaulins.
The fact that this neighborhood
Was christened "Freedom"
Strikes an empty pang.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 9:50 AM UTC
Smoke tokes out of the monkey's head, embers embellish empathic light enlightening gypsy nymphs from miles around, a glowing lighthouse haven heaven in nirvana massages lavender bubbles upon pores restoring strength to warriors of the rainbow tribe."
Wind rustles with us...
Stay grounded, you're found before you're even lost. Some get tossed and turned by the sea, but a smooth one never created a skilled pirate with third-eye versatile switch-blade heartbeat ink scribed on blood-vessel maps, following the soul tattoos and taboo time scars along with the azurite lightning stars shooting in our brain.
Time stops sometimes...
*Seasons change DNA re-arranges as we grow goin' with our own flow down the subconscious ocean, sometimes watchin' sunsets into a haze of sweet *** sweat and green cigarette peacetime sufi twirling our conscious to the north star crown chakra.*
Love is. Always.
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 4:12 PM UTC
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 have come humble to seek your knowledge
With exhausted feet and weighing burden, I bear my heart
I have travelled far to arrive at the world's edge
Ready to receive what wisdom you will impart
I'll set myself cross-legged on the opposite of you
I see you peering, examining my physical entirety
With one good eye, you gaze right through
Makes me uncomfortable, if I may... But I'll hold steady
I notice you muttering but no words could be heard
Your hands hovering over a glassy globe with an ominous glow
You turn to the left, as if conversing with an invisible third
Whispering secrets that I will never learn to know
Shifting your gaze now into the crystal orb
What do you see, Wise One, in that ball of yours
You shudder upon it's touch as though it's power you absorb
Tell me, Soothsayer... What lies for me in this course?
You swiftly pull your hands behind your back
I flinch with a start at your sudden display
You bring back your hands revealing cards out of a stack
You tremble in spasms, dropping the rest leaving one for play
The card you place face down, right in front of me
You motion for me to pick it up and flip it round
I see the card bore inscriptions and ancient runes, quizzically
You ****** the card and begin chanting in odd sounds
Reciting your incantations, in a tongue I do not understand
They sound like curses rather than the answers I seek
It all ends almost as soon as it started... I can't comprehend
You then place your warm palms gently touching my cheeks
Your features softened as you stared into my sullen eyes
A connection like eternity trapped within seconds never going astray
Then you turn away to fetch a bundle roped in knots and ties
You hand it to me hastily before ushering me on my way
I am now perplexed much... What does it show?
What did you see, what does my future hold?
Please enlighten me what you've come to know
From all of that, what could you have foretold?
Bundle in hand I turn to leave your rundown shanty
As I leave, you speak in your voice, different from before
Soft yet raspy you say, *"Do not open till the end of journey"
"Open only when in house, behind closed door"*
Moon is up illuminating, as I make my way up north
Armed in hand a strange, scented, tied up bundle
Leaving with the same questions with no answers, I amble forth
Wondering if in the bundle I may find the missing pieces of the puzzle...
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 4:45 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
Chaos humdrum of roaring engines.
The lost siren between concrete slabs
Ricocheting its scream throughout
the hallway streets,
already echoing with horns and yells.
Sleepless and ever burning,
the city lurches on
in agonizing sounds
muffled between high rise pristine glass
and shanty shacks painted with dust.
The frantic commotion of agonized madness,
In zigzag traffic and potholed roads.
The stop and start of hustle and frustration
Rises and falls like a dancing dust storm.
Everything present in a quieter world
is lost in the struggle of city life.
There's no peace or silence here.
Just constant exhaustion in the luminescent roar of human chaos.
26 Dec. 2015
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 7:32 AM UTC
Of course the two of us
want to get away from here
We were so innocent Running
Hand in hand To the outskirts of this
Upside – down town Where were we going?
To the mansion we had built with daddy
High in the sky of the towering sycamore tree
But now going back walking the dirt trail that supposedly
brought us to dreams Kicking aside pebbles we pushed
with all our might to
to escape from the
Monsters chasing us
Seeing the
Wimpy vines
That were
once chains
and shackles
intertwined
imprisoning
all of the trunk
seemed unreal
But I had made
Peace with it all
When I saw our shanty hut
Atop the mangled, dwarfed skeleton tree
Mar 24, 2012
Mar 24, 2012 at 8:52 PM UTC
Forbegging yay Progress, me Most High Lord
Besoothe thaye Stock's High-Cast-Baste-Reborough
And Livvenny-Lug, quain Twill-Truth's-Be-Word
Would Sluggenny-Bust thaye Pell's Arthorough
Aye, take them Less to thore Summerful Sum
Therr quine bemime blubber-boost up-to-front
Shanty ye, Crown, dow Caraparcel's Hum
Laugh more shan't take much Desire on Wont
We porkify Lub-Senses wore Jiggers clude
Feast-Tea ye Merry; Jolly-Cant, digress
Till Ferry thaye Maidens; And Torque-Pie, ****
Rode ye Arkins - Road! Be thaye Kiss address.
Labber ye, Throne, deserve Cot's Privilege
Roar Pull-Course Attract; Mine Concubinage.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 1:04 AM UTC
a sensual curve
to the facade
- infinite femininity -
arched above
rounded windows
- innuendos art of love -
deco of desire
climbing higher
- echoing fire -
...descending spiral stairway
home to shanty on the bay.
r ~ 10/9/14
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 9:40 PM UTC
On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few,
And men of religion are scanty,
On a road never cross'd 'cept by folk that are lost,
One Michael Magee had a shanty.
Now this Mike was the dad of a ten year old lad,
Plump, healthy, and stoutly conditioned;
He was strong as the best, but poor Mike had no rest
For the youngster had never been christened.
And his wife used to cry, 'If the darlin' should die
Saint Peter would not recognise him.'
But by luck he survived till a preacher arrived,
Who agreed straightaway to baptise him.
Now the artful young rogue, while they held their collogue,
With his ear to the keyhole was listenin',
And he muttered in fright, while his features turned white,
'What the divil and all is this christenin'?'
He was none of your dolts, he had seen them brand colts,
And it seemed to his small understanding,
If the man in the frock made him one of the flock,
It must mean something very like branding.
So away with a rush he set off for the bush,
While the tears in his eyelids they glistened —
''Tis outrageous,' says he, 'to brand youngsters like me,
I'll be dashed if I'll stop to be christened!'
Like a young native dog he ran into a log,
And his father with language uncivil,
Never heeding the 'praste' cried aloud in his haste,
'Come out and be christened, you divil!'
But he lay there as snug as a bug in a rug,
And his parents in vain might reprove him,
Till his reverence spoke (he was fond of a joke)
'I've a notion,' says he, 'that'll move him.'
'Poke a stick up the log, give the spalpeen a prog;
Poke him aisy — don't hurt him or maim him,
'Tis not long that he'll stand, I've the water at hand,
As he rushes out this end I'll name him.
'Here he comes, and for shame! ye've forgotten the name —
Is it Patsy or Michael or Dinnis?'
Here the youngster ran out, and the priest gave a shout —
'Take your chance, anyhow, wid 'Maginnis'!'
As the howling young cub ran away to the scrub
Where he knew that pursuit would be risky,
The priest, as he fled, flung a flask at his head
That was labelled 'MAGINNIS'S WHISKY'!
And Maginnis Magee has been made a J.P.,
And the one thing he hates more than sin is
To be asked by the folk, who have heard of the joke,
How he came to be christened 'Maginnis'!
3.1k
once we were one, so close
now turncoat in lakes of
oleander, creeks run poison
we two betrayed
what stolen ideal cast
in stone against her?
my anima still wants love
from me, yet twists on proverbial
dime
coats were rejected
colors negated, unflown
prisoner of tumble town
chained like a queen
a shanty wish disregard
so no wings, air of nonesuch
grace barrio color to fly
in my mind, sleeping
mariachis playing loud,
my anima rescued me
real, such desert here
just my shivering id
skinned seal, bad memory
still hopeful still here
surely mi anima mi alma
will grant my dying
wish
I am the traitor of my anima
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 8:36 PM UTC
Baja California
Tequila drawings on the wall
A big fat policeman against the door
The drunken band plays on and on
Baja California
Cheap motel bugs on the wall
Pimps and ****** out in the hall
The neon light goes on and on
Baja California
Mescal tequila throat on fire
Burnt rubber takeoff screeching tyres
The dirt toll road goes on and on
Baja California
Mother tied up on the front lawn
Daddy waiting for the doctor in the dawn
And the pain goes on and on
Baja California
Shanty houses complete with TV
Pumping in the American dream
While the children scream on and on
Jan 17, 2012
Jan 17, 2012 at 9:52 AM UTC
EAT YOUR ALLIGATOR TILLY!
Darling daughter
refusing to eat
so, I: sea
shanty her.
"Oh what do ya think we'll have for supper?"
"Eat Tilly eat!"
"Oh maybe we'll have alligator!"
"Eat my Tilly girl...eat!"
"Oh but I couldn't eat a whole alligator!"
"Eat Tilly eat!"
"Well...eat only half and keep half for later!"
"Eat my Tilly girl...eat!"
"Eat alligator before he eats you!"
My little sailor suited girl
opens her mouth to laugh
and in pops
Mr. Spoon.
Hmmmmmm.....yum yum.
Soon alligator becomes
her word
for any eatables
whether it be ice cream or scone.
Now she sings
heartily to self
my three year old salty sea dog
'EAT YOUR ALLIGATOR TILLY!"
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 6:25 PM UTC
To be taken silently with violence
Not to utter a salutation
Just the cracking of a door hinge
And a look that indicates that stopping your desires would be laughable
An absurdity
not to be pondered!
The jolting sound of head cracking against metal
And wrist yearning to be ground to the bone
After hours of furtive clutching
The kind on nail bending fervor that just takes the taste right from bread
Grabbed into a cranium synthesis
Im am forever enslaved in the darkest corridor of your existence
I doubt I will ever be able to leave this lighting wasteland
The eagerness pounding through the point were skin meets weapon
I am infiltrated like a shanty filled village
A real slum filled valley
Hopeless against tracking systems and torture methods
You plunder my underdeveloped hospitality
Like Jesus to a farm boy
As I scream **** you Mongoloid
I am gasping into your filth
A sacrificial lamb
Bliss by the slaughter wells
Mouthfuls of disgust
As your knees jab deep into skid row
Grinding the forgotten and the deserted
Until they are flattened corpses
****** dry of the water holding them together
You are pleased
The phantom has been fed and to ask for seconds would only tease the lamb
As I lay gushing organs with a smirk
Broken bent and emaciated
I feel alive and it is wondrous.
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 9:02 AM UTC
EAT YOUR ALLIGATOR TILLY!
Darling daughter
refusing to eat
so, I: sea
shanty her.
"Oh what do ya think we'll have for supper?"
"Eat Tilly eat!"
"Oh maybe we'll have alligator!"
"Eat my Tilly girl...eat!"
"Oh but I couldn't eat a whole alligator!"
"Eat Tilly eat!"
"Well...eat only half and keep half for later!"
"Eat my Tilly girl...eat!"
"Eat-alligator-before-alligator-eats-you!"
My little sailor suited girl
opens her mouth to laugh
and in pops
Mr. Spoon.
Hmmmmmm.....yum yum.
Soon alligator becomes
her word
for any eatables
whether it be ice cream or scone.
Now she sings
heartily to self
my three year old salty sea dog
'EAT YOUR ALLIGATOR TILLY!"
Apr 28, 2019
Apr 28, 2019 at 4:41 PM UTC
I'm going AWOL at first light
Sherman threatens my hometown
I hate to leave Robert E. Lee
But my heart's not backing down
There's a railroad to Atlanta
I'll fight side by side with Paw
General Johnson's too outnumbered
But we'll stand at Kennesaw
I don't like to leave Virginia
But Atlanta needs me there
With my family in danger
It's a duty I must bear
I'll meet Mayde at Big Shanty
We can have some time at last
I'll get up at the crack of dawn
And kick old Sherman's ***
Now I know we're way outnumbered
They have more than two to one
And Sherman hates all rebels
He's Abe Lincoln's favorite skunk
If we could get old Stonewall
To come down for just a spell
We could kick old Abe's invaders
From Kennessaw to hell
Mayde, I'm real scared of dying
If our rebel line should fall
But I'll stand to fight **** yankees
Make 'em think they hit a wall
We own no slaves but Sherman thinks
It's rebel killin' time
So I'll shoot holes in Yankee coats
Before there's one in mine
Dec 10, 2010
Dec 10, 2010 at 5:59 AM UTC
YES, the Dead speak to us.
This town belongs to the Dead, to the Dead and to the Wilderness.
Back of the clamps on a fireproof door they hold the papers of the Dead in a house here
And when two living men fall out, when one says the Dead spoke a Yes, and the other says the Dead spoke a No, they go then together to this house.
They loosen the clamps and haul at the hasps and try their keys and curse at the locks and the combination numbers.
For the teeth of the rats are barred and the tongues of the moths are outlawed and the sun and the air of wind is not wanted.
They open a box where a sheet of paper shivers, in a dusty corner shivers with the dry inkdrops of the Dead, the signed names.
Here the ink testifies, here we find the say-so, here we learn the layout, now we know where the cities and farms belong.
Dead white men and dead red men tested each other with shot and knives: they twisted each others' necks: land was yours if you took and kept it.
How are the heads the rain seeps in, the rain-washed knuckles in sod and gumbo?
Where the sheets of paper shiver,
Back of the hasps and handles,
Back of the fireproof clamps,
They read what the fingers scribbled, who the land belongs to now-it is herein provided, it is hereby stipulated-the land and all appurtenances thereto and all deposits of oil and gold and coal and silver, and all pockets and repositories of gravel and diamonds, dung and permanganese, and all clover and bumblebees, all bluegrass, johnny-jump-ups, grassroots, springs of running water or rivers or lakes or high spreading trees or hazel bushes or sumach or thorn-apple branches or high in the air the bird nest with spotted blue eggs shaken in the roaming wind of the treetops-
So it is scrawled here,
"I direct and devise
So and so and such and such,"
And this is the last word.
There is nothing more to it.
In a shanty out in the Wilderness, ghosts of to-morrow sit, waiting to come and go, to do their job.
They will go into the house of the Dead and take the shivering sheets of paper and make a bonfire and dance a deadman's dance over the hissing crisp.
In a slang their own the dancers out of the Wilderness will write a paper for the living to read and sign:
The dead need peace, the dead need sleep, let the dead have peace and sleep, let the papers of the Dead who fix the lives of the Living, let them be a hissing crisp and ashes, let the young men and the young women forever understand we are through and no longer take the say-so of the Dead;
Let the dead have honor from us with our thoughts of them and our thoughts of land and all appurtenances thereto and all deposits of oil and gold and coal and silver, and all pockets and repositories of gravel and diamonds, dung and permanganese, and all clover and bumblebees, all bluegrass, johnny-jump-ups, grassroots, springs of running water or rivers or lakes or high spreading trees or hazel bushes or sumach or thornapple branches or high in the air the bird nest with spotted blue eggs shaken in the roaming wind of the treetops.
2k
"Where literature is concerned,
I will not cooperate at all":
A mind resolutely turned
From the social crusades of fall.
Seventy-eight years later
I agree with the "dilettante";
Twenty-five years cater
To reclusion in a shanty,
"Writing frightening verse
To a straight-toothed dude
In New York." Curse
My reckless solitude!
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 2:59 PM UTC
It’s four in the morning, and I can’t sleep.
I’m tossing and turning in the ocean so deep.
And before I know it, the sun begins to rise
Over the horizon, blinding my eyes.
Time to wake up and start the day,
And finish my work so I can play.
I’ll drink my *** and I’ll do my dance
On the deck of this ship on this vast expanse.
But a storm’s-a-brewin’, and now it’s getting late,
So I’ll save all my work for a later date
And I’ll die in this storm with a smile on my face,
Dancing my way out of this nautical rat race.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 5:26 PM UTC
This topic is near and dear so let me ask you the reader
I just want to take the pulse or check the reflexes.
Ladies and gentlemen. Step right up step right up.
Little closer now dont let the smell of formaldehyde turn you aside.
This is something that goes on.
The government thinks it has a right.to.
1.Tax you while you live.
2. Levy a an exit tax when you croak. How is that for a sick joke.
This is just an observation, a point of fact.
Ever been to an Irish wake.
Ther's drinking and singing
Tall tales abound as the guest of honor poses ashen and.stil.
A drink is on standby. As a test of his will.
Here's a wee snort for you laddie just reach up and knock this one back
And sing us a shanty or a sad mournfull tune .
You say what?. Yeah that's a shell game where the rules change
Like I change underwear. Now that I pulled you leaches of my sack.
Hey come back we want more.
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 9:58 PM UTC
slaves never owned the land nor themselves and its hard to imagin if we were free in every possible way.let me explain,master gave us a piece of land seeds and let us have credit at the corner store where our ious were accepted plus he owned the shanty that we used to fight off the wind rain snow such as it was.lest I forget to make it known master also took most of the crops when they came in which left only enough for our family to live on until the next crops came up. this happened year after year until the ious were taler than the trees that once hung us and let dangling like biter fruit thrown away with blood on the leaves running down to the roots.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 8:07 PM UTC
Look upon the shanty town of plenty town
where 'those'
people live and those who have will
seldom give,
In shanty town we barely survive on
humbleness and outright lies.
Look,
now comes the infantry,
marching three by three.
What is it that they see ?
but more and more,
they've seen it all a
thousand times before,
poverty in every doorway.
No gay hussars ,these infantry,
they come not to set 'those' people free
but to shoot them down.
The don in his board and gown may
be bright and know a deal
but this is the place where his
hypothesis is real and lives are at stake.
In Oxford where they take a break from studies
which the privileged make their own,then
go home and make some English tea,
I guess that's being free, for a fee, but
we don't want no chi
We
Just want a chance to fly as high as others ,who
in shanty town would want to do the same?
From Belize or from Tobruk,Brighton,Glasgow
we don't give a flying... tuck your
wings in guys and watch the bullets fly,
watch your dreams die
hear your kids cry
nothing's changed except
the rules.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 11:38 AM UTC
Umbrella green rain upset harmless stripped
And because of thunder children snapped their fingers like jazz enthusiasts
Milk obsessed rats rant and render their own insanity
Passing three winged' angels in the street flowing serenity
Friends are best left in the mind and in the heart
But do not stray too far from them
For loneliness is a cold touch without love or hate
We are lucky to be feeling anything at all
The dead lie still
The weak do too
The strong move
The courageous seek
The other side of
The hill
Music moves underneath the fog of the sun
Near the flower garden the tourists roam free
A minds eye is a terrible thing to waste
Getting to know yourself through sleep is revealing
When is the next time for tea?
Your gibberish speaks things to me
That nothing in this world has ever done
What is the color of genius?
What is the feeling of epiphany?
Where do the dead flowers grow?
Packaged up
Sent off
Read up
The critics scoff
Growing old near the swamp the shanty town sways
Old culture rusts blood brown and neon orange
The bills are on the fridge and being cashed yesterday
Another day passes as the clock strikes 13
A friend brushes past another in a party and they smile
They do not speak for there is history there
Marking calenders for future experiences in all planning aside
There is nothing like chaos to introduce you to yourself
As I walk down the sidewalk, pass the cleaners, I see fiction
Moving under the trees, breathing the sea, I see narration
Talking to the barista, laughing lines, I see dialogue
Shakespeare penned the highest and the lowest of us all
And I think Bukowski was right there with him too
Watch a marble roll down the street
Observe each crack and the path it takes
We are very much the same way
Define your cracks, your bumps, your potholes
And see where they have taken you
See what became of you after the hard times.
This year
Apricots will writhe in the trees
Like a worm on a fishing hook.
The sea is foaming at the mouth,
And we are children
All over again.
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 2:08 PM UTC
I am seeking an unspeakable beacon--
that which defies not solely the misty discontents of mine own
but the time-wrought err of man:
a taut reminder to cross the burgeoned blur of millennia
up and down the current and the tides
of an ocean to quench such fiery dispositions,
inspiring a shanty not for sanctuary
but for the cleansing of such tarnished deposits
clinging steadfast to the side of aching vessels
harboring, hidden, a virtue free of salted regard
and an anchor to an oft ennobled canon.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 8:15 PM UTC