"shipyards" poems
Down at the Shipyards people are *Waiting for their "Ship-to-come-in". At the Ballpark people are *waiting for the "Home-run-hit". At the Racetrack people are *Waiting for "Their winning horse". At the street corner people are *Waiting for the "Light -to-turn-green". At the office people are *Waiting for "That-Raise". At the restaurant people are *Waiting to be "Waited-on". At the bookstore people are *Waiting for *THAT "New-book". At the the Shoe store people are *Waiting to see if "The-Shoe-fits". at the Doctors office people are *Waiting in the "Waiting-Room". At the grocery store people are *Waiting to "Check-out". And it's been said, that folks today,have No-Patience ! WELL, Excuse me, just the few illustrations above, clearly demonstrate, THAT somebody is *Waiting for something ! What are their intentions of asking for Indulgence, Tolerance and Unity. AND,, don't dare Upset the Apple-Cart ! Down at the Coffee shop people are *Waiting for that "Java-with-Ummph". At the corner people are *Waiting to be "Taken-for-a-Ride". Downtown people are *Waiting for a place to "PARK & WAIT" ! "Pray Tell,,,WHAT ARE WE WAITING FOR " ?
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 8:18 AM UTC
He did something in the shipyards, but I was too young to know what. Those times, in any event, had long passed. His hair was white and he had spectacles with thick rims, that is much of his appearance as I recall. It was hard to imagine the time in which he had worked; things around there were beginning to accelerate, melting into air and the past was exactly that; should he come back now he would recognise very little.
I learned much later that he sometimes visited the Chinese takeaway to talk about communism; he believed in an equally high standard of living for all, not death camps and suppression of the individual. If one man has a nice suit, all men must have a nice suit. His presence was not a political one for me, I was a child, he was someone who we visited. He greeted me on me and my brother's visits with a smile and a jig; "Not bad for 85 year old'' he'd say. He made us ice cream floats, slipping the ice cream out of those individual paper packets that ice cream used to sometimes come in. He was a vital man, there was something to him that made him exciting to be around. Although he had been educated to a low level by contemporary norms he was well read and informed, I came to learn in later years. He never had a child, that I learned too. What does that do to a person to be childless? What does that do to a person to have a child? Time passes and things happen regardless. I think he died in the same week as my grandma, but I could be mistaken. The exact details of one's life sometimes become muddled. An enigmatic figure in a bigger picture. Forgotten by many.
May 17, 2019
May 17, 2019 at 4:05 AM UTC
she turned the questions in her eyes aside
and stealing away in the quiet
of the pine forest winters day
the taste of wood smoke was tangible on the sharp cold air
and his eyes hunted the ridge crest for sing of flames
as they hurried their steps along the rough hewn track
she carried the child whos silent contemplation
showed his understandings of the gravity of this flight
the bundle of possessions on his shoulder
weighed upon his mind
counselling himself not to regret casting it all aside should need arise
the woman and child so fragile and dear to his heart
mean so much more than mere trinkets of gold
he would surrender without pause life and limb to spare them
she was a smoky version of bobby dylan
complete with winged snakes in each hand
complete with a crown of jewels
and the thousand words dance
he was a seafaring man
they reached the shore of the sea
and found the wreckage of a sailing ship
her fine line speaking clear of her swiftness
and her appointments show without shyness
that she was of the finest portugal shipyards
they spent days making her seaworthy
laying up in the harsh tropical sun
neath the palm trees drinking *** from her stores
they put to sea in the birth of the new year
singing 'goodbye spanish ladies'
the three of them on the skiff tacking up-channel
trying to determine latitude by sighting
but a fog rolls in off the coast of grande bahama
as dawn breaks
man woman and grown child
the miles and the treasures cast aside
each wore on open hearted face
but neath the weary of sea miles
was their joys in the true riches
of eachothers soft hand entwined as they sailed into
a golden dusk
of a lesser throne
a kingdom of the sea
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 11:30 PM UTC
Revisited Merak harbor one late evening
a shape of sea fairy and colorful torches
were seen from afar , chattering calls in 4 languages. 4 squalls in once was a plage
their dancing flames asked me to come closer
I hurried along the sleepy shipyards
passing massive warehouses fenced by rusty wooden doors
giant padlocks accenting (reminded me of a fancy cocotte loaded with blingbling)
stacks of oversized containers solidly sat speechless. Sleepless.
The light of each torch lifted into the sky. Seen by another eye
1883 eruption of the Krakatau crater. 130 years later the odor of its curators
I ran closer. I fell. I laid there a while , got up and ran again.
I lost my head and missed my right foot along the way. I did not care.
When I arrived the torches were there in front of me
reincarnated into thousands inhabitants who had lost their lives
bodies covered with revolting cesspit oil
For a second they transformed into torches again. One blazing in my hands.
Regretfully, I had lost my head so I did not understand.
The fairy stared . I wasn't scared.
: come, come, …come purifying Sunda strait
dissatisfying the idiots thought it could all be fixed with tax rate
I moved toward embracing fairy arms
(Possibly, this close hugging love was only for beach-sea friends)
So, I united with the torches
A bit of a breach pushed us towards the petroleum . Demolished it all. Cannonball.
Black fog shrieking that same words : Keep up the struggle . Stay strong !
The alien residents might think I was making choices
but the fairy was leading me around
the torches reshaping the ghost-town
Chattering calls in 4 voices. 4 languages.
Yet, for the officials ears , all were still voiceless. Pointless.
(Pulo Merak - Cilegon - Indonesia )
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 12:27 AM UTC
Misty Morning, tunnel exit
Radio blaring. Yet more Brexit
Shipyards looming in the mist
Coffee. Top of this checklist
Distantly spied, Golden Arches glisten
Dumbly calling those who listen
Desperate homeless huddled outside
Callous addiction stealing his pride
Inside the feckless locals gather
Of nameless baby dads they caw & blather
No sign of insight, syns nor points
Weight of burgers on their joints
Red-eyed middle management jostle for WiFi
Ketchup spilt upon his tie
Spreadsheets, targets, bonuses forgotten
Awareness at last. This lunch is rotten
Light bursting inside his head
Realising how easily he's been led
A new day. A Golden New Dawn
A middle-management minion reborn
Now with joy. Now with flourish
New skills, his mind does nourish
Never Stop. Ignore what they say
And make this day. Make this day. Make this the day.
Apr 16, 2019
Apr 16, 2019 at 6:40 AM UTC
Selina grew up in an orphanage
she was a *******
her father disappeared
after the Great War
her mother
dead from poverty
She was a Catholic
of the highest devotion
she loved Jesus
and Saint Joseph
and after she was
past schooling age (14)
she went off
to serve as a maid
for a good Catholic family
she wanted to be a nurse
but circumstance dictated
that she never could be
not enough school,
then, when she was 17
the 2nd Great War came
and women were needed
to work the steel mills
and shipyards
of Stockton England
she got a job
painting bombs
she signed little things on them
like,
take that ******
but the job
caused her asthma to flare
so she was reassigned
as what was then known as
a postman
clopping around the streets
happily delivering mail
She met a man
named John Hartley
and she intended to marry him
her friends warned her
he's a bachelor,
a woman hater,
but he was also
quite the handsome soldier
they married
after the war
and had five children
three of whom
became nurses
proud tears falling
like rain drops
a life of hardships
which she batted away
with Christ as her shield
summed up
by her
giving her children
what she never had
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 1:36 AM UTC
As Monday mourns the weekend's passing
men are massing
at the shipyards,steelyards,
good men ,hard men
waiting at the coal mines
I wonder were they better times.
Mass employment,enjoyment
a wage to take home Friday night
a beer or two
to set the world to rights, and a couple more
before the saloon bar door was closed.
Saturday and up on market street
set out to meet friends
old and new.
The Matinee,
a treat for kids on Saturday and then some chips
and dad slips in to see the accountant
(turfing the lawn,I suppose,but who knows)
Then Mum and Dad dressed to the nines
aye, yes
much better times,
and down to the dance at half past eight where they'll stand in a queue till a quarter to, and dance the night away.
A different time
a different day
when a workman worked for a workman's pay.
It was a long time ago,
and not in Bethlehem.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 12:15 AM UTC
what would life hold for me if I were the Sea?
liquid oxygen, so vast; lighthouses blinding me
at dusk the shipyards' ghosts come alive-- they break free
from the fog and silhouettes and all the weathered oak trees
the storms have arrived! you've met Katrina and Ike, I see
planning destruction and chaos and broken unity
throwing whiplashing waves and ***** seaweed,
splashing homes on my shores and debris at your feet
below my rippling surface: a myriad of pure glee
schools of rainbow fish, all swimming in threes
never travel too low-- to a certain degree
you'll be 1,000 leagues under the sea
signs of icebergs and whales, o', "beware of the beast"
stung on the tips of your fingers by my vicious coral reef
mermaids and their fathers' tridents, if you believe
plankton floating away with his secret recipe
guardians of the waters- my coast guards- the naval police
swimmers and divers who devour shrimp over beef
please hop in your dinghy and come visit me
I'm beautiful and deadly, my name is the Sea
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 1:11 AM UTC
The rails scream in the darkness
Sparking, lambent bulbs trace starlight behind tinted glass
No words, just motionless exhibition of man
Child
The shrill yapping of a terrified pup
Ears plugged from the disastrous din of metal rubbing against itself
The train flies through an evacuated tube pressed beneath the innumerable water column
And it is deafening.
Behind us the gentle shipyards, ahead the recipient city
Waiting to drink up our wallets and time with her promiscuous streets
As she bends her towering legs to the ironically Chinese
Barge
Blowing its baritone warning flutes
As it tugs itself upon her Bays.
I am reading the book, seeing the Brothers through the din, in between the two cities
The two unhappinesses
and the creatures they identify with
It is a giant artifact,
the tube
It protrudes through
The ships
She sunk and constructed
Market, Mission, Pier, a swamp of concrete
Over the dried clump of trees
A thousand bits of Theseus
And the abandoned bones of thirsting men
Running east, towards Pittsburg
Richmond
Warm Springs
The line is soft between these rusting zones
And the gold
Forgotten for silicone
I am reading a book
About brothers and the curse of stone
Sharing stares with dirogenous hobos
And girl's pupils
feasting on bodies hidden behind periodicals
The rails scream in protest
The railcars are turning up and out
Towards the end of the darkness
And the start of the largeness
The city waits to list her failures to me
To cry herself to sleep with raindrops of fog
And rasping breaths of breeze.
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 5:17 PM UTC
She carried her burden of woe
like the weekend shop,
never stopped her from whistling a tune and
not many women do that nowadays.
in the old days when Auntie Emm was not so old
and bolder than she was later
she had what you'd call today, Swagga,
she'd wag her finger and say,
'follow me, I'm not the pied piper but
I'll do for a start'
Uncle Tony who worked in the shipyards and
did other things to bring the money home
was grey haired
although it may have been jet black
back when Emm was younger.
Hunger they knew and few didn't up on
Tyneside,
but they had neighbours, good friends
and a radar system that could trawl a wreck on the shore before Her Majesty's customs even heard of it.
A moment in time and a peek at the place where a part of my family where points out in space.
There are more memories than pebbles on a beach
just reach in and touch them
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 5:54 AM UTC
No doubt an Eskimo fabulous Asia breeze
feeling in their element with style, elan
while snacking (with Wallace and Grommet)
on crackers and cheese
this spate of bitter cold doth not seem to ease
as Arctic air blast (oh riff you prefer Polar Vortex)
submerged much of the nation
in what feels like absolute zero,
and no matter the appellation,
the outdoors analogous to being in a deep freeze
brings state of emergency (designated as Code Blue
from a drain on bare necessities sans:
energy, food, general habiliments
unable to traverse frozen waterways
obstructing tankers access
to key shipyards, thus imposing
engines of society (Mother Nature decreed
harshly lashed pact with ole man winter)
asper bitter cold temperatures
a gripping sizable chunk of United States,
where one step outside induces chattering class
to shiver from hypothermia,
and a scant number of minutes will witness rigor mortis
evinced by knocked knees
whereat authoritative figures strongly advise
(nee require) every person to stay home
lest (if heedless) within seconds
their body electric will seize
from the unseen large area of low pressure
and cold air surrounds both of Earth's poles
chastising anyone foolish enough
to risk life or limb, thus take a page
from hibernating bears playbook,
and stay under warm covers
collecting countless zs!
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 11:00 PM UTC