"skiff" poems
A small skiff drifted in the harbor
guided by the eazy oars of a fisherman
standing in the hull to better view
the shimmering reflection
of the orange circle hovering overhead-
dancing with the gentle waves
in the morning mist.
Monet had to name it something
so he called it what it was:
"Impression, soleil levant."
A critic, wanting poison for his pen,
seized Monet's title to squeeze
a lethal dose into the radical veins
of the artist and his fellows of the gallery
(Renoir, Pissarro, Cezanne).
With scathing indignation
he dubbed the lot of them,
"Mere Impressionists."
The label endures (minus one word)
but how many recall or care to know
the righteous critic's name?
November, 2011
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 4:40 AM UTC
its unmistakable
not just another caravan of faces
not just another passing year
under a strange sky
iv reached the edge of the world
nothing but open sea to my back
as far as the mind can see
and i'm riding a west wind on a quickness breeze
on a middle of the night skiff
to the the small island
where she waits for me
where she sleeps tonight
the bold song gone soft an slow
the guarded smile relaxed into a champion of joy
and conquers all her sadness
with a single tilt at the windmills
like a knight in shining armor
nothing but deep sea
nothing but night salt and sea
and as i draw near
she sings from her soul to mine
come to me lover
laugh
yes cry out loud with all your joys
laugh pure and easy
i'm the mood for you boy
i'm in the mood for your hand in mine
dance in my heart
its a warm night in the tropics
and we got the world to ourselfs
so may i have this dance
spin
dip
ballroom of sand
laugh with me
run with me
we are free
all our lives people have tried to put us away
keep us down
now look at
dancing in the stars
look at us free and easy
dance with me baby
make love with me honey
on this ballroom of sand
laugh pure and true
with simple joy
here by salt and sea
be young with me
tonight on this ballroom of sand
come home to me
warm me with your touch
comfort me with your eyes
iv waited so long come home to me
nothing but open sea at my back
and i feel so alive
i feel so free
and my lover is near iv never been so alive
running a western quickness breeze
on a skiff heading home
to her
jezebel
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 6:00 AM UTC
winters day getting a tan in my yard
i can feel the ocean of the spring breeze
taste its intoxicating salt and sand on the air
feel its breathtaking beauty as the sea washes up on me
only a few hundred feet through that tangle of palms and
tangles of quick brush
lay wide open lush sands
and forever summers soft light
and the beautiful breaking waves
in staunch hand needed but the
deeply tanned smile on the old mans face
as he holds out a greeting and offer to run out to your skiff
but you'd rather swim
at last the days full face comes to bear
a hippie family roasts hot dogs in a pit fire
and you share some white wine
music plays from a transistor radio
that has seen better days
but this is the land of forever summer
and nothing can taint the smile you share
with your lover
nothing can touch the soul deep
expression of joys
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 2:23 PM UTC
the long day
has given itself into evening
she and i lay in eachother's arms
beneath the traces of stars
watching the lights of passing ships in the sea
listen to the waves rock our skiff
taste the salt air in our every sense
and slowly the rest of the worlds fades from view
to just us
as our soft talking drifts through the hours
she caresses my arm and laughs
i breath her hair and all the scents of her womanhood
and i feel like i could break with all the love i feel inside of me for her
like a window to all the hopes and dreams i ever had
telescopes into one moment
any moment she and her hippie girlfriends are gonna
roll in with sandwich's and green tea
for the hungry masses
and smiling they will pass the time talking
and laughin with young voices
and my neighbor catches them in watercolor
a bright flowing device and masterpiece
his old fingers dart over the canvas
and you can feel the sunlight in his images
you can hear the sweet laughter
we wander long the back street
with the open air market
they are callin out in happy voices
in the strong trade winds
and don't cha know that its so easy to forget all your troubles
and leave the whole world behind
here in the ocean breeze
here under a tropical moon
they all end up sleeping in a pile on the bed
i slept there too
one hippie chick is living on a carnival ride with lifetime
supply of cotton candy
a couple of hippie chicks
is nothing short of
well....everything you could have ever wanted
rolled up on your bed a tangle of dreadlocks arms and legs
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 4:41 PM UTC
Small barge go to meet honoured guest
Leisurely lake on come
At railing face cup alcohol
On all sides lotus bloom
On a skiff I meet an honoured guest,
Slowly, slowly, it comes across the lake.
Facing at the railing, we drink a cup of wine,
On all sides, lotus flowers are in bloom.
3.2k
Dreamless sleep - the dusky Eagles
nightlong rush about my head,
man's golden image drowned
in timeless icy tides. On jagged reefs
his purpling body. Dark
echoes sound above the seas.
Stormy sadness' sister, see
our lonely skiff sunk down
by starry skies:
the silent face of night.
2.4k
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
Addiction's innocent cousin ***** needling into my veins
infected me seasons ago
the ache I once felt still strong as mast's girth
From wind to wind sea to sea we internally roamed
in my mind the map was a treasure trove for exploration
i never was bound to lake shore
wind whipping tide tussling rousing mornings and dusky
nights
My mistresses my pleasure gliding goddess
drift lazily and let me sing praise with shouts "Boom"
but coy or not I coil spry
aged not with time
but lessons learned
The youngest have yet to grow
knowledge of the mystery fables tell
of beautiful passings
Land's unreachable without proper direction
rudderless a hair's breadth magnified out of reach
cool autumn leaves fall on my skiff
She tugs at my heart and at your golden hemp locks
they have all my love stolen from your deck your bow
your stern your timber your core
but let us sail evermore
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 11:06 PM UTC
To the tune "As in a Dream"
I have long remembered
the pavilion
on the stream
the falling sun
so deep in wine
we did not know
the way home
how pleasure spent
late returning
the skiff
thoughtless
entered
a lotus deep place
and struggling through
struggling through
we scared up
from the sand
gulls and herons.
2k
To the tune of "Wu Ling Spring"
Wind ceased, the dust is scented
with the fallen flowers.
Though day is getting late, I am too weary
to attend to my hair.
Things remain as ever, yet he is here no more,
and all is finished.
Fain would I speak, but tears flow first.
They say that at the Twin Brooks
spring is still fair.
I, too, wish to row a boat there.
But I am afraid that the little skiff
on the Twin Brooks
Could not bear the heavy load of my grief.
2k
In the caste of what the fir trees denoted what should be or what should not be,
I clasped the fig twigs and watched them split as if to say that all must come to an end.
And in the end, who can the charred leaves blame if there should be tire rods and hubcaps strewn
across the forest's floor?
After totaling the costs of what should not be,
the last mast of yesterday's trade boat could skiff along the shore,
with flag flailing like the playground children's hands.
Irrationality piquing: birds dip and dive like a boxer's fists made of shadow
from one powerline to the next.
Training for the changing, biting winds, watching the unconscious cars staring.
And the skiff oozing through the unmentionables littered in the creek : what will
become of him?
Lodged in stale, fossil bones -- floundered between the swingset and the droning, dusty traffic at 3 a.m.
Metamorphic scarabs stolen from the gusts and pants of too much play.
Basketballs stained with carrion, precarious gusto in the wake of money suckling and ripping alongside
the skiff.
Cross here with two pennies.
Goaded by the solitary abandonment of the 1930's, the used condom's mouth gaping open like hungry carp, dusty trails of light from the past lamplight hanging in the air
Birds measured up along the powerlines, moving mindlessly along with the flock
Bird drones, feathery spines
Birds perched along the playground.
Bird play so far as to say
does this not look familiar?
Bobbing, weaving, slathered in cadence and involuntary muscle jerks.
First we were here
Then we were not.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 8:33 PM UTC
A storm is raging on the frothy sea
Mountainous waves toss the vessel all around
The ravaging gales impale with a deafening blow
Raucous sheets of salty spray
soak and pelter to and fro
A bucket bails the raged sloop
She moans and groans as she’s flung about
A sailor sails ― A sailor endlessly bails
Engulfed alone in the perfect storm
Two oars are manned on the stormy seas
The halyard torn and ripped from mast
To row and bail is an impossible feat
It’s hard to tell when you've sprung a fateful leak
The captain mans the forlorn skiff
There'll be No white flag of surrender flown ;
" I will go down with my ship! "
A furious soul laments life’s toil
As violent waves crash the gunnels hold
He screamed out loud,
***" My time has come ! "
" My ship is sinking!!! "
" Her broken pieces ne'er to be found ..."***
The rampart boat, well fortified yet built to fail
Plummets from hills of oceans pitifully tall
Cracks are leaking where the lurid light gets in
But so does the briny water, will drowning soon begin?
Lost hope floats the helpless, fearless one man crew
His soul now guides the ether voyage ―
A vessel drifts lifeless on the empty calming sea
Nothing but it can be seen for miles of skies
The free board is deep the salty water high
Two apathetic oars lay silent, is a lost soul inside?
© Harlon Rivers
May 20, 2017
May 20, 2017 at 1:15 PM UTC
The Little Skiff Slips through the water, following Swamp Trails.
Soft Light of a Bayou Moon in the Mist, on right the splash of Gator Tail
As it hunts in the Moonlight, Twinkle of Neon Blares through the reeds,
From a Swamp bar Southeast of Lake Charles, Fiddle and Wash board,
Scrap , over Sweet Chords of Accordian Tunes drifting in the mist, As a
Patron of the Bar stirs coals on the bonfire, Drunken Guests Cut a Rug
On rolled out linoleum, Et Toi a Night of Bon temp Roulle on the Bayou
Inside the door, for some Cat fish and Red Beans & Rice with a cold brew
The Old Juke Box Plays Aaron Nevilles "If Tear Drops were Diamonds"
As the Band takes a Break, fiddle laying at Bars end Winks in Orange
To the flash of the Beer Sign, Uncle Solacess Raises his glass to the Moon
A high toast to La lune ete Amour de Coure, A Drunken Fight breaks out
Old Family issues, the contenders hugging and laughing over fresh Beers
As I Stumble out the door, just as the Zydeco strikes up I crank up the skiff
As I float into the fog, Bon Temp Roulle under Bayou Pale Moonlight
C'est bien de te voir, A bientot Au Revoir Bonne Nuit et Beau Reves....
.................................................................JMF 10/114
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 10:01 AM UTC
Beware young and old alike
for the place that is a scary sight.
Its the Pirate's Cove
sure enough, by jove.
Protected by Sunset Reef,
raiders there will come to grief.
There amongst the shoals
many here have lost their souls.
Daring ones who venture
there by skiff,
often fail to spy their shack,
under the cliff.
The shack is there
though hard to see.
Tattered and weathered
and leaning alee.
Their fighting ship
is hard to seek,
for its hidden well up
the nearby creek.
Bloodthirsty pirates
ready to take your life,
to poke you or stab you
with their long, sharp knife.
In the early morning
they may be snoring,
after a wild night
of drinking and sporting.
Pray not wake them
or you risk your life,
by tasting the
bite of their trusty knife.
Seeking their chests
filled with gold
may land you down
in the depths so cold.
So lads and lasses
stay away
and live to see
another day.
Feb 7, 2020
Feb 7, 2020 at 6:48 PM UTC
A grey goose above me
Calls strident-high,
Alone and looking down,
While I walk toward the lake,
Looking up to find
His silhouette against gray sky.
We're miles from town
On a middling winter day,
Shortest hours of light
Within the year.
We two are lonely here.
Skies gray promise
Neither rain nor snow;
A warming wind is blowing;
Perhaps the silver skiff
Will melt again,
And let the grey flier in.
Where are his loved ones?
I'd like to know;
And why he flies alone,
Scanning from his skimming height,
And yet I think I know.
I used to hunt his kind,
To lie in wait beneath a blind,
And rise to meet
Descending flocks,
Wings set,
Until I knew
The goose I'd brought
To ground
And the goose above
Remained inseparable,
One mate for life,
Death do them part,
And after, live alone.
A chill is setting in tonight,
And I am heading home;
A fire and my wife waiting.
Some comfort as the evening ends
I hope the grey one finds,
In the company of friends...
I'd see he weren't alone,
If I could make amends.
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 1:43 PM UTC
Hanging in a leaden sky
Gulls, in tight formation, fly.
Heavy snow's cascading flare
Sodium sharpness filling air.
Heaving waves carousing fen
Ocean's scent, aloft.. .and then
The skiff with oarsman pulling tight
Materializing from the night
Braving, now, a heavy sea
Puffing pipe, irreverently.
Oblivious of mounting gale
Abandons oar to set a sail
Skimming sharp to gravel beach
Shrugs aside hazards reach.
Wading into pounding foam
Smiling thought of *** at home.
[email protected]
Feb 15, 2025
Feb 15, 2025 at 11:13 PM UTC
in the deadest waters
of your cruel swamp
we heard your voice
sliding on the surface
like a perfectly sailed skiff
avoiding the murky depths
…for an illusive while
reaching our ears softly
lulling us to sleep
on your shell shocked shores
we had no need
to awake
while you sank,
a leviathan in red white and blue,
making only impotent cries
and cyber ripples
before your bloated belly
zagged and zigged
to the black bottom
while we slept
under the spell
of your lost incantations
and spoke in dreamlike verse
of once great nations
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 12:13 AM UTC
I
Again the larkspur,
Heavenly blue in my garden.
They, at least, unchanged.
II
How have I hurt you?
You look at me with pale eyes,
But these are my tears.
III
Morning and evening--
Yet for us once long ago
Was no division.
IV
I hear many words.
Set an hour when I may come
Or remain silent.
V
In the ghostly dawn
I write new words for your ears--
Even now you sleep.
VI
This then is morning.
Have you no comfort for me
Cold-colored flowers?
VII
My eyes are weary
Following you everywhere.
Short, oh short, the days!
VIII
When the flower falls
The leaf is no more cherished.
Every day I fear.
IX
Even when you smile
Sorrow is behind your eyes.
Pity me, therefore.
X
Laugh--it is nothing.
To others you may seem gay,
I watch with grieved eyes.
XI
Take it, this white rose.
Stems of roses do not bleed;
Your fingers are safe.
XII
As a river-wind
Hurling clouds at a bright moon,
So am I to you.
XIII
Watching the iris,
The faint and fragile petals--
How am I worthy?
XIV
Down a red river
I drift in a broken skiff.
Are you then so brave?
XV
Night lies beside me
Chaste and cold as a sharp sword.
It and I alone.
XVI
Last night it rained.
Now, in the desolate dawn,
Crying of blue jays.
XVII
Foolish so to grieve,
Autumn has its colored leaves--
But before they turn?
XVIII
Afterwards I think:
Poppies bloom when it thunders.
Is this not enough?
XIX
Love is a game--yes?
I think it is a drowning:
Black willows and stars.
**
When the aster fades
The creeper flaunts in crimson.
Always another!
XXI
Turning from the page,
Blind with a night of labor,
I hear morning crows.
XXII
A cloud of lilies,
Or else you walk before me.
Who could see clearly?
XXIII
Sweet smell of wet flowers
Over an evening garden.
Your portrait, perhaps?
XXIV
Staying in my room,
I thought of the new Spring leaves.
That day was happy.
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 4:20 AM UTC
The sea slides indifferently.
Waves crash, roll and skiff on,
My heart between the blue crests
That break down in the watered wind.
Lonely is my shy overlook,
The whole sky falls in tailspin,
My love was such a simple thing,
Precious as golden water on the moon.
On the banks I leave my soul
And drift away into balmy voids,
Seagulls circle and the tides return,
My mind is lost atop the sandy shores.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
A woman I once worked with
Was ordinarily quite intelligent
But when it came to pronunciation
She could become belligerent.
Her way was the right way
And she brooked no question.
Braving her ire, I decided there
Was one I had to mention.
She said the word comf-tubble
And I said that was incorrect.
She got so very irate with me
That I feared for my own neck.
She called it socially acceptable,
Her ghastly mispronunciation.
I said it was a sign of the times
The slippery slope of our nation.
If people were to go on and cease
An honored way of speaking
Then, we are all of us adrift
In a doomed skiff that is leaking.
She said some more to me
But I quit paying much attention.
There were too many “I means”
And “you knows” to mention.
There were ‘haftas’ and ‘ominas’
And the sad utterance, ‘wannabees”.
This poor soul would not pass
The first hour of a spelling bee.
I wondered if this poor soul
Had seen on a computer screen.
The words just as she was saying
On some website she had seen?
I accept that nobody in the USA
Or even in Merry Old Blighty
Says words like Wednesday
Comfortable or February rightly.
It’s like there is an international
Formal and binding declaration
That nobody need say these words
Correctly in English speaking nations.
We can lapse into hickbonics,
We jess *** tah stumble along
And say set instead of sit, and
Others we so often say wrong.
We kin say double pneumonia
And quay’s eye and nukeyoulurr,
Irregardless and even *** cans,
And nobuddy questions wut fur.
We c’n say thangs like reel utter,
SimmYooLurr, BennaFishErAiry.
Innerest, furrmillyurr, Mason Airy,
Flustration and shudder LieBerry.
But as sure as there is air to breathe
And that every day will follow night
Most people pronouncing words
A certain way doesn’t make it right.
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 11:53 PM UTC
weeping willows dangling their thin
lithesome leafed branches curved in
genuflection caressing the
surface of life giver Aqua
as if the brimming pool perhaps
a creation of its own weeping
from leaf through root to leaf seeping
age old unbroken circle of life
memory of fingertips rife
trailing ripples that won't collapse
Gently did I scull the rented skiff
disheartened grief stricken and stiff
opposing tomorrow's defeat
my heart heavy struggling to beat
as if lead had bound it in straps
already my mind's in sorrow
seeing my sadness on the morrow
the Greyhound bus diminishes
until it slowly vanishes
leaving me standing with our scraps
of long hot steamy summer nights
holding to each other despite
the sweat that passion delivers
though in August's heat we shiver
cold promenades, foggy wraps
through damp dense swirling wraiths we tail
pretending to be on the trail
of Jack the Ripper in our hood
the hammered trilling of our blood
when passion and play overlap
last spring your pirouettes in flowers
demanding all of my powers
to not burst in flames of lust
my love for you just that robust
you kept your feelings under wraps
how could our sweet love have come to
I need to get away from you
a cheap bus ticket to "the Bay"
is now an entire world away.
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 1:19 PM UTC
The cumulus clouds built overhead
But were dark, and filled with rain,
They brought to the sky a sense of dread
Of the storm to come, and pain,
The wind picked up in the barley fields
And the sea beat in to the shore,
‘If you don’t go out and anchor the boat
It will land on the rocks, for sure.’
I didn’t want to go out that day
But my father said I must,
All that my brother did was play
So I thought it so unjust.
‘Why is it always me,’ I said,
‘When Fred’s as handy as I,
He only goes when the weather’s calm
With not a cloud in the sky.’
It made no odds so I had to go,
They didn’t give me a choice,
I was the child of the family,
The one with the weakest voice.
I took the skip and I rowed on out
Where the Huntsman strained its chain,
With the breakers crashing across the prow
On top of the driving rain.
I seized the rope and clambered aboard
Then tied the skip to a post,
It was only held by a slender cord
To the Huntsman, as its host.
I went for the starboard anchor then
And slipped it into the sea,
That would give it a second hold, I thought,
But in truth, there should be three.
The waves were crashing across the deck
And the Huntsman wheeled around,
Now side-on to the waves it heeled
With a rasping, creaking sound,
If only Fred hadn’t lost the anchor
Chained up close to the bow,
I would be able to hold the swing
But it wasn’t likely now.
The swell was something tremendous and
The rain came down like sleet,
What with the sway and the decks awash
It was hard to keep my feet.
Slowly the boat had begun to drift and
Drag its chains to the shore,
Down in a trough, and then the lift
As the swell built up once more.
Making my way to the cabin door
I locked myself inside,
Then started the Perkins diesel and
Prepared to go for a ride,
I thought that if I could turn the bow
And point it out to sea,
We might be able to ride it out
The boat, brute force, and me.
I didn’t know that my brother Fred
Had borrowed somebody’s skiff,
And now was heading on out to help,
My father had said ,’What if?’
The diesel roared into life and tugged
The anchors in its wake,
But wouldn’t respond to the rudder
I had made my first mistake.
Borne on the swell, the Huntsman roared
And headed in to land,
Nothing I did would turn the bow
Though I had the wheel in hand,
I’ll never live down the Huntsman’s loss
Or forget that awful sound,
That terrible scream like a nightmare dream
As I ran my brother down.
David Lewis Paget
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 1:37 PM UTC
He sets out from Cape Elizabeth on a little skiff
into the silvery Atlantic at dawn;
несчастливый, he whispers, and the salty wind
throws the word against a cliff.
His curse, he swears, is gone.
He dreams of fighting fish, of yellow fins,
of something more than mottled cod.
In afternoon, a bite: too strong to reel.
I’ll take you by surprise, the young man thinks.
He settles in and prays to God
that his fish will equal many meals,
that Gretzky will prevail at the rink.
I can pull you, fish, but I will let you tire.
He eats a bit of bread and takes a final look
into the deep.
The black of the sea meets the black of the sky;
the moon hangs, an empty fishhook,
and the young man holds the line and sleeps.
He’s awakened by a pull, a smack
of nose and bone against the stern;
she’s pulling further yet from shore.
Blood dripping, palms raw, he holds fast.
She’s still on the line. His feet stand firm.
Tomorrow, fish. I’ll wait one day more.
The next morning sees him rise,
prepared to fight.
You will come home with me today, fish.
In his weathered palms: the line.
Sun and salt and sweat collide
on bronze muscles blessed by Helios.
The fish responds right away:
she circles and he pulls, a deep-sea tango
until she’s there beside the skiff,
blue like tokens worn by brides on wedding days,
chain-mail sapphires with a sheen of gold:
a more beautiful adversary could not exist.
Regret set in. One of us must die today, fish.
She pulls him close; his hand lands on her fin.
Behind him, the harpoon, too far to reach.
One of us must die—I am not sure I care which.
His body is broken, somewhere within,
an injury he cannot treat.
*The Great One played with a broken rib in ’93.
I must be worthy of him.*
His bones cry and shriek, but he will not rest.
He plunges bleeding hands into the sea
And wrestles body and fin—
She presses against his breathless chest.
He pulls her nearer still,
Weapon at hand,
And as he is about to deliver the fatal wound
Her dark eyes ****
the need to prove his worth as a man.
His fingers drop the heavy harpoon.
*We are equals, fish; I cannot take your life.
I cannot sell your flesh.
I cannot catch you just to boast.*
He draws his rusty knife
but cannot bring himself to thrash
the rope that binds them both.
He sits down in the boat.
*Fish, take me out to sea.
Fish, it’s you and me.*
Mar 1, 2019
Mar 1, 2019 at 3:49 PM UTC
I caught a tremendous fish
. . . . . . . .
And I let the fish go.
—Elizabeth Bishop
All the people are old people.
Older than me.
Granddad took me fishing
with one of his friends.
They said we’d catch flounder.
They killed the engine
near the bridge pilings.
The lines stayed slack
until a red and white
floater fell below
the bay’s polluted waves.
I thought I felt a flounder
heaving on the hook.
I reeled it up—
a fish,
cylindrical and silver.
Alert, black eyes peered
at me. He floundered
against the skiff’s side
with a barbed hook inside
his young, unscarred mouth.
The old men laughed:
flounder are flat
and brown.
He was small
and nothing special—
not a flounder.
But they didn't let him go.
They ground my catch up
into a pink paste, spotted
with specs of broken bone.
We threw the pieces off the boat
to chum the water.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 2:53 AM UTC
Sept. 5th, 2020, 6:35am (wondrous palette)
the sun risen, but a solid foothold as of yet unestablished;
the new day’s skies borrow coloration from nearby sources,
no unique identity bright enough as of yet to call its own;
thin cumulus streaks, striate against an unidentifiable blue
paleness, more to contrast than to claim, “here we are!
the bay is in labor: multi hues of blue intermingle, as the
light illuminates each part differentially; soon enough,
one hue will come to dominate, just like you, soon enough,
a single hue will dominate, and this day will be distinct,
and who knows? perhaps even distinctive enough to be
memorialized.
minute to minute is the ever changing interplay; unlike a
human, this rapidity maturation is unafraid to experiment
with new combinations but-based on prior recalled self-
examination; something on the water, a small boat low and
close flat to the surficial; a skiff, a rowboat with no oars,
drifting, languishing on the fishing spot, unmoving unhurried
humans aboard, thinking, this is the good way to start living
*last comment; tiny hinting shades of violet, pink and orange
exist, hard to discern so well blended are they with the norm
of broader blue and vanilla white and then all readily apparent!
this is the new days message, we are what we appear to be,
one earth, one sky, indivisible but born from* a wondrous palette;
*and so yet another first poem of the day is created, a verbal
prélude, étude, unique but a product of its many ancestral
predecessors, just like*, we the people.
Sep 5, 2020
Sep 5, 2020 at 7:01 AM UTC