"speedboats" poems
when i think of venice:
i think of the branzino al forno
we had at the restaurant;
where we giggled over the
young olive-skinned waiter.
i think of another afternoon:
we went to that wet market,
me in my only dress and you in your brand new sandals;
i had forgotten my film and
you had purchased one too many langostines
most of all when i remember venice:
i remember the firemen
racing down the canal
in their speedboats,
and on that day i asked you
if the canal was deep enough
for me to jump into
because that day
when i left the city,
the siren blaring behind us,
i wasn't thinking about anything
but the summer's day heat
and how:
there was no escaping it all.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 9:32 PM UTC
The giant fin whale swam along with the tide
A nineteen-foot calf was swimming by her side
They were swimming away from her mate’s now dead shell
Trapped in a lagoon and then all shot to hell.
She’ll raise her young calf on her own from now on
Not mating again as they only take one
Her mate had followed a herring shoal in with the tide
And for a short while there were those who had tried
To help him turn and head back to sea
But the cruelty of nature would not let it be
At eighty feet long and a shallow cliff lea
It could not turn around to escape and be free.
And then a vile streak in the locals took hold
A most wicked shooting match began to unfold
The most handsome of whales was trapped and revealed
As shooters took aim and young children squealed.
They fired and they fired and they fired and they fired
Stopping only to reload and then when they got tired
They even drove speedboats across his shot back
Leaving deep deep prop cuts as a further attack.
And when they were done and the whale was no more
His body burst open and in death he’d now score
For the stench of his now rancid corpse was so rotten
This beautiful creature wasn’t easily forgotten.
There was a man who tried hard to get him free
But one man alone is as a wood with one tree
And by the time he had got national press all aware
The whale was now dead, so bored, they’d not now care.
©Joe Wilson – A Whale shouldn’t die like that 2014
Many years ago I was enthralled by the work of Farley Mowat the renowned Canadian environmentalist who died last month. From reading his book, based on real events ‘A Whale for the Killing’ published in 1972, I took to studying whales as a hobby and I quickly realised just what a perfect creature the Fin Whale is. It is the only whale that is match coloured along both sides giving it the same symmetrical beauty as a dolphin and is the second largest creature to live, the Blue Whale being the only creature bigger. It is so amazing it can lift its entire body out of the water. Why on earth would you fire thousands of rounds of ammunition into a creature so beautiful? Why?
This is a small tribute to the memory of Farley Mowat (May 12, 1921 – May 6, 2014) and to people like him who try so hard, such as the Sea Shepherds who try to stop the massacre of bottle-nose dolphins each year in Taiji, Japan ostensibly for food, even though most Japanese people shun the whale-meat.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 6:57 PM UTC
With a flap of pink-flamingo wings,
whoosh of speedboats in the bay
the rear-swinging amble of
burnished girls in bikinis
“Miami Vice” launched itself
week after week
as a thoroughly ****** delight.
The show:
a pop-culture event
the media poetry
of the ******* era.
Two cocky
not very talented
male beauties who
spoke in innuendos
and dressed in pink T-shirts
Armani and sockless loafers.
The best episodes
were shot and
cut like movies and
glowed with neon and
pastels and
party lights in stucco mansions.
The varieties of pleasure under
an endless American sun.
(From the New Yorker article entitled, “Hot and Bothered.”)
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 11:32 PM UTC
In my house
It smells like burning nachos
Like pico de gallo left to rot
And beans too long on the stove.
I stand in the doorway
Keys in one hand, doorknob in the other.
It's snowing outside, and I'd forgotten
That I'd asked you over that afternoon,
Just to talk.
Maybe watch TV.
For three and a half years now, we've been best friends.
But there was a different time,
When we didn't talk to each other,
When we let teenage angst and hatred seethe
Between us like some dark and twisted monster.
There are different kinds of anger.
I was mad at you because in the summer
Between seventh and eighth grade, you flaked on me
For those other girls, the ones who wore bikinis
And whose dads had speedboats and sports cars,
Whose boyfriends were in high school,
Who wore black eyeliner and gossiped all the time.
I was mad because you changed yourself for them.
I thought that that was why you were avoiding me.
Today you told me
You were mad at me
Because we liked the same boy.
You said you thought I resented you for it.
I laughed.
This is why we have these talks -
So that, looking back on our junior high selves,
We can make fun of what idiots we are.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 4:08 AM UTC
I stepped away
From the busyness
To have a moment alone:
Gentle waves
Caress the shore
As I stand watching.
Dunes of sand
Lay their heads
Upon the lake's horizon.
Light reflects so
Carefully upon
The wake of speedboats
And I thought, "how tasteless;"
But they are enjoying
Nature just as much
As I - yet differently.
And that is fine.
I suppose that some
Enjoy standing
On the shore,
While some enjoy
Riding the waves.
Which is better?
I won't know.
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 9:09 AM UTC
The sounds of speedboats racing,
white, foamy lines in the water, tracing.
The stars above peer through the clouds,
spectating through mysterious shrouds.
The hustle and bustle of the city - died down,
by the waterfront - an absence of sound.
Not a man, woman nor child,
cat, dog nor creature wild.
Alone with my thoughts,
almost distraught.
You cross my mind
bitter, mean and unkind.
Epiphany strikes and I realize,
you were nothing more than a wolf in disguise.
© 2017 José
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 1:58 AM UTC