My troubled hands
trembling as I truss
trusted tricks
tried

Tragic tropes, tracks
Trampled trips and trippy trends

Trawlers tread
Trebles tremored
Trimmed but trackless

I      don't know  
what
this means anymore

Trump

.                                I.

The sand is perfect ripples undulating to the bay,
as the 6:00 A.M sun flashes open a sulfur-eye,
yawns and apologizes for its January warmth.
She emerges her tent, much as she has entered the world,
naked, but filled with wonder and an attitude.
The glassy water winks her an invitation,
morning's blank canvas beach
etched only by random footprints of seabirds.
Taking advantage of the serenity,
haltingly slipping between the waves,
her skin bristles, subsumes cool ocean freshness,
surfboard bobs obediently at her side.

                            II.

On this planet we have friends, who
pose no questions and pass no criticisms,
who the more they trust, the less
we can afford to make a mistake.

                            III.

Like a pat of butter skimming a hot pan,
she lolls blissfully on the board, soaking up scenery,
heedless to the approach from the rear,
yet, sensing she is being watched.
Dorsal fins break the water's surrounding skin,
as a pod of bottlenoses dance and play,
pretend to be oblivious, as she floats within their sights.
Their presence startles, still, she quietly observes their folly,
willing them to come ever closer ...
Her outstretched hand beckons them to
circle with puppy-like curiosity.

                            IV.

Arguably, the perfect couple is a mother and child;
babies do more to females than make them mothers,
they bond them in a sisterhood of knowing recognition,
to which others need not apply.

                          V.

Coriolis swirl of scarred dolphin bodies evades inquiring fingertips,
eye of the alpha-female fixed intently on the floating visitor,
who in turn looks back in shared wonder ---
between two mothers of the Earth, a psychic trust is formed.
The bottlenose rolls a streamlined fusiform body,
revealing  a smaller version of her own,
tucked safely against her white underbelly.
The sun was racing Apollo's arc, as they silently
slipped beneath the plane and were gone.
She knows they've been fending off shark attack,
wishes for a way to fend off trawlers with gill nets.
A singled tear rolls down her cheek,
trickles off the board to merge with salty blue beneath,
reaching compassionately for her sister in the sea.

Hills like waves, frozen in motion
Topped with bulbous trees, frantically frothing.
Homes with minimalist facades,
Bobbing like great trawlers;
Settled in the steep crevices of looming elevations.

The Countryside.

A shed, six by four, painted,
Landy green, black roof
Local fishmongers
Down by the harbor gates
Battered wooden, fish crates
Smelling of the ocean, the waves,
The spray
Weathered, worn, faded brown
Trawlers name a disappearing outline
A boy in shorts, blond hair
Tugging at his mother’s skirts
Pointing,
Spattered orange dotted flat fish
Flapping, fresh from the boat.
Propped against the side wall
A box of jade, and emerald sea jewels
Eyes frozen in time.
Chalk board hung from open door,
With names, prices , beyond understanding.
To the boy fantastical creatures  
A man in a white coat, money rattling in pocket
Scales set on a bench, ready to measure out scales
For the women of the seaside town
All the gossip, the fish, and the stories
From one little shed down by the harbor wall
A boys face mesmerized, by cod
Larger than he, caught on a wall hook
Swift knife movements, and fillets,
Laid on yesterdays newspaper
Bones, and head thrown into a bucket
Large lazy yellow eyed seagull,
Sauntering like a casual thief, eye
On the bucket…

The humble fisherman,
Trying to make a living.
The trawlers haul in their nets.
The seagulls take whatever is left.
But alas he waits, rod in hand,
For that one small bite that makes it all worthwhile.

There's a steady mist rising,
Down by the sea,
Glowing red in the lamplight,
I see fishermen unloading their catch,
The sea gulls trying to ******.

It's growing cold, and my hearts colder still,
Life is growing on the harbour side,
The steady embrace of the tide.
The trawlers trawling heavy on the sea,
Fish by the hundred stand on the misty dock.
The trawler men unloading, unloading by the clock.

A little dot of light in the distance
Signalled that they were on their way home
She was waiting at her own insistence
As the trawler drew closer through the foam.

Her man had taken another man's place
And he sailed with yesterday's tide
But their baby was due in only three days
She wanted him back on dry land by her side.

It caused her to reflect on her father
He'd been lost in the'53 spring tide
That had raced down the east coast of England
Brushing trawlers and ferries to one side.

They called it 'The Big Flood', it was really that bad
It happened unexpectedly
Two and a half thousand, including her dad
Were drowned and swallowed by the sea.

January thirty-first into February one
The storm raged like no other before
Then it turned out to sea and was suddenly gone
Leaving death and devastation in it's maw.

The trawler was pulled into the harbour
And her husband jumped the jetty and ran
He took her into his arms and she worried no more
He was home, he was safe, and her man.



©Joe Wilson - The trawlerman's wife & the 1953 spring-tide disaster...2015

Swept up in a sea of nets, discarded, flapping, drowning in air.
Waiting to be landed, dashed upon the dock, waiting to be dressed and dished, fed up, on the menu to fill the mouths of men.
Makes me think before I eat, how it must feel, to be a captured fish.
I don't know how long it takes them to expire.
Think it must must dreadful, to be a fish, captured in a trawlers net.
With thousands of wriggling soul mates, and perhaps the cod father too, not many left, only a few.
Morals aside, I'm afraid, I love their taste.
(C) LIVVI

The lavender skin river
whispered with a maiden’s call.

Bonnet curls kissed her banks
in a flush of forgiving tears
for the trawlers bruising
her mercy and calm,
each departing an oily scar
that dispersed in the flow,

for the water is never mean
this cold season
to those that whip her  
yet never scuttle in her embrace,
for she is an orphan
seeking the lost ocean’s reunion.

She wonders on rivery things,
the searching and sloshing swirl,
the geraniums, irises, lobelias
breaking off in purple sacrifice
to soothe her aching waters.

knowing that endless
Sunday baptisms have made her
sacred to those who
know only the dawn and twilight
of the sun above her
and the watery blessings
below that feed them.

The river flowers tickled her and
the laughter spread on her stream
and she knew what she meant
and what she meant to them.
She moved closely away
to the tiny hands in the grass
waving her goodbye
and the longer, bigger ones
welcoming the trawlers home.

A street is dusty there is grit on my feet.
Meat hanging about from a left over stew
Bony cats cling to doorsteps
Like furry door mats and there are a few
Keeping the draughts out from the valley
Blowing a disease on bated breath.
A cat dares to hope or so it seems
But with this only bring a painful death.
The street so full of filth
from shoes, the smoke, and waste
brings creepers from every angle
A broken fishing line dares
with hope hanging thinks it can dangle
into a stream, hoping for a dream fish
to bite, but it wont, it is not there
it drowned in the sea of doom
where there are trawlers and fishermen
with shiny nets and no dust in their room
Leaves, crunching underfoot of the passer by
staring at himself in windows, wiped
till they are bone dry.
The park gates, daily washed by the thankful dog
picking its leg up conveniently at this stop
through the stench, the mist and the pea-soup fog
it wanders with the peacocks where feathers drop
on the dusty lane, the ***** street where cats sleep.

Long windy roads hold so much charm
Beaches of gold where the sea is calm
Underground bunkers the memory of war
To stay alive is what they're for
Farms and fields house cows and sheep
Tiny little lambs like to hop and leap
A castle atop a hill and a castle in the sea
Astound the tourists who wander round the quay
Portuguese ice cream sellers offer their delights
Children on the beach happily fly their kites
Beach shops and cafes hide in the town
Serving the locals who smile then frown
Trawlers bring oysters, lobster and shrimp
The old weary sailor collects them with a limp
Sea shells and ***** litter the shore
Abandoned and alone when the waters no more
A bright burning sun hovers in the sky
Warming the seagulls that glide and fly
The B and B's serve scampi and afternoon tea
In this mystical Eden that's just where ill be

alone, poems are always made
somewhere out on the fuzzy edge
of things where two worlds intertwine
the pulpiest juice spews out
sea and sky earth and sea fire and earth
sky and earth fire and wind water and fire
out there the veiled shaking the tenuous shifting
the curved drifting the spaces laid bare the whispering
down there the cold colliding the subterranean brawling
the white-hot raking the broken barriers the rumbling
up there the restless rising the upshot turbulence
the sudden melting the wind-sheared diving the resurrecting
in there the tormented dancing the quiet gnawing
the night crawling the bloodied twisting the dawning
always, poems are made alone
the determined tracing the insistent fingers the tracking
no team of divers no web no net no school of trawlers
never, because together poems are forever afraid
once made, poems are always alone
they stand apart the old the etched boulders
effaced facing the northward vast dark space
alone, poems resist the fade
the freeze the mists the fickle seasons
the cloudless reasons

the turn of the rail
round the land.
the curve of the
soundbox against
the hand.
the engine rumbles
somewhere, undefined,
as love disappears
tonight.
the wall lines the sea
in holland.  The velvet
folds close the stage
at the opera.
Tile on the roof
silently shedding
the rain as love
disappeared today.
Relentlessly cold is
the hearthstone.
The march of the
nightshift to
the factory
from home.
Barge tied to barge
sounding the horn,
a freight of black
coal, buries the heart
as love disappears tonight.
Dark are the waters
plied by the fishing
boats and trawlers.
The paths are
map-less
ruthlessly speaking
a language that's foreign.
At the edge of the
canyon without
finality, love
disappears, over and
over again.

We came
to Hull

As the Humber flowed
muddy with our romance

By the Docks without trawlers
We laughed
and we loved

Praying forever.

When the Seagulls follow the trawlers.......

Hahaha.....hahaha.....hahaha......

It's by the shore........

The Proposal :                                                                ­                          
Make a list to stay relevant or-
make a list for the hell of it
Make a list for the gardener-
Jot a note to invoke ones dharma
Scribble a list for the trip to Florida
Pencil in a note to whitewash your karma
Take a feathered quill & record the days drama ...

A cobra without fangs makes a wonderful pet ,
Traverse the melancholy world in a silver jet
Scoop the hope of the crystal sea in a trawlers net
Whip Beelzebub into an obedient admirer
Order the hardwoods for your funeral pyre ..

Epilogue:
Transit the lay of the wicked world
Explore the thicket deeper as your destiny-
is unfurled ..
Collecting memories in a croaker-sack
The weight of the unforgiving earth on a weakening back ...