"wharf" poems
there's a fisherman down by the sea
sitting on the wharf
watching the sun sink into the western sky
a frown frames his house
he looks out the window
at his pole, gear
and especially that of his net
emptiness
metaphors that weigh on him
uprooting his garden
a garden of no delight
one lonely row of forget me not
and regret
all wilting
his foundation
lost
never found or realized
he pauses
runs his hand over his pole
like a belt without any notches
his grip slipping into the abyss
as the last of the orange
sinks
bleeds also
at where the sea meets the sky
where his day slowly turns to night
somewhere out there he sees his image
in nature's mirror
at his crossroads
for deeply
and some may say shallowly
he looks onto the sea one last time
and he means what he says
and throws his fishing gear in
tears welling in his eye
as he watches his teddybear sink
lips gurgling
seemingly asking why
... why
he answers back
there were no fish or bites
in his lonely sea
or wind at his back
... there
his window opens wider
the sea not singing or dancing
he sees the ambient light
correlations
... here
Logan Robertson
7/06/2018
Jul 6, 2018
Jul 6, 2018 at 8:20 PM UTC
With eager eyes and tempting smile, I beckoned 'cross the wharf
And they returned, a sad reply, stating he must morph
into a man -in pieces then- who puts things back together
Whilst I sit here, and wait and wait, and keep on till forever.
Kingdom comes, piggies fly, time churns soft and slow
Every hour, like the other, shuffling to and fro
Mind is racing, heart is beating, must be with him soon...
He is the sun, he is the stars, he is the solstice moon.
But he is full of hatred, and angry, scary things
That I cannot behold because my covered ears will ring.
I will not hear the wretchedness that billows from his mouth
I will not be the victim of intentions headed south.
Now he’s an angel, under God, and all the better creatures
that prize the gentlest, passionate, souls who mirror all their features. They never asked, only assumed, that I would be alright
But Oh! the torture over one who turned away from light.
So here I wait, on endless shores, until they come for me
Or maybe not, really, who knows, what lies beyond the sea
The water holds the untold words of thousands who've passed on
And here I am, scribbling the script, of stories before dawn.
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 2:51 AM UTC
Remember that afternoon on the ferry
Ride to Nantucket
The labrador who fell asleep on my foot
And the kid who vomited
As we stood at the rail,
Mist in our faces
Foam that curled
From the keel in swirls
A whole world in that turbulence
That no one would ever know of -
Focused on the Grey Lady's
Promise that a warm comforter
Would melt us together again.
And it did, amid the strangers
We brushed past
On the cobbles at the wharf.
Back at the dock,
You greeted old demons
And so did I
But kept them secrets
From each other
On the long ride
Through pine forests
As you slept, I drove
Back home.
Apr 17, 2010
Apr 17, 2010 at 8:34 PM UTC
A Sonnet is a moment’s monument,—
Memorial from the Soul’s eternity
To one dead deathless hour. Look that it be,
Whether for lustral rite or dire portent,
Of its own arduous fulness reverent:
Carve it in ivory or in ebony,
As Day or Night may rule; and let Time see
Its flowering crest impearled and orient.
A Sonnet is a coin: its face reveals
The soul,—its converse, to what Power ’tis due:—
Whether for tribute to the august appeals
Of Life, or dower in Love’s high retinue,
It serve; or, ’mid the dark wharf’s cavernous breath,
In Charon’s palm it pay the toll to Death.
4.7k
Alone by a wharf
Peaceful yet forlorn
Wishing I could morph
To mask how badly I'm worn
Wish I was strong
The way I used to be
But where I am, is where I belong
The pain will pass, there'll be jubilee
But first I have to crush the glass of the once before chary and elusive me
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 7:48 PM UTC
Tall round beams standing
in salty water, connecting
fishermen and star-fish gazers
with a moon-shaped bay
on the eastern Pacific.
They stand on land and step into sea,
as rolling barrels from Arctic grounds
tickle their lower legs.
A centipede of wood, this
outward- jutting wharf.
The fishermen sink expectant hooks;
the surfers haul shiny glass
banana-shaped boards of foam;
the weekenders come posing
baby strollers for picture shooting.
Each passing wall of blue
energy slows at reach of
shallow sand, deciding
whether to keep rolling or
transform into a steep stack
of snapping water. On big days
the sea legs shake all the
fishermen. They lock away
their sacrificial bait in rusty boxes
and collapse their fibered rods.
On calm days I step out to a
wooden bench and hang my
face between the rails. Running
people pass below, between the
knotted hips and creosoted thighs.
August buries this preserve
in such drizzle. Gulls go bundling
inside their sleek robes
of white feather, leaning
windward on worn bent knees.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 10:30 PM UTC
I gazed into his eyes like beads of sweat
Blacker than the empty spacious depths
Around the little bridge-like tiny speck,
An ember on His hearth
We only think is worth
Its broken wharfs.
He said to me: "Son, don't fear empty bluffs.
They may be steep but they're not steep enough."
And judging by the ace tucked in his cuff,
I knew he would be true
And his tale would be true too
About the wharfs.
"Throughout the many vicious centuries
The motor of it always seems to freeze
Until the kindled flame does hit the breeze
And thaws its frostbit joints
And burns the hand that points
Out from the wharf."
He cleared his throat and then he said aloud:
"Is piety reaped from fertile ground?
Or by the planter's hand is it endowed?
The answer lies in strife
So mount the throne of life
Far from the wharf."
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 5:09 PM UTC
An omnibus across the bridge
Crawls like a yellow butterfly,
And, here and there, a passer-by
Shows like a little restless midge.
Big barges full of yellow hay
Are moored against the shadowy wharf,
And, like a yellow silken scarf,
The thick fog hangs along the quay.
The yellow leaves begin to fade
And flutter from the Temple elms,
And at my feet the pale green Thames
Lies like a rod of rippled jade.
4k
The devil's speech say they:
Rolling, clattering, frolicking, hungry.
Billows of charred skeletons embrace the air
Black soot pumped straight from the pyres of Hades
Congealing to clouds of evil intent wherever it roam.
That charred old shell so terse,
Black as sadness and dead as a hearse,
Darling to death as he brings on the rain:
The dry rolling thunder of the funeral train.
In the coughing desert
Not a thing dares roam
Neither wind nor creature
And neither stick nor stone.
But then the silence disturbed by a horrible shriek -
The railway screams in horror and the train itself speaks, saying
"Tell me, thou innocent,
Why feel you special and best?
For when all is done I take you
And return you to my nest;
Your world is bright and happy
Full of high spirits and song,
Though soon you too shall step aboard
And join my faceless throng."
Hot saliva on the heaving engines:
Weeping, groaning, ghostly, parched.
Rusted joints spewed onwards grinding resisting
Movement spat out like a violently beaded string of curses
Sloppily uttered as incantations of a malformed mouth!
From that charred old shell so terse,
Black as sadness and dead as a hearse,
Darling to death as he brings on the rain:
The dry rolling thunder of the funeral train.
That dark train cries out and all around
A mourning whimper rises like slumbering fog-
Bleak and yellow it obscures the land
Seeping out insidious in strange locales all:
The old lonely fisherman
Sleeping on his wharf,
The frustrated hawker's
Windblown barefaced booth,
Silent streets crying for attention,
Dark places hidden at the corner of every eye.
That solemn train cries out and all around
Her mourning whimper rises like harrowing fog
Calling all to upright attention and fear.
Looming like a spectre but a breath-span from your window
Slowly closing cold dread claws-
Naked numbness dumb as ice-
Cold dread claws upon thy waist.
And you,
You poor old thing,
Shivering in your pitiful shack of bones,
You never had any chance!
You were only human.
You were only human, you poor old thing.
Barreling on with brimstone slang:
Clang clang! Dang dang! Beelz Bub!
Sputtering an ocean of curses from turgid goat-flesh
Born of sadness to cause even more, yawning great maw
Jowls clanking with fresh hot oil drool steaming stark and lewd, and yet
That charred old shell so terse,
Blacker than sadness and slain like a hearse,
Is all that gives meaning to our every gain:
The dry rolling thunder of the funeral train.
Oct 4, 2011
Oct 4, 2011 at 12:10 AM UTC
Off that windy bay wharf,
where old poets speak to lost walkers,
you dove into aporia
Morality the highest myth
dreaming conquered by Capital
shelter replaced by property
the immaterial, theft by sophistry
a bay carved from jade,
crescent moon.
horizon cradling distant storms
waves upon waves accelerating towards the shore.
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 1:03 AM UTC
hickory nuts
and wind trees
are keeping
at the old buckle bay
light house corners and
shaker church craft
slip anchor on the southern tip
secret legions
and phenolic board
tuck in at gout dock
bands and nations
and miracle speak
fill in the center hall
sand hooks
and water domes
cover wharf road
***** bay toppers
and seven horse chugs
scatter the swollen upper deck
packards and pushers
and rusty back rails
skirt the night
lanterns and sterns
and navy gulls
steady on task
sand cakes
and drift wood
held tight on
the mystery tour
yellow tails
and tide pools
flat line
at royal reach
paddles
and cables
find ripples way
smugglers and smitties
take cover
from a
northern gale
down on
pocket shoal
there’s a graceful hue
~ they’re serving up
belons and xan…
it's time to get in
for a fill
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 2:12 PM UTC
265
Where Ships of Purple—gently toss—
On Seas of Daffodil—
Fantastic Sailors—mingle—
And then—the Wharf is still!
3.3k
The Thames nocturne of blue and gold
Changed to a Harmony in grey:
A barge with ochre-coloured hay
Dropt from the wharf: and chill and cold
The yellow fog came creeping down
The bridges, till the houses’ walls
Seemed changed to shadows and St. Paul’s
Loomed like a bubble o’er the town.
Then suddenly arose the clang
Of waking life; the streets were stirred
With country waggons: and a bird
Flew to the glistening roofs and sang.
But one pale woman all alone,
The daylight kissing her wan hair,
Loitered beneath the gas lamps’ flare,
With lips of flame and heart of stone.
3.2k
the world is a wild and weary place,
fully sunk in spiral ******
fully strummed in skin water waves.
bound by death from the very first verse:
first love.
first this.
go forth my machines, be fruitful and jettison.
color says hang at the edge of our lips.
smell the books.
remind us; books.
& before the big blue vast takes it all, that
sunstruck lomographia light,
transposed no-makeup california girl, she
walks before me along the boulders of the wharf.
real summer breathing.
our bodies, piled
and starbleached ripe. [like heap of buffalo skulls]
maybe then a futuristic dinner, where everyone gathers in floating space pods
singing hymns beneath,
above,
between
the lights and music.
reality is: blacktop shards against my knees,
something burning as it trickles to my chin, man of me
living the city glisten, city green
& pink.
city midnight and barely breathing.
destroyers, we are.
and what? what am i, father? man of industry?
man of workwelded science? secure as the armadillo,
armadillo picket fence.
am i of halfbreed phosphorus?
americana?
built on love and hate and television.
nat geo channel: [a gecko licks dew from its eyes
on the coastal sand dunes of namibia]
money. women. go west young man.
be a hand tightening ribs.
be a quaking echo of mammalian design.
a paradigm of seed my fire.
quest for fire.
for uncut diamond; like foggy strawberry rock in the africa-boy's fingers.
or cut steel; phallus of toyish death between a brazil-boy’s fingers.
pulled teeth; bits of wet fruit in the young afghani’s hand.
& icecream trolley; pedestal etched iron; denim and *** and
microwaves ::::::
white man: what I got ? what I got ?
manifest destiny: gold bricks and beer.
blood soaked socks.
cyprus burnt umbers.
tribes decomposing at the bottoms of styrofoam cups.
like coin-op wormies.
& eighteen inch circumference blades make round rolling high pitched songs deep in the skin of old mother earth.
old baby cakes.
old life in slow motion, all motion, all
of particle cannon treatise.
40 ounce bounce.
watery us
below.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 2:17 AM UTC
Such solidarity we created
On the hilltop with the cows
Discussing sassafras,
Our Chakras,
Summer-berry wine.
Per aspera ad astra
But without inhaling tar
We have come.
The cornbread with anise and wheat berries
Cruncy and sweet
Slathered with strawberry jam
Was such a luxurious meal
For us two tired wanderers.
We're left over from the '60s
Living in the past but in the moment
Listening to Mama Tried (well, she did!)
And crying over Wharf Rat
We model turtles, Celtic knots, a moose
Dream of yesterday and tomorrow
Say what we mean
Take a misguided turn driving home
And our minds meander to slumber and internal illusions.
Nov 21, 2010
Nov 21, 2010 at 3:25 PM UTC
We sat outside the coffee shop
next to a fire,
watching the sun set behind decrepit buildings.
I lamented over the lack of a roller rink in the area,
reflecting on memories of wobbling around in circles
with dizzying lights and blaring speakers
ejecting Pink, Daft Punk, and Eiffel 65 onto my critical youth.
I felt like a king.
We finished our smoothies and retreated
to an empty hotel parking lot,
where I taught her to skateboard.
One foot over the front bolts,
the back foot over two of the back bolts
but resting over the tail,
kick, push,
it's in the ***** of your feet--
weight distribution.
Tic, tac, scrape, thud--
she falls repeatedly
and gets back up.
I admire her resilience and perpetual smile--
This is what skateboarding is all about.
We roll around the hotel parking lot,
our endpoints being a lone luminescent lamppost
and a telephone pole beleaguered by a plot of shrubbery
that demarcates itself from the pavement.
We circle around the poles for hours,
forming an imaginary oblong track between the two,
our laughs carrying into the cool summer night lullaby
that sang the drowsy small town to sleep.
The fading throb of the wedding reception
at the bottom of the town square by the wharf,
carrying over to us.
The stores closed up hours ago,
silent empty windows reflecting the lonely streetlights
and our ambulance back at us.
We skated on unperturbed into the night hour.
A man walks outside the hotel
to have a cigarette on the sidewalk--
I imagine he is watching us and admiring our glee.
Rolling between this telephone pole and lamppost,
the glare and reflection of the empty silent windows,
the soundtrack singing above our heads,
our laughs, and the tic-tac of skateboards
and groaning of wheels over stubborn pavement
bringing my melancholic reverie to a halt,
recognizing and understanding happiness in the present moment--
This is my roller rink.
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 1:13 AM UTC
Searching in the gutters
of Meadow Row
and up along by the back
of the coal wharf
Benedict picked out
and up
dog ends
or cigarette butts
as his old man
called them
and picking them up
he tore open the paper
and tipped the tobacco
into a white paper
sweet bag
how can you do that?
Ingrid said
all those people’s
spit and dribble
on them
she pulled a face
he smiled
she looked serious
germs on them
she said
she wiped her hands
on her stained
green dress
he bent down
and picked out
another cigarette ****
and opened it up
between fingers
and thumbs
and emptied it
into the bag
you’re too young
to smoke
she said
if my dad saw me smoking
he’d smack me silly
she said
he does anyway
he said
she bit her lip
and looked away
sorry
he said
didn’t mean
to be like that
he touched her hand
she stared at him
through wire
framed glasses
she liked it when
his hand touched hers
no one else
touched her tenderly
she looked
at his cowboy hat
placed to the back
of his head
the six shooter gun
stuffed in the belt
of his jeans
the borrowed blue waistcoat
(his grandfather’s given
a month or so back)
she put her other hand
on top of his
he took his hand out slowly
in case other boys
from school may see
and walked to the shelter
of a wall
of a bombed out house
and they both sat down
he took out a packet
of cigarette papers
( liberated from
his old man)
and pulled out
a paper and shoved
the packet of papers
back in the pocket
of his jeans
and taking a pinch
of tobacco from the bag
he fingered it
in a straight line
into the cigarette paper
then rolled it
as he’d seen
his old man do
then licked the end
to form a thin cigarette
Ingrid watched in silence
as his fingers moved
and his tongue licked
you’re not going to
smoke it are you?
she asked
he put the cigarette
between his lips
sure am
he said John Wayne like
but you’re only 9
she said
you’re only 9
and you’re watching
he replied
he took out a box
of Swan Vesta
(borrowed from
the cupboard at home)
and lit the cigarette
and puffed slowly
she waved a hand
as smoke came near
her face
my dad will smell that
on me
she said
and think it was me
smoking and tell me off
she said
beat you black and blue
Benedict thought
not said
he coughed and spluttered
and took out
the cigarette
and blew smoke
from his mouth
and spat out phlegm
brownish yellow
if your old man hits you again
I’ll shoot him
full of cap smoke
he said
she laughed
and hit his arm
he flicked the cigarette
onto the bombsite
with a finger
and watched
as the smoke
he’d blown out
like a pale ghost
seemed to linger.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 3:50 PM UTC
Meet me where the rising sun won't glow on our faces
When the hour strikes time aghast as hurried hands tie laces
Meet me at the scraggly wharf by the river
Where lips whisper on each others breath and trembling tongues quiver
Take me in the darkest corner of the the old abandoned shed
Love me like no other man or I shall have your head
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 6:50 PM UTC
'Talk of pluck!' pursued the Sailor,
Set at euchre on his elbow,
'I was on the wharf at Charleston,
Just ashore from off the runner.
'It was grey and ***** weather,
And I heard a drum go rolling,
Rub-a-dubbing in the distance,
Awful dour-like and defiant.
'In and out among the cotton,
Mud, and chains, and stores, and anchors,
Tramped a squad of battered scarecrows--
Poor old Dixie's bottom dollar!
'Some had shoes, but all had rifles,
Them that wasn't bald was beardless,
And the drum was rolling Dixie,
And they stepped to it like men, sir!
'Rags and tatters, belts and bayonets,
On they swung, the drum a-rolling,
Mum and sour. It looked like fighting,
And they meant it too, by thunder!'
2.4k
poisoned well of the antichrist littered with ground cover
picking out ****** flecks of gravel
blacktop kneeskin
patience pieces of scattered space time
to go back to the future of continuity
lack of genius ingenuity
and the suckling of the pig entourage
riding in a flat top hatchback
cadillac of the daily grind
upperclassman japan onii-chan
brother in arms from anotha motha
hug from afar colliding with crackpot theory
terrible fantasia cooling bricks in soggy sun
swallowed his pride with a glass of self-worth
and these ***** don't cook like they used to
I don't look like I used to
warped veil of camouflage chameleon leather
with a ****** level of automobile salesman
tried to get closer to god
ground him up, picked out the stems
twisted him into thin paper
touched flame to his finger tip and a son of Adam was born
gum shoe gaze
or the emptiness felt at the end of reasonable doubt
correctional text messaging system
sent from hoarse corpses
tenderly poignant in their ****** coffins
will think for food
cries from an outdated MENSA
over ***** and under-appreciated
siting on hunched shoulders to get a better look
to be a martian in a plain port
wharf warehouse whaling boat
red tide in a Shanghai **********
floodgates made of bitter premise
that last bit of purple yam
**** Okonkwo
Things Fall Apart fell apart due to faded highschool ambitions and bloodshot eyes
cruel like the shade of off-cerulean
champagne fizz tickles at the soft meat of his tarnished throat
and silver tongue
as the matchstick framework
so fragile in comparison
fizzles out on drenched sidewalk
while cigarette ash floats by
like gray gnats
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
It's break time again
The steam whistle blowing
All hands stop
Stacks of boxes
Not growing
We walk outside
To have a smoke on the wharf
Where grass grows up through concrete
And the sea is green and dark
Hobnail boots ping ping
On metal stairs
Wrinkled scarred hands zip up jackets
Old dogs who know nothing but work
Blow smoke in your face
And call you "boy" in thick accent
They don't scare me like they used to
Because I have cuts on my hands now
From diving over a railing
To save an impatient old man
It seems just when life gets to where you want it
You have a dream about someone
And your jumping over railings
Into the teeth of a cutting board
It seems just when life gets to where you want it
You have a dream about a girl
And your waking up alone in the dark
Drinking water and taking pain pills
Even when nothing really hurts at all
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 1:27 PM UTC
I always imagined
I'm on the beach,
watching the waves roll in from your long hair booth,
seagulls flying on a sailing ship,
o it flies between the two of us
who are running around
looking for *****
on the shore
which turns out
to be close to the beach.
My lips,
so salty sweat
and sea water add happiness there.
I saw the sun rising
and setting in our e y e s,
which turned out to be a s i g n,
I needed to learn
to love the lost dusk
and also the dawn that came.
I saw the fishermen
who came
and then left
and that was my
h e art
that was anchored in the old wharf which turned out to be quiet and
l one ly,
and was your h e art there too?
I always imagined
we forget names,
forget places,
but don't forget to go home.
Or perhaps, this is another option.
I always imagined
we were in a house in a cool village, where the rice fields were green and wide,
so vast that our l ove was never measured.
The chirping of birds will always be heard
and answered so s w e e t l y
from tree branches
whose leaves are thick and shady; every time you
and
I wake up.
From the windows and ventilation aisles,
sunlight e n t e r s to warm our cold bodies shivering all night
because of the
r
a
i
n
and
s t o r m s
that never subside,
even though we have spent the night with various kinds of hugs
that are not the same.
Even I always imagined
you are there
when I imagined good things,
maybe when you are not by my side and I feel it is not something that feels good.
I always imagined
that I really love you.
And you really love me too.
O, I always imagined it all
when I see you smile every time
I have a bad day, and you said, everything
must
be
easy
for
you
to
go
through.
I imagined that, while writing this poem.
Aug 8, 2021
Aug 8, 2021 at 11:25 AM UTC
ten men fishing
on auckland wharf
all with thin fibreglass rods
just that exact distance
(made in china)
all watching each others baits
bobbing in the silver sheen
no one watching his own sinker
bobbing
one twitches down the line
a reel swishes
reeling in
nine men watching intently now
20 cm struggling catch
not much, so back it goes.
a bronze whaler
slinking slowly
under twenty pairs of dangling feet
decides
the distance was too much
to crunch a man for snack
quietly slinks
to the opposite shore
where she senses
feet splashing on a shallow beach.
primitive.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 3 months ago
- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11438556-the-fishermen-on-the-wharf-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.HWKslwYM.dpuf
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 7:16 PM UTC
If only for peace his swan song sighed
Amidst the gallant yet frightened few
With weary bones a heavy heart
Beat might when spied the resilient wharf.
For ships who berthed they uttered words
In thanks for land upon this sea
As storms would rage to shatter strengths
In triumph our pier had welcomed thee.
Like those who’d trod its solid beams
And left these shores to honour King
Behind them stood our naval borough
Whose people echoed valiant deeds.
For ships that harboured off our shores
And streets of London that prayed for calm
Forget we not our honoured task
To protect this land in air & sea.
And now that candles gently flicker
Uniting friend & foe as one
As doves fly by we thank the heavens
For the peace that grows upon our cliffs
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 9:26 AM UTC