Poetry

Set Sail

Are they eyes or suckers

that latch onto us as we sail

across the jewel-glint oceans in search of new land?

We look to the horizon,

only hands of salt sparkles greet us,

but we can feel it beyond.

It has a pulse, a thrum,

that even the deepest depths cannot hide

from knowing ears.

The claws that may once have gripped us

have become cracked and dry,

brittle enough to break at a single touch,

and our boat is the ramming kind now.

Poetry

Small Waves

You used to look

out over the harbour and tell me

about the boats waiting there.

You used to say

that they weren’t just vessels

for ferrying a person back and forth,

but vessels for transporting the lives of all the sailors

ever to have sailed,

worn into the salty residue on their hulls.

A lullaby to the ocean and its cast

of characters waiting forever for the last show

of the tour.

Poetry

Ears

An elephant’s ears are like grey, wrinkled sails

shading the ground for little creatures

who scurry from bush and tree

dragging long, furry tails.

 

A bat’s ears are keen and tune into slight sounds,

hearkening to the call of insects

filling the dark night air

to swarm all around.

 

A parrot’s ears are covered with glossy green feathers

hidden completely from sight,

never hinting when they’re listening

for slight changes in the weather.

 

A hare’s ears are furry but upright,

always on the alert for danger,

ready to respond to the sound of a threat,

running swiftly from a predator’s swipe.

 

Poetry

The Pirate King

Riding along

the rushing seas,

sword in hand,

the Pirate King steals

everything he sees.

 

He doesn’t care

whose jewels he takes,

he bundles them up

and locks them away,

careful that none are fake.

 

He takes the gold

from foreign ships

along with bottled spices,

piles of dyed silks

and fruit from exotic pips.

 

He dances ahead of those

who would capture him,

they can’t keep up,

even with full sail

their chances are slim.

 

Forever and always

he’ll sail the ocean,

fighting off enemies

and plundering islands

for wonderous tokens.

Uncategorized

The River Guards

A gathering of columns,

decorated with bright, orange blooms

that cascade their scent

on the decayed air,

stand bold against the grey river.

To them,

Satan is just a song

that drifts down on the wind,

but for those who sail,

unwillingly,

beyond the columns’ reach,

the song is more

a delighted warning of what awaits,

hellishly reminiscent

of the jaw-jarring scraping

of human fingernails on a blackboard,

drawn so fiercely across

that the nails are ripped away

from the cuticles.

The song instills anxiety into every

body.

What kind of creature

could possibly make such

a sound?