PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I met a man, a seasoned salt,

the son of a sailor man,

in a Hong Kong pub some years ago,

by the name of Bos’n Dan.



A gnarled bloke, with one glass eye,

‘n skin like a half-dead shark,

with a raspy voice from too much grog,

but a mind still keen and sharp.



As a sailing man, ‘most all my life,

I’ve seen that type before,

and plied with a shot and a pint of ale,

he’d talk till your ears went sore.



A premonition drew me near,

so I slid o’er to his side,

and smiling said, “the name’s McGee,

but friends just call me Clyde.”



He said, “I’m Dan, Ole Bos’n Dan,

the oldest Tar in port,

I’m ‘waiting berth on a westbound sloop,

with a pint and a whisky snort.”



I knew old Dan was a dreaming fool,

‘twas years since he swabbed a deck,

so I told the barkeep, “set him up”,

making sure I got the check.



“Now tell me Dan, Old Bos’n Dan,

what brought you up this trail,

to a grimy pub, this Hong Kong dive,

drinkin’ shots and pints of ale.



“Twas ne’er like this”, old Dan began,

“I was born a sailing man,

but a twist of luck many years ago,

killed a scuttled sailor’s plan.”



“I was ‘bout your age, ‘n I saw this ship,

decked out, brand spanking new,

so I signed aboard as a boatswain’s mate,

just one of the fated crew.



‘Twas a tall ship born of wood and cloth,

her planking sealed with pitch,

the timbers hewn from solid oak,

with sails of flawless stitch.



A square rigged clipper, sleek and long,

designed for breakneck pace,

she’d knife the raging mistress sea,

with fortitude and grace.



She launched to sail one August morn,

her hull hued black as night,

new decks of teak, bright polished brass,

and christened, “ The Morning Light”.



With a seasoned master, able crew,

and ample holds filled high,

she slipped her berth at Bristol port,

one early morning tide.



The captain shouted, “Hoist the sails,

secure the hatches down,

aweigh the anchor, loose’ the jibs,

this clipper’s China bound.”



Her billowed sails caught wind that morn,

the jibs stretched full and tight,

‘n the helmsman steered a course due south,

as the ship raced toward the night.



The ship sailed on at breakneck speed,

sliced o’er the angry sea,

in ninty days, they’d fill their holds,

with bales of China’s tea.



She neared the coast of Africa,

in darn near record sail,

sped down the coast, ‘n ‘round the cape,

‘twas a trip of fond regale.



As she made her turn to north by west,

in a port to starboard tack,

the In’jun Ocean slipped beneath,

with a trade wind at her back.”



Old Dan gave pause, glanced o’er his pint,

“twas a voyage heaven sent,

ne’er seen a crew that worked so well,

ne’er seen one so content.



Not once were three sheets to the wind,

the sails stayed full and taut,

till we hit the doldrums two months out,

and the wind dropped off to naught.



Have you ever seen the doldrums, Clyde,

when the oceans lose their swell,

and the maddening heat from the tropic sun,

bears down like flames from hell,



‘n you wonder why you signed aboard

that prison of a ship,

and hope to God the heat won’t sap,

every ounce of reason’s grip.



Old Dan drew close, his voice dropped low,

“the mind can play a trick,

‘cause senses dull, when the grog gets warm,

and the temper’s oft’ too quick.



‘Twas three weeks calm, without a breeze,

“The Morning Light” lay dead,

and the mood was glum in the torrid heat,

a foreboding sense of dread.



Now the Captain sought the upper hand,

with the mood in quick decline,

so more than one man felt the bite,

from the stinging cat-o‘-nine.



You can put a man in irons, Clyde,

or drag him ‘neath the keel,

tho’ wounds of the flesh might disappear,

most often the mind won’t heal,



for there’s too much time to fret and fume,

and too much time to brew,

then too much time to scheme and plot,

with a brooding, restless crew.



‘Twas after that, men disappeared,

the first then the second mate,

the helmsman, yeoman, cabin boy,

met a deadly ill-timed fate.



Thrown overboard, in the dark of night,

to the brine with Davy Jones,

as a meal for the fish and feeding sharks,

stripped clean of flesh to the bones.



A most able crew of thirty men,

soon fell to twenty-four,

and each man knew that “The Morning Light”

by dawn would lose one more.



That night I stood the evening watch,

near paralyzed in fright,

and re’lized I’d not see the morn,

not live throughout the night.



‘Tis an hard-fast rule ‘mongst all the mates,

that a sailor won’t jump ship,

but this old salt had seen enough,

as fear sapped reason’s grip,



So I dropped the dinghy o’er the side,

‘n prayed that the tub won’t leak,

then rowed as quick as a man can row,

with rations stowed for a week.



By dawn the ship was out of sight,

but ne’er was out of mind,

‘cause I wondered ‘bout my mates on board,

the mates I’d left behind.



I rowed due north in the baking sun,

till I thought I’d row no more,

and thanked the Lord when a passing sloop,

turned hell to a trip ashore.



They found that ship, “The Morning Light”,

adrift in a rolling sea,

abandoned, not a soul aboard,

not a single soul to be.



They never solved that mystery,

‘twas a puzzle ne‘er explained,

an aimless ghost ship, wandering,

‘n the truth was ne’er attained.



I have my own assumption, Clyde,

‘tis a theory thought out well,

she’s a devil ship, “The Morning Light”,

and her keel was laid in Hell.”



He sat in silence, Bos‘n Dan,

his tale came to an end,

and said, as I left in disbelief,

“sail on with luck, my friend”



‘Twas a lonely walk to a Hong Kong pier,

that balmy summer’s eve,

to the clipper ship I’d signed to sail,

after two weeks hard earned leave.



I was leery of the ship that night,

apprehensive, was the word,

quite anxious when I signed aboard,

and more than a mite disturbed.



She’s a square rigged clipper, sleek and long,

with hull hued black as night,

and aft on the stern, ’twas lettered gold,

her name.......... “The Morning Light”