Ghost ship

The good moments lost like a ghost ship at sea.

It's only seen for  a short time then disappears into the mist.
Now life is stale and like most ghost ships stuck in the past.
like a barrelman in his crow's nest  I find myself gazing  into the near lands.
Imagining the adventures and journey's that are just out of my reach.


The waves, wind and current are always to strong, lost at sea... I guess that is where I belong. 
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The ship sways but I pay no mind

from Trinidad to Cuba...

We sing songs and shanties,

but time just expands...

Like the cold water beneath our boots.

My mates will think of Anne Bonny

but I walways dream of mermaids...

Oh, how it would be...

To swim alive in Davy Jone's locker.

Her and I would have a goats jig,

and I would arise to the surface,

with a large toothless grin...

I would fire my mortars into the air,

and when the night closed in,

me and my hearties would celebrate...

By plundering vast ships,

and counting our loot.

Our prisioners in shackels

and our enemys as shark bait.

I will sail the Caribbean,

sea to bloody sea.

With flintlock in hand,

a pirates life for me.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

September 15th, 2014

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Dead Ship On Live Water

Rounding one corner of this century:
ship's been good about plodding on in spite
of mutiny's whip. Doubts I've been having
are nesting deep in pocket, but that's fine;
an optimist is less prepared for woe.

From rope slung by an unforeseen vessel,
men crash like waves on deck and steal away
with goods carried short, or furthest to date -
robbed from the belly of the cargo hold.
All attempts to anticipate have failed.

Twice my wits have failed me; twice I've driven
this beaten pile into treachery,
only to be shown that life favors none.
Shot full of gulping wounds and with the mast
aflame; the day's lessons were lost on me.

Still I have the cobwebs for company.
Drunk on thick dust that's gathered at the base
of the bottle and the salt that's soaking
into my skin like embalming fluid.
There never was a better way to drift.

What crew I'd had are long dead; abandoned
by hope and the desire to see home.
And now that hope leaves me, as well at sea,
absent of the needle pointing towards
north. I'll take my peace with a powder slug.

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A Foreign Feeling

Unaware to you this witty talk is product of unspoken thoughts that linger
slow and stew each day, expressing and undressing till the love lay bare and thin.

One soul still lies upon the beach, a victim to the tides.

Your guided thoughts reside with me restricting to a chosen course that closes with I hope to be fulfillment of desire.

From this I learn to never tire, to never leave, to never try and douse the burn inside like I once feared of loving fire.

In spite of all my withheld flaws you shine and bear the light upon the aspects that I fight and expose what I thought true.

You've shattered and rejected any hatred upon you and with this strength and glory glow I wish my yearning I could show.

This fear I feel and swallow may protect what I have built.

Is this happiness I feel? Or long awaited guilt, a new fluster I must muster else the flowers will but wilt.

A cautious step I take without disturbing you too late.

I fear the signals burning thin, the moment's lapsed and lost?
Things move slow when I’m in play but I hope that has no cost?

Without your subtle guidance.

I feel my heart is lost upon a vast and endless sea upon a mast to which I see a glimpse of shelter beckons me.
My mind seems but just occupied with thoughts of my demise.

If arrows to the heart cause pain then death bestowed to me shall be with finished crafted lies.

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