Poetry in Ocean
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I Sail a Painted Boat
I sail a painted boat - In a wind-swept chill
Imagination’s my guide, to be called upon at will.
Beating the beat of an eager fleet. Summoning voices from the past
"Dare ride out this storm, this challenge may be my last!"
Faster boats slap their steeds as thunder rolls over the water.
Angry souls spit lightning bolts, we are lambs to the slaughter.
Floods of tears from frustration, appear as torrential rain.
All racers sharing the same emotion, each tear's colour is the same.
We pull our kicker harder now to gain distance from that Topper,
Hands clench the sheets with knuckles white; I now have that Opi in sight!
Then as fast as it all started the winds begin to die,
Swirling clouds above our heads hold sunlight in the sky.
Our gentle laughter outlines colour in a picturesque rainbow,
All sights and sounds softly fade, disappearing with the blow.
Exhausted sailors now ashore, and soon it’s time to bid farewell,
With knowing winks after supping our drinks; it’s another Sunday sail!
Passed Glory
Above the shore, hidden in the trees,
Well beyond the waters reach,
Lie hopes and dreams of days gone by.
Shades of green and mould's slow decay
As the she gently fades as is nature's way.
Barely covered on the grass she lies
Old club labels show glory of her past,
Her end is near, without fanfare or sorrow,
Still no one hears her silient cries,
As decay slowly eats her heart away.
The Great White Shark
At the club the mice's play,
Amongst the rotting boats all day.
But they hide away when it's dark,
Because of the Great White Shark.
"The Great White Shark?" I hear you cry,
"There's no such thing, it's all a lie",
But it's an easy thing to prove,
Look at all the boats that never move.
Once 'pon a time they were a joy,
With fathers sailing with their boy,
Or husbands sailing with the wife,
In their boat called 'Trouble & Strife'.
Where are they now, they've disappeared,
You know, that fellow with the beard,
The nice couple with the nasty brats,
That tall gentleman who smelt of cats.
They haven't gone, they never went,
Their renewal letters stay unsent,
(though their direct debits we still take),
They are actually at the bottom of the lake.
Close both your eyes, picture the scene,
A summers evening serene,
A stroll along the muddy beach,
At the waters edge, you're just in reach.
A shadow lurking by a that boat shed,
Is tempted by the loitering tread,
A wave, a splash, a silent scream,
Then one less member for the sailing team.
In the dinghy park, the mices play,
Amongst the rotting boats all day.
But they are hiding when it's dark,
Because they're scared of the Great White Shark.
Ode to a Searanger
A little sailboat fit for one,
Sits all alone - where did it come?
On its side up on the grass,
Lost all its paint, all its class.
A centre pole once had red sails,
Your planks barely held with rusty nails,
If you could speak, what would you say?
Would you be happy to again play.
Repair your boards, new coat of paint,
A light bright hue, nothing faint,
Brand new sail to catch the breeze,
Bring back your beauty, if you please.
Once again riding waves standing tall,
You'll will be the best-looking of them all.
Be not concerned what came before,
Set your sights forward, be confident, sure.
A new life you lead - did we fix you right?
You sparkle, shine and look so bright.
Your pastel colors match the blue sky,
Stretch your sail, let it fly high.
Above the waves, so sleek you glide,
The waters rhythm slapping your side.
Standing proud, happy you are,
To sail again, to travel far.
My Poem - Kenn Nesbitt
Please don't read this poem.
It's only meant for me.
That's it. Just move along now.
There's nothing here to see.
Besides, I'm sure you'd rather
just go outside and play.
So put the poem down now
and slowly back away.
Hey, why are you still reading?
That isn't very nice.
I've asked you once politely.
Don't make me ask you twice.
I'm telling you, it's private.
Do not read one more line.
Hey! That's one more. Now stop it.
This isn't yours; it's mine.
You're not allowed to read this.
You really have to stop.
If you don't quit this instant,
I swear I'll call a cop.
He'll drag you off in handcuffs.
He'll lock you up in jail,
and leave you there forever
until you're old and frail.
Your friends will all forget you.
You won't be even missed.
Your family, too, will likely
forget that you exist.
And all because you read this
instead of having fun.
It's too late now, amigo;
the poem's nearly done.
There's only one solution.
Here's what you'll have to do:
Tell all your friends and family
they shouldn't read it too.
When You Wake Up Tomorrow - Brian Patten
I will give you a poem when you wake tomorrow.
It will be a peaceful poem.
It won’t make you sad.
It won’t make you miserable.
It will simply be a poem to give you
When you wake tomorrow.
It was not written by myself alone.
I cannot lay claim to it.
I found it in your body.
In your smile I found it.
Will you recognise it?
You will find it under your pillow.
When you open the cupboard it will be there.
You will blink in astonishment,
Shout out, ‘How it trembles!
Its nakedness is startling! How fresh it tastes!’
We will have it for breakfast;
On a table lit by loving,
At a place reserved for wonder.
We will give the world a kissing open
When we wake tomorrow.
We will offer it to the sad landlord out on the balcony.
To the dreamers at the window.
To the hand waving for no particular reason
We will offer it.
An amazing and most remarkable thing,
We will offer it to the whole human race
Which walks in us
When we wake tomorrow.
One Inch Tall - Shel Silverstein
If you were only one inch tall, you'd ride a worm to school.
The teardrop of a crying ant would be your swimming pool.
A crumb of cake would be a feast
And last you seven days at least,
A flea would be a frightening beast
If you were one inch tall.
If you were only one inch tall, you'd walk beneath the door,
And it would take about a month to get down to the store.
A bit of fluff would be your bed,
You'd swing upon a spider's thread,
And wear a thimble on your head
If you were one inch tall.
You'd surf across the kitchen sink upon a stick of gum.
You couldn't hug your mama, you'd just have to hug her thumb.
You'd run from people's feet in fright,
To move a pen would take all night,
(This poem took fourteen years to write--
'Cause I'm just one inch tall).
At 3 am - Wendy Cope
The room contains no sound
except the ticking of the clock
which has begun to panic
like an insect, trapped
in an enormous box.
Books lie open on the carpet.
Somewhere else
you're sleeping
and beside you there's a woman
who is crying quietly
so you won't wake.
Giving Her the Eye - Anon
A beauty stood on a balcony high,
Sneezed and lost her blue glass eye.
A young man walking down The Strand
Caught the flashing eye-ball one hand.
Invited up to receive her thanks
He drooled on her features, figure, flanks.
While dining on champagne and chicken
These strangers felt their heart beats quicken,
Gazed into each others eyes, imperfections indiscernible,
Including the eye-ball that proved to be returnable.
Over croissants and coffee in the morning
The young man felt suspicion dawning,
Said, "Would you do this for just any passer-by?"
"Oh no!" she said, "He'd have to catch my eye".
In A Photograph - Anon
Hide behind your laughter;
Live behind a mask.
Set up a façade-
Make sure it will last.
Burn your history books;
They can never know your past.
A flash of light!
Stars swirl!
Darkness returns,
Secrets are no more.
Your being has been captured
In a photograph.