Quotes about rigging, page 3
Sometimes Wind Moves In Secret
Sometimes wind moves in secret
Like a lover or a moon
Sometimes a board will answer
Or a shutter or a loon
Sometimes wind answers itself
Like a woman at the mirror
And sometimes no one's present
Or unwilling to hear
Wind moans over graveyards
As if weeping for the dead
Wind howls at the windows
Like it wants you, in your bed
Wind steals kites of children
Without making any sound
And wind tears off your head scarf
But lifts hair, like a crown
Wind sighs round a lighthouse
Like a sailor blown off course
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poem by Patti Masterman
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Death
Hunting gent lays broken, gasping,
thrown from horse at bramble hedgerow.
Grinning fox appears at last
to whisper 'tally-ho'!
Hiker with binoculars is
mesmerized by bird call echoes.
Unaware, she meets a bear
and bird sings 'Cheerio'!
Rimy limey falls from rigging,
passing mermaid hums calypso.
Partnering his drowning jig,
she murmurs 'Yo ho ho'.
Thief lies, pumping blood and dying,
stabbed by shard from jeweler's window.
Friendly copper chances by,
'hello, ‘ello, ‘ello'
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poem by Diane Hine
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Invicto
The coldest wind which fills my sails
Sent colder chills throughout my spine
As now the rigging grimly wails
That mast seems willing to recline
The taut sinews binding my bones
I felt tighten into a knot
We're on this strait, that chart disowns
And even God may have forgot
The land seemed farther than it's been
Farther than dawn which is to break
In doomed contest lie in between
Me and my ship, should one be weak
My ship! Fail not ahead of me
We're not to know how deep these graves
Rally your strength, your strength that be
For I've resolved to ride the waves!
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poem by Reyvrex Questor Reyes
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The Negative Rains
THE NEGATIVE RAINS
The pouring rains has just stopped
The lane is empty with no one in sight
Wiped so clean and shinning in light
Chastely new, is in wait for someone it knew
Her fragrant jasmine freshens up the open tunnel
Gently lifted saree rigging open the rare leg panel
Pitching her every step carefully in a forward pace
Luminous hinds lighting up the murky sky
Chilling breeze on her shivering crease
Drizzling dews on the oily cheeks
Partly drenched with mirror like backs
Setting the street on a romance-full blaze
Fridge cool postures, water logged breast cases
Dripping waterlines along the in skirt laces
Rare comes the blossom with the rains of the season
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poem by Santhana Louis
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The New Arrival
THERE came to port last Sunday night
The queerest little craft,
Without an inch of rigging on;
I looked and looked—and laughed!
It seemed so curious that she
Should cross the Unknown water,
And moor herself within my room—
My daughter! O, my daughter!
Yet by these presents witness all
She ’s welcome fifty times,
And comes consigned in hope and love—
And common-metre rhymes.
She has no manifest but this;
No flag floats o’er the water;
She ’s too new for the British Lloyds—
My daughter! O, my daughter!
Ring out, wild bells—and tame ones too;
Ring out the lover’s moon.
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poem by George Washington Cable
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The Floundering Ship
A great day sailing on the
floundering ship at the office,
Hanlie an elfish, mischievous
captain, June quietly at the helm,
Hermien swinging in the rigging
while I plotted a course through
the rapids of cascading words
spilling over my desk
Human Resources destabilised
the ship by throwing the compass
away yet we ploughed on, June
can't be deflected from steering
straight for the bay of organised
perfection while updating lists -
though Microsoft warns our
software is outlawed
Being illegal means we are a
pirate ship; now I understand why
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poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Song For The Last Act
Now that I have your face by heart, I look
Less at its features than its darkening frame
Where quince and melon, yellow as young flame,
Lie with quilled dahlias and the shepherd's crook.
Beyond, a garden, There, in insolent ease
The lead and marble figures watch the show
Of yet another summer loath to go
Although the scythes hang in the apple trees.
Now that I have your face by heart, I look.
Now that I have your voice by heart, I read
In the black chords upon a dulling page
Music that is not meant for music's cage,
Whose emblems mix with words that shake and bleed.
The staves are shuttled over with a stark
Unprinted silence. In a double dream
I must spell out the storm, the running stream.
The beat's too swift. The notes shift in the dark.
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poem by Louise Bogan
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 2. The Musician's Tale; The Ballad of Carmilhan - I.
At Stralsund, by the Baltic Sea,
Within the sandy bar,
At sunset of a summer's day,
Ready for sea, at anchor lay
The good ship Valdemar.
The sunbeams danced upon the waves,
And played along her side;
And through the cabin windows streamed
In ripples of golden light, that seemed
The ripple of the tide.
There sat the captain with his friends,
Old skippers brown and hale,
Who smoked and grumbled o'er their grog,
And talked of iceberg and of fog,
Of calm and storm and gale.
And one was spinning a sailor's yarn
About Klaboterman,
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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Waiting For Her To Get On Home
Scarred in all too little ways- waiting for you
To come around, kicking balls,
Your jaw so well outlined in the pullulating rind of
Sun:
And I have cannon balls, and bathroom passes,
And reasons to believe that I am a straight shot of a
Conquistador,
Reason to believe that this last little bit might survive,
Even while the flamingos fart,
And I untie the expensive lace of another flirt,
And you don’t come,
And Disney World is such a trip- decapitated, flash-
Bulbed, waltzing now with the last of the senior
Class still flecking the promenade like the lazy shells of
All the palindromes and paladins:
I do this to check the rigging- To hear the whispers of
Xs of buried wealth, to pretend to stream out on an inflatable
Raft, to take my kindergarten and all its stolen goods out
Underneath some brightly pollinated flowers-
You know the ones, and show the poor boy the topless dwarf,
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Carpenter Fish
The Sperm Whale's sucker-scarred head was fixed on slaughter
of dark-inked squid, twice hid in depths below.
Her blow hole flooded with draught of icy water
and froze the oil which kept her bulk afloat.
She sank, skin wrinkled, crushed in vice tight clenches,
her flexing ribs collapsed without a creak.
Her sonar click explored the abyssal trenches
and honed in on her prey with rising ‘creeeeek'.
Three quarter hour, she plundered the cold black larder,
to rise she flushed waxed oil with blood warm heat.
Her steady clicks discovered a creature harder
and massive, riding the surging ocean's sheet.
The stressed joints loudly creaked in the wood hulled whaler,
all night the rolling ocean gave no sleep.
The sore joints silent creaked in the seasoned sailor,
all night his hammock swung at angles steep.
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poem by Diane Hine
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