I sent this poem back in July or August and somone wrote saying it was
garbled;
what I think they were really saying was that it was garbage..anyway once
again for what its worth pyrate
In my fathers house
A 1761 cape
A wide plank salt
she creaks in a fair wind;
her shingles are bleached and windblown
a white sea sun dances her roof
and bright eel grass tickles her path
Mortise and tendon ;
hold her steady
in distant dunes
near oceans roar
by kettle pond and the old blue door
Boat upturned and
fishing gear waiting
my old man sleeps ;
in mornings bright light
In the flutter of old cotton curtains
Man and surf serenade in
slumber
He calls for those long since passed
keeping harmony
with grandfathers clock;
That Ticks and tocks
and tells of time
when wives were young
and childrens laughter
filled the house
like summers grapes
sweet on the vine
when old age was of another time
Bright sun puddles his floor;
and climbs the paint crackle
wall
in fingered light past his
berth
alighting on photographs now
brown with age
A salty wind slams a door
asleep he calls again
for those no more
Deep wihin he listens soundly
old ships clock rings the
hour
Michael Cape Cod 2003
--
To terminate puerile preservation prattling among pals and the
uncoffee-ed, or to change your settings, go to:
<http://maelstrom.stjohns.edu/archives/bullamanka-pinheads.html>
