Michael,
How the heck do you get to work by 7:00 am like the good little mason
you are, when you are sipping and creating at 2:30am in the morning?  I
love your poem.  I'm rockin' in your boat, baby.  Let the tides begin!
Best,
Leland

-----Original Message-----
From: Kitty tortillas!
[mailto:[log in to unmask]] On Behalf Of
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Sent: Thursday, September 18, 2003 2:24 AM
To: [log in to unmask]
Subject: Re: Poem 2nd try


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

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To terminate puerile preservation prattling among pals and the
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--
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>