Nails and there are hardly taken when we'll
make the snarling broadside there when it lashes about the gunnels. As though we were captain all all those dead nails lived in our hands while we plowed through treacherous waves, darkening our skies. It's natural to regain a foothold and then to slip on wooden planks strewn over the edge of nightmares and soft cuddly hammers. As though they sailed about the world, and then they really did take captives and mark their sails for crosswinds, making fast all the tears of soul, we wander about the darkness, wary of winds, southerly and stout to take our scurvy, limes, lemons as they are tart to our touch, as they meld minds and starch that's meant to be near to men sleeping, as they can only ride the waves while they stand. A picture of the tossing to sides, to neither far nor near to remembering the last time we made it quickly to shore, to as far as we could carry to sink our anchor, wait for rowers to lay the backs into our best wares, oars made for stirring memories of the South Seas, south of Kingdoms farfetched as mothers, fathers can long last offspring, daring to tame the world, tame the screw and rudder and many a mainsail that ponders our next trip. © 2015 Larry Ingram
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Welcome to the poetry web site of Larry Ingram. Larry is a poet, writer and observer of our culture. Categories
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