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
Larry Ingram is a writer and news video producer,