Steam World

In memory of the seven men killed in the after fire room explosion in USS Basilone (DD-824) on 5 February 1973

We live in holes,
Each one named,
Bravo One,
Bravo Two,
Bravo Three,
Bravo Four.
There are others,
But none are MAIN,
The rest are AUX.

We work at pressure,
Six hundred pounds,
Eight hundred plus
Degrees,
That's Fahrenheit,
Folks.
People like
To visit
Our world.
Makes them,
Feel special,
They see a world,
They don't dare
Live in,
And they leave,
Before they
Sweat too much.
Come again,
But not too often,
Have a salt tablet.

We're the only sailors,
Who must
Use our gear,
Twenty-four hours
A day.
Try letting the fires
Go out,
In the
Boiler.
See what
Happens.
The girls
Topside,
Would miss their
Movie.
They'd
Be agitated.
Did we use that
Word?
Well,
Have a salt tablet.

We say that,
Down here is where
The real men live,
That all the rest
Are pussies.
It's a lie,
But,
It hides how hard
Life is,
In the
Steam world.

It's six hours
Of watch,
Six hours
Of sleep,
Six hours
Of watch,
Six hours
Of sleep,

Unless, something
Needs fixing,
Or we're
Refueling,
Or, we're getting ready,
To enter port.
Or,
Something else
Is happening,
Then there's
No sleep.
There's no sun
Anyway.
You wanna see
Sun,
Look through
The scope,
At the
Stack gas.

It's a world of
Valves,
And
Burners,
And,
Sight glasses,
And,
Pumps,
And,
Pipes and,
Gauges everywhere.
A new guy
Wonders,
How to learn
Them all.
It's an
Incomprehensible
Forest.
And then,
You get to
Know it.
Now some other guy,
Is the
New guy.

It's often a
Rain forest,
120 degrees,
That's Fahrenheit,
Folks.
95 per cent
Humid,
Since you're visiting,
Come help us
Find
Steam leaks.
But,
Keep your head
Down.
Steam is clear,
You won't
See it,
Before it
Cuts you,
In half.
We'll use brooms
Instead.
Just wave them overhead,
Along the pipes.
Have a salt tablet.

The steam
Snakes all about
The ship.
They need it,
To live.
Not just the
Wake,
But,
Heat,
Light,
Water.
All life
Comes from,
The boiler.
You'd think they'd
Appreciate
Us.

The Navy says,
It's worried about
Our heat stress,
(It's only 120)
And our hearing,
They want us
Out of
The heat,
More often,
Nice.
Who will keep
The lights on?
Maybe they'll
Start a new,
“Program.”
Do the paperwork,
And just
Keep us in
The hole.
We've been down here
So long,
We can't
Hear 'em,
Anyway.
Have another salt tablet,
And go back
To your regular job,
Topside.

Anniversary of The "Return of The Mayflower"

Not Poetic

On this date, in 1917, U.S. Destroyer Squadron 8 arrived off Ireland, and reported for duty on North Atlantic convoy patrol. When Commander Joseph Taussig was asked by his British counterpart how long he would require for refitting after the North Atlantic crossing, Taussig replied, "we are ready now."

Crossing The Line With The Royal Baby

Less than forty shell backs,
One hundred and eighty pollywogs,
Those shell backs have their
Work cut out
For them.

As we approach the line,
The national ensign is struck,
And the Jolly Roger is close up
To the main truck.
Good thing the horizon is
Clear.

Breakfast is served,
For pollywogs who can choke it down.
Is that a hybrid oyster?
Garnished with
Lube oil?
Yum.

You are all guilty!
Here are your summons,
To prove it.
You've offended King Neptune
Somethin' fierce.

Boats – pipe all hands,
“All pollywogs assemble on the foc'sle.”
Who needs that breakfast, anyway?
The lube oil might not have
Aided digestion.

Once on the foc'sle,
We are herded like cattle,
Using fire hoses,
Stay forward of
The firing safety line,
You! Who, me?
Yes, you. You are a
Special case.
I shiver in the
equatorial warmth.
A special case?


We are moved forward,
A few at a time,
It's not enough to fly
The Jolly Roger,
We now show
Two black balls,
A vessel
Not under command,
We are a warship
Run amuck,
Entangled in the,
Equator.

Before His Royal Highness,
KING NEPTUNE,
The charges are *Severe*.
Each is read with
All due solemnity by
Davy Jones,
A one eyed creep,
Who seems to carry
A certain resemblance to,
The Captain.
As each charge is detailed,
The Royal Baby,
Fat, greasy,
(He could be BT2 Skinner's twin)
Mutters “Ahem, of course,
He's guilty you know.”

Davy Jones says that
I look disgusting so,
An unseen hand
Shampoos me with a gob of,
Nice, red, gun grease,
The stuff we use on
The five inch.
They forget the rinse.
The Royal Baby thinks
I've sh-t in my pants,
So King Neptune orders
That nothing should
Spoil down there.
They dump a little
Cosmolene,
In my pants.


King Neptune declares
This Pollywog,
Unworthy,
And orders me thrown
Overboard.
I am blind folded,
Picked up,
Carried up a ladder to
The flight deck,
Tossed head first,
Into a chute,
Full of
Garbage.
Down A slide.
Yup, it's definitely,
Garbage,
Into the water.

Hands grasp my shoulders,
Pull me up,
I guess They didn't throw
Me overboard.
The blind fold comes off.
Two smiling pirates pull me out,
And I'm off to the showers,
And ready for a real meal,
Without lube oil.

Photographing Dogwoods

April is their month.
They've sat,
Patient,
Throughout the winter,
Those sturdy oval buds,
Sometimes cased in ice,
They don't seem
To mind.
Are they
Awaiting,
Tax time?
These jewels,
Keep company with,
Their pretty pink
Cousins,
The Redbud.
Why does the dogwood,
Ask
For our attention,
So?
Perhaps because it
Blooms so early,
When
There is so little else,
To see.
Perhaps it is the legend that,
From the poor dogwood,
Came the wood,
From which was fashioned,
The true cross.
More likely it's just,
The timeless beauty,
Born-in beauty,
From long ago,
Needing no
Adornment,
And not a bit
Of pruning.
Touch it with a knife,
You'll invite,
Disease.
Let it grow
Willy nilly,
It will give you,
Perfect beauty,
On its own.

Wild,
It sits beneath
The forest cover,
Like a craggy,
Wasted twig,
Dwarfed,
By its bigger cousins.
And then,
Before any others,
That slim and subtle
Beauty
First appears,
As an
Exquisite miniature,
Creamy yellow flowers,
That open,
To bleach themselves white,
And show the
Blood red crosses
At their center.

They are
Gems,
That change,
Day by day,
So leave your camera
Home.
You cannot catch
Their beauty.
Instead,
Imprint the view
Upon your mind.
They'll be back
Next year,
More beautiful
Than ever.

A Meditation On The Death Of Osama Bin Laden

Gotcha,
Sheik,
It took a while,
But most government
Ops do.
You had a good run,
And died a lion
In many eyes,
Though a caged lion,
In a cage
Of your very own,
Behind walls of your own.
Didn't know
Seals went over walls,
Eh?
I wonder where
Ayman went.
Perhaps it's safe
For him
To go home now.
Inshallah.
I saw the wild celebrations,
Outside the White House,
At Ground Zero,
At the Air Force Academy.
Once we had:
VE day,
VJ day.
We cheered then,
For the dying
Would stop.
What of VO day?
I thought VO was,
A whiskey.
The dying won't stop
For VO day.
What's all the cheering for?
Celebrating the death
Of one enemy?
As if we'd won
A war?
We should feel
Just a little dirty.
Let us thank
Those who did this
Most necessary deed
For us,
Then let us
Go about our business,
And leave them with
Their thoughts.
I think I'll stop by
The old Ebbitt Grill.
Maybe I can find
A chicken hawk,
To have a celebratory
Beer with.
R-I-P if you can,
Sheik,
With the fishes.
There are no virgins
At full fathom five.

Dust Storm

We see it first,
North bound
From Abu Dhabi,
Spreading
East and west,
Into the distance,
Gradually embracing us.
At first it seems
It might be,
Fog,
Then,
A fine,
Talc like layer forms,
With tiny swirls,
White stuff,
Scurrying over
Everything.
Shamal.
You remember.
They told you
All about these,
But it looks,
Just like fog,
Until you're
In it.
Then,
To the casual
observer,
Talc,
But to machinists,
Lapping compound,
And to unprotected
Machinery,
Slow death.
We close
All water tight doors,
And hatches.
All intakes
Are covered with
Foam,
But it is
Everywhere.
So fine
You cannot
Feel it.
And it will not
Go away.
Innocent at first,
A man soon wraps
His face,
And eyes,
In self defence.
Though we would be
Safer in the pilot house,
The law,
And safety,
Mandate that
We be able
To hear
A fog signal.
Or would it be,
A dust signal?
We pray that it
Will pass
Before dark,
Lest we be plunged
Into a dust filled,
Flat black,
Void.

Inevitable Disrespect

In memory of the Forrest Sherman Class Destroyers

I understand,
Respect for age,
Is limited,
But in our culture,
Even corpses,
Generally,
Are dressed,
With some,
Respect.
And so,
If you'll excuse,
An old lady,
Who,
I admit,
Is quite,
Worn out,
I'll not complain,
But I'll insist,
In reminiscing.
I'll insist,
You not forget.
For I've been,
Ridden hard,
And often put,
To bed,
Well,
Very wet.
And I deserve,
At least a thought,
Before I die.

I slipped into,
The Kennebec,
On a Maine,
Afternoon,
Cold enough,
To make the
Guests feel,
Well,
Uncomfortable.
But I went in,
On time,
And I looked,
Mighty fine.
And went to work,
A-S-A-P.

I answered every call,
Lebanon,
Formosa,
Cuba.
In Vietnam,
I was special,
I had three guns.
Those poor grunts,
On the ground,
Loved my guns.
My gunners,
Treated them,
Like lovers,
They spat fire,
On call,
And saved lives,
Pushing,
The enemy,
Back,
Way back.

My mess decks,
Fed,
Round the clock.
My sailors worked,
Round the clock,
They stood
Ten thousand
Watches,
They fueled
A thousand
Times.
I never slept.
Even when
My boilers fired,
For six,
Or eight,
Or nine,
Months straight.
And even when,
I finally,
After,
All those months,
Sailed for home,
And went
Cold iron,
I was still
Alive
With steam,
And power,
From shore.

But now,
Some how,
I'm no longer
Even called
A she,
I've lost my USS,
I'm just an
“Ex,”
It once seemed
So important
That,
Each and every
Rust spot,
Be
Blotted out
With paint.
Now there's none,
The rust streaks
Mar my sides.
That's OK.
I understand,
We can't
All be
Museums.
It's your intent,
To sink me.
No doubt
You need
The practice,
But I warn you;
Those Maine Yankees,
Now,
So long retired,
Built me
Well.
I'll go
Quietly,
But plan for,
A long,
Long day.

Copyright 2011 by Gary L. Misch

All rights reserved