Frolicking With Paranoids

There's something to be said,
For spending time
With folk,
Who live in
Beautiful places,
Dumb as they may be.

Real sportsmen prefer
Smart,
Strong,
Browns.
They are the
Trout of trout.
Wicked smart,
But sullen,
Voracious.

The rainbow,
A living sports car,
The Acrobat,
Pure joy
To watch,
And catch,
A showman,
Every one.
Yup,
They're dandy,
And respectable.
As show offs go.

Who would call himself,
A brookie fisherman?
A stalker of dummies?
You'd get
No more respect
Than the fish
You pursue.
Best to keep
Your desires
To yourself.

But in your
Silence,
You learn.
How does a fish,
So dumb,
Survive?
It is the
Purest of
Paranoids.
Stay out of sight,
Stay on your knees,
For if the slightest
Movement,
Comes in view,
You'll see
A rocket,
Head for cover,
Your catch,
In that pool,
Will be nil,
I promise.

But if you should,
By chance,
And guile,
Bring one of these
To hand,
You'll see a fish,
As beautiful
As God has made,
A living work of art,
And so he left them,
In a place,
As beautiful
As they are.

Good luck

Cold Iron Thanksgiving

A Tribute to Senior Chief Gloria

Thanksgiving – 1981,
Bath Maine,
Sitting in a bright blue dry dock,
The cold Kennebec River
Slipping by,
Making miniature whirlpools,
As it passes the ships
Moored upstream,
They're lucky enough
To be moored,
To not be in dock.
They have
Power,
Light,
Heat,
Ventilation,
All the good stuff
You take for granted.
We 're in the dark,
With
The cold,
And,
A few portable
Steam heaters.
There's no one on board
But us,
The duty fire party.
We drew the short straw
This Thanksgiving,
Or volunteered.

It's a day without rank,
You can't see much,
Anyway.
Just the dim light,
From the strings of
The yards work lights
Overhead.
But there's no work today,
She's silent as a tomb,
An unnatural being
Of a ship,
With the echo of
The odd foot fall.
We gather in our only
Safe haven,
The Chiefs' Quarters,
Dimly lit,
Awaiting an equally dim imitation
Of Thanksgiving feasts past.

Right on time,
The cooks arrive,
No doubt with tepid fare.
Their shadows slip in,
Urging us aside
To make room for their pots.
Surprise,
Riding herd is the real boss,
Senior Chief Gloria,
The Food Service Officer himself.
I'd expect him to be home today,
And I'd be wrong.
This is a feeding holiday,
And feeding is his job,
He's out here feeding those who have
The toughest job this day.
I should have known,
For that's the way he is.
He has his giant
Stainless pots
Spread out.
There's paper plates
And plastic forks,
For sure,
But in those pots,
Are all the smells,
As good as you could get at home,
And plenty more for seconds,
Too.
They turn the deep dark bowels
Of a half dead ship,
Into a warm and sweet place,
Full of shipmates glad to be together.
It might not be the best Thanksgiving ever,
But it will be one we will truly remember.

Tuscaloosa April – 2011

- Thoughts On The Tornado Damage -

What hath God wrought,
Indeed?
He hath wrought
Match sticks
Out of houses,
Toys,
Out of trucks.
Orphans,
Out of communities.
We live in a world
Where we prefer our data
Incomplete.
Number of dead
Is sufficient.
How many homes
Gone?
How many school rooms
Gone?
Too numerous to count;
Do the math later.
Let federal aid,
Bring in a parade
Of house trailers,
And grease the parade,
Of those who must leave
Forever,
On a well paved trail of tears.

May our human-kindness know
No bounds.
May we never forget
Our good fortune,
In not seeing
Our own match sticks,
In that sad,
And pathetic scene.
The President came.
He said
“We will never
Forget you.”
How long is “never”
In politician years?
What words could
He use,
That weren't trite,
When we are “devastated,”
If we don't get
Invited to the right
Party?

Walking By The Wall On A Snowy Eve

Unfinished Thoughts

Dedicated to Someone, whose name isn't on the wall; he came home, but it might have been better if he hadn't

There had to be,
Something good,
About being stationed
In Washington.
You could pay
Your respects,
Whenever you wanted,
To the brothers
And sisters,
Who couldn't
Come back,
Alive.
The wall makes its own
Quiet statement.
The small memorials,
Left behind
By friends,
By family,
By lovers,
Make a different kind.
I'm not sure I care.
Behind each name,
Are tears.
That's all I see,
That's all I feel,
The tears
Behind the names.
Perhaps the wall's life
Will end,
Its meaning spent,
When all those tears
Have dried.
When the last mourners
Eyes have closed,
When no one's
Father's name is left
Upon the wall,
What will be
The point of it?

The wall still speaks,
But soon it too,
Will be
As mute
As all those
Mourners.
We may keep it
In repair,
But we will not
Be able to give
Meaning,
To those mute names.
Folk will wander past,
And wonder at
Their meaning,
No longer distracted
By trinkets,
Placed upon the ground,
They'll turn
From that now mute,
And meaningless
Graphite strip,
To gaze upon
Those three sad,
Neglected soldiers,
And wonder why,
We were so odd,
To put the
Real memorial,
Out of the way,
Under the trees.

Bath To Newport

The Kennebec,
Winds calm
At sunrise,
Captain Rich
Guides us down,
Past islets,
Light houses,
Beacons,
Shoals,
The slack current
Glistens
Like a mirror.
As the sun
Comes up.
The pilot departs,
And she is
Finally ours
To take home.

By evening,
Green water,
Turns to white,
As it vaults
The bow,
And coats us,
With an icy
Glaze.
By dawn,
Our haze gray
Coat,
Is transformed,
With thirty knot
Streaks of white.
We've gained
Too many
Tonnes.

Florida,
And home,
Must wait.
Tuck into
Newport,
Not a garden spot
In early March,
But a haven,
Still.
A place
To steam
The ice off,
To lose a few
Ugly tonnes,
To wait out
The wind,
To eat without
Having to
Hang on
For dear life,
For a day
Or two,
We'll see how
The weather looks
Tomorrow.
We're in
A world class resort,
In the
Wrong season.

Jeddah – 1977

Finally,
A Middle East Port.
An exotic place.
We'd been late,
Delayed
Out of Suez,
We'd rushed
Down the
Red Sea,
To be on time.
All for this.
Anchored in,
Jeddah roadstead,
I've never seen so many
Ships.
Of course,
I'm still young,
But they
Stretch so far,
We're so far out,
We hardly
See land.

The jetties
Are in there,
Somewhere,
In the haze of
Dust.
We send a boat
Ashore
With the XO.
Give him a good
Chart,
A compass,
A Course,
A radio,
Or we may
Never see him,
Again.
We follow him,
In the big eyes,
Two foot long
Binocs,
Until he's
A dot.

The dot returns,
Good news!
No liberty to be
Granted.
They're glad we're
Here,
They think,
But they'd prefer
No sailors in
Their town.
Makes sense;
We'd prefer that,
Too.
All that dust,
On our blues,
You know.

We can't see Jeddah,
But,
Reports suggest
A paradise of
Permissiveness.
No need to build
Your building,
Plumb.
It's optional.
Tired?
Sit down,
Wherever you are,
Just curl up,
Snooze.
It's a different
Place.

Why is it
So crowded?
The Saudis have
Been buying everything.
Everything but
New piers,
For the last
Three years,
Ever since they,
Got real rich,
Instead of just
Rich.
They forgot
To build piers,
To unload
The stuff.

The American
Consulate,
Invites us to
A goat grab.
Yum.
But they want us,
To smuggle
Booze ashore.
They've got none.
Yeah,
Let's kick this
Cruise off with
An international
Incident.
Or,
Let's save our
Energy,
For the next
Middle Eastern
Paradise.
We can sight see,
On deck,
Eyeball liberty.
First priority cargo
Passes.
A small ship,
Bound right for
The pier.
No waiting,
Main deck crowded
With camels.
So,
We can't,
Get ashore,
But
They bring
The atmosphere,
To us.
Jeddah,
How many ways
Could you spell,
“Jewel of The
Red Sea?”
If there
Were one.

Running At Full Power

Sometimes,
The routine,
Economical,
Mandated,
Sixteen knots,
Will not do.
You are directed
To proceed,
At max sustained speed.
And so,
The steam world
Comes alive.
Suddenly,
There are no
Silent spaces.
Every boiler
Is hot,
Every burner
Is in,
Every feed pump
Is on line,
Every fuel pump
Is busy.
Fuel
Is constantly
Transferred.
Everywhere,
There is
Noise,
And heat,
Plenty of heat,
We're makin' lots.
Every topside space,
That lives near
A forced draft blower,
Knows about it,
Because nothing is
Off the line.
That's the way it
Should be,
That's the way,
She was built
To run.
Four boilers,
Superheat,
Two engines,
Two shafts,
Nothing in
Reserve.

Come off watch,
Dead tired,
Climb all the way up,
Up to the fantail,
Nose bleed country,
See the stern lookout,
Look up at
The stacks,
See that heat.
The air shimmers,
It shakes and shivers
As it shoots skyward,
Dyed a faint brown,
In the
Economy haze.
The whole ship
Shakes up here,
You really feel it.
All from the fire,
And the steam that
We make.

Turn around,
That rooster tail,
Is taller than
You are.
Maybe
That's enough
Fresh air.
The guys
Who live up here,
Think we're making
Lots of noise,
They oughta be in
Bravo one,
To hear those
Two boilers
Roar.
THAT'S noise,
AND heat.

Still,
The special effects
Up here,
Are enough
For them.
You want full power?
It's hard work for us,
It's extra watches,
It's no time
For maintenance,
It's our time,
To shine.