Lay Day
Gray low skies drop
Weekend rain, warmer
Than workday rain for
Construction trades,
Colder for desk trades.
It clings on the fall
To standing rigging,
Stainless cable tautly
Faithful, then rills
Down and down – what
Miniscule, complex
Currents hum in the
Descent along the
Spirals? – to spill
Across adamantine
Bronze and stainless
Fittings, flood the deck,
And exit scuppers,
Homecoming to the
Bay.
Abraxas fidgets at her
Docklines, nudges her
Pig-snout tough
Bumpers, pulls and
Relaxes forgiving
Nylon fibers, doing
Nothing more than
Enduring. Until
Her skipper arrives,
Unable to stay away
Too long, and clambers
Aboard, unbuttons her
Tenderly, enters.
Untouched rain-beaded
Sailcovers, untouched
Shroud still mourning the
Holy wheel and binnacle.
A lay day.
Nautical term: day
Without necessity to
Nose out through chop,
No gray heroics,
Weather-cancelled.
“It’s not dangerous
To sail,” the Prudent
Mariner insists,
“It’s dangerous to
Sail no matter what.”
So the skipper reminds
Himself that he could
Sail. He could. But
Prudence trumps
Possibility. And he
Lights the bulkhead
Stove to hiss and flame
Merrily behind its
Oven-glass firebox
Port, yellow dancing
Of diesel combustion
At a low order of
Utility but filling
The familiar saloon
With grateful warmth.
For projects, chores,
Repetitive, comforting
Checks, new catalogue
Schemes of stowage,
The dream of even
More miraculous
Software. Radar, GPS,
Sounder, chart display
Unawakened.
No sane, no bright,
Will grant kindness
To objects. Only
Romantics observe
That fidgeting has
Become rocking,
Enduring became
Protection, and
Abraxas could. It
Could. If the warmed
And occupied skipper
Breathed, thought,
Deemed an order.
Jan Adkins
6 March 2011
Novato, CA
BRAXINOSO SPEAKS
Himself is grateful to Chris Northcutt for buying a splendid 37' cutter and encouraging him to crew often. It's not the Bay he knows but it's sailing, and Chris is a skillful skipper who questions everything. This questioning fascinates and nourishes an adventure side for Himself. He needs that adventure quotient in his life or he gets stale and cranky.
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Thursday, December 23, 2010
A DECEMBER POEM
CROWS ON FROST
A murder of crows in black, in black:
They strut and flap and hop, complain
Upon the frost-tipped grass across
The Lane. A field of stubborn growth
In California winter (mild
Beside the Bay), with spiteful ice
And bitter green, the frothy hue
Of spinach creamed, black peppered
With, of course, the crows, who would
Be proud to be coarse ground or even cracked,
To match their rasping voices which,
To me, are welcome more than
Fruity songs on winter days. Prefer
The wise-ass caws of skeptic crows
To birdsong in a season of short
Days and long cold nights; sarcastic
Quips in muttered sotto voce jibes
Have kept a crew alive through hardship
More than lyric songs. Good bos’uns cultivate
A crow caw voice, and reprobate demeanor
As they croak “I seen it all, and this ain’t bad
As it might be so grab your socks and hit the
Deck you sons of bitches.” Crows continue
Day by day to say, to say, this very speech
To one another, rain or shine: it ain’t as bad
As it might be. Sure, watch them fly sometime:
Though masters of the art they joke,
Cut up, play silly buggers in the air,
To say “This flying gig is not so tough
That we can’t screw around. Without
A joke what’s worth a fart?” And this is sound
Advice on frosty mornings.
Jan Adkins, 23 December 2010, Novato, California
BRAXINOSO SPEAKS
Himself has always been fond of crows. They're black, dire, difficult to categorize, hardy and foolish. Of course he has a connection to them. He doesn't write about cute little birdies, probably because he has a tendency to talk tough. Creampuff.
A murder of crows in black, in black:
They strut and flap and hop, complain
Upon the frost-tipped grass across
The Lane. A field of stubborn growth
In California winter (mild
Beside the Bay), with spiteful ice
And bitter green, the frothy hue
Of spinach creamed, black peppered
With, of course, the crows, who would
Be proud to be coarse ground or even cracked,
To match their rasping voices which,
To me, are welcome more than
Fruity songs on winter days. Prefer
The wise-ass caws of skeptic crows
To birdsong in a season of short
Days and long cold nights; sarcastic
Quips in muttered sotto voce jibes
Have kept a crew alive through hardship
More than lyric songs. Good bos’uns cultivate
A crow caw voice, and reprobate demeanor
As they croak “I seen it all, and this ain’t bad
As it might be so grab your socks and hit the
Deck you sons of bitches.” Crows continue
Day by day to say, to say, this very speech
To one another, rain or shine: it ain’t as bad
As it might be. Sure, watch them fly sometime:
Though masters of the art they joke,
Cut up, play silly buggers in the air,
To say “This flying gig is not so tough
That we can’t screw around. Without
A joke what’s worth a fart?” And this is sound
Advice on frosty mornings.
Jan Adkins, 23 December 2010, Novato, California
BRAXINOSO SPEAKS
Himself has always been fond of crows. They're black, dire, difficult to categorize, hardy and foolish. Of course he has a connection to them. He doesn't write about cute little birdies, probably because he has a tendency to talk tough. Creampuff.
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