Avast! Wield and sow

5 Comments

Tags:
  • Emotional
    • ,
  • Confusion
    • ,
  • Nature
    • ,
  • Truth
    • ,
  • Memories

    Avast! Wield and sow

     sharply up
    murderously down
    heave to

    crash of foam
    brindled horizon
    compass---
    liar

    salt and air
    clash

    bow bedecked
    no taffy salt-water this

    Poseidon taunts
    slaps his tail-
    we 
    his video game--

    with
    --unlimited Chances to
    --die--
    or win extra rounds






     

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    therealqb commented on Avast! Wield and sow

    02-13-2011

    I was most taken by your style and superb choice of words . You skillfully put down a fine work of art . You are truly an excellent representation of a master poet and this poem offers many different examples of a wordsmith showcasing his genius ! Excellent Read !
    Reply to Comment

    VoiceMilkNHoney

    02/14/2011

    Wow! Thank you for the extremely generous words! I am humbled.

    VoiceMilkNHoney commented on Avast! Wield and sow

    02-13-2011

    Thanks Shallene! I really am loving it! Great to have you inviting me and kicking my once-flaccid-lazy-cloudy-minded-impatient poet self in the patootie!
    Reply to Comment

    shallenemcgrath commented on Avast! Wield and sow

    02-13-2011

    This must have been on the way to the Azores. That trip on the small boat with the high seas? Ruthless... and its like it doesn't happen just once but for hours. Like riding a rollercoaster and not being able to get off. When I first started writing about the sea, I think some of the people here thought it was some sort of abstract from me- but let me tell you the being on the sea- even once- can be a life altering experience. You rock Woman! I am so glad you are here posting your stuff.
    Reply to Comment

    Chaos128 commented on Avast! Wield and sow

    02-12-2011

    Ha ha The sea is a harsh mistress who knows Neptune will abide no weaklings in his retinue.
    Reply to Comment

    RHPeat commented on Avast! Wield and sow

    02-11-2011

    Ahh, but the sea has its last say, gentle woman's sigh or monstrous giant roars and slaps you onto the rocks. A pull for the depths of Jone's is its silent whisper in the washing machine of tumbled deafness. A poet friend//RH Peat
    Reply to Comment

    A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

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