Wednesday, July 4, 2012


With a sailboat inked on his skin
he sat straddled over a pylon, 
old wood reeking of creosote and summer heat
face drawn and weather-beaten as an old peach.

This ship was made for sailing
or so the song goes, when one's life adventure
is summarized so neatly by a three-mile trip
into town on a noisy bus, passengers
so numbed by the heat the flies reign over all.

A cough and a hork, a crust for the lurking gulls
and a kick to send a ground-out butt on its way
for here comes the ride

Rachel Westfall
July 3, 2012


Rachel Westfall said...

I'm experimenting with mobile posting. It's working, but there seems to be a wee bit of a font issue. Oh well!

Rob-bear said...

The old mate

I see him; I see him so clearly.

The long-time sailor
now sails the boat
on his arm,
and greater vessels
in his mind.

Those were the days
of derring-do —
the "one hand for yourself;
one hand for the ship"
kind of days
when the sails billowed
and the sheets tangled,
and you could lose and arm
if you weren't careful.

Ships travel by diesel
or bunker oil now.
But the wind
which lost its usefulness
is still a power
to be

Rachel Westfall said...

You are on a roll, Bear!

Rob-bear said...


It's a bit different on my blog.

devilsivy said...

Oh. I want to give him a hug from another soul made for adventures beyond town life.

devilsivy said...

And I kind of like the serif font. :)

Anthony Duce said...

Wonderful. The words create a wonderful image, better than a drawing or painting could.