A lone buoy floats by.
Archive for: December, 2011
Some of you following me on Twitter have no doubt experienced the wonder that is Failboat Bay. Failboat Bay is a small, no-so-safe harbor near my house where abandoned boats tend to accumulate, run aground, and rot. Not all the boats are actually abandoned. Many are the result of unwary captains failing to realize that the bay is very shallow, subject to high winds, and full of so many derelicts that it is impossible to navigate - lets call is a recreational boaters graveyard. To further chronicle the adventures of Failboat Bay, I've created a small photoblog - Failboat Bay - to document some of the more magnificent wrecks.
These boats are a haunting reminder of the power of the sea. They were people's dreams, pleasures, and, in some cases, homes, and now they are left to rot, unsalvageable, in this deadly bay.
Beneath the wrack of a rubbish-line beach,
where derelicts rest at their end,
once proud, now bound by mud,
the long, sucking
of a thousand
crawling, clawing, creatures,
when lives rise from forgotten planks
to feed on the wrack where derelicts lie.
A work in progress, an attempted retelling of the classic Rime of the Ancient Mariner, in a different age and from a different vantage point.
He was a weary wanderer.
His gaze sought out the sea.
'Neath grey stone caps and marbled plaques
They rested peacefully.
The mourner's veil did hide her eyes,
For she was next of kin.
The priest departs, the diggers start
To quench the burning sin.
His hands are young, but deeply scarred,
His face is salt and sun.
She turns to leave, but whispers he
"The fire has just begun."
He takes her hand, they set upon
The gravestone, freshly carved.
"The fires burns upon the tide
The gulf is slowly starved."
His eyes drift out, beyond the sound,
She watches where they fall
And waits to hear his sorry tale,
The story of us all.
"There was a time when old men rhyme
The legends of the sea,
Of going out and coming in,
The swell, endless and free.
We climbing atop the towering heights
To watch the rising sun.
From western edge to eastern rim,
The long horizon.
From up on high, I saw the ships
That left the port behind.
Tankers, freights, explorers, breakers,
What wonders would they find?
They ranged below the southern winds,
Above the arctic lights,
And some went deep, so deep, it seems
They pierced the endless night.
So many men set sail that day,
So many men returned.
The sea, at last, lay down her waves,
Her dangers long unlearned.
On some warm days, the yachtsmen play
With fluttering full sails,
But the ships that venture far afield
Can drive against the gale"
The mourner, she rose up to leave,
The sun now hanging low.
The wanderer stood at her side,
"May I come walk with you?
The storms once cowed a wizened crew
Now pass without a note.
The tempests rage, but in their cage
The captain makes a joke.
The ship is steel and strong and hard,
An engine built to pull.
It drags behind a dreadnaught hulk,
A floating false temple.
They drag the dreadnaught out so far,
beyond the watchers' gaze,
And anchor her, full fathoms deep,
To set her heart ablaze.
The dreadnaught beat a mighty drum,
Oh how her engines roared!
And from her hull a harpoon hung,
to pierce the deepest floor.
For months she drilled, deeper still,
Past sand and mud and stone.
She found her gold, the blackened crude,
And drew it from its tomb.
I watched with weary eyes at this,
A common, constant tale.
And since I tired of my height,
Alighted on a rail.
The crewman saw me resting there,
Not far above the deck.
And from his seat, he slung a chain
Which wrapped around my neck.
Into the sea I plunged, unseen,
The links did drag me down.
Although I fought, I gained no loft,
This wanderer did drown.
the first morning he tried to crow
the sounds he made were not unlike
the sucking of mud on old boots
as the marsh tries to claim your sole.
on the second morning, his crow
was more a murmur, the rustling
of a thousand tiny fiddlers
racing against the rising tide.
by week's end, it was a confident crow,
loud and strong, the commander of his flock
but unformed, uninformed, as symmetric
as a sponge, clinging to the floating docks.
it trembled, the crow, his conflict
was the pride in his voice, stubborn,
and the fate of the cockerel,
silence, not seaside metaphor.
so he crowed, a cadence to dawn,
summoning the sun from slumber,
rising, by his order, above
the barrier islands, his throne.
there was no crow on his final morning.
from his roost he was roused, before daybreak,
and strung by his feet from a crooked oar,
his voice bleeding into the sand.