This strange compass
of my mind
that points my thoughts…
Do dare I count
the days or ways
of its bobbing in or out
or the wheres or whens or whys of its purpose;
stretching the plays (on occasion),
from a repertoire
of my mind to tongue;
a compulsion of portentous
repetition
never left done to
c o m p l e t i o n?
Awake or sleep
it matters naught.
This tale, sad or melancholy
in retrospect, as I have lived it,
yawns the moon and stars
or meets the meadows of morning glories,
when, in half-dream,
I bequeath my own ending.
*************************
The Porpoise mother marooned
in netted cords off a scuttle bow
wishfully meant for hoards
of tuna tins when suddenly,
from the cocoon
of an UN-stitched passageway
she nudged her babe through,
then bled the harpoon
of the ship-masters myopic old eyes..
I see the orphaned Porpoise,
New-born; size UN-bearing,
desperately needing to surface
UP
to the celestial sphere
towards sun-bow;
the mysterious soft arc
of arresting hues
a pause, for man a muse.
Yet, visions perhaps
otherwise perceived
by the ocean's grieved tenant
whose 'sea-eyes' vague,
searching, bumping, beckoning her
toward the Life-line of bubbles
UP
toward the salty air of breath
without which would come
the Porpoise pups death.
Death of a bubble,
scat the ship master's prize,
scat his reward,
no whale and no shark
no fish with a sword
to park on the bark
of the fisherman's shed.
Just a days worth of tuna
One Porpoise dead
and one Orphan fled...