WITH THE PASSING OF THE STORM
High above the moonlit bay|
I recline across my sofa
I partake the glassy bay
And gaze upon an Orca.
My captain's lodge of timbered oak|
Has weathered wrenching storms
To vicissitudes it plays the cloak
In winter my heart it warms.
A captain retired from the Sea|
Gathered wood from broken boats
He built this house above the Sea
With everything that floats.
For me it's been a waiting room|
Between the wind-tossed tempest
Like where the bride awaits her groom
Preparing for the rest.
In reverie I'm nodding off|
My palpitation slows
The light within me Dusk shuts off
The languor in me grows.
The cat plays mouse upon the rug|
I idly spot his ruse
Awake I'd give him one more hug
Just to feel the Muse.
Deep they tumble into night|
Pet and master lost in slumber
All is quiet, the hatches tight
As sky hue, once red, turns umber.
Who knows how long the night can be|
While poet's mind recharges
For to be or not to be
Takes lyrical discharges.
The CRASH!! that wakes me is a tree|
It splinters what was home
What crashes in upon the tree
Is Sea with all its foam.
How I missed the cat's MEOW|
Where was I for his warnings?
It so little matters now
Our abode has lost its moorings.
So we float as it once did|
In pieces not in whole
We float like that old seaman did
Fearing for his Soul.
Cat claws serrate my clothes|
The nails tear at my skin
He claws in terror as if he knows
The only chance to win.
Thus we're tossed about by Fate|
Thrashed amongst the flotsam
Where we go is up to Fate
From Her ship not yet jetsam.
Atop the waves we bob like cork|
Till nested by a tree
'Gainst Nature now we have some torque
Though from Her clutch not free.
Just this oak upped from the ground|
What saves us from the Deep
It keeps us safe from being drowned
We drift back off to sleep.
We're waked again by a SMASH|
Of waves that crash the shore
There we're battered by the trash
That floats;—a box, a chair, a door.
I raise my head and peer about|
Admiring your destruction
I wonder not what it's about
As Muse you play induction.
A life all flat, serene, and tranquill|
One devoid of agitation
Finds no purpose for the quill
No drive for its Creation.
At each angle from this log|
Most everywhere I look
I spy an entry for my log
A new page in my book.
So go you will, your fuel well-spent|
In your way (tui generis?)
At St. Pete's do not repent
By taking you've been generous.