WITH THE PASSING OF THE STORM
High above the moonlit bay
I gaze upon an Orca
To contemplate the glassy bay
I recline across my sofa.
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My captain's lodge of timbered oak
Has weathered the wrenching storm
To vicissitudes it plays the cloak
In winter it keeps me warm.
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A captain retired from the Sea
Gathered wood from broken boats
He built this house above the Sea
With everything that floats.
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For me it's been a waiting room
Between the wind-tossed tempest
Like where the bride awaits her groom
Preparing for the rest.
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§§§§§
In reverie I'm nodding off
My palpitation slows
The light within me Dusk shuts off
The languor in me grows.
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The cat plays mouse upon the rug
My breath converts to snooze
Awake I'd give him one more hug
Just to feel the Muse.
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Who knows how long the night can be
While poet's mind recharges
For to be or not to be
Takes lyrical discharges.
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Deep they tumble into night
Pet and master lost in slumber
All is quiet, the hatches tight
As sky hue, once red, turns umber.
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§§§§§
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.
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How I missed the cat's MEOW!!
Where was I for his warnings?
It so little matters now
Our abode has lost its moorings.
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So we float as it once did
In pieces not in whole
We float like that old seaman did
Fearing for his Soul.
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Cat claws serrate my clothes
The nails tear at my skin
He claws in terror as if he knows
The only chance to win.
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Thus we're tossed about by Fate
Thrashed amongst the flotsam
Where we go is up to Fate
From Her ship not yet jetsam.
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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.
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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.
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§§§§§
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.
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I raise my head and peer about
Admiring your destruction
I wonder not what it's about
As Muse you play induction.
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A life all flat, serene, and tranquill
One devoid of agitation
Finds no purpose for the quill
No drive for its Creation.
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At each angle from this log
Most everywhere I look
I spy an entry for my log
A new page in my book.
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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.
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