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.

© 2005 by Michael J. Farrand

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