Moods of the Sea
Lighthouse of Hauntings. They were stuck on the island Old seasoned Salt Young capable joe Jobber. Nothing but strenuous lifting. Getting to despise gravity and duty. Old Guy did little but point the finger Tell tall superstitious fables, curses. Reprimand the Buck if He made light of the myths of the seaboard. Buck once had worked the timber. Pacific northwest Called by the insolent bluejays Called by the markings of bear Porcupine. Ancient overgrown totems. Speaking dignified fashion Old glories and heroism. Stacked one upon another. But here in the drab grey of New England And persistent fog. The sea birds pecking The constellations in night sky Telling threatening myths. Nothing seems friendly, inviting Like the Bush. And at night things have taken On the imprecise suggestion of monsters Rattling chains without sounds of feet. Bad luck happenings to predecessors. Old Salt just smokes the pipe. Caresses the beard of years. Cajoles the Buck without mercy. And many a singing supper