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 and
Whiskey will pass.
Relentless foghorn moanings
In the Dark. Seagull wails.
Spiral staircase to the Light.
Shift is unfinished for another six weeks.

Dreams of the big, bright, festive City.
Boston. And of one young, inviting Woman.
Waiting. Arms palms out.

Is the Oldster funning with
Tales of terror?
Or not?
NEVER HARM A SEABIRD.

Is the young Buck going mad?
Visions inscrutable. Hissing brine.

Does the visiting Gull
Have a devil’s heart?
Suggestions of the Mermaid. 
Seductions.
At low tide. Saltiness everywhere.

Is Murder afoot?
Neath the pulsating Light?