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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3899 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Moored Marty Abuloc A certain irregularity in the way the waves crash and move, create a curving shoreline a repetitious geometry memorized by sand and palm leaves. A crab lifts its strange eyes and clamps its claws, but will not scare. There is a silent rhythm consumed by seagull cries that herald the dark clouds, this is the coming storm that will loosen every mossy plank, and send every boat shattered on the beach head of oblivion. It is the monsoon of deep longing it is the calling for tall trees, and mountain peaks, An inland song leads the way. Away from the saline air that fills one's lungs with each inhalation, away from the monosyllabic lives of waking up and staring out into the endless sea. Away, out of the huts where housewives and daughters spend fish hours and shored minutes preparing tables and beds for sea-tired men... away from the drowsy jellyfish mornings, foggy and stale, away from the smelling wharf where ale and salt and oil are mixed with left over innards... away from the regular horns at one and two and three a.m. of departing fish boats bound for blue fin point, Away from the old tales of shipwrecks behind madman’s rock, Or from the fishnets that sway like grey, ghostly banners In the salted wind. A longer wave reaches the breakwater, licks fleetingly And slips to a deep unmoving silence. the cold wind blows high enough and strong to carry sea moored souls dreaming inland dreams. gulls are erratic on wingtips, squawking, grotesque and terribly at peace with the monochrome sea sights, but children have eyes glossed over by nagging visions of elsewhere, of mountain tops, of cityscapes. The men are hauling smelly barrels of the same catch day after dreary day as centuries ago, and gossips of the hometown queen running away into the vulgar city of her dreams float about and die in ebbtide. |
