Ramona, can you hear the Dockyard calling:
She nods, coy, distant.
Clanking, drag chains clamour, trailing frantic
Sombre empty vessels grey steel hulls
Slide into the salty sea
Growling heinous savage asides
Pledge revenge to be wreaked on distant
Raiders who may ask no mercy from on high:
Old footpads, pickpockets, chancers, wizened rouge
Consumptives retreat.
Cloth-capped shipwrights puff butts, feeling high
Looking hard, keenly noting blemishes, repairs,
Defects, work to do, and slow stare
behind at the crap strewn, broken,
dust clouded, scorched slipway
Mass observers congregate dumbstruck,
awed on the wrecked slipway
gazing in sombre wonder, muttering as Klaxons screech
The dust clears and the naked, absurd hulk flops
Quite near distant, adrift, buoyant.
Water spumes from tyred tugs jet,
Spray polluted tears from on high
Drenching squabbling gulls,
who craw and repair
to the dry side of the hull.
Ramona’s smiles, shining apostolic, in the dull
Room, barely heed the clamour on the stairs,
She undresses easy, I sigh,
Another Liberty Ship underway
Waiving the rules of the wolf
The racket distant, now less frantic
The crowd disperses, now less antic
Fleeting ecstasies, comparing, admiring
Nifty clips of the hull:
The news of recent street
Melt in stealth, frantic
To avoid the attentions of the rugger buggers
Muscling raucous wild things, corporal bulwarks
Flailing, clubbing, brutes culling
Conviction for conviction’s sake
What did he ever
do for me
John Fitzgerald
Kennedy?
What indeed! Stopped world war three –
that’s a start.
An indefinite postponement so far,
Certainly.
It would be very bad for business, it
was argued,
an argument that held water
with many,
a popular viewpoint among those
who knew who
John Kennedy was.
And for those who didn’t
A chance, an opportunity
to find out.
Soft knocks
To shut or open the Zen on the Art of Bridge,
Faust, Kafka – easy listening!
Getting my bearings, settling in, making a mess, feeling awkward.
The Bridge. I know this place well, too well. The scene of the crime, witness to disaster, base misdemeanours, sullied by cleansing agents, violated by animals, jumbled up, dumped on, dumped in.
The Bridge. Here dreams are born, and mares lived out. Stories of horses; hateful verses, grudging verses diluted. These are bad vibes. This time will be different, this is not a retreat. It’s a crucible, a temenos.
The Bridge. A place to prepare yourself in order to be yourself.
to shut or open the door at whim.
Knocks are needed to gain entry.
Hard knocks.
Paling to significance,
Brad the Impaler, a pied butcher bird,
whistles a chirpy tune
(Imagine, if you will,
a melodic baritone
bicycle here)
and skewers a shrew for the barbie.
Life read and heard in tooth and claw,
one sighs through clenched teeth.
‘This is all the weather you get,
so you’d best enjoy it…Grrghh!’
says a balaclavad scimitar weatherman.
I will, I will!
Promise I will, croons Brad.