~Upon the Bow~

When you’re set upon the bow
And know not which way to turn,
The seas churl round about you
And down is up as up seems down
By the desolate caw of kern ~

When squalls well up to meet your charge,
Breakers on right and left,
And death serene with violent life
Permits you sail her tranquil barge
Yet leaves you destiny bereft -

How does one sort the remnant orders
Of a frigate lost at sea
When the breath of past-spelled canvas winds and
Sprays of rippling wake are all the by-gone guide at stern
To where she ought to be?

Your crew has mutinied against you
And all abandoned ship;
Left to weather storm alone,
Your only companions those silent few
Of Hobber’s murky crypt.

No log-books plot direction’s course,
No compass point the route;
St. Elmo shines forth not his fire, and
You list in scuppers of remorse,
Becalmed in damning doubt…

Then do you hide away and cower,
Defeated in your heart
As the cabin walls devour hope,
For what may light your darkest hour?
Turn then to the Charts.

The Admiral ordered them ‘special, and
The Maker slaved quite dear
So that their legends might be perfect:
So that you might take the seas in hand
And sail forth without fear.

Unfurl the sheets and trust the Charts,
Let them guide your way;
Put firm your hand unto the wheel
To steer her strong upon the mark
Through world’s end, night, and day.

Pain, nor plague, nor death may harm,
Try they no matter how.
The frigate lost once on the lee
Under regent captaincy
Returns to sail by strength of yards
And salute of steady cannon-arms,

And you step to prow, content to be
As your ship sails on to Final Sea,
Ever upon the bow.

A Chicken's Crow

Thrice you denied, twice were promised, once accepted.

On a blustery eve as thorny leaves of a tree do blow
Does, round the fire, the fateful ire of a chicken-crow
Echo through the square.
And there - jolly!-
You lose the game of Blind-Man's-Bluff
By winning Hide-and-Seek,
Finding IT, so meek...

You played by ear and broke the rules of what seemed
Yet a game for noble fools.
A sincere jester, knocked on the door
To find who was there -
On a windy, cool night in the flame-lit square
Who wondered why the chicken crossed the road.

...by God! for Pete, good sir, 'tis grand! -
You've found the answer, clasped your hands in irony understood...
Unease.
Pensive, lost with a map,
Though yesterday you trod those same steps, you now bear a load
Of doubt insecure - you witnessed the chicken cross the road,
And - in an instant - the humor ceased.

Now, standing - shivering - on the hill o'er which the bloody wind blows
From a distant garden, hearing a chicken crow,
The ashes from two nights' previous fires
A smoldering heap, the noble game's pyres;
You stare - your only companions a simple rock and a wonder in mind:

How will you cross to the other side?