The Storm

shoulda bought the beacon

and left two weeks earlier

funny how in all this chaos
the moon still dances in and out of the fury

now that keel,
I never did like the way it shook
not that it matters now

God, what a blow

shadows of death in every trough that plows my grave

while my rudder hangs

like a tail without a cat

my survival suit swings drunken in the closet

as useless as a candle in a blizzard

and I think of those I spoke to last

and the things I might have said

Men paint of such scenes
but this isn't a banker's wall

or a side-winding tale

in a sawdust saloon

this is real

life, death, alone

the final act where indifference

yawns the balcony
and the depths feather my bed

I could think of angler fish ripping my flesh for supper

or the pump that sleeps a drowning sorrow

but strangely I don't

I think of kisses as I drink the last coffee

these lips shall enjoy

and I laugh maniacally

as I slide down one hill

and toss to the other

wondering which wave took my panic

when all hope is reefed

the grand mast of fear falls broken

and the heavy anchor of regret snaps its chain

while my soul sails an uncharted departing

under bare poles and a curious moon

tomorrow the seas shall smooth

and roll like a wheat field in Nebraska

a ship may pass unknowing

a whale might nurse

and a long liner may notice clutter

on his sonar

but that is a tomorrow my coin cannot purchase

a calm a tempest too late

and a sun I shall never see

so farewell! all ye lovely ladies

so long, my brothers in arms

drink to me when the gales come calling

drink to the fool who sailed alone

and made peace with the night that took him