Laughing moon

My seaward route recounts the night's mistrust,
declaims untruths upon the water wakes,
resounding the wind transmits my past
with demons prompting me to our mistakes.

They are my ocean pals! From dark sea depths
saltate and dance, attired like buffoons,
concording violins and brass trumpets
to gallivant around with looney tunes.

Meantime the stars, elusive, send their spark,
my pals essay in boats with wooden laughs,
discerning critics of our ghostly barque,
where waxen maids regale on moon's behalf.

Enchanting group! A theater folklore,
with drunk musicians and chords untuned,
ineptly smile with swollen lips to yore,
in front of a half-hidden laughing moon.

On empty quarry play guitar slack strings,
hoarse flutes, vociferous trombones and lyres,
my joker pals saltate in air and sing,
conveying to the moon their laughs and tears.

Expressing joy absorb my stare and thought,
with silver amulets and oracles foretold,
away they glide to destinations wrought,
where sovereign seas enfold the brave and bold.

Saluting me, a dancer higher jumps
('mid pandemonium tunes - on marble delf!)
and as the laughing chorus plays paeans,
avaunt he sails resembling myself.

29-10-2013 © Georgios Venetopoulos All rights reserved
(Iambic Pentameter)

Notre Dame Marion

Notre Dame Marion

She thought of all details the Mistral sweeps

the tears she shed that night atop the deck;

how beautiful it was to bear her dreams

but why the heavens have induced the wreck?

For ten odd months the messages received,

the scent of ports brought in, so to inform

but near Alaska, Bering Strait, bereaved

the ship had spent her masts, in waves and storm.

The Mistral spoke that night, 'the ship was split',

and then he was with her, in waxen light;

he smiled - she guessed he knew naught of it;

how was his smile angelical and bright!

He kiss'd her face (or so she thought), and hair

and then he sail'd away, in her belief,

atop the tides on his departing fare,

on moors she laughed to conjure the grief.

On Aleutians snows today and slow,

'Notre Dame Marion' advances on the tide;

atop the deck are standing in faint glow,

two ghosts that conn the ship on ether's glide.

© G. Venetopoulos 2012-01-09, All Rights Reserved

(Iambic pentameter)

Notre Dame Marion

Her Soul, the Sea (The Ship)

 

Her Soul, the Sea (The Ship)

The shadows deigned in precise sequence
where skylines have conducted fore the ship,
its blackened sight to boss the thought and sense
of sailors that imagined its long trip.

The Northern wind was cutting like a knife,
injurious, its messages behowled,
equilibrating on the brink of life
of the foregone to seas, the thinking prowled.

The ship's black smoke ascended to the skies
from supercilious tall funnels, smog,
bestowing sacrificial offing size
to sovereign Gods that lived inside the fog.

The tidal and enshrouding foaming spills,-
advanced the dusk, advanced the bawling horn's
unearthly sounding out; the flowing rills
retracted in the sea its crying mourns.

In front of us, the ship's displacement thrilled
approaching, so, magnificent the moors;
Her Soul, the Sea, her eulogy instilled
inside our minds and souls, where faith adjures.

Pristine the sea, baptized the scene in depths
where psyches stay in canted-over keels,
deceptive were the reasoned-out percepts,
infused where catastrophe conceals.

The night descended when the ship's steel gaze
examined curious and measured me,
proposing wedlock and a fate of blaze,
my competence, demanding, in the sea.

Across the Straits, young lady Sadness kissed
with ripping cold my twenty years and eyes,
resembling Her Soul, the Sea, amidst
the Northern winds that howled and my demise.

© 10-15-2013 G. Venetopoulos, All Rights Reserved
(Iambic Pentameter)

Her Soul, The Sea (The Ship)