THE MINUTE MAN

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  • Philosophy
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  • Nature
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  • Passion

    Poem Commentary

    I always thought of those lone sailors bobbing at the bottom  of civilization as people with a death wish. Appearantly I changed my mind as I was writing it.

    THE MINUTE MAN


     

    THE MINUTE MAN

    salt froth swirls and dances
    sadistic winds seize an ear
    shouting, biting
    a parade of furies;

    far off … suddenly near
    like unmanned bagpipes in battle;
    a subverter of wills
    - stealing beats from heartworn souls

    Rolling black blankets of evil;
    Grave clothes over unsated waters
    “I promise you your death!” it seems to say

    “I will send you to the place where fathers
    went before you; sailors whose pride I salted down
    I laugh at your faith in my tenuous grace
    The morning sun sees my beauty…
    What YOU think … I don’t care.”


    Can’t see
    ‘have no barring
    For God’s sake give me waterless air!
    Never ending terror
    Body shaking – can’t hold… hands don’t work
    Almost more than I can bear

    elusive minute...
    holding out for
    a dry one;
    relative quiet
    and hot cuppa

    more lonely than a freight train
    The deep screams "You're outta place here!"
    "that's not an issue." his tongue replies
    "this is my minute, I won’t die till I
     give up!"

    embracing anger;
    unrelented hope
    second wind now for a man who wields;
    a sword against the minute

    ignoring salty slaps and brain freeze
    eyes wrinkled
    lashes swimming
    through the veil rinforzando
    with del Fugo behind,

    soon black meets grey
    silver wetness relents;
    the quiet minute cajoled
    into place by mans' hope

    cobalt blue rent with streams of
    paynes grey
    eyes focus into the glory ...
    and he-
    senses his way

    casting arm in an arc
    twice for good measure
    snugging his craft to the
    taughtness of rope

    lashing boom
    securing jib
    flagging head- wooden hands;
    acknowledging provision in
    all of its scope

    it used up every
    tool in one mans' crib
    and long spent he found
    the horn harbored hope

    this cape - this minute
    greatfully rounded
    he acknowledged
    and blessed
    the God he invoked

    it was impeeded, surpressed
    postponed - disuaded
    But it's here
    thank God it's here ... and it's day
    and I’ll call it mine.

    - Neville Park 07

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    TheSecretPoet commented on THE MINUTE MAN

    11-11-2012

    This poem seemed to take me to alternative planes and dimensions unknown where at times I wasn't sure I was going to make it out alive yet not afraid to die...WOW
    Reply to Comment

    NevillePark

    11/18/2012

    I wondered where we were going the "minute" I saw him disappearing and reappearing from behind the waves. I was kinda getting a writers rush as we went along. The subject itself - with the stories of survival-by-determination ... almost beyond reason, has always fascinated me. ..It's different than scaling the mountain but similar in the motivation behind it -perhaps Thanks, glad you enjoyed it..

    Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside you or else it is nothing, an empty formalized bore around which pedants can endlessly drone their notes and explanations.

    Unknown Source

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