THE MINUTE MAN

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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 when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

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