A maritime scene

A seamstress swims by
the pirate ship, her hem undone
as her legs drum beneath
the water’s otherwise somber surface.

The sun’s light stretches longer
as it attempts to dip into the ocean
for the night, highlight as it goes
the foibles riding along
the ocean’s impenetrable surface.

The fish – home from school –
tolerate this blemish, frustratingly
unaware that the sun dances in gold
just above the mysterious surface.

The seamstress swims along,
her head bobbing dolefully on the surface,
bubbles betraying her beside the boat,
moments from a maritime scene
marred by murder.

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Keep kicking

Somewhere beneath the waters
of another dream washing the day off
I slumber through the dark, uncertain night.
What is life but a series
of best guesses, sailors choosing a course
without stars guiding them? We swim,
arms flailing, struggling to keep our heads
above the salty tides pulling us
somewhere – better?

With the sun I’ll break free of this repose,
swim this way – or that
way – guessing at an island paradise
I can almost see beyond the reach
of my freestyle fingers, stretched straight
like they taught me. I’ll keep kicking,
keep moving, keep ahead
of the currents – but for now I rest
my weary legs, my arms.

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Perhaps to dream at the ocean

I think it was the ocean – brilliant waters
softly breaking
me loose from my dull reality –
that spared a glimpse, or at least
a brief broken specter into
the dancing fancies of scrambling crabs
scuttling sideways for
an admiring female with discerning tastes
of garlic butter and lemon.

I know it was the crab – drumming pincers
rhythmically beating
me loose from my imagination –
that clutched my big toe in claws
unable to feel pain, and, appreciating the irony,
I retreated to the Fish Shack
to taste delicious revenge among
the garlic crab legs.

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