A Pocket of Resistance: the old mariner’s eternity

The Facebook video of a ship in a sea storm posted by David Hughen, my recollections of  storms at seas in sharing David’s video, my response on his post, my Tuesday column, and my posting here about going down the PTS pier yesterday, made me nostalgic, missing the sea life. And tonight when i continued my flailing quest at organization, i came across this poem i wrote three years ago. Seems sort of suitable:

eternity

nigh onto thirty years ago, the old mariner left the sea;
after nigh onto thirty years, he still misses the life:
the sea takes your heart, your soul, and sets you free;
the sea becomes your mother, your ingénue, your wife.

so the old man climbs his hill each day
and
looks down to the bay
and
beyond the sliver of land
they call the strand, which forms the bay,
and
gazes out to the sea,
which just goes on and on and on
until the curvature of the earth
takes the sea away from the old man’s gaze
into eternity
and
he breathes a sigh
for what used to be
and
he shifts his gaze down
to the harbor where the new
gray ladies lie at their berths:
modern, sleek creatures,
electronic, green-powered wonders
of advancement, they say
and
he remembers
the huffing and puffing of the steam ships
with twitches and twangs
of machinery
and
sweat and labor of men
manning the engine rooms, fire rooms,
and
magazines and crowded mounts
belching fire and smoke and noise;
realizing those old ships of the old navy
have gone over the horizon
as well as the sunset
into eternity
and
he breathes a sigh
for what used to be.

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