Again comes the cry, again comes the mourn,
Clutched fingers in hair over flowers forlorn;
Candles all lit till the night wetly glows,
Coffins wrapped neatly in black satin bows.
Shadows beg mercy where mercy’s unknown,
Prayers and peace offerings all fruitlessly sown,
The desperately hoping more love will suffice
For those taking no less than blood sacrifice.
There’s left but one answer to those who love death,
Whose sword demands kneeling until the last breath,
Those blinded to reason, faith shrouding their eyes
Till torn from their skulls, their creed’s final prize.
There’s left but one choice, for those who love life,
In answer to those sworn to murder and strife:
When faith-deafened minds every argument shun,
When no word can turn what no logic has won,
When pleas have been met every time with a gun—
Swift granting of death is the deed sooner done.
Yet another year, she thought,
Sitting in her chair, she thought.
Still she might, she thought,
Still she would, she thought,
Till she did, she thought —
Her soul, willed and willing,
Rose and waltzed more lightly even
Than her body ever had,
Out of the old, into the new.
Copyright 2013, Quent Cordair. All rights reserved.
Some say that Hell is made of fire,
Some say of ice.
From what I’ve seen the oceans sire
I think I’d choose the ice or fire
O’er sinking to the sailor’s end,
In darkening depths come eye to eye
With demons vile come round to rend
A flailing feast o’er which they’ll vie,
One bubbled cry ascending.
(you can follow along with the words of the poem below)
Character The shuffling line from dock to deck Turns up the plank to ticket check. Those early on the rails above Wave wanly down to ones they love; A long look down to ones they love. Mark the ship, her lines and seams, A welding of designer’s dreams And builder’s craft—but is she true? Or will she break against the blue? How will she fare against the blue? New captain there, high on the bridge; A ship so large, his privilege. It’s whispered that he’s wrecked a few, Though smaller craft, that much is true; Not one his fault, that much is true— Or so it’s sworn by this fresh crew And owners old with lifeboats new. All’s well insured with fading ink, They reassure with touch of drink; The trembling calms with touch of drink. The seas ahead are known to swell, Lift up to heaven, drop to hell, Loom overhead till pounding down To crush the air until lungs drown, With howling winds until lungs drown. Threatening isles with teething breaks, A glancing scrape is all it takes Across a careless bearing laid— The reckless bet by all is paid; The helmsman’s due by all is paid. The wise will eye both ship and man To measure both with skeptic scan. The sea cares not for sentiment Or fervent prayers to heaven sent; It swallows prayers to heaven sent. In character of steel and mind, In ship nor man a weakness find, On oceans’ floors, if truth be told, There lies more faith and trust than gold, There lies more hope than gold.
Copyright 2016, Quent Cordair. All rights reserved.