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.

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.

***
I read the poem live on my Facebook author's page ~
https://www.facebook.com/QuentCordairFiction/posts/1146495142054239

Copyright 2016, Quent Cordair

For the sucker born each minute
There’s a con born every hour,
But blessedly each day is born
The independent power,
Who’s neither host nor parasite,
Who’s neither lord nor bower,
Who keeps his mind with sober art,
Before no king would cower;
He earns his take and pays his due—
A man, a sovereign tower.

For my softest one, in a hammock of satin,
A bed of rose petals on pillows of mink.
So lightly you lie, a suspended sonata,
In lines of fine ivory and islets of pink.

Hands hollow with hunger, my fingers would follow
Each lift to its fall, each peak to its draw.
To bruise or to break I would not, yet I think
That I must, as I live, partake as I give –

Eyes careless and blue beneath cumulus climbing,
Hair tumbled and free, framing all my dream fair.
I trace your terrain, hands floating so closely,
My heat and your cool wring a tear from the air.

I dare to drift over, hold still in the hover
Till naught but sheer will stands between us until –
Dire wanting, still saving, a chasm of craving,
Distilling desire into Need to fulfill –

Still close and down closer the rain to the desert.
First drops of anointment die shushed in a steam.
Time reined and arrested, eternal and blessed,
Made holy by all that we are and do deem.

Till eyes into eyes of reflection are falling,
The moment unknown of the melting and meld.
Consumed and consuming, the magnetic dooming
As metals once separate in oneness are weld.

Confluence of burning souls molten and churning,
Long-suffering uprooted, sucked out with the flow.
Canyons swept clean of love lost and hope fading,
Washed down to rest deep beneath new fields below.

Felled fences left lying, the festive gone feasting,
The borders abandoned, the ships left to sink,
Till I rise again, for my softest one,
In a bed of rose petals on pillows of mink.

*       *       *

“For My Softest One” is from the Lunch Break collection of short stories and poems, now available on Amazon for Kindle and in paperback….

“…well worth the price. If you haven’t read any of Quent’s stories yet, I almost envy you. I’m waiting eagerly for more.” – Dianne Durante, author of the Forgotten Delights series

“Could you read these during your lunch break? Yes. Will you want to? No. You won’t want to rush yourself. You’ll want to pour yourself a glass of wine, snuggle into your favorite chair, turn off your phone, and spend every luxurious minute that you can immersing yourself in these stories.” – Elizabeth O’Brien, author of English Grammar Revolution

“…it is fuel for the spirit; it is an affirmation of life and what is good. That he writes beautifully and imaginatively adds to the reading pleasure.” – Michael Wilkinson, Sculptor

*****

Copyright 2020, Quent Cordair. All rights reserved.

Though parting’s sorrow sweet may be,
I’ll have another course of thee—
The salted tears from silken lips,
The chalice raised on tilted hips,
Till lay me low in hunger’s grave,
Contented still to still thee crave.

Copyright 2016, Quent Cordair. All rights reserved.

Suite Boxes

(by the grace of J.S. Bach)

Came gift after gift, suite boxes of sixes,
Soft muffle of canon rolled in from the sea,
A fugue led us laughing through harmony hedges,
A maze to a garden delight.

The tumbles of flora, so masterfully petalled,
A founting of blue rising high till it fell.
We left the day’s dress behind waterfall curtain,
Stepped through to wash memory away.

We waded cascades till the river ran deeply,
Surrendered all will to the strength of still flow,
We lay on the shore, souls quiet and shining.
The sun dried us softly to sleep.

Away once again to the place we remember,
To rest from the burden of so far to go.
A secret bridge shared to the call of sweet cello,
Hands held, we close our eyes.

***

From the Lunch Break collection of short stories and poems. Now available on Amazon in paperback and Kindle editions.

Visit my current project, the Idolatry series, Part II of which is currently being published chapter by chapter online.

Copyright 2012, Quent Cordair. All rights reserved.