These Are My JOTtings...

To Davy Jones' Locker

What blust'ry, ill and turbid winds
a-rock the ship of state!
To Davy's Locker pounding sends.
The frightened team's, "TOO LATE!"

The waves of men assail the mast,
beleaguered rudder, hull.
"Ye, wounded sailors, stand avast!
No weary wit be dull!"

In sheets it pours by pass and run.
Dread rocks of hail full shred.
First quarter's end, great Mercy's sun.
The ship and team near dead.

"Strike sail! Drop anchor! Pray for day!
By miracle we win!
"Alas! Dark hurricane's dismay
make rations bare, gaunt thin."

Mere threads of main and splintered wood
far-strewn on craggy floor.
No wins, six losses, saddened mood,
Lost map, no Hope explore.

Poor captain's lost, "Went down with ship."
No gales dare hands, again.
All mates drape logs, sunburned, adrift,
Each meager mind, "What sin?"

Each salty-tongued, half-man rare thinks
glad savior swiftly comes.
All hope to win this game now sinks
as bony Davy combs.

Glad ray, gold light, fair lining shines
Crisp sail 'gainst blue arrives.
"Me, Mateys, breathe! Hopes blaze thy mind!
By pink of skin team thrives!"

On creaky, painful bones all rise faint spark of hope aloft,
ill-fated crew of sunken barque cracks open weary eyes.
The do-med sky of blue, whose pearly white of Hope has tossed
a well-used rope of safety 'mid crews' shouts of glad-heart cries!

The ship lay torn.
The captain gone.
The crew forlorn
rode Hope upon.

by Jay O'Toole
on October 23rd, 2017