A poem for all of us

Ships collide and dip as the ocean throws them about
as if toys in a bathtub

Clarity rescues them like a dream with confusion starts
and stops, hard cases

“So be it!” The Captain orders with espresso-stained hands
gripping way too tight

“It is a beginning,” he mutters to his toy monkey sitting on
a ledge near the end

Railings won’t help because they penetrate all existing
stands on a rest-stop

Can’t be this way, is another boundary lost to well-intentioned
ideas scraping the bottom

Words are synthetic leather driven by self, again a wind tunnel
of nothing without meaning

And nothing evolves into everything as opposites crash head-on
into yet another vow

Chastity is such bullshit but so what, why can’t it mean
something is a scream

Because it is a toy monkey after all. A toy monkey has
no meaning by us

We are the toy monkey. Isn’t that another direction away
from it all and so

Ships are at rest waiting for another shoe to drop only
if it be the way

Yes, the way is too long for a sidewalk, cracked, broken
upheld for all of it

It. Fallen beneath the scraping, blood-stained, soaked to
the core of all

Yes! We are here.

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About stevewhitmore

Former award-winning newspaperman and broadcast journalist, both radio and TV, spanning three decades. Army-trained paralegal, court bailiff and prosecutor's lead investigator for the 8th Infantry Division's Judge Advocate General's Corp., Mainz, Germany. 1973-1975.
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