Silly Little Poems
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1) The sun is baking hot, the wind it blows, not. So I sunbathe to the sound of the engine, who's use I'd not often be defendin' but, so what.
2) It's true what they say about the shelf. Waves like Munroes, they're nae guid for ones health. So we sail West for deeper water
3) Everything on deck encrusted with salt crystals. From last nights SW swell sweeping the decks. Rain required.... but during Martin's watch.
4) A light show like no other as the Sun steps West and triggers a million little strobe lights on the water that pulse perfectly to our techno
5) Celebrating 200 miles at sea, and largest dose of vitD since that one time at Nairn beach in 1998 when I forgot the sun cream. 47'18N 06'19W
6) The wind is lighter as we edge toward our 3rd night at sea. I enjoyed my first cup o tea of the crossing. Haven't seen another boat all day.
7) It's 81 characters too long you say. Well, it seems, it's really not my day. I try to make a line break too. But my characters are too few.
8)The motor it starts, but sounds an angry tick. Better call the engine whisperer - quick!
9) He shakes his head and sucks his gums. I wince at the thought of him doing his sums.....
1) Other people's halyards I thought.
What a din.
But when it comes down to it
The only mast in earshot is my own
And it rattles free
2) Lay down your arms men
Open your arms then into them
Take your brother
Hold him close and know
That you are one
For it is better to share a glass
Than in the fighting tip it over
3) And the music gives us solace
In a sea of un meaning
4) And I awake years later
The colours of the room have faded
The once vibrant red curtains are now a lust-less light peach
The carpet, once green, is threadbare and grey
My own skin, once golden brown, now a
dangerous looking thin blue-white
And I know that I'm headed for my longest night
The winter of my life stretches out behind this old man
5) Little white men upon a ridge
Spell catastrophe in semaphore
Their long arms spinning
In a light breeze
They power a town just three miles West
Whose people shun the oil at our behest
But we may be too late, nonetheless