Midwatch Apology

Sir, so sorry for my outburst.

Unprofessional, no excuses.

But with good reason, you see…

I was training the new transfer on radar.

I explained weapons-lock on primary…

He told me his spirit-guide was the wolf.

I dunno, sir. Seemed like personal shit to me.

But I moved on, described secondary lock…

And crows tell him when his lady wants to talk.

Now that’s just damned peculiar, sir, isn’t it?

I’m not one to poo-poo First Nation Mystics…

But a lady usually wants to holla at her man, right?

I mean, isn’t that true, like ninety-percent or so?

If someone needs a crow reminding him to-

I’m sorry, sir. Way off topic. Not my concern.

So I showed him how to use track-while-scan

to keep tabs on surface contacts to take with guns…

He told me he had a six-and-a-half-inch long penis.

Hell fuckin’ naw I didn’t ask about his schlong!

Sorry, I mean. No sir. I didn’t wanna know.

I never wanted to know about any man’s tackle-box.

He just volunteered that shit, like it was normal.

Like he was proud of his little bishop or somethin’.

Like that’s some shit you tell a shipmate

who’s trying to train you to help defend the ship.

Anyway, I guess that was my breaking point, sir.

That’s why I shouted, “Aw HELLLLL naw!”

and asked to be relieved of watch for a few minutes.

Sir, so sorry for my outburst.

Unprofessional, no excuses.

But with all respect, sir,

please instruct the first-class petty officer

to refrain from discussing his girlfriend,

his spirit animals, or his sad little rudder

while the second-class petty officer trains him

to operate the weapons control console

so the Lone Wolf can qualify for the midwatch.

** *

Written for imaginary garden with real toads prompt involving a crow, or crows. I’m not sharing it there though, as this poem-a-day thing is really kicking my ass and I don’t have time to enjoy others’ poems as much as I’d like.  

I’m sad to say, this was inspired by actual events. I… should probably see a therapist.

Perfectly Imperfect

Her old, lovely bones breathe

warped and creaking

with visions of what she could be

and past pitter-patters of

Saturday morning cartoons,

sleepovers, and birthdays.

She shelters me,

never passing judgement

should I sleep in on a Saturday.

Within her old, lovely bones,

I carved out a space for myself,

panting it in blues

impressed upon nostalgia from

the bluest oceans, coves, and depths;

when sunbeams enter on perfect angles,

my lungs fill with briny air of days long gone.

Her galley is a patchwork antiquated mess;

shams shimmied together in muddled nonsense

resembling the before photos of a makeover

that hasn’t happened yet, and

probably won’t for some time.

It gives her old bones character,

like an endearingly gapped-tooth

or the slurring lisp of a loved one.

Her living room, where I do

my least amount of living,

ties everything together.

Her redone floorboards

are coming undone

at some of the seams,

I can’t put too-positive a spin on floor damage

because they were expensive to redo,

though I do I blame the ghosts

of rambunctious children I’ve never met

pounding her hapless floors

running through their home,

before it became mine,

their laughter I’ve never heard

reverbing off the not-yet-blue walls.

This old girl shifts and creaks weirdly at times,

but she also whispers me to sleep

when rain pours onto her roof.

She is drafty and scantily insulated, but

she’s also a cool respite in sweltering summers.

She is unfortunately imperfect

and I’m perfectly lucky to have her.

Just beyond her walls though, I hear

there is a garden full of dead or dying foliage

that desperately needs tending,

but I don’t entertain such baseless rumors.

** *

Written for imaginary garden with real toads Hope and the Places That Heal You, hosted by  Sherry Blue Sky. Drop by and visit the other toads contributing to the pond!

Image source: Google

Next Time

Every day

at the same time

she catches him.

Back of the bus,

eyes fixated

on his handheld

luminous rectangle,

corners of his eyes

softly, sadly yielding

to gravity.

Every day

at the same time,

she catches him

surreptitiously

studying her

from behind the

safety of his

luminous rectangle

as her blush-brush

burnishes

her best face.

Every day at the same time,

for the beat of a hummingbird’s wing,

they are locked within the same space-time,

with her smirking a silent challenge;

is today the day?

Am I stunning enough for you

to break the ice and say

good morning?

Every day

at the same time,

the answer is always yes

she is indeed stunning enough,

and

every

day

at that same time,

he stubbornly ignores

this obvious answer.

Every day at the same time,

before the hummingbird

flaps wing for a second time,

his eyes retreat to his rectangle,

only to feel her eyes

burning him from behind

her bronzing brush.

Every day, like clockwork,

within the third flap

of a hummingbird’s wing,

he returns her hidden gaze

wondering if this woman

was willing to breach his

technological barriers

to lift the corners of his eyes

with a peacock-feather-brushed

good morning.

Every day,

at the same time,

the answer is always yes,

but not today.

Today,

unlike every day,

after their daily ritual,

both resolved to take action.

Next time,

the burnished,

blushing lady said to herself,

if he doesn’t greet me,

I will move closer to him and ask

if he sees anything he likes.

That should break the ice.

Next time,

the sad-eyed man said to himself,

I’ll just take an earlier bus.

Image source: Google

** *

Posted to imaginary garden with real toads for Physics with Björn: Space time and the special theory of relativity. Björn has us writing poems about space time! I know! So dope, right? I like to think that I would’ve made a pretty rad astrophysisit if I hadn’t wasted all those formative years hating myself and whatnot. Ah well.

(I left astrophysicist intentionally misspelled just so that everyone could have a clear idea of how far away I am from becoming an astrophysicist.)

Anyway, head on over and check out all the wonderful poetry about space time.