2014 #270

sputtering hull belly motors,
coal-grimy crew down there cussing
about how chow hour
went rancid and if

a honcho on high
could perhaps pick a way
and stick to it and throw
a suitcase overboard

the sea just might sigh with a hi
to a tardy sail engineer
and maybe one of those
exotic ports will depart

the rusty cage where too many scrawny
dreamscapes are crammed and materialize
and brown island birds will smile
and in an islet dance in sand

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About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
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