Week 9 - haikus aboard the ship

Revisiting my poet-self on a voyage. I will republish the haikus I wrote on my voyage aboard MV Roland OIdendorff, so they can find a new home with all my other poems.

Impressionistic

I thought they painted
By squinting their eyes near shut
Here my eyes wide open.

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Another world

Daily 10K steps
Between the storms and calm seas
No smoking is home.

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Land at last

It slips into view
I hoped it would never come
Still I feel such joy.

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My blue crocs of bad fashion

Those new friends of mine
Carried me around the ship
Should I leave them here?

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A fawning bush of yellow

Mountain of iron
This is the reality
Yet see, life still blooms.

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Shore leave

Chocolate lava
So many speaking so loud
My heart pattering.

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What I will surely miss

Friends you find at sea
Wise man with tree on his head
Evening of laughter.

The glory before the collapse

We have this great plan

I hope it will carry me
Doll buggy breaks down.

(Photo: Kim, Karen, and Lia, 1959, Caracas Venezuela)

All dolled up

Behind the fence, the tortoise says, "Look at the three creatures all dolled up." It wanders over, "Will they give me some lettuce leaves? No, they are all chatter and no food."

(Photo: Kim, Karen, and Lia, 1959, Venezuela)

Another year gone by

Where are you today?
Hanging out with a new crowd?
Or just sitting contentedly in
The quiet of your own company?
 
Did you take over
The spirit of an old Arab
Whose wisdom and kindness
Weaves deeply into the hearts
Of a large, chaotic family
Who are scattered everywhere
Across the globe, yet…
When anyone thinks of family
They are sitting right next to you
With smiles painted
Broadly across their faces
And a tenderness of mind.
 
Or, did you quickly manage
To return as that bright
And brilliant Hollywood star,
Standing on a stage
At an awards ceremony
Talking of your greatness
And half believing
This is absolutely true.
And half believing
It is only a bad joke,
And wondering why
Everyone is upset about
Your audacity to speak out loud
What they covet so dearly.
 
Could you be spending
The eternity since your leaving
Recklessly riding the tops of waves,
Breaking across the decks
Of massive vessels whose
Crews bow to you in wonder
And fright, knowing
How precarious their lives are.

Yet, also knowing so well
The bliss of surrender.
 
I know you are here, but
Still do not know where here is.
Even after all this time,
Sometimes, talking to you
In my thoughts, does nothing
But mask the loss, the absence
You cleaved out of our lives
With the passing of yours.

Reincarnation of a rugby player

Look at that idiot traipsing around. What a wimp. The old me would have ploughed him down with one shift of my shoulder. I could have stomped him into the ground and left him to be scraped up by his sissy friends. I could have taken them all on without flinching.

Bloody hell, this coat itches. Who puts a coat on a dog? God, if they only knew me back then. They’d be bloody terrified.

Photo by Erik Mclean on Unsplash

Timeless play in paradise

Well over half a century ago, three little girls played on Grand Anse Beach. There were no tourists then on the beach, only the occasional passerby who would inevitably wander over and tease them in one manner or another.

They dug a hole to China. Built a castle until a wave came and tore the walls down. Chattered excitedly about fanciful sea monsters crawling up and grabbing their legs. Bickered when the cloak of boredom smothered their imaginations.

They ran from all that fun when their stomachs cried out in hunger, and with the sudden realisation struck them that they were alone. They scattered up the beach, soft sand breaking between their toes, towards the shaded terrace where their mother and other women were luxuriating in amiable conversation, seemingly oblivious to the charge of the cavalry racing their way.

(Photo: Lia, Karen, and Kim, 1958, Venezuela)

Trusting my intuition

Wandering around lost
New city, old problems
Confusion with all its wrath
Starts to make
My explorer’s heart
Shrink and cringe
At every corner taken.
 
My map turns into a maze
My confidence begins to fade
Should I stick to the
Purgatory of hotel lobbies
The blandness of franchises
The strained smiles of boredom
And deep disillusionment by
All those who serve me plates of
Soulless food that they once
Thought would let them travel
To exotic places.
 
Suddenly, across the road
Next to the scaffolding
With its dull green
Plastic covering
That snaps and flutters
In the scary winds
A neon sign
In a language I do not know
Calls me into its warmth
With hot, comforting food
From farfar away
Somewhere they call home.

 
Photo by Angel Maldonado on Unsplash

Never book the middle seat

Okay. Maybe the size of the middle seat on an airplane is the same as the window or aisle seat when you look at the spec sheets. In reality, the moment you ask the passenger in the aisle seat to let you in, it starts to shrink.

There is the smirk on the face of the person by the window. The tripping over the suitcase of the man on the aisle, which does not really fit under the seat in front of him. And finally, the plopping down into the middle seat, landing on a spiderweb of seatbelts belonging to everyone, trying to work out which one is yours and which are theirs, all the while groping under your own bum without touching theirs.

By then, the seat has shrunk, along with your ego, to the size of a pin.

Photo by szm 4 on Unsplash 

Monitoring the delay

Sharp pellets of snow
Chug, chug, scrunch, crunch, I’m waiting
With numbed frozen toes.

Photo by Tobias Reich on Unsplash