SALT IN THE BLOOD

We come from the Camarthenshire Randells who all descended from an English sea captain, Francis Randell of Clovelly in North Devon, who settled in South Wales in the late 1700s. His son was also a sea captain, plying the British coast carrying cargoes of coal and tin. I'm sure sea salt is in my blood as I'm never happier than when I am travelling on a ship somewhere.......
           




          THE STORM                                    

Oh, heave her hard, me hearties, heave that sheet for all you're worth,
We need to set the mizzen now the storm has done its worst.
The Lord has smiled on our fair ship whilst in that storm's black maw,
And kept us safe in this poor world, away from Heaven's door.

We felt our families' prayers for us whilst with that storm we fought,
Foul lightening struck our bare pine poles as for our lives it sought.
The waves of grey and angry brine built mountains in our path
That crashed upon our straining decks with boiling aftermath.

Our creaking home upon the waves was tossed like a stray cork,
The presence of a storm like this we'd only heard in talk.
Its screaming, screeching banshee-call swung terror like a sword,
Which slashed its way through all our decks to cower all on board.

The storm jibs cracked like cannon as they ripped and then gave way,
Our skipper stayed lashed to the helm from midnight to next day.
The boys who manned the pumps below had less time to court fear
Than those of us on heaving watch 'tween decks in our wet gear.

When came the light of morning, to our Lord we all gave thanks,
Though seas had not abated still our vessel hadn't sunk.
By midday Sun had scoured away the grey-black clouds of Hell,
And Ocean had returned to us her calm familiar swell.

So heave her hard, me hearties, heave that sheet with joyful hearts,
Set those sails of celebration as our fearfulness departs.
Having sailed through fair and foulness, glorious sunsets, angry foam,
When we point our ship's bows landward, we rejoice for reaching home.

                        © Kim Randell






THANKFUL

To feel the living power of the wind,
As it bellies out the sail in your hand,
As it pushes your small craft across the waves,
As it carries you so swift away from land,
Makes you thankful for this moment in your life.

To feel the healing strength of the sun,
As it warms you from the chill of a malaise,
As it lights your world and drives away your dark,
As it helps you keep a count of all your days,
Makes you thankful for this moment in your life.

To feel the cleansing freshness of the rain,
As it washes all the dust from Nature's back,
As it nutures all of life upon this earth,
As to Mother Ocean makes the rivers track,
Makes you thankful for all moments in your life.

                       © Kim Randell

Poetry - A Declining Art? - a follow-on......

As a brief follow-on from my article in August please find below a classically styled modern poem lovingly crafted and aged in old oak barrels (I'm joking....about the barrels, of course).

The point being made is that this is what Joe Public calls poetry - rhyme, rhythm, metaphor that is recognizable and an empathic message. It takes a bit of patience and practice, but the real crafting of a poem is its own reward once the work is complete. Liken it to the carving of a fine statue. You get out only what you put in. Enjoy!




MERE MORTAL MAN

The tasks I must perform as routine every day
Just rob me of another brightly shining act.
My time on this poor planet surely melts away
The more I battle with the darkly morbid fact
That bitter tastes the irony in all our dreams,
The kernel of a nut no mortal man has cracked;
Too short our bodies’ lives to us it seems,
Our mind spans truly crippled by a time span sacked.

When youth had clothed my waking dreams an aeon back,
The Universe I owned, as well as hoary Time itself.
Vast glowing projects plotted for a grand attack,
And many more bright goals just waiting on the shelf.
It seemed Forever’s boundary lines could not be tracked,
Nor did that word Infinity have meaning in itself.
My grand achievements lying more in fiction than in fact,
The world my oyster, gleaming pearl all set in glistening gilt.

As I meandered on along Life’s winding coil,
A chunk of time would dissipate each sleepy night.
Plans and projects moving softly off the boil,
One by one they’d quietly vanish from my sight,
Replaced by daily deeds that paid me for my toil,
Necessities of bread and shelter, holding back my flight.
Bright beacons of my dreams and projects without oil
That only time can brew slipped slowly into night.

© Kim Randell