12 thoughts on “FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION – CHARACTER STUDY AGAIN”
NO NELSON WAS HE
On an old battlewagon, a long time ago,
which had sailed under Dewey, quite stately and slow,
there was once a commander who was such a sure loser
that he couldn’t distinguish canoes from a cruiser;
he would never take sailings that called for much working,
for his consummate talents were welshing and shirking,
and whenever the admiral would order him forth,
he would back to the south and then fill to the north.
All his shipmates would wonder, would always ask why
the Navy held fast to this valueless guy,
yet, although he could not navigate in a slip,
he lost nary a billet, though many a ship,
for his charm was pervasive, the hardy corrective
for the failings that rendered him feckless, defective.
And that’s why the Navy has layers of rank:
to cover commanders who turtled and sank.
This is great! Fun poem.
Brilliant!
Genius, William! Your portrayal paints quite a character.
Oh what sheer joy to read! The lilting rhyme like lapping waves & the story enchanting . Each word moving ghe poem forward to the excellently satisfying end. Terrific language throughout so nautical. Dewey is laughing somewhere!
The Visitor
We think he comes from the west
after sundown slipping over and under fences
crossing the creek where he steps on stones
algaed half dry in late August drought
believe he hikes through heavy grasses
beneath banks of rough leaf dogwood
heavier now for fruiting pearls
soon disappeared down gullets of gorging finches
it seems he also comes hungry lank and blown
in on the wind as he travels countless fields
to gain the melon patch rounding orbs
beckoning beacons in the moonlight
where he shuffles now bent with looking
through the maze of yellow leaves
rolling one or two between lean fingers
nails long untrimmed lifting to smell blossom ends
and savor their heady aroma orange autumn
filling his nostrils as his stomach clenches
in anticipation of a first bite as he frees
a stem from vine having selected
the most choice wrapped in its netting
ignores steps moving downtrail as
deer home in on crescents of okra
which he’s sampled but has little use for
tumbling his melon now like a soccer ball
toward the goal where he squats
in wet grass to feast and then
hands clasped on swollen belly
he naps beneath the stars before he begins
his solitary trek back to the old hackberry
three fields over that he calls home
never divulged and so secret
none can follow his meandering way back
he settles in to remember last night’s moonlight
and starshine as he licks lips and knuckles
for last bits fingering his mask, spine
fitting into the nubbly bark stubbled face
and whiskers twitching with his perfect smile.
A blackbird lands on the ground. It looks,
not at the ground, but at the grass, and
hears a worm slipping through the roots.
Not roots, but slipping in the deep scent of
grubs and worms and maggots, in rotting
peace that swims and ripens into perfume,
from where I hear my own rot and ripe
playing sing-songs with sulphurous roots.
Not with roots, but with palettes of wind,
fallen flocks of flying leaves into which
a blackbird hears a worm slip through
soil. It stops, still as a stave, and looks.
Its beak agile as light, quicker than a worm.
A worm for the chorus of hungry chicks.
Dog Park Romance
Her dog chased
his around the dog
run. She called to her
chocolate Lab to come.
He did not. He called for
his beagle. The beagle
blew him off. They both
laughed and a conversation
was born. He was instantly
smitten with this funny,
intelligent girl. She was late
for an appointment, and succeeded
getting her dog leashed, as she dashed
off. He felt a loss. Never got her
number. He doggedly returned
to the spot they met, but did not
see her. He questioned dog park
regulars to no avail.
Ah, he would put an ad
in the local paper. Maybe
she would see it. Several days
later, he received an email
from her. Seems she was
smitten as well. He canvassed
his options; a lovely painting
resulted.
POETIC BLOOMINGS 
NO NELSON WAS HE
On an old battlewagon, a long time ago,
which had sailed under Dewey, quite stately and slow,
there was once a commander who was such a sure loser
that he couldn’t distinguish canoes from a cruiser;
he would never take sailings that called for much working,
for his consummate talents were welshing and shirking,
and whenever the admiral would order him forth,
he would back to the south and then fill to the north.
All his shipmates would wonder, would always ask why
the Navy held fast to this valueless guy,
yet, although he could not navigate in a slip,
he lost nary a billet, though many a ship,
for his charm was pervasive, the hardy corrective
for the failings that rendered him feckless, defective.
And that’s why the Navy has layers of rank:
to cover commanders who turtled and sank.
This is great! Fun poem.
Brilliant!
Genius, William! Your portrayal paints quite a character.
Oh what sheer joy to read! The lilting rhyme like lapping waves & the story enchanting . Each word moving ghe poem forward to the excellently satisfying end. Terrific language throughout so nautical. Dewey is laughing somewhere!
The Visitor
We think he comes from the west
after sundown slipping over and under fences
crossing the creek where he steps on stones
algaed half dry in late August drought
believe he hikes through heavy grasses
beneath banks of rough leaf dogwood
heavier now for fruiting pearls
soon disappeared down gullets of gorging finches
it seems he also comes hungry lank and blown
in on the wind as he travels countless fields
to gain the melon patch rounding orbs
beckoning beacons in the moonlight
where he shuffles now bent with looking
through the maze of yellow leaves
rolling one or two between lean fingers
nails long untrimmed lifting to smell blossom ends
and savor their heady aroma orange autumn
filling his nostrils as his stomach clenches
in anticipation of a first bite as he frees
a stem from vine having selected
the most choice wrapped in its netting
ignores steps moving downtrail as
deer home in on crescents of okra
which he’s sampled but has little use for
tumbling his melon now like a soccer ball
toward the goal where he squats
in wet grass to feast and then
hands clasped on swollen belly
he naps beneath the stars before he begins
his solitary trek back to the old hackberry
three fields over that he calls home
never divulged and so secret
none can follow his meandering way back
he settles in to remember last night’s moonlight
and starshine as he licks lips and knuckles
for last bits fingering his mask, spine
fitting into the nubbly bark stubbled face
and whiskers twitching with his perfect smile.
So endearing.
Sweet!
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The photo that goes with this one is at https://wp.me/p7ofDB-1tc
Above From Below
A blackbird lands on the ground. It looks,
not at the ground, but at the grass, and
hears a worm slipping through the roots.
Not roots, but slipping in the deep scent of
grubs and worms and maggots, in rotting
peace that swims and ripens into perfume,
from where I hear my own rot and ripe
playing sing-songs with sulphurous roots.
Not with roots, but with palettes of wind,
fallen flocks of flying leaves into which
a blackbird hears a worm slip through
soil. It stops, still as a stave, and looks.
Its beak agile as light, quicker than a worm.
A worm for the chorus of hungry chicks.
Dog Park Romance
Her dog chased
his around the dog
run. She called to her
chocolate Lab to come.
He did not. He called for
his beagle. The beagle
blew him off. They both
laughed and a conversation
was born. He was instantly
smitten with this funny,
intelligent girl. She was late
for an appointment, and succeeded
getting her dog leashed, as she dashed
off. He felt a loss. Never got her
number. He doggedly returned
to the spot they met, but did not
see her. He questioned dog park
regulars to no avail.
Ah, he would put an ad
in the local paper. Maybe
she would see it. Several days
later, he received an email
from her. Seems she was
smitten as well. He canvassed
his options; a lovely painting
resulted.
Pingback: Rewritten Character Study – Plumb-Lines