I may be just a rotting rope now washed up on the sands:
but story books of travels wind within my fibrous strands.

For in my other life I sailed across the seven seas
as rigging on a pirate ship named "Buccaneering Breeze".

I watched the Jolly Roger raised when merchant ships were spied
and saw their white surrender flags, each sailor fearful-eyed.

I saw the glint of cutlass as the pirates stormed aboard
these merchant ships and plundered, adding booty to their hoard.

I soon lost count of prisoners who were made to walk the plank
to drunken cheers and shanty songs as one by one they sank.

To witness all these wicked deeds I was quite overjoyed:
the high seas for adventure's quest was where I was deployed.

At night I'd hear the pirates talk beneath the creaking mast -
sometimes my knots in horror tensed as jokes amongst them passed.

They shared their stories of the sea and lives they'd left on shore,
gave reasons why they'd signed to be sea rovers ever more.

Near all of them had nicknames like Black Mick and Powder Joe,
old Half Blind Alec wore a patch, while Peg Leg's gait was slow.

In port, they'd go ashore and swagger up and down the street,
carouse round pubs and brothels, their behaviour indiscreet.

Loud rollicking as back on board the sails were set anew;
I loved to feel the breeze once more as through my threads it blew.

One day, one horrifying day, our nemesis we met;
the fight was long and bloody – how the flashbacks haunt me yet.

Some crew were taken prisoners, some lay on deck to die;
the ship was left to founder 'neath the Caribbean sky.

The ocean's fury tore apart the"Buccaneering Breeze",
reduced to mangled flotsam which lay scattered on the seas.

Bound tightly to the main masthead I floated thus for days,
then washed up on an island in an early morning haze.

Discovered by a fisherman who called his mates and said,
"A timber mast, still in good state, I'll store it in my shed."

The mast was all he wanted; as he had no use for me
he severed our alliance and then cast me back to sea.

Forsaken, at the ocean's whim, in Neptune's realm I tossed;
amidst the creatures of the deep I felt alone and lost.

It was the king tide season as the waves with anger borne
swirled recklessly and hurled me on a shore with callous scorn.

So here I lay on Straddie's sand while rotting in the sun,
my cordage weak and faded, entangled and undone.

The joggers pound me in the sand which hastens my decline;
they're heedless that old age stalks all, transcends each earthly shrine.

But look, here comes a woman lost in thoughts of metered rhyme,
oblivious that household chores should occupy her time.

She stoops and holds my mangled threads, misgivings disappear;
she takes my photograph then says, "There is a poem here."

THROUGH THE AGES

We’ve heard about the Ice Age and the Age of Bronze, of Iron,
The Age of Christianity when good men marched to Zion.

The Medieval Age passed by, as did the Age of Fable,
The Dark Age and the Feudal Age – each era bore a label.

There was the New Age Dawning – the story’s in the singing –
As with that of Aquarius, our ears with music ringing.

There’s Middle Age and Old Age, there’s the Third Age education;
At twenty-one folk Come of Age which makes for celebration.

Reverse Age cream and lotions swear to fade my Real Age wrinkles,
But in this Age of Reason I know naught can smooth these crinkles.

Then there’s the cheese of Advanced Age whose smell is so atrocious,
Which Lionel brings forth from the fridge in manner quite precocious!

MISTRANSLATIONS

They came in hoards with their drums and spears,
Wild boar tusks pierced through the nose and ears;
Each diverse size of penis gourd
Left me dumbfounded and overawed!

The women's breasts swung exposed and bare,
Their grass skirts rustling a tuneful air;
In bilum bags infants slumbered still
While dogs and chooks roamed around at will.

These folk had gathered as by decree
To meet the members of C.P.C.#
Whose task it was to explain and tout
What Independence was all about.

Such folk were simple and didn't care
For constitutions and legal flair;
Their spoken language was tribal ruled,
Though some in Pidgin as well were schooled.

Two chosen translators took the floor -
We could but hope that they knew the score.
One listened well to the English word
Then told the other what he had heard.

Translation was to the Pidgin tongue,
A vivid language with words well strung.
The second man standing straight and tall
Inclined his head as he heard the call.

Then to his tribesfolk he turned and spoke,
While we watched hoping that he'd evoke
An understanding of future change,
Of independence from white man's range.

But words translated from tongue to tongue
Can be distorted and come unstrung.
Such fears emerged when, with spear in hand,
An elder tribesman was seen to stand.

"My friend", our chairman with due respect
Addressed the man in bright plumage decked;
"On independence from white man's link
You wish to speak? Tell us what you think."

In English, Pidgin and tribal cant
Translations flowed with awareness scant.
Was independence too vague a word
Confusing minds as to what they'd heard?

This question answered as in reply
The old man said with a glaring eye
"Ting ting bilong mi, no underpants;
Mi no laikim waitman underpants!"

"What lies beyond those distant hills?" I asked my Dad one day;
"Just misery and poverty." was all he had to say.

Sometimes I'd try to have him speak of days when he was young,
of where he'd lived, of friends he'd had and those he'd mixed among.

But he was taciturn and vague, his tone was often gruff;
he made it clear he'd no intent to talk about "such stuff".

"Don't send for any papers what give details of me birth,
about me parents and me kin – and don't you try unearth…

the stuff what's buried, best forgot – just wipe it from your mind;
when I came into town here, I left all that behind.

Your mum and me, we've reared you kids, worked hard in life's mish-mash
we've cared, and educated you though often pressed for cash."

Of course I didn't heed his words, and when the old man died
I searched for family ancestry which he had tried to hide.

My search revealed a cousin who was pleased to share with me
the little knowledge he had gleaned about our family tree.

His father was the youngest of twelve siblings, and it seems
he barely knew my dad who was out working with the teams.

So we two travelled out beyond those distant hills of blue
to see the place of my dad's birth and learn of what he knew

but never would impart to me – but soon I understood
the reason for his diffidence and passion to make good.

The family home was but a shack where all 12 kids were reared;
the father was a drunkard of whom his mum despaired.

Most nights brought scenes of violence, abuse and vicious rage
while frightened kids hid out of doors to flee a drunk's rampage.

My father was the eldest son, at 13 years of age
left home to work, and sent his mum most of his weekly wage.

One night the teams were rested on the other side of town;
my dad thought he'd surprise his folk, and so he wandered down.

Familiar noises reached his ears as he approached the shack:
he knew the shouts and screaming meant his dad was on attack.

He saw his mother on the ground, his father's fist was raised;
he grabbed his father's head and punched with random blows and crazed.

When he had done, his father lay stone still upon the floor
"Good riddance," said my father, "now you'll plague your kin no more."

The siblings stirred, young Billy said, "I think my Daddy's dead."
Their mother's voice was hushed and sad: "I loved him once," she said.

The police were called, my dad was charged – of guilt there was no doubt;
while doing time his mother died, his siblings fostered out.

Upon release, a hardened man, unsettled and alone;
from town to town he drifted like a wasted rolling stone.

But then he met my mum whose love and patience through the years
helped ease his childhood memories, his torment and his fears.

No wonder that the questions which I posed were brushed aside -
but still I wish I'd understood these facts before he died.

These days those distant hills of blue no longer call to me;
the secrets they once cloistered are no more a mystery.

Now when I think of my old dad the memory conveys
how he made good despite the load of saddened yesterdays.

OLD AGE