Classic Poem

Wind down from the mountains O from the far west
from the white impure winter born old to here the gracious eastern spring
that dies young when the summer music comes
& on to the immaculate Atlantic cold still cold

Darkness of houses in the winter mountains
Women sit still & silent next to tables
dressed in deathly everlastings
Through the short dark days
children look out windows windows

& (honor the brief lives now) destroyers plunge pitching in Pacific typhoons green
steep water up over their bridges breaks & superstructures of meaningless aluminum & steel
It laughs at steel & sailors also laugh although they must wash much salt from crusted faces
They laugh a lot & tell stories about real storms the way they used to be say twenty thirty forty years ago
They laugh on the messdecks when soup spills & food goes flying from the pounding table & when they come off four hours watch soaked to the skin & tattoos pucker & shirts shrink & coffee won't stay in the cup
One makes his way along the deck & is knocked down by a big wave like being hit in the breastbone point-blank with a fire hose & skids like a fish out of water forty feet along the so-called non-skid deck & at the last split second saves himself from Davy Jones by grabbing a stanchion & holding on tight
with a certain serious dedication
He crawls to his compartment carefully & when they ask him what the hell happened he doesn't say death's nether lip just brushed his cheek
He says he just lost his God-damned flashlight over the side
& they laugh devising ways to wedge themselves into their bunks for a little snooze without being rocked clean out of the cradle
by old Meat-Mother Pacific & her autumn music