Originally published in miniMAG Issue 49

Slowly awakening powers

Filter down, incandescent,

Burning brightly, igniting

The fires of the mind.

Dawn comes to the troubadour.

Lonely on the hillside.

Wash me away

Down your mountainous stream

With the minerals and soil,

Down past the cliffs and to your valleys,

Into your lakes and oceans,

Where I may return

Into my youth.

Wash me away

So I may break on your rocks;

I’ve been heartbroken so many times,

I’m used to the pain.

Twilight advances;

Wash me away.

Originally published in MiniMAG Issue 87

The Skipper is a mighty man;

He’s the master of his ship.

He’d like to have his mangy crew,

Be handled with a whip.

When out upon the briny deep,

You’d think he’s God Almighty.

To him, the famous Captain Bligh,

Was the patron saint of Blighty.

Upon his tiny, pointed head,

His peak cap is firmly anchored,

While sipping his imported beer,

From an old pewter tankard.

His mates and kin are prone to ask,

To ship out on another tour.

It takes an hour; days, and months;

This—a landlubber’s cure!

He raves and rants, and shouts and roars,

Like Barnacle Bill, the sailor.

His salty, double-knit nautical clothes,

Were made by a plump tailor.

When out, at last, upon the sea,

He has an urge to tinker.

He almost takes the ship apart,

Aye—a philosophical freethinker!

When weather’s clear and the air is bright,

He doesn’t leave the mooring.

But should a thundering typhoon set in,

That blaggard will go a-touring!

His guests and crew must always move,

He doesn’t like them lazy.

To be the skipper of a ship,

One has to be slightly crazy!