Sunday, June 29, 2014

Cannonball Blues



author’s note:

At the least the cannonball of this poem is in the hold and not in the cannon...

...most of the time anyway.


CANNONBALL BLUES

Years ago, I woke up
to the sounds of a cannonball
rolling around in my cargo hold--

continually
banging against the hull walls--

even on a gentle sea
I can hear that ball
bump...

bump...

bump...into the oak wood

and if I plug my ears
the sound actually amplifies.

I've tried to control the ballistic
but can’t negotiate its massive weight---

that cast iron ignores my prayers,
jeers at my earnest meditation--!

Yet through this experience
I've discovered my ship
is of solid construction:

now I know I won't break

even in the roughest waves.

But I want to do more than endure:

I still dream of the day
when I’m strong enough--calm enough
to hear that muffled bump bump bump
and enjoy an honest laugh--

a little laugh at myself--

a big laugh at this bumpy life.


© 2014, Michael R. Patton
searching for the new mythology

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