Poetry by John Kirkwood

Love ... Faith ... Early Work ... The Environment ... Odds & Ends

In the steamy steamship bottom

Crouched the screaming power turbine,

Clung the hissing steamship boiler,

Turned the moaning driver gearing,

Paced the engineer of Cawamunga.

 

Full ahead was four-bells ringing

In the hold of Cawamunga.

Now the call was five-bells clanging,

Now the call was calling, shouting

"Call upon your turbine crouching,

Call upon your boiler boiling,

Speed our ship on groaning gearing."

Oh engineer of Cawamunga.

 

In the rigging shrieked the gale wind.

On the bow the pounding black tide --

To the stern lay coral death reef.

Shrieking, pounding came the typhoon,

Forcing back the Cawamunga.

Fighting had was Cawamunga,

Straining every steel sinew.

Keep the steamship Cawamunga

From the calling, clutching death reef,

Oh engineer of Cawamunga.

 

Fully five hours fought the steamship,

Fought the icy devil typhoon,

Fought with six-bell signals clanging.

Steady, steamship Cawamunga

Screaming, hissing, groaning, hoping,

Clawing, grinding, crying, dying.

Forced upon the pounding death reef,

Shattered was the Cawamunga.

Now the gull mourns for the steamship,

Over black bones in the dark surf,

Sighs and whimpers in the darkness,

For the engineer of Cawamunga.

His beady eyes were ever on me,

Followed closely as I rode.

As staid a stance as ever met me.

Quivered not nor moved the toad.

 

Lumpy, green and vitreous he was -

A sentinel through dark and day.

Thus the winkless rookerie watchman

Crouched alone, a craft of clay.

Black feet

Brown feet

White feet

New feet

Old feet

Wet feet

Cool feet

Hot feet

Tired feet

Silent feet

Good feet

God's feet

Always.

 

The snow drifts down

On soft white feet

Slows, then waits, still

Drifts, drifts on.

 

White sheets slanting

Across my window pane

Halts, turns, and lightly

Drift, drift on.

 

Cold silent forms

Erase the window sill

Stirred by winter's breath, they

Drift, drift on.

 

Falling, drifting, slanting

From heaven's heights

Fleeting frozen patterns

Drift, drift, on.

Down on the ocean edge

a green tide is sighing

Whispering tenderly

caressing the sand

Shimmering, motioning,

beckoning me.

 

My thoughts are there often,

and often my heart,

There with the seagulls

whose flapping and cries

Seem to be saying

"Rejoice we are free."

The seaside is laughing

and shouting to me.

 

Flee to its heartbeat,

Bound into the sea.

Joy is mine always

when there I can be.

With each cool murmur

with each subtle laugh,

The seaside is joyfully

calling to me.

This army is inhumane, filled with hate and fear and tears.

I stumble, numb, against my fallen brother and ask.

Why?

WHY?

WHERE have truth and compassion gone?

Where are strength and sensitivity?

Where is love ?

What little pride the thinking soldier had,

Has been reduced to words.

Replaced by a misguided sense of revenge.

Blow for blow, death for death, atrocity for atrocity.

Any feeling of human compassion has been snubbed

By violence or squelched by power.

I CAN not!

I WILL not be part and partial to this massacre of human dignity.

Do with me what you will.

Say to me what you may.

I must go from the devil's own system.