Not for the weak of heart, this watery confinement –
with brine-coated tongues and surly dispositions, went
the submarine crew to their depths, braved the absence
of daylight, sold their souls to Poseidon’s entombment.
Some say it was the fumes, sulphurous as Hell’s own funk
that warped the minds of hardy men, robbed them of their spunk –
tales of lily-white maidens, whose melodic tunes wiled,
lured spirits from their nests, lifeless corpses in their bunk.
(This form, inspired by Willow Poetry’s What Do You See? challenge – the image provided – is a Rubayait, written for dVerse pub.)
The air hangs heavy and yet I shiver,
threat of rain clouds the forlorn sky;
high above the palm leaves quiver,
the air hangs heavy and yet I shiver
even birdsong has become a wither
Nature’s wrath seldom a passing sigh;
the air hangs heavy and yet I shiver,
threat of rain clouds the forlorn sky.
(An attempt at a triolet for Jilly who is hosting the dVerse pub tonight.)