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FATHER OCEAN
I’ll find him on the ocean break.
It’s there I see him best.
Sixty-something, hale and free,
gray hair nearly white with age
and pink across his chest.
Great big belly, pearly-white,
rising up on a blue-green sea.
Finer than a fine gull’s breast
with no tubes yet, and no
restraints; no tracheostomy.
Taught me how to float did he, tummy toward the sky;
to spout, to scull, and ride
each wave with no concern for grander ones gone by.
He must have been descended
from a Killy boatman's son.
Through fair and foul he’d drift.
I’ll see him so until the day
my own poor swim is done.
I’ll find him on the ocean break.
It’s there I'll see him best.
Sixty-something, hale and free,
gray hair nearly white with age
and come about for me.
PEE-AY VOLUNTEER
Shriek o’ the whistle! Rap o’ the drum!
The timber’s a-crackin’! The battle’s begun!
What lives we led beneath the black rock
that fired the furnace, the boiler, and crock.
That stole our breath and crushed our bone
and tossed our babes to the orphan home.
Shriek o’ the whistle! Rap o’ the drum!
The lamp’s blown out! The battle’s run!
We swapped our picks for soldier knives
and made our darlings army wives.
We marched and met a fierce gray band.
Preserved the Union ‘cross the land.
Shriek o’ the whistle! Rap o’ the drum!
The roof’s shored-up! The battle’s won!
O what does it matter— above or below?
Our fate was a-fightin’, John Reb or the coal.
The whistle’s gone silent now, so has the drum.
We’ve brawled our way to Kingdom Come!
Shriek o' the whistle! Rap o' the drum!
Our tale's been told, the story's done.
— R. Boyle Burnside
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