Deborah Elliott Deutschman

At the Helm--#1
(Another Old Chinese/Norse Poem)


At the helm of this mess, I steer along,
sometimes almost half-asleep
in the fog, in the dark,
grazing against invisible cliffs of ice all around,
somehow managing to avoid total disaster.
Suddenly jolted awake:
the unmistakable cries of gulls--
until I can even almost smell land
and spring in the soft, flower-scented air--a new world.
Then I realize it's only the groaning of the planks.
This old ship, with all its ghosts,
dreaming and talking to itself again.
And grinding on.


© 2015 Deborah Elliott Deutschman - All Rights Reserved -