by Stanley Moss
Yes, Poseidon, you may call me the F-word,
I'm a fluke and flounder.
I am a rogue wave, I am a rogue wave!
I'm twice the size of surrounding waves.
I often come unexpectedly from directions
other than prevailing winds and waves.
Among virtuous waves I'm proud and lustful.
I am more than willing, I desire
to sing about the ocean.
The ocean doesn't hear me.
I kiss the Atlantic. The ocean slaps my face.
I get a mouthful of breakers, then passionately
she "rolls me," as English ladies say.
I sing a love song to the ocean,
The ocean listens to moon and whale songs.
Our history, literature, religions,
are at most another snail to the ocean.
I listen to gossip about the ocean,
6.8 miles deep in the Mariana Trench,
near Japan, humble Mt. Fujiyama,
Mount Everest is 5 % miles high
(no one has measured them back to back.)
The twilight zone, total darkness,
begins at 60 fathoms, where sea dragons,
and vampire squid abide.
At ocean bottom there are geysers,
vents 700 degrees Fahrenheit
that's chilly news.
I sneeze, I say gesundheit.
Dead drunk on St. Lucia rum,
I invite Ocean to dinner.
She nods no, East and West.
I heard the hungry ocean
swallowed six million shipwrecks,
a snack off a toothpick. I'll try again,
I'll serve Ocean man and woman chowder.
The ocean nods east.
Now I'm like a red winged blackbird,
flying into my farmhouse glass window:
if clouds have intelligence, and they do,
an ocean has intelligence and wisdom.
Rogue waves are thoughts,
contrary to current understanding.
The word understanding is like a wave.
Some names are writ in water.
What's left, since all continents are islands?
unexpectedly a rogue wave.
Last updated December 17, 2022