44: Captain
1.
Ships bring conquered bodies from
the sea.
Exploration, progress, demands death.
Desperation and escape invite mis-use;
the coin is always looking for bodies: slaves,
gladiators, the displaced, the converted, refugees, immigrants,
the children, the willing.
Mid-voyage, empathy went
overboard with the weakened;
chained to the outspoken,
pregnant, compassion and love, now too
rest in the depths; the ship grew lighter then, faster.
Souls are sprinkled in white caps soaring to shore; feel
the rage of the sea from its peaceful, watery eyes.
No lights
can bring ships
in, only tease purchase
of land's cragged cliffs.
Wet air holds bile and dysentery up to fume the action: the selling of
brethren,
the noisy rooting for tits, the squalor, the crowd, the storm. Ships squeal,
their dark wood, warped in the light of whale fire;
now the ships' metal hulls are rusted; colors peel; names disappear;
their distinction - reborn in decay.
2.
All these bodies,
vessels,
are not to be commanded anymore
than the shape of the water,
a curve of wind; erosion is
not
for the hands of profit,
is not to be owned and dealt; it is God's breath which erodes,
yet
money will rub the world to its burning core
for wishes granted.
Bodies are stolen,
and bodies seek refuge with those who feel they are their claim.
They are the unfortunate - so misguided, human,
the stranger met, is your God: your soul seeking care.
3.
Remember God is
land and water,
in the soul by your side, in your vessel: this is where you shape God.
Would you beat her at the oars, sell her for bringing you. Take
what she has - you do not.
This is the dominion: all life for sale and take, all can be bought -
but all was free,
so you are so damned.
This world is for profit: demands courage, strength, and care; so it does
demand strength of character, courage to be vulnerable. We are all given
this place;
this world is soul: a gift
perfectly lost at the beginning.
4.
Just off shore
they make no progress, sit contentedly in slaved vessels,
in refugee's havens; the morning
brings word of their navigational folly,
that lost sand they border.
In the garden,
eating hurt, growing pain,
teaching shame,
working to chew one another. Salt on their lips. Sun on their heads.
Shooting at birds.
All the while
blaming God's own snake - for guidance on this desert sea.
If you stop the hate in your sail, angels wait to knock your door.
Recognize the abundance
to serve them, lend your vessel. Give them harbor; do not turn them over;
do not claim them; allow them in, and release them at their wish.
This is all that is asked.
This is humanity breathing in and breathing out.
Serve vulnerability: where God rows fiercely.
Your path will be marked by feathers,
if the birds are allowed
to fly
past your idle list.
The world is not cargo, God has made this vessel perfect and placed you
equipped upon it
to welcome the angels. And do not imagine what the angels will be.
For a struggle is not what you are made for.