Shipwreck | Carlyle R. Phelps

Shipwreck:

I got one foot in a skiff and the other feeling restless.
Old Scratch poking my heel with vain glory and avarice;
Testing the keel with pride, despair, and cowardice.
Shaking bones in a nautical waltz with Cerberus.

I’m a rowmaster, tapping toes and chair rocking,
Setting the tempo to a raucous dinghy’s galavanting;
Rowing toward a white whale—or the season of dragoning;
A type of Jonna with no Nineveh deigned for traveling.

Sea-green foam pitching and rolling the bow’s aim.
The waterlogged hull groaning, tired of incessant rain.
The cross-staff pointing to celestial bodies again—
I’ve got Saint Peter’s relation to waves and shame.

Shipwrecking on desert isles sobers one’s rationales.
“My King, rescue me in Your mercy! May Your grace be tangible.
Place me in Your Ark—even in the brig or with the animals—
Maybe I could be a servant or a slave in maritime manacles?”

The Lord lifts my arms and softly scolds this faithless sailor.
Thrice fold, allowing me to make amends for each beached failure.

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