Whatever It Is, A Mariner's Tale Poem by Warren Falcon

[the Martin guitar is considered by
aficionados to be the best in the world]


Whatever it is
the Martin reshapes
itself as do waves
upon which we once
sailed the ark the
boat we once steered
you awkward with
ropes/sails no
tongue for 'lanyard'
or 'bow' though
clumsy same fingers
fumble jib then
chord strum without
stumble pluck strings
breeze confess what
then is obvious
sunlight burned into
each body (whose)
your legs easily
bend forming each
yielding bow upon
themselves

I am the twine
the Martin knot
forgetting you
me tying patiently
holding form
whatever it is
that allows each
countless wave
to shape break
as did we also
break wherever
legs insist as
they do(and lips)
(tongues) betide
we lash(the
eyes) tied flood
ebb breathe all
sleep beyond
coral carefully
traced around
(all those countless
mouths beneath)
strange or familiar
sound as is the
Martin formed
whatever it is
womb once found

or/and tomb found/
lost again foregoing
guiding star exchanged
for adamant dark
whatever is apparent
in all storms heart
eye and after

Each chord questions
Each wave beseeches
yearns as does tide
yearn for moon/I/we
can be, or try (we
want) such turning
bestowals:

tattered sail

frayed rope

barnacle

bent wood

arcs

points

guides only
a blonde
smile placed
upon knees
each our lips
pretended shores
whatever can be
more than what
empties and shapes
the sky we will
become flung
beyond breakers