The Old
Sailors
By Lawrence Ferlinghetti
On the green
riverbank
age late fifties
I am beginning
to remind myself
Of my great uncle Desir
in the Virgin Islands
On a Saint Thomas back beach
he lived when I last saw him
in a small shack
under the palms
Eighty years old
straight as a Viking
(where the Danes once landed)
he stood looking out
over the flat sea
blue eyes or grey
salt upon his lashes
We were always sea wanderers
No salt here now
by the great river
in the high desert range
Old sailors stranded
the steelhead
they too lost without it
leap up and die
A new-born
stag
By Alex Vig
Inspired by "The Old Sailors"
Leaping high,
soaring far
Is what he can see but not do
Antlers clashing
Sparks in the air
The pure gaze of a stag
Shining down.
Four now pounding with
life
Runs reckless
Full of exhilaration
The stag runs wild
Mid-age
The stag grows cautious
The men, their weapons,
And his nose a blaze of white
Old now,
Ready to lie down,
Have the world taken off,
And be born again,
To see but not do.
Each life of a stag follows a pattern,
Yet each is so unique.
