I know the seashore's secrets, the sea's songs,
for the Lighthouse, you know, He stands alone,
the lonely leader who never belongs,
who's seen by all, yet's too tall to be known.
The shifting sands, so different every year,
blowing and drifting about the Light's base,
like people who follow money and fear,
never guided by the Light's simple grace.
The northern Labrador, and the Gulf Stream,
two currents ceaselessly battling for what?
for landless territory, they clash and scream,
sophists and pundits trading paper cuts.
And the wind me matie, what can she mean?
why I say she's always changing her mind,
we sailors must learn to adjust the beam,
we can't always count on her being kind.
The tides, they're regular, they come and go,
but I've never seen them get all that far,
like the men who say that we cannot know,
nor judge, nor navigate by a fixed star.
And three tall masts of a great sailing ship,
anchored just offshore, its sails taken down,
like those with all the means who let life slip,
who hug the shore until in time they drown.
The children building castles in the sand,
which every day the sea shall wash away,
but like the prophets, children understand,
the poetry of building is their pay.
And see the seagulls soaring on the wind,
righteous men speaking the truth of the day,
but for bread crumbs they'll dive, draw in their wings,
all mortals must return to earth for pay.
Ghost crabs walking backwards, they've got me wrong,
like bureaucrats assessing poetry,
deciding to invest here, short or long,
but it can't be owned-- the greatest is free.
The fog-- ye'll see her-- now drifting towards land,
like a mystic, hidden bride veiled in white,
it makes ye wonder, how her snow white hand,
could turn the day into the darkest night.
And the Light, it shines on in the darkness,
though the darkness-- it doesn't understand,
as the waves, wind, tides, and sand I witness
conspiring to level Him with the land.
And I find myself humbled, at His side,
for there is so little that I can do,
but keep the faith He's greater than their pride,
that He'll endure and help good ships sail true.
I know the seashore's secrets, the sea's songs,
but there's something of which it never tells,
and that's where the romantic's heart belongs,
somewhere far out beyond the whitecapped swells.
Somewhere safely beyond the diamond shoals,
which have claimed so many a good ship's treasure,
a graveyard of all the poor sailor's souls,
who ignored the Lighthouse in seeking pleasure.
But there's a girl, I know, beyond the waves,
so beautiful, with Jesus in her heart,
and all the drowning dreamers one glance saves,
emerald eyes make the end a brand new start.
Ye might even find, she's closer than this,
a windswept Hatteras on Christmas eve,
close yer eyes, meet her halfway in a kiss,
she'll be there, along with all ye believe.
All things immortal do precede their time,
as the day forever follows the night,
ye'll recognize them as those things that rhyme,
ye'll join them, should ye sail by the Truth's Light.
--Becket Knottingham
Night watch, aboard The Jolly Roger
December, 1998

drake--

i am overwhelmed by your writing!!! i have just discovered Nantuckets.com, and just finished reading (for the tenth time) your "Two Nantuckets". you express my feelings exactly--even though my summer visits to the island have been few and far between the past ten years. I, too, have been having an intense love affair with the Lady--she has woven a spell around me that nothing can penetrate. i have known Her for all of my 36 years, but have never had the opportunity to spend more than summers, and an occasional few weeks in the winter (my favorite time). i echo yr. sentiments and feel fortunate to have happened upon a "kindred spirit". the visceral feelings i have for Her, transcend the superficial layers that clog Her surface. The germ of wheat lies buried deeply and safely protected. i long to dig deep into Her body and become one with that feeling again. i am planning a winter visit--i must leave this hell hole called nyc. perhaps, then, i will be able to walk with Her, shrouded in fog that holds the key to all of our musings.....blessed be

kezia

THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Argrhrgrh! Wish we were all on Nantucket now! Perhaps ye would meet me for a some grog and a few tall seafaring tales-- as tall as the good ship Jolly Roger herself-- at the Brotherhood of Thieves.

From: Susann Pearson
To: drake@jollyroger.com
Subject: Your Leanings

Of all the stuff I've read, I love your little stories. They are local colour at it's best. Very good. You lean naturally toward the narrative. You find your comfort there. Interesting where writers find their literary home. Yours is in the telling of a story. The narrative, my boy.

I like the Portrait of Windy "thingy." It was most refreshing and lets your linen fly in the breeze. We got to see it for the unravished thing it was too. What a breath of fresh air. Write on.

S.