Dave Densmore



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There’s a coffee stained old logbook,
Up on the shelf at home.
It’s terse and to the point,
Unlike the stories in my poems.

As I slowly turn the pages,
Countless stories within unfold.
From flat calm and sunny,
To battling wind and cold.

‘Southwest sixty, and jogging’,
Doesn’t tell the beating that you take.
The strength of faith that you have to have,
Or the money that you won’t make.

‘Broke down, waiting for parts’,
Says nothing of the frustration of laying in port.
You know it’s meaningless at the bank,
If you payment comes up short.

‘Gusting seventy, drug anchor twice’,
No details of a long hard night.
No sleep, no rest, while hanging on,
In some little wind-swept bight.

By the same token, ‘fair weather, good fishing’,
Speaks volumes to those in the know.
Those four words, describe heaven on earth,
To those of us who go.

And, ‘plugged full, and running in’,
May seem trivial and trite,
But it speaks of men successful and proud,
When all in their world is right.

Well, I guess it does speak volumes,
Though they’re not scrawled on the page to see.
Hell, even those old coffee stains,
Bring stories back to me!

But, you won’t read about the special smells,
When a boat cook struts his stuff.
Or the beauty of sea life, sunrises and sets,
Seems I can never get enough.

As I thumb through it, there by the fire,
I handle that book with care.
So many chapters of my life,
Are written down in there.

That old book is next to my bible,
In it’s place up on the shelf.
Between its covers I guess I find,
The definition of myself.

Dave Densmore



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