The BlobA Poem by Steve KittellWas out to lunch this
early fall, with my sweetheart,
disturbed by a call. Tried not to answer, boss wouldn't wait. Go to the harbor, he
yelled, before it’s too late.
Duty calls, I sped to the
pier, swerved through traffic as
fast as I dare. Screeched to a halt at the
dock by the bay, the boats motors revved
then underway.
Holding on tight I asked
what’s the fuss? The skipper pointed up at
the blob over us. It was big and gray, no
particular form, battered and tattered like
a dingy in a storm
It hung from balloons, one
at each end, letting air out slowly to descend. It kissed the calm harbor
with hardly a swell. A slit appeared then a
putrid smell.
Followed by a ladder of rope
dropped to the sea, then an old head popped
out “Ahoy thar matey.” We climbed aboard the blob
that fell from the sky. Inside appeared to be a
ship with no sails but masts high.
A portal to the past or
future, it wasn’t clear. My eyes wide open,
couldn’t fathom what’s near. Bos’n whistle blowing,
ships bell ringing, Captain’s on deck, old
sailors singing.
Adrift in time for many a
year, brass shone bright, decks
scrubbed bare. Beards grown long, spirits
grown weak, searching endlessly for
the end they seek
I asked many questions and
he of I. “How did you come to fall
from the clear blue sky?” He shrugged and answered
“balloons in the sun.” He asked how the war went;
I said “you won”
Pleased by the news, great
joy was abound. The captain and crew, spirits
were found. We told him our location,
name and job. He told us the story of
his great flying blob.
“I built her to survey the
rogue enemy. Launched in the spring,
eighteen sixty-three. But she rose too quickly and
at too fast a pace. Caught in a current and
thrust into space.
She’s wrapped in layers of
thick blubber. Fin of spruce to serve as
rudder. A ship out of water
floating in space, propelled by methane made
from our waste.
And in her belly the mighty
tree grew; wood for repairs, air for
the crew. Trimmed to perfection, nurtured
with care, the trees demise is all
that we fear.”
“The tree is the living
when all else seems dead. Greens for the birds then
eggs we are fed. Twigs feed the fires for
heat and our light, the roots of survival the
engine of flight.”
The captain paused for
word from the mate. A decision to make before
it’s too late. The blubber was oozing in
the midday sunlight, absorbing seawater, soon too
heavy for flight.
He called out the order to
make all lines taut. Bid us farewell and shared
one last thought. “No matter how far our
souls may roam - the journeys not over
until we are home.”
The blob sailed off high
in the sky - then disappeared in the
blink of an eye. The captain and crew
homeward at last, seeing the future,
choosing and the past.
The End
Sck092914 © 2014 Steve Kittell |
StatsAuthorSteve KittellIn the shadow of Windmill Cottage, East Greenwich, RIAboutHaving suffered almost fifty years of writers block I'm back, picking up exactly where I left off, as a mischievous five year old. Current chidren's poems can be seen at: http://www.childrens-stori.. more..Writing
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