High on Chatham

As to the voyages, I kept no log
Snapshots and letters might still exist somewhere in Weehawken
The clearest recollection is the sway of the ship
the sound of creaking rafters, the rocking underfoot,
60 days of storms and wonder and then on pulling into ports,
the action in the pubs across the wharf
and the taste of blood of getting hit between the teeth,
the free fall because some guy did not like your accent
So you shake you head and proceed to bust a bottle upside his head
because no book ought to judged by its covers nor a pussy by his funny accent

I remember a cafe in Port Louis,
a portly lady bidding me to follow her up a stairwell
into a scarlet parlor, perfumed like a pagan temple
Had I inadvertently asked to tour the kitchen
when I merely asked to see the menu?
The ambiance was baroque and smacked a bit of cowboy drama.
Like the Hotel California, this could be hell or this could be amusing

And there she lay in the bloom of youth, the nude Goya painted,
except this one three dimensional and laced up to her neck.
In French she requested I turn around,
Cognizant that it was an the inspection and willing to comply
I offered to show my teeth, for if a mount is to be stabled,
best check for foot and mouth disease

From Mauritius (where used to live the dodo bird)
we sailed due east across the Indian Ocean
I recall distinctly the smell of barley blown from inland,
a day or two before we berthed in Perth, known as "The City of Churches"
a girlie told me in yet another pub

From Perth we sailed south,
to another 60 days of iceberg enchantment
Then up the other side, we arrived off the Chatham Islands
where we lowered a boat to visit Pitt,
or maybe it was Chatham, the larger of the sister islands

And there in Pitt (or maybe Chatham)
I walked black sanded beaches,
up some cliffs to emerald pastures
where grazed flocks of sheep (New Zealand's most numerous inhabitant)
A tame people are sheep, reserved and very fearful
In the distance, through rising mist,
I saw the continuance of the idyllic setting,
and thought to myself, how lovely. This could be utopia
In the first cottage that I came upon, I was greeted by friendly folk
who when I told them about our anchored vessel, the mates on board
including a female crew member, they pleaded she visit,
for it would be a first for them to meet a skirted sailor
especially for young Stanley, a shepherd lad,
a bachelor nearing 25 who in all his days ---poor thing---
had only "known" sheep (in King James speak)

I humored my hosts that I was neither buccaneer nor pimp
That night, they wined and dined me royally,
and I got goodly stoned
but not so stoned as to not keep a wary eye on Stanley.