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Tropical Dreams (standard:poetry, 733 words)
Author: Billy Jack BaxterAdded: Oct 08 2003Views/Reads: 1810/0Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
For dc, I hope I get this one right.
 



Tropical Dreams 

Rock me to sleep ol' mystery waters lapping lightly against my hull,
Separating my meager life existence from your mysterious watery depths. 
Mournful tug horn sounds, unrestricted, across your winking moonlit 
Bay, as laborious diesel engines signal gentle lullaby wakes that rock 
Me, lull me, lull me to heavenly sailboat sleep. 

Old plank wood pier creaks an' moans from straining spring line tether.
Ol' gentle wake come and rock me, roll me, lull me off to pirate dreams 
Of ol' Spanish Main, rock me, roll me, lull me off to simpler days, 
Tropical sunlit cays, old salty fishy bays. 

Sometimes I think the old Gulf Stream flows MAGIC waters, where my
Dreams mingle and mesh, then swoosh me away to Caribbean islands, 
Mountainous and lush. Where lil' ebony eyed children with mango sop 
Streaked brows scurry barefoot and brown in the sunny tropical day. 
Shouting and playing island games handed down with tradition, and 
Simple. Where old nautical wide-open saloons abound, patronized by 
Smugglers, buccaneers, outlaws of the tropical seas and time slips 
Softly by with the ol' salty ocean breeze. Open and loud they are, with 
Rum sippin' parrots that waddle along polished, worn, wooden bar tops 
Blatantly sneakin' beakfulls of rum and snatchin' dollar bills just for 
Fun—screechin', fussin', and cussin' in the humid beer-drenched air of 
Normal island days. Where lies are told and retold by locals who oughta 
Know better. Where there's laughing and back slappin' with an 
Occasional brawl between friends with too much beer under their belt. 
With creaky hardwood floors and dusty ceiling fans that swirl that 
Mysterious “Old Time Feeling” that's so jolly and right. And, in the 
Distance, airy jungle drenched peaks stand hazy and mystic in ocean 
Spray mist, beckoning adventure. Home to exotic colorful birds, howling 
Monkeys, and bugs. Faint trails snake by waterfalls through overgrown 
Lost cities to tribal secrets atop lofty mountain peaks. You hack your 
Way through dense foliage, machete in hand, clad in Gardner McKay, 
“Adventures in Paradise” clothes, soggy khaki slouch hat saggin' in the 
Sweltering jungle heat when you pause and mop your sweaty brow with 
Shoulder and go-- “Phew! Look at all this jungle madness!”  Big ol' 
Barky vines crawl and drape heavily over the jungle canopy, so wide, so 
Thick, I lay in their massive span, swing, and sway and they rock me, 
Roll me, lull me off to jungle safari dreams. 

Where there are sparkling azure lagoons that smell sweet and teem with
Colorful phosphorescent tropical fish that dart and school amidst soft 
Corals, sponges, and sand. Sheltered tranquil waters that delicately 
Kiss white sandy beaches where fiddler crabs scurry and dive in holes 
With fresh wet sand piled around their entrance. Where palm fronds 
Rattle in the balmy breeze and coconuts fall with a thud to ground. The 
Kind of slanted ol' palms where you back up, get a run at it, nearly 
Making it to the top before you teeter and fall to the sandy cushion 
Ground below. Or, I simply lay on their wide corky base and let their 
Gentle sway, at hot summer noon, rock me, roll me, lull me off to 
Coconut scented dreams. 

And my house sits back off the well worn path, white clapboard, raised
Three feet off the ground by deep sunk pylons to let storm surge waters 
Rise and rise and rise. Open airy plank wood porch surrounds the old 
House with wicker and rattan furniture, conch shells, and old gnarly 
Driftwood scattered about, large open holes for windows with heavy 
Hurricane shutters that fall with a PLOP down like drowsy eyelids to 
Sleep off seasonal squalls. Inside is open and bright with thatched 
Pagoda roof that peaks up to cloud-studded skies. Double doors, front 
And rear, open night and day with slow moving ceiling fans that hang 
Above and have circulated hundreds of dreams from large feather bed 
With bug drape, sheer and fluttery, that rises to a point Like a 
Tropical teepee of protection. Front yard with huge old banyan and 
Mahogany trees that whisper, sway, and mull over lush green lawns that 
Stretch like carpet all the way to purple fiery skies. And my ol' 
Knotted hammock dwells and swings inviting me to lay, think, and dream 
While spice-scented trade winds, soft and thick, rock me, roll me, lull 
Me off to blissful tropical paradise dreams. 

Billy Jack Baxter 


   


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