Set off on the sea of dreams,
Me at the helm,
You, in your swimming togs,
leaning against the mast,
ducking the giant blade aiming for your skull,
thrice with every revolution of Der Windvinder.
The wind in your hair,
streaming out like seaweed on the tide,
kelpish fronds waving to me as they beat about your eyes;
Taut nipples straining against the fabric of your top,
I feel a fire down below, slowly rising and falling
with the beat of my heart.
Light as a feather, we windmill our way,
beating to eastward, into the waves,
spray drenching you now,
huddled in the cockpit
Yellow slicker grasped tightly for warmth,
As thrill turns to chill.
But squalls are short-lived,
And rain goes away,
As Der Windvinder makes haste
around the mark and begins her downwind leg,
blades spinning gaily in the returning sun,
pushing us home to hearth and hearts aglow.
as the triumphant sailors wend their way from from the sea,
hot blood flowing in their veins, enervated, horny, exhilarated.
There's going to be a hot time in the Old Port tonight,
home again to hot cider and hot toddies and hot lust, my hot Momma and me.
Home again, home again, home from the sea.
Der Windvinder, and me.
This is a work in progress and subject to revision as the mood strikes. I blame the inspiration for this piece on my friend Gerrit Bosman and this entry on his poetry blog, Rhyme, poetry, limericks, haiku and more word stuff. It is NOT a translation. Trust me on that. His lovely Helen may have "taut nipples" but he isn't allowed to talk about it. She'd beat him to a pulp for even mentioning it. The photograph and the information on Der Windvinder are available here.