‘Sarnia Bound’ and Other Poetry by Martin Rizley

Sarnia Bound

To the Sarnian shores, I´ll set my course
when the sky at dawn turns pale,
And the sea waves glow with sun-streaked foam
and a chill wind fills the sail.

Till the end of day, I’ll make my way
out across the boundless deep,
While a sea bird spreads his wings o’erhead,
and the sun sinks down to sleep.

Then beneath a looming midnight moon
will my ghostly vessel glide
Over ocean waves that rock their babe
all throughout the long night-tide.

And though none will tell, I’ll ring the bell
when a distant rock I glean;
“Land ahoy!” I’ll cry to the sea and sky,
To the empty hold unseen.

And the waves will churn, my heart will burn
as the waning shades grow short;
And a wafting wind will blow me in
To a bustling Sarnian port!

The Old Man Goes to Bed

to Rogelio

The corner house has one light lit
As now the clock strikes one.
The winter moon ascends to sit
Where lately sat the sun;
From high up in the clear night sky
It sheds cold light upon
The sleeping town, where most now lie
Like dead men till the dawn.

Inside, the old man strives to keep
His vigil by the fire,
But heavy eyelids, charged with sleep,
Now bid him to retire.
He sets his violin aside
And rises to his feet
To leave, like the withdrawing tide,
This isle of light and heat.

He stands beside the hearth awhile
And with a poker stirs
A few bright embers, which the pile
Of ash swiftly inters.
Outside, a lone dog barks his brute
Complaints to all around,
But this old man, resigned and mute,
Makes not the slightest sound.

He turns an old key in the latch
And checks the whole house well,
Just like a chick, about to hatch
Turns round inside its shell.
Then, having stopped to set the clock,
Through darkened halls he winds;
And having checked the back door lock,
And having drawn the blinds,

He takes one long and pensive look
At where his heart´s desire
Would sweetly sit and read a book
Beside a roaring fire.
But now the flames have all died out—
The ash lies cold tonight—
So with one final look about,
He switches off the light.

Beside his bed, he strips and seems
A ghost beside a tomb
Bathed in the light of spectral beams
That shine into his room.
Once tucked beneath his quilt so warm
The old man lies content,
And gazes on a lovely form,
So round and eloquent—

The silent moon, that rides on high,
Godiva-like, both nude
And radiant in the empty sky,
Sublime in solitude;
Beholding, as it were, his twin,
The old man shuts his eyes,
And soon, the two will fade from view
And sink in the sunrise.

Night Crossing

See there below the somber cliffs,
Under the dome of night?
Silent and swift, a small boat slips
Over the waters bright.

Over that gem-strewn sea of glass
Lit by the moon’s bright beams,
Onward it sails across the bay,
Plying its golden streams.

Delicate as an upturned shell
Bobbing upon the tide,
Onward the moon-robed phantom floats
over the waters wide.

Tiny, alone, and all aglow,
Leaving behind the cove,
Girded by murky depths below,
Fathomless depths above.

Peaceful, she glides, a radiant sprite
Over the darksome waves
Fearlessly speeding through the night
Out to the galleon graves.

Through the wee hours, she travels on,
Journeying toward the sea,
Bounded on every side by depths,
Rounded by mystery.

Thus, every soul must set its sails,
Leaving behind the land,
Heading out toward the open sea,
Held by an unseen hand.

Singly, yet not alone, we sail
For, as by diamonds bright,
Our way across the waste is lit
By ghostly beams of light.

Slender, long fingers trace our path
Whether we wake or sleep,
Pointing the way to journey’s end
Beyond the boundless deep.

Martin Rizley grew up in Oklahoma and in Texas, and has served in pastoral ministry both in the United States and in Europe. He is currently serving as the pastor of a small evangelical church in the city of Málaga on the southern coast of Spain, where he lives with his wife and daughter. Martin has enjoyed writing and reading poetry as a hobby since his early youth.