Pensacola. Spanish city Of my youth, The turnbed of my age in Streets and sweat and pain, Cobbled streets And dirty lanes, Docks filled with fresh fish pulled by rough hands Through callouses Cut sharp by steel knives into parts laid gill to gill In Strong Wooden carts. You city of blue bays Rivers and sandbars Old men with nets Long hands and sharp eyes spread at sunset; Cast with open arms, You love of my Summer youth Will celebrate my Winter death; Bold wind Swept generations deep Hold in your breath These blameless souls, Shipwrecked and soiled Broken fleets crossed over mast bent hard on Star- steered straights Into safe bays. Pensacola. Your streets know my name, Family names On green poles Celebrate their fame Across small pebbled-tossed and tidal lanes Named and unnamed. They razed your buildings And buckled your halls Brought the mighty down And spilled their riches In your Sounds, But for all that You rise again Build dunes and hills And fortress walls, Barriers to dull Deep ocean storms. Wrapped in Water You adopted me And took me in, I'm now your son Voiced in Many Waters- Etched in sidewalks Trees and lanes, Initials in yearbooks That bear your name, I dwell in old pictures With grey-haired ladies , And children and babies Who once like me Were held safe in your Sea -Arms Water-songed and drowned to sleep, Harmless We lie, Face to face In sturdy wooden carts. Pensacola Copyright@2018 |