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I put the last two ones together and edited a bit...

Water and fire

Harsh is the voice that rolls my watery ways
with loud calls of infants that break
in waves where winds no longer
beg to hear what tomorrow has to say,
where not even I comes out to play.
Remnants of that watery echo hit the rocks,
foam with old news and wishful lore,
with distracting war and clocks no more.

I have no further use of time's eclipse,
the old tirades of men on ships
that beat their prowess with stale stolen ire,
nor for sweet foolish dreams of returning
to the Elysian plains for the forgetful fire
that pains my still-life with yearning.
A post to mourn the passing,
a definition we can agree upon.

Poetry by Bob
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