She thinks herself rare, a fantastical view,
A flower which conquers the ocean’s embrace?
But nestled in her heart is a rancorous space.
Her beauty is spoiled, her scent, repelling,
Arrogance oozes though her charm compelling,
The sea wiseley whispers, “Beware of her spell,
Her heart is all frigid, a tale she won’t tell.”
Her morals like seashells, brittle and frail,
Her life like a ship’s rigging, tangled in gale,
But Flor de Mar thinks herself second to none,
A treasure to be sought by each lord’s son.
So she tolls the sea, everything at a cost,
Thus sailors keep distance, or sanity lost,
Oh, how the sea is her profit, her plunder,
Though her pirating ways make all hearts asunder.
Alas she dances with the waves, casting nets afar,
The seafarer wary of this Flor de Mar,
For a flower may bloom where the ocean’s waves sweep,
But her maleficent rarity makes the sailor’s soul weep.
Despite she thinks herself unique, a singular delight,
The sea tells a different tale in the hush of the night,
For it’s not the the petals nor colors so bold,
But the bitter old heart, and the stories untold.
Flor de Mar, what a nautical sight,
Presumptuous and odd, in the moon’s gentle light,
A lesson we learn from your pitiful ways,
Your heart has no holding, no anchors, no bays.
_________
Poet’s Note:
Flor de la Mar was a Portuguese ship build in 1502. It sank.
She’s also a heartless woman.
Josh Hodge blog 