Poetry by Jeff Green


In the pool where mermaids like to play and sing

by cricketjeff on January 7, 2008.  © Jeff Green, All rights reserved

In between the races, where the tide must ebb and flow;
There’s a calmer stretch of water where few normal people go.
To reach its quiet magic you must brave a mighty rip
And be prepared to fight, when currents hold you in their grip.

The rocks upon the South-side can chew any boat in two
And the sandbank to the seaward has been known to strand a few
But for those who struggle onward, there’s a certain treat in wait.
To be one of those to see it, long ago my happy fate.

It’s the pool where mermaids like to play and sing

I came upon this idyll while escaping from a storm.
Seeking only landfall and a shelter dry and warm.
Stranded on the sandbanks, other sailors dashed away.
I was washed onto an islet, where I saw a mermaid play.

Her hair was long and flowing, like a wave down to her waist
Everything about her had been formed in perfect taste.
Her face that of an angel, soft yet somehow firm each breast
Her skin shone precious amber, felt her fire within my chest

In the pool where mermaids like to play and sing

Her voice was soft as peaches, that have ripened in the sun.
With a tone of love and passion and a rising note of fun.
Her buttocks smooth and pert I saw, she dived away from me.
Just the laughter in her singing seemed to calm the raging sea.

Strength was fading from me and I hardly was aware,
That her arms were now around me and she cradled me with care.
My lips now tasted heaven as she kissed away the salt.
She smile when I then kissed her back, no signal there to halt.

In the pool where mermaids like to play and sing

Though from thighs down she’d a fish tail; she was woman up above
And she showed me she was mistress in the steamy arts of love.
Then she turned her back and vanished, underwater without splash
And the storm returned to taunt me and the waves began to crash.

Next morning I was lying, almost dead on golden sand
No sailor more delighted to be waking on the land.
And I’d swear that I’d been dreaming but when twenty years had flown
I met a fisherman with amber skin, and a face just like my own.

Near the pool where mermaids like to play and sing.

Author notes

Rhythm needs a little work I think. Nearly right now, lost the rather lovely but out of place feminine rhyme in the middle.