When the ghost ship came to rest at harbor
an old man descended the rotted plank.
Scraggly hair had not seen a barber
and the smell of fish was heavy and rank.
His face was lined with the cruel wind's creases,
cut into his skin by the salt and brine,
and his worn clothes were tattered to pieces,
ne'er seen a washing or a drying line.
With one oar slung over his left shoulder
his journey began to Fiddler's Green.
Where the dancing girls never grow older
and the sky is always clear and serene.
Forward he walked into storm tainted skies
away from the sound of the seagull cries.
The sea soon faded to a salty breeze
masked by the heady breath of flowers
that rustled the branches of rotten trees,
tall as the weather worn, crumbled towers
that he traveled under through wind and cold,
far past the cruel memories of the sea
and into imperfect towns, young and old.
Yet no person asked what the oar may be,
as his quest continued for perfection.
A thing as futile as catching the air
or holding the hand of your reflection
that looks out of the mirror in despair
at porches bathed in the sun's golden glow,
never been touched by the cold sting of snow.
Hope dwindled to embers as years slipped by
and the hearths went cold in those dusty inns
that were abandoned in early dawn skies,
as sad songs echoed on the violins.
Visions did dance in the old sailor's eyes
as he collapsed onto the dusty street.
He forgot Fiddler's Green and her lies,
all the cruel words woven from deceit.
Like the fool card strewn to the cracked earth,
and bones shaken by fortune's skillful hand.
Moira weaving the fate's death and birth
and etching it in a beach's cold sand
where people look for life's amazing tales
as they still cling to a ship's tattered sails.
His quest for Fiddler's ended that day,
and so life's secrets were left in the gloom.
Long lost with the old knowledge and the fey.
Interred deep inside this old sailor's tomb
that lies in the cradle of creation,
never seen by the petty human eyes
that only look at the desolation,
evermore until the day the world dies.
One oar carries men around forever
like a boat stranded in the ocean's waves.
Lives are claimed by this futile endeavor,
and are buried in shallow country graves.
Lying halfway between heaven and hell,
where men are caught by the Fiddler's spell.
Honorable winner
Gold trophy winner
Bronze trophy winner
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