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J J Jan 4
I pose high my chest of ragged ribbons
And unravel a fist to stretch out fingers in search
Of a hand glimmering pale like a lantern
throughout this grey
        empty space. Once a pavement, now as good as

Cloud. Frozen lake. Dust. Boiling ashes. Skeletons.

I am walking on the slashed frames of waves
As jesus once must have. Propelled to a miracle unwitnessned
To anyone but myself. I am impelled to corrode
Into a statue; to remain a rigamortic rotting jade jewel in the sun
Until I no longer can.
Until they found me...

Perhaps they'd dust me off, thaw the ice from my shoulders,
Rehydrate me and gorge me,
Restart the blinking light in my brain
And refrain me evermore from having to seek.

But seek I must, for the lonliness weighs me down
Further by the day. I take half as many steps now as when I began my voyage.
My memories are like ghosts of flames that play
Snakes and ladders and hide and seek.
I am the lighthouse man and I sail drunken--
A rubicund mishape of bone and scuffed thoughts,
I can feel every soul which once embodied and huddled this place.

It's like they are trying so hard to posses me but even
Their souls have been smouldered to whispers
So thin they ring as mutely as the surrounding mist,
So soft they vibrate akin to an infant’s pulse
Throughout these walls, these scrapyards, these crumbling arcades, this sandbox grey that begs for a scream.
The spirit of a tarantula trembles along my back and grazes it teeth against my shoulderblade,
Preying that I turn to confirm it's being –but it's a game I’ve long grown sick of–

I am the lighthouse man and I ceased having a face long ago.
What I recall of my reflection was a child so young and so sure
Of a different life that

I cannot be sure it's even me.

I am the lighthouse man; a puckered bulb balancing on too-big shoulders, that walked
  through barren flat closes and exited empty handed, the lonely poltergeist,
a bitter flab of skin.

I am the lighthouse man and I am the final Aspen leaf in the pond of the universe,
I see myself reflected in a sole star twirling underfoot and overhead
rowing my ears so thick with disfigured silence so that I wish I was born deaf.
I am the lighthouse man and my mind is a spinning fragment
    my eyes can merely follow and my floating steps merely trail.

It never changes tone here, I can only vaguely trace the time
By the occasional moon. Tonight it shines half chewed,
  Befitting the levelled star a sideways crown.
It is beautiful but I mustn't stop to admire, lest a survivor
Scavenger loses patience withholding the last of their scran.

I am the lighthouse man and I haven't eaten in years.

I am the lighthouse man and I bled for the first time yestardy.
I am the lighthouse man and my bulb ricocheted off the base of my skull
In a telling fairy tale dream. I felt static in my head
And my light's ink spilled across my hands and for a minute I thought
My light had gone out. I tasted blood,
Trickled down from my stinging nose and I had never been so scared.

I am the lighthouse man and I never knew I could die.

I am the lighthouse man. Once the world danced with magic and I was
A walking satellite that grew to want to dissapear.
I am the lighthouse man and my decrepitude is casted in my hands:
Black as the night from the dirt collected over the years.
The few slashes of skin clear enough to see look rust-like and obtrusive, outdone only by
My veins like wonky bruises that vine across the silhouetted bone;
Bridging gear to gear, clinking shivering knuckles
         That want nothing more than to surrender.

But I am only frostbit, not frozen.
Life was and thus must still be.
I am a raindrop, not the whole ocean.

I am a walking lighthouse inspecting and guiding empty seas,
A form without virtue
That ceased feeling it's metallic steps too long ago to recall.
A cubist teardrop falling down a grey giant's cheek,
Waiting to be captured and swallowed.

Or perhaps I am climbing uphill, slowly along the circumference of his forehead.
So slowly I cannot notice the rise. Perhaps I was destined to amble in hypnosis,
En route on this colourless limboid curve until I forget the concept of
             a destination, a soul, a matryr jester to rouse me awake...
             and perhaps it is then that I will be blessed with the heavenly bulb

Of the weeping giant on whom's flesh I disturb.
I am the lighthouse man and I dream of purpose.

I am the the lighthouse man with a penchance to levitate
I am the lighthouse man and I am a God without tool or reason.
I am the lighthouse man and I'll walk this limbo until my feet dissapear.

I am the lighthouse man and I am cursed.
I am the lighthouse man transitioning between lives and never knowing
Causality nor the answer. There are no questions to have;

I am the lighthouse man and I must have been a murderer in my past life.
I am the lighthouse man and I can feel my inner fuses twist,
Falling fainter and fainter by the second.
I am the lighthouse man and I will not make it another night.
I am the lighthouse man and I am a memory-bank full of nothing remarkable.
If I felt this months ago then perhaps I would make due with the my sojourn of an empty house, atop a parked car, and perhaps I would be content with rotting.

But now the moon shines so luminously bright and full and close! So very close!
I am the lighthouse man and I chase the moon.
I am the lighthouse man and I vaguely recall my mother saying 'do not eat the moon,
It will give you nightmares!’ and it all suddenly makes sense now.

The stars are all out tonight and they await my company. I am the lighthouse man and now I run.
I run run run run for the sky in ode to the rest of the bodies that abandoned this place.
Madeline Apr 2012
tell it to the lighthouse boy
the sleepy-eyed resounding boy,
tell it to the lighthouse boy,
who wakes his days away.

sing it to the lighthouse boy
the bright-mouthed smiling smart-*** boy,
sing it to the lighthouse boy,
solemn, sweet, and still.

cry it to the lighthouse boy,
the hold you close and call-out boy,
cry it to the lighthouse boy,
who thinks his thoughts alone.

fling it to the lighthouse boy,
the bending low and catch it boy,
fling it to the lighthouse boy,
to carry on his own.

and oh,
did you ever see eyes so sad?
blue-green as the foaming sea they watch,
stiller than still and deeper than you can imagine,
gazing to your depths and
speaking nothing of them.
so tell it to the lighthouse boy,
the sleepy-eyed resounding boy.

tell it to the lighthouse boy,
who casts it out to sea.
Inspired by Le Dernier Jour
Timothy Jan 2013
By the shores that lay hard by
The old lighthouse keeper and his daughter dwells.
Keeping the light burning for the Galleons, Skimmers,
And the ships that rides the surf that rises and swells.
The day the man from the harbour finally came,
That day the lighthouse keeper lost his daughter.
Oh, if he could have stopped her from leaving the
Little village where she grew up, but she was led like a lamb to the slaughter.
Ah, the ship looked so well built to last for many years of use by the sailour lad;
But she climbed aboard with that man to leave for the Boston shore,
There he had nothing to do but wave and watch the ship float away making him sad.
There was a storm brewing in the harbour which they saw nevermore nevermore!
Alas! the news of the sinking of the ship was wired to the lighthouse keeper,
And there was nothing to do as the ship had sank at a tremendous pace.
The sailour lad and the lighthouse keeper's daughter went down deeper
And deeper. The old lighthouse keeper sped out with such a race.
They sank into the crest of frothy foam never to rise,
And though those on shore tired to help, none could do so.
Their bodies disappeared, tears fell from the lighthouse keeper's eyes,
His daughter would not again return from her journey with that sailour though.
They are all now long gone away for so many years and only stories past about
At a gathering around the hearth, as if a reverie, this story is retold,
Though never like the one granddaughter of the old lighthouse keeper;
Who took care of the keeper until he was very old,
She too was a nice story weaver and weeper
But the only thing is left now is the stones;
Of the lighthouse keeper and those he loved well
All ashes and all that is left are the bones.
That is all there is left to tell.
The story is dead
That is all that
Can be said.













My first story poem.
© Timothy 8 January, 2013
Jason Cole Apr 2015
hey there little baby where's your Daddy's knee?
you don't have to be there, you can sit with me
wouldn't that be fine? could we try and see?
i feel you hurtin' inside of me
i know he left your Mama lonely
and your little heart feels like a stormy sea

but Sarah, you're a lighthouse
i've been wanderin' all my days
been lost in this world
Sarah, you're a lighthouse
you've shown me the way
now we don't have to be alone anymore

it's kinda funny how life is fair
i'm always movin', never really been anywhere
with nothin' behind me now i'm lookin' ahead
all things have passed just like the Good Book said
and after the rain the sun will shine
i feel it in my heart and in my mind

Sarah, you're a lighthouse
i've been wanderin' all my days
been lost in this world
Sarah, you're a lighthouse
you've shown me the way
now we don't have to be alone anymore

run and get Mama, give her the news
tell her we're leavin' - yeah, you too
tell her i love her and there's nothin' i won't do
we'll be a family, we'll start anew
you're gonna need a new dress and some shoes
you smile so pretty we can't lose

Sarah, you're a lighthouse
I've been wanderin' all my days
been lost in this world
Sarah, you're a lighthouse
you've shown me the way
now we don't have to be alone anymore

you're not alone, i'm not alone
you're not alone, i'm not alone
you're not alone, i'm not alone
we're not alone anymore
Another song obviously...:)
Wuji Jul 2012
I will keep looking,
For I am a lighthouse.

I will always see the good in everything,
For I am a lighthouse.

Confused I will search for answers,
For I am a lighthouse.

Help any ship along the sea,
For I am a lighthouse.

Wait in a single spot unmoving,
For I am a lighthouse.

Slowly decaying from the inside,
For I am a lighthouse.

Alone for all my days,
For I am a lighthouse.

Never will have any true partner,
Because no one builds two lighthouses next to each other.
What a job.
Andrew Parker Apr 2014
Watch the Lighthouse Poem

What good is a lighthouse?
A stable structure, sure.

Watch it stand on the edge of a ruthless sea,
Watch it house a five person family,
Watch it guide a ship full of sailors to shore,
Watch it flash light at some stars, as if the night sky needed any more.

Watch what a lighthouse really does.
What purpose is it for?

Watch it illuminate humankind's' disgrace,
juxtaposed against the vast empty space.
Watch it carve a cliff-sized hole into nature's soul,
pretend it belongs, as if Earth's man-made face should be so dull.
Watch it stare blankly at a gentle sea,
under false belief that what's underneath is understandable by we.

Watch how a lighthouse thinks it guides those lost at sea.
Watch how a lighthouse creates more darkness than anything.
Watch how a lighthouse sheathed in shade and ice will crumble eventually.
Watch how a lighthouse means absolutely nothing to me.
Dhaye Margaux Jun 2015
Two decades and still
You're the Lighthouse
On the shore of my heart

Decades may turn into centuries
And you will still be the same Lighthouse
Spreading your rays into the walls
Of my heart

Centuries may turn into eternity
And you will be the Lighthouse
That forever shines
Into the hearts of those
Who will remember our story

You are the Lighthouse
I am the sea
And this is our story*.
The Lighthouse
Kendall Mallon Feb 2013
A man sat upon a pub stool stroking his
ginger beard while grasping a pint with his
other hand; an elderly gent sat down next to
him; this older man saw the ginger bearded
fellow’s pint was quite ne’r the bottom

A woman with eyes of amber and hair like
chestnut strolled through a vineyard amongst
the ripening grapes full of juice soon to become
wine she clutched a notebook—behind black
covers lay ideas and sketches on how to bring
the world to a more natural state; balancing
the wonders and benefits of technology with
the beauty and sanctity of the natural world

When the ginger bearded man finished
the last bit of his pint another appeared
before him—courtesy of the old man,
“Notice you got the mark of a man accustom
to the seas,” said the old man gesturing to
the black and blue compass rose inscribed
in a ship’s helm, imbedded into the back
of the ginger bearded man’s right hand.

“I have crewed and skippered a many fine
vessel, but I am giving up the sea. I have
one last voyage left in me—to my home.”

“Aye the sea can be cold and harsh,
but she captures me heart. To where
are ye headed for home, there son?”

“’tis not a where, ‘tis a who. Sets of events
have lead to separate from me my wife. I
have been traveling for  five years waiting
to be in her embrace. The force of the sea,
she, is a cruel one for at every tack, or gybe
I am thrown off my course to stranger and
stranger lands… I have gone to the rotunda
of hell and the gates of the so called heaven.
I have struck deals, and  made bets only a
gambling addict would accept. All to just be
with her. I am homesick—she is my home; it
doesn’t matter where—physically—we are
my home is with her. I was told to come to the
clove of Cork and wait, wait for a man, but I
was not told anything about this man only that
I must return him this,” the ginger bearded man
held out a silver pocket watch with a frigate
engraved on the front and two roses sharing a
stem swirling on the back upon themselves.

“Can it be? ‘tis my watch t’at me fat’er gave
me before he died… I lost t’is at sea many a
year ago; it left me heartbroken. For ‘twas me
only lasting memory of him… Come to t’ink
I was told by a beggar in the streets, I do not
remember how long ago, but it has been many
a years, t’at I would meet a man with something
very dear to me, and I would take this man on
a journey, and this man would have the mark
of a sailor. What is ye name? Can it be…?”

“My name is Lysseus dear old man—it seems
the Sea is holding up her bargain—though a
little late... do you have a ship that can fair to
Rome? All across this land, none a skipper will
uptake my plea; they fear the wrath of the sea.
If they have no fear, they claim my home ‘is not
on their routes…’ ‘tis a line I’ve heard too often;
I would purchase a boat, but the sea, she, has
robbed me identity and equity; I’m at her mercy.”

Penny with her rich chestnut hair sat on a fountain
in a piazza—her half empty heart longing to feel
the presence of the Lysseus and stroke his ginger
beard… everyday she would look out at the sea;
where she saw him leave port—five long years ago…

All said she should give up; that he
was dead by now—his ship (what
was left) was found amidst the rocks
of Cape Horn, but she knew there was
hope, she should feel deep inside her
soul he is alive somewhere fighting to
return home. Never would she leave;
never would she abandon her post.
She made that promise five years ago
as he set out on his ‘last’ sail off shore.
And she would be ****** before she
broke her promise—a promise of the
heart; a promise of love. He said, “You
are my lighthouse; your love will guide
me home—keep me from danger. As
long as you remain my lighthouse I will
forever be able to return home—to you.”

Off from Crosshaven the old man took
steadfast Lysseus en route to his home.
Grey Irish skies turned blue as they made
their way out on the Celtic Sea, southeast,
to the Straight of Gibraltar; gentle cold
spray moistened his ginger beard, his
tattooed hands grasped the helm—his
resolute stare kept the two on course.

It was a shame to the old man that this
would be Lysseus’ final voyage—he was
the best crew the man had known; he
was  not sure if it was just the character
of the  fellow or his personal desire to
return  home after five long, salty-cold,
years being a slave to the sea and her
changing whim—never had he seen his
ship sail as fast as he did when Lysseus
was his crew—each sail trimmed perfectly,
easing  the sheets fractions of an inch to
gain just the slightest gain in speed; the
sight warmed the heart of the old man.

The old man mused: maybe this is the
reason the sea has fought so hard and
lied to keep Lysseus from returning
home… she could not bear to lose such
fine a sailor from her expanses—she
is known to be a jealous mistress…

The old man, as he smoked his pipe, sat on
the back pulpit staring at Lysseus’ passion
to return home, as he calls her. But for all
his will and passion the, old man had to
insist for the fellow to rest; otherwise he
would go mad without sleep; reluctantly he
would retire below deck, but the old man
doubted the amount of rest he actually
acquired in those moments out of his sight.

The seas were calm as open water can be,
rolling swells rocked and pushed the vessel
forward. The Straight of Gibraltar opened
up on the horizon like a threshold—a major
land mark for the Lysseus; he was closer to
home than he had been in five long, salty,
years. His limbo was starting to fade, his
heart slowly—for the first time since he left
port—was beginning to feel whole again.
The Mediterranean Sea—his final sea—he
would not miss the gleam of his lighthouse…

The closer they sailed to Rome, he could sense a
change in the water, a change in the weather; clouds
grew darker and bellowed like gluttonous bulbs. As
he feared, the Sea was breaking her promise—she
was not done with him yet. She could not let him
return home—the jealous temptress who has ruined
many a fine men—the least honest of all the elements.

“I see she ain’t done wit’ ye yet,” said
the old man. Surveying the dark, grey,
clouded noon-day sky from the bow pulpit.

“Nothing will keep me from reaching home; even if I
have to swim the final nautical miles. I will not let the
Sea break her deal; I will make her keep at least one of
her deals. My love is stronger than her forces. That I
know for certain. That I know beyond doubt.” Such
cried Lysseus out to the darkening sea and old man.

As if on cue—waiting for Lysseus to finish
his soliloquy—the clouds let out a deafening
cacophony of thunder cracks rolling through
the heavens towards their vessel. Lighting
grounded on the horizon around them creating
a cage of light and electricity. The gentle rolling
swells grew in stature with every cracking
second. The bow smacked and dove into on
coming waves; drenching both Lysseus and
the old man; with each flood of water over
the deck. The swells grew to such heights the
horizon transformed into dark clouds and
white peaked waves merging with the sky.

A wave crashed over the windward side of
the ship, the force of it cracked the base at
which the compass stood fastened to the deck
of the cockpit a larger wave hit abeam further
loosening the compass from its purchase; with
the angle of the ship and the rise and fall in the
waves it was all Lysseus could to do hold on
and watch the Sea slowly take the ship’s
navigation instrument into Her dark cold depths…

“Oh why do you curse me you foul tempest?
Cannot you see all I desire is to return to my
home!? I have done all you asked; I have
played all your games and won! now it is my
turn now—time for you to play by my rules!”
Lysseuc beckoned the old man to seek refuge
below deck—he would sail them through the
storm, and assured him the ship would reach
port afloat; for, “I can feel my lighthouse in
the distance; do you hear me Sea? You can
take away our mariner’s compass, but you
cannot take away the compass in my heart;
and the light of my home on shore. Five long
years ago she made a promise to me to be
my lighthouse—to guide me home no matter
what—regardless what you do, Sea, you can
never break her promise—only your, promises.”

As a lighthouse she stood through the weather
of the night—risking pneumonia, for Penny’s
heart told her she could never abandon her
promise as the waters fell flat and the sun peaked
through the storm clouds, a silhouette stretched
in the sunrise light, pointing to her feet. Upon the
bow Lysseus stood, his eyes fixed at the dock
where his lighthouse stood, fixed. Upon the dock
he jumped into the warm, loving, arms of his
home both of their hearts became whole again.
In my head, this is the beginning of a longer epic, which I still have yet to write. Would any of you who read this like to have more to the story; or do you like it as it is?
Kingafroninjaa Nov 2011
It's a new day.
She's standing by her lighthouse.
Waiting for the day, her ship will arrive.
She had a ship docked her port once.
Oh, the memories they shared.
Oh, the places they traveled.
Oh, the love they had for one another.
But suddenly,
His ship sailed without her.
He docked at a new port,
Leaving her alone at her lighthouse.
She's stuck.
She still thinks of the Captain of the ship.
Wondering if he thinks of her as he sails the seas.
Wondering if they still have a fighting chance against the seas.
She's sees a ship coming closer to her lighthouse!
Could it be the ship that she gave everything for?
The ship that left her at her lighthouse?
The ship that has haunted her dreams?
The ship that broke her in more ways than one?
No, it's not...
It's a new ship that she hasn't seen before.
Who is this Captain?
He's docking at her port and staring at her.
He approaches  her and smiles a friendly smile.
She's hesitant and slowly backs away.
Should she trust this new Captain that has entered her dock?
He could be like the last Captain that left her at the lighthouse.
Or he could be the Captain that takes her on a journey around the world.
Frank J  May 2014
The Lighthouse
Frank J May 2014
I work hard for this friend-ship
Though I'm not quite on board,
I'm there when you lose grip,
Well at least when you're moored.
Like a lighthouse I stand,
And like a lighthouse I'll stay,
I'll be a beacon on land
Watching still when you fade away.
You'll experience it all, good, bad and scary,
Yet I'll stay by my post, watching and wary.
Nobody saves the lighthouse
From the violent, swirling mess.
When the angry storms rouse
Each flash of light is my own SOS.
And I know they see my light
Because they promptly turn away,
And I'm not trying to put up a fight
Honestly it's better this way.
dina  Jun 2018
dina Jun 2018
you were my lighthouse
out on the sea
you were my lighthouse
calling for me

you were my lighthouse
out on the bluff
you were my lighthouse
when times were rough

when the waves mercilessly crashed
up onto my sides
and pulled me down under,
deep beneath the tides

you were my lighthouse
standing true and tall
you were my lighthouse
with me through it all
we all need a lighthouse in life :,)
Michael Nerud Oct 2015
The lighthouse
Sitting atop its rocky throne
Seeing the world
But only as the stars
Cool and distant
All the while longing to be part of that world
And so the lighthouse
Sitting atop its rocky prison
Confined to purpose
Withering away by loneliness
Beckons boats to its shores
It’s beacon a cry in the night for companionship
But boats only sail on
And so the lighthouse
sits alone
A thing of beauty
Longing in the night for someone
Only to wake alone
For itself pushed the boats away
And so I stand here
A lighthouse
Destined for purpose doomed by myself
A conflicted soul
A lonely soul I stand
Poem from my blog:

— The End —