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Ivyanna May 13
I wanted to do what was right
to seek the sea for my vessel
alas - it's nowhere in sight!

I am a lighthouse in a desert.
I first saw it beneath the setting sun
A string of gold against the purple clouds
It stood before the edge of the divide
Between the raging sea and the rolling clouds

I dove at the sight of Hope
Washing my hair with salty sand
There is the beacon beyond turbid seas
Haven to repose and a harbor to dock

The waves came, crashing, crashing
It grayed the world with soaring height
It became my eyes and all I see
And when I got back on top

The lighthouse was gone
Buried beneath the dome of the clouds
As the sea and the sky embraced
So passes my Hope
Believe me, I was this close. Then... I lost it.
J E A Cole Apr 11
In fear of sad lines, I reach for the purple ink.


There opens a meadow on the Skye, sea-scented, growing.
A lighthouse in the distance, running fiercely, envelopes the shade.
Birds, insects, earth, grass, moist, bushes, flowers, sea, skies, clouds, sun, wind, light, shadow, view, smells, sounds, colours, touch, nakedness and body cry of happiness.






(But the lighthouse endures in silence.)






I'm happy, I'm solemn, I'm undisturbed.
Now is the only time to love the world.
In memoriam AVW
FloydBrandon Jan 31
It’s a long ways down to the middle of the Earth
When will we get there
I don’t mind if you wanna take turns
Until we get there
Just a little bit further
Make the best of endeavors and fare them
May the weather you’re scared of fear you
and the light you follow always guide you therein
Lyda M Sourne Jan 15
Poetry is a lighthouse

For the broken hearted
For the chattering minds
For the lost souls

Poetry gives comfort

Filling in the crevices
Of the empty chambers
Of a labouring heart

Poetry gives peace

Stringing out words
Into coherent sentences
For one who's mind is against them

Poetry is a lighthouse

For a soul who's lost
In the ocean of one's insanity
Depression being the sirens
Luring one into false sanctity

Poetry is a lighthouse
Giving a little guidance
To hope a little more
For this world
This is the only place i can be honest
Because sometimes reality gets scared of the darkness i can conjure up within me
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.
Erin Suurkoivu Dec 2019
Night shows me in stark relief.

I blend in with daylight.


My eyes were once a lighthouse overlooking
Water Street.


I wake in the dark
and see nothing.
I.

Have you seen faded flowers in the night?
Where an unknown heart got burnt at moonlight.

Would they wrap pale sunlight?
Allowing petals to sneak into a treasure box.
 
She lay in her chamber in the sea mountain side..
Fire flame burns the window green...
Wooden floor danced on crystal glasses..
 
The wind rushes out of the cloud by night,
Stabbing and poking her, Madam Huang
 
II.
Of those who were wiser than us---
Of many far talents than us---
 
Pray, neither for the angels in Heaven above
Nor the devil down under the tunnel
 
For the moon sunk in late November
Without interpreting her wonders, she left the sea bank,
Tears can ever dissolve her stories within the stories
 
III.
Of the sorrowful Madam Huang
When the stars have not risen,
They gather in the chamber by the sea.
 
A falling star shining in the far and burst,
a bolide flames transmitted Requiem finale.
 
Of the sorrowful Madam Huang
May the sky award true colours of the dying night.

IV.
Silent prayers are kneeling there, they seemed to share the shame
Prior to breathing out the crispy air of Late November.
She asked him once Her name.

Of the sorrowful Madam Huang
from the chamber in the sea mountain.
By Angel.XJ 23/11/2019
Besieging the circle of an above-ground fort for its light
The cold, sharp wave storms the lighthouse
Robust turret of stones in the middle of nowhere
Off La Rochelle or Le Finistère

And she, agitated, is indeed seavage!

Quietly approaching the canoe on sand
Hope of coconuts, hammocks in palm trees
This tropical land would come from a fable
Mix of lava and water, the Piton has risen!

And she, struck, flies in white vapors!

Reducing the life of country smugglers
She is often tombs of ill-fated Ulysses
How far away she seems, then, the boot of Italy,
For those who have left everything, dreaming of being born there!

And this crossing does not offer a visa!

Stifling pitifully under floating *******
The gray sea without corals is emptied of its life
Only the abyssal fish do not see how
On the surface, belugas find the time long!

And she, once a sanctuary, became compost!

Inspiring, from the foam, the writings of the poet,
Sea, Ocean Blue, Aegean and beautiful Seychelles,
Because without it, our life would have been so thin
In our inner worlds, its flow always calls back!

And she, stained, becomes crystalline again!

See in these painting our vital element
Exhausted, neglected by our great laziness
For it to be paradise and not only distress
Let's save the coastline, fragile like an opal!

Translated on November 2019
Nancy
Originally in French
Blind Distance Aug 2019
The thick fog of the forgotten lands
pays tribute to the waste in the sand
as the seagulls scream at the top of their lungs
when the cold night falls and the waves start to bend

The magnified sound of angry horns
slowly rolls out from water to the shores
while the madmen watch their world come apart
prayers find home among the gods of the heart

One soul is lonely if nobody resonates
with the pain that is being felt at high sea
but a single lighthouse touches their faith
from behind curtains of despair and greed

A soldier it is in the blue countryside
this building that keeps on shining a light
withstanding the wrath of thunder and time
guarding the realm of men from the dark

So did the sailors set foot once again
their demons confined in the harsh winter rain
but the glass of the bottle is prone to break
for the ocean calls forever and the hardship prevails
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