"anchorage" poems
Your face, full of elation.
Sweet perfection, no frustration.
Summer memories, nostalgia hemorrhage.
Let's stay here, far from Anchorage.
What you've taught me, you might never know.
Wherever you are, that's where the wind blows.
Currently, these currents take me to you.
An act, time and again, time could never subdue.
While we do reside in the days long after,
Never could these months be a diminishing chapter.
I can feel them still, as relevant as ever.
The prime cultivation for something that will grow forever.
Close your eyes, I'm sure you can see those nights.
When loves only concern was to avoid a sugar spike.
This new captivation, this magnified fixation,
The love savior, our separate emotional asphyxiation.
That innocence needs not be continually longed after,
Because for now we shall continue writing, until we reach our final chapter.
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 9:43 PM UTC
I
Not once in all our days of poignant love,
Did I a single instant give to thee
My undivided being wholly free.
Not all thy potent passion could remove
The barrier that loomed between to prove
The full supreme surrendering of me.
Oh, I was beaten, helpless utterly
Against the shadow-fact with which I strove.
For when a cruel power forced me to face
The truth which poisoned our illicit wine,
That even I was faithless to my race
Bleeding beneath the iron hand of thine,
Our union seemed a monstrous thing and base!
I was an outcast from thy world and mine.
II
Adventure-seasoned and storm-buffeted,
I shun all signs of anchorage, because
The zest of life exceeds the bound of laws.
New gales of tropic fury round my head
Break lashing me through hours of soulful dread;
But when the terror thins and, spent, withdraws,
Leaving me wondering awhile, I pause--
But soon again the risky ways I tread!
No rigid road for me, no peace, no rest,
While molten elements run through my blood;
And beauty-burning bodies manifest
Their warm, heart-melting motions to be wooed;
And passion boldly rising in my breast,
Like rivers of the Spring, lets loose its flood.
4.6k
STARFISH
Washed up upon the beach
a tiny shape,
dry abandoned,
once danced upon the waves,
partied with the seas hair,
nobody cared,
sometimes hovered neath the waves,
has plenty of arms,
but unable to wave,
to summon a little assistance,
this fella lost his anchorage,
adhesive pads became released,
so with the turned of the tide,
laid on the beach dried.
Perhaps a child may collect him,
while she's playing on the golden beach,
a summer's drift,
just have to wait and see.
(C) Livvi
INSPIRED BY ZACK
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 6:44 PM UTC
Snoring gangling giant,
Slumbering away on a snowy
night.
Spoil of war unprotected,
Opening ways for ingress of
worrisome infiltrated
interlopers.
Remember the lord of Philistine
Samusini,
Who returned not from the
seductive antics of his
mistress,
Perished in the furnace fire of
frustration,
And drowned in the Laguna of
no return
Slumbering hindered the move
of the water.
Howling of devourers enclosed
your shack.
Heterocercal caudal fins of
sharks prevented the sailing
of ships.
Wolfished wailing of tidal waves
consumed the anchorage
ground.
And the apparition of foes
lurked-up in darkness like
the foehn on the Alps.
Awake before the devastating
night owl.
Awake from the abyss of deep
slumber.
Awake before the cockcrow,
When darkness of defeats
Controls the reigns of night.
Snoring gangling giant,
Awake unto light.
Dec 20, 2018
Dec 20, 2018 at 6:40 AM UTC
~
*I cast my net
into the tributary
and release into you, a seasonal swim,
I give to you a mother's color,
as you recite
infant hymns,
you're a bleeder
on the days sunfire meters out its origin,
you're my river
free and clear from the grip
of anchorage,
my river,
drifted on to wherever
moon wishes glister*
~
Aug 19, 2021
Aug 19, 2021 at 3:09 PM UTC
(history)
Quell the bard was silken-clad and ever young.
her flute connected earth and sky,
tamed lightning in the higher notes..
her ancient horse would winnie to her song
of endless breath she blew her story even into stone.
having borne the stigmas of a *****
her martial prowess struck,
trampled disrespect to cacophonic dust
while over hills and vales he carried her--
a love-sick equine heart at peace at last upon the road
between her thighs, commanded loyalty of beasts and men.
none claimed her for their own,
though some risked instant death to try
..stirge beaks tap on bones and rock
to seek corrupted blood of elven kings,
who having reigned and fallen
to a royal troglodyte of dragon times,
paint each eon with ambivalence...
i conjure what my heritage beholds
--reclusive double-tongue to hoard all words,
reinvent religions for a lark
what legend am i privy to the making of
that hasn't had its underwires stripped,
hung about a square in lewd display of Fact
to purge a sense of mystery awry?
i am alone within my fantasy.
its symbols still mythologize my i.
i will not bare it here, or anywhere--
concealment is its freedom, and its boon--
in which a frame of tenuous material appears
where antidote addictions cycle musically,
the timeline's summoning
a game of recompense, compensating wanderlust
won by whim and licorice for thought;
it finds familiarity untamed--
adolescent anchorage aweigh--
adventures into wildernesses lost
.
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 1:56 PM UTC
I don't have a destination.
I don't have an anchorage.
Drifting in the ocean currents.
With a repaired boat.
I have no where to go.
Miles away from the land.
I row towards your eyes.
Don't avert your eyes.
Or I'll be eternally lost.
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
Almost like a mirror to
Look at you. A sort of Alice on the other side
Of the looking glass.
You are a reflection I never thought might exist.
But there are flaws spiderwebbing cracks into the glass,
The picture so minutely cracked here and
There that it might all just
Fall out of the frame.
Words, picked like highhanging fruit,
Stack and
Form the
Edges of your
Mind--
brilliant walls of Buckingham but also the boxes of fruit
(high hanging like the words) floating down congolese waters
and into the heart
--of Darkness? only kurtz knows
but does it matter? still Grand as ever--
They're words I see in myself on my side
And music from Mechanicsburg Anchorage Dar es Salaam
sings down the same Congo we share
But the only cracks I see are with me.
Your words and wit are the envoys,
Celebrated diplomats from the Heart that lies
downriver.
eyes flash and the Fruit is bountiful and
Hail the heart (wherever whatever it is down the River).
The words are strong as the man who sent them
(somewhere in the Heart)
Such strength to speak and shout
Respect commandeddemanded in the fruit
I often wonder if I have it.
And each time I know I don't
Another crack is born.
the tally man sends his beautiful fruit--
strong as everforever
To the world, smileonface and gleamineye--
and you're him
on the other side
at the Heart.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 10:00 PM UTC
Death is inevitable
Choosing when is not
Launching from the shore
Place the oar deep into our regrets
Haul away from lifes spinning current
Death is something to earn
Justify your parents joy each day
Explore those eddies in your travelling feet
Take the hand of your rudder
Placing certainty in the direction of travel
Death is not an end but a staging post of a earthly pontoon
Experience lifes engulfing tributaries first
Find your anchorage for each night and day
Caulk the small cracks that appear daily before you explore a watery bed
Leave no small seepage pass unaccounted
No day deserves to exist without your helping hand
Bravery is making this world what it is with your presence
Apr 23, 2023
Apr 23, 2023 at 8:22 AM UTC
1)
this part sparkles -- like your smile
which sparks a grin in me
to heat the heart and ribbed
adore
the laughter waiting in the covers
from our wink and whisper
beds of personalities
spring and comfort, stain and dust
but love, sweet love to swoon away
and lust the anchorage of speaking
as we do each tone and syllable
a light, touch, tinge to waken flames
and dancing light
familiar of my origins
a conjured shape in what you single out
each focus frame of sentence what
to what we ought to do
what sunday shall we both approve?
in sync we dialogue
in mood of dire wrack of blah
in boon of happy overflow
our musing 'tra la la'
ideas, toys to turn and pirouette
or taunt the sun to match our beaming fun
2)
this part sparkles too,
but gives itself to me
so i might quench the burning
brightly lighting sultry flesh
i gaze, and overyearn
to tumble in the sheets
that billow layers--layer-winds of time
you tug and pull i toss and tear away
to open bare the inward soft
that peach-like drips from chin
in breathless constantly
voracious tonguing whim
an asterisk for starburst flick delight
salts deeply into savor sweet
the loin-surge powers me in your embrace
to deep, deep clenching ahh
our skin undone as with a solar flare
across the earth a flood of radiating us
lips and bones
coalescent sense
no match for 'bliss'
or moan moan moan
unending veins traverse to toetip axon
ancient crown of hugs from two to one
3)
this part Is the whole
unknown we meet again
again, again from words
to trusting vasts poetic patience
chance to sound the voice of
yearning manifest from tips to core
and back again we plan on more
in hoping wonder possibles revised
the real of you too natural
to rebuke the care beyond
the searching for
to inhale sight of being there
to step from cab
and offer kindness
mystery of universe
transmuted into meeting once,
twice, every moment new
you bring an often baffling array
of sublime other than i knew
you reinvent me too
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
Anarchy & Chaos
At the pyramids of Kæops
Pandemonium spreads
From the base of the cranium
Bad craziness
Piston engine pistol shot
Duality parallelogram agency
Ink spill
Brain spill
For as far as I know
It could all be on the page
For as far as you know
It could be forever lost...
After all
What is the point?
Organic mammal, Cro-Magnon
Formally leapt up
On two feet
Hello, digital nowhere-man.
Keeps me hydrated
In some strange way
Ink oil drum
Devastating spill
Killing every single thing
On the surface.
But you know what they say
About the iceberg...
...
What Hemingway said anyway.
Revenge
Revenge
Revenge
Heinous
Horrific
VENGEANCE
Let
The
Anchorage
Keel over
And
Die
YOU ARE CARCASSES
decomposing.
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 4:47 PM UTC
Some days you will find yourself
lost out at sea,
You will need a lighthouse to
guide you back to shore,
And I've found mine in you.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 8:15 AM UTC
I see a girl
jumping from the Big Dipper
onto the object to which
the action of the sea is directed.
She takes flight,
with the boldness of a Willow Ptarmigan,
and soars high above
Palmer and Seward and the bowl of Anchorage.
She lands atop the snowy slopes
of Denali and carves her way down
into the withered trees of Ghost Forest.
She swims among the Aleutian Islands,
floats on the waves of the Turnagain Arm,
and basks in the waters of the Gastineau Channel.
I see a girl
whose eyes sparkle brighter
than Klondike gold,
and whose voice whispers more beautifully
than the wind that blows
through the great land of Alyeska.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 6:20 PM UTC
Anchored at the berth
For centuries
attempting
to gracefully
Slip the mooring
A distant yesterday's whisper
Evanesced
now steadfast
As if bewitched by the galaxy
Unaware of the
contiguous
Land and liberation
Tauntingly so
rooted
Refusing to be liberated
Time and time
Unnoticed
invictus
again it slips from moon to sun
And time has stood still for so long
It has become
Interchangeable
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 3:27 PM UTC
Why would I
wear heels on an airplane?
Bathrooms fill with
middle-aged women in tangerine
jackets. Calling Patience and
ordering salads from McDonalds.
I'm not wearing any makeup-
are you disenchanted by the hair
on my upper lip? More hair
than we know what to do with.
Hair
everywhere. Especially
down there. You know the places.
It was the night before I left
forever. Touching *******
in public places.
Now they're calling daughters in Anchorage and
becoming lactose intolerant.
So many places
to hide. Melting into
corners,
buying shadows from McDonalds.
3 and 1/2 hours, 3 and 1/2 months.
We can only sleep
in transitory places.
Jun 24, 2012
Jun 24, 2012 at 6:56 PM UTC
Funny how insomnia
and discomfort will
dredge a new room
into a safe harbor
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 12:01 AM UTC
(Geraldine, Maya, and Pedra were in the kitchen to drink some Jasmine Yin Zhen tea.)
Between Bosphorus and Dardanelles, the waters are calm.
Geraldine Said, ''I love the life at sea on this tall ship.''
Maya said, '' Let me see the meaning of the lines in your palm! ''
''I worked a lot; I can't feel my hands when something I grip.''
Maya insisted, '' Let me rub your hands with Gilead' balm! ''
''I can't stand the hustle and bustle of big cities.
Can you predict my future after reading my palm?
''You'll be surrounded by death coming from the waves' ditties.''
''What is this balm? '' '' It's an extract from the bakha shrubs.''
''Where did you find this shrub? '' ''This extract is brought from Chios,
Where this tree grows near the sea, to make this balm and drugs.
It's good for the stomach and prevents the skin infections.
I used it to make bread tsoureki.'' ''It's sweet, '' Pedra said,
''This tree excited the cupidity of invaders-
The groves of Jericho.'' Maya touched her, ''Are you afraid? ''
''Went there to fight Titus, Joshua and the crusaders.''
Pedra took a long look at her, ''Do you have children? ''
''I have two boys who live in southern Ottoman Empire.
My husband died.'' ''Why did you come here? '' ''I'm a poor woman.
Now, it’s war; I want to work here, not to walk through the fire.’’
(Maya left the kitchen. On the deck, Marco, Rosa, and Cruz stopped for a few minutes their walk to admire the Marmara Sea in approach to Çanakkale.)
''Anybody who wants to pass through the Dardanelles
Must pay a tax. So, we must sit at anchor in waiting
For an opening at this small Port of Çanakkale, ''
Said Cruz. '' About buying fuel, the ****** are still debating, ''
Said Marco.'' This city is placed on two continents.''
'' The shape of the strait is akin to that of a river.''
'' Its history started with Troy. The tidal currents
Make this time of wait at anchorage a deceiver.''
''The Dardanelles is the most dangerous waterway, ''
Said Rosa, '' Maya and Naimah are talking fiercely.''
Cruz said, ''They've seemed not to know each other until today.''
''What happened, Maya? '' ''He can't stop speaking viciously.''
(To be continued...)
Poem by Marieta Maglas
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 2:52 PM UTC
Before the sun brightens our half of the earth
Birds chirp at the break of dawn
You and I, my love
Turn dream to action and embark
Fill our knapsacks with blankets and sweets.
We’ll slip away unnoticed
Without maps or shoes
Fools desperate to explore the unknown.
We’ll gyre the states as gypsys
Ride rails to the sweet scene of a passing countryside
Our destinations many
Kyoto to Anchorage
Shanghai then Budapest
Should we lose our way
It wouldn’t matter the slightest
Should I wake in your embrace at the crack of a new dawn.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 8:54 PM UTC
How to start an ode to one’s dear daughter
Remains a true protégé to her mighty gist
In the beautiful pearls that they are not loyal
Brains and poetry are not loyal to one,
Yes, they can find abode in any and all,
As the spectre of poetry is haunting Africa,
It comes straight from University of Wits,
Beautiful like an angel in a lion’s roar
She sings and chants in a unique power,
Perhaps available in the paragonic muse,
The voice of reason is out above vice
Often laziness pays as tribute to virtue
As her excellence habitually comes forth
The daughter of Africa here heals my heart
Her small mandibles crests my soul to bliss
Her powerful poetry does marvel to my home,
Vuyelwa is bound above the scent in the name
As she puts melanin in the injured chocolate skin
To restore Africa back to her pedestal of glory
As positive shame in the name devoid of Christ
Is effortlessly condemned to ash pit of selfish culture,
To-night she bits you not to **** her blackness
Nor to accuse her again of being a black Soweto
Out of racial envy to preserve your intolerant self
She has promised freedom of space in your bed
Freedom of space in your royal cultural bed,
Vuyelwa my daughter your birth was happiness
To our poor home in the blackness of Maluleke,
Your slender and tall physique; goddess’s poise
In her holy ministry of poetized freedom to all
Whether white like snow or as black as Africa,
Your only anchorage of prettiness to sing my songs
Sing my songs in the name of our mother
You do Africa proud to manage your gods,
As the spectre of poetry foot loose from nether
Is haunting Africa, with art in vogue and reason
Singing to Africa what others derided to eerie
Africa can too sing in the voices of excellence
In lyrics and other all Africa can sing
African can sing Vuyelwa can sing
Can sing and chant in the voice of the people.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 7:03 AM UTC
how don’t know to get the you in: a dis(miss)ing of anchorage, akin to ungrabable, purpled sky, and blackvelvet’s talks to morning sand. to get the you in: a table top of no greed. legs of giveness. to haiku the hell out of.
we are in the process of stunned voices praying to pregnant earth: word fruit meets wet tongue. prophet with no pockets up sand up. in a world that is to know what your sun exuding sounds like.
sweet loathing, singing cell. undernourished, remembering only two tons of. bites down boldly onto wear. ritualistic sweating betrothed to thecosmos. shake loose my skin. legs of giveness, and something that wouldn’t be about you.
or something about you that wouldn’t be. hiding in the corners of language that mask gaping unrelatables. Unrelenting maybeoneday. i’ll decide to hear you (sh)out. the italics of Monday evenings.
Black tea, bumps head into mosquito bites on your thighs. oops, sorry, can i hug you? sorry. So from here we can deduce thetruth that oops, can i hug you? sorry its obvious, tied. eyed our lives in one swoop and now i’ll never possess of a series of creeks,
primordial. Like when the earth’s virginity was lost to the last respiris of a first dying. you as a plethora of suntan lotion3. but lotion is lotion, like the sea, it cant be quantified or split up into in order to be a “plethora,”
and still there’s no one to rub down my back places my black places I can’t reach or see and so can’t mimic like a leglessness, a series of syllables.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 9:35 PM UTC
weathered planks stretch
into the mist, salt-worn
and stable. seagulls cry
overhead, unseen
boats come and go, their
ropes wrapping around cleats
for a moment of respite,
picturesque arrivals and departures
almost home, at a pause
a place to breathe
between waves, to mend
sails torn by wind
when the fog lifts, they
depart. the harbor remains,
in the liminal space
between land and sea
Sep 30, 2024
Sep 30, 2024 at 1:53 PM UTC
Eros:
the days leap as they should,
over serrated blades of grass: brightly,
transcendentally.
i open the voluminous page
of the twilight: it is October bruised
with brindled water.
white is the color of your laughter,
nourishing the noise of heart, crumpled
over the virginal sheet.
in the staring mirror dizzy with life,
shining with a sudden image
in sempiternal fume: both of us,
twining, entering each other
even before the world was complete,
heavy with your hair, lithe with
your embrace, eyes gorged with
naked visions,
hands flayed, full of hours—
i make your ample sea my scarce wave's
anchorage, erasing the twinge
by habit of shores.
i weep: you are filling the world with your own light now drowning the shadows
in the depths of their caves, choking
the silence, wringing out the leafage
of your body's inflorescence.
in vivid decree of your smile, you have
made me the cargo of minutes
rummaging across the dunes of lust:
the tousled sheets,
nearing, coming to me, swarming
soft body: we fell into the hollow of sleep.
Thanatos:
here at the lip of the bed
receiving our smallness, the days—
felled into the night, stilled,
in this finite hour a darker blue
is given; i speak not of love.
how are we alive here?
raining inward, above the brim
of an open window, do you wind-hover?
your voice has escaped the dungeon
of my mouth, and the twining of
our fingers give birth to a forest of specters and a moonless love demanded.
i beat through your harsh curve;
i go tracing your eyebrow
engulfed in the festering fever
of half-light marches and the faint spark
of autumn leaving no tawny scent—
there is only silence peregrinating
in the room before you and after I,
it began to pour in our room,
both of us struck down to mortals
together with a feint recall i cannot parry:
we fell into a bottomless hollow of eyes,
chasing our chained breaths, wordless.
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 3:31 AM UTC
In addition;
The sails flapped loosely in the wind
Committed to providing it's best chance searching the sky
Things not seen below the patter of crashing waves.
Adjusting each sail
The ship rising and falling
The throb of an intrigued chest
No longer tied at Port
Anchorage at the sides
The sail snaps
Growing tighter by the moment
The breeze spraying ocean mist
Of wild waves
Untamed
Stomach stood still
The scrubbing sound of latches rattle against the pole
Paranoid that we could go overboard at any moment slicing through the rickety waves
Teddering left then right
Shaken backward and forward
Humbly seeking God's grace
Seeking strength in the midst of storm
Ranting at the sky in a boat so small
This war was you
This sea your heart
Faith to see a brighter day
Following a cracked compass
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 6:34 AM UTC
The rows lie still, the hands can push no more.
Escaped ripples are catching up with the rear.
While you can set the gaze away from the depths
and occupy yourself with breaths and the sky,
soon they will merge into one blackness
summoning memories and spasms. I’ve tried.
Your watch ends as lights go out - just wait.
The drowned will be drawn to the surface.
Then they emerge: vehement, utter, now.
Their cries for help left with no answer
choke our own throats. They beg release.
Reunion with those we once held dear
only to identify their faces, their traits,
to call old sorrows by their name.
We are the ones who still remember -
an undertaking we wish were spared.
We close their eyes locked in strain, be it
out of care, or the look we can’t take.
A rescue arriving long overdue.
The haul to the shore is a trial by itself
but the final push has yet to be made—
to find room for love in a grieving heart,
where we may lay them in their grave,
and lessen the weight of anchoring past.
How would I know? And I wasn’t pleased
about it either, nor had any choice.
Yet here we are: stuck with heroism
in exchange for hope. Time and again,
for the day we might feel pure and rejoice
in our own right. But until then
back to the boat. It’s not a matter of luck.
At least you’ll cry less each try. I promise
Oct 4, 2024
Oct 4, 2024 at 10:06 AM UTC
A bold density of memory anchors,
scattered across a past
where colour saturates
like someone sat on the remote control,
holy hand grenades on loose afternoons
with the slap and bicker of passing the joypad
in blithe ignorance of washing piles
deadlines and empty pockets
Drifting in the now, helium light,
well-heeled but drab,
absent fingers trace the slight links
on the line around arthritic ankles
as they gently, surely give
May 28, 2021
May 28, 2021 at 2:34 AM UTC