"castaways" poems
Twisted reeds sway gently in the wind as black seabirds slice the sky overhead.
Waves rolling one by one crash with increasing ferocity on to the rocky beach,
And I watch the red sun set fire to the spray while the tide encircles me.
Tugging at my feet, pulling me forward, it beckons for my consent. I give in,
And all is quiet even in such chaos. All is nightmarish and beautiful all the more.
The blood red horizon seers my retinas; freshly unleashed tears take to the sea.
These waves, such enormous swells, crash in on me; an unseen war is waging.
They press me down and back, and then drag me further into the endless blue.
Over and over again, repetition loses count, my outcries die prematurely.
Only seawater and air manage to sputter from my lips, cracked and worn.
Not a whisper can be heard out here in such a true state of despair, but not all
Castaways are without faith. The past I once cherished has been lost to the depths,
Yet a knowing tingle in my gut keeps me searching for a message hidden merely
'Neath the surface. Drifting deeper into my pain, I notice a curious thing:
The force of the waves lessening as I gracelessly surrender to Sorrow and the sea.
My feet torn by jagged rocks no longer felt, my eyelids blistered by the red
Eternal sunset, a few waves push me under before the siege of the sea falters and
I learn to ride the surf, taking each afront as it comes, whether predicted or
Suddenly upon me. My pain ebbs away slowly with the passing of each episode,
And with each wave I acknowledge my loss, relinquishing my burden.
Like so many desparinging hearts before me shipwrecked in the sea of tears,
I forcefully remind myself that one day the lush, inviting green shores of the
Other side of the sea will appear in my line of vision. Yet, for now, I let myself
Drift through the grief of grieving you, often unsure of whether I'm meant to float
Or should let myself sink toward the blackest crags of my mind. Here alone.
Apr 19, 2011
Apr 19, 2011 at 11:30 PM UTC
my polygamous relationship with you distances me from the monotony of monogamy and makes me feel lonelier than the loneliest mundane monogamist. my mere apologies for my misendeavors, the malnutritious morals of my miseducation propose metal mirrors and castaways controlled by cutting carvers, craving crazy letters and loyalty from lengthy lies and lonely lives. lethargy overtakes and vowels reign, raining drops like rainbows and rocks in rivers, rusting relationships, rusty railroads at intense intersections entwined in everything inside and nothing on the outside anymore except these
muscles. we are back at the beginning.
my mind marvels in the magic of the memories, the madness of the morbidity and the hesitations of your reaction. his, I take, is misunderstood as my misfortune, but it is not a miss, my fortune: it is a fox in feathers colorful like friendships 'fore their forfeited and feigned approval, forced for fear of polygamy tho' it promises the purest pleasure, the most personal independence and precious pearls of princes, princesses, powerful, plight-less
poetry. peace surrenders,
souls surprise themselves, surprise their cells, call for curious catastrophes to take place. colorful and calm they coincide with cooperation that can not contain the context of truth, of teases, of teasers and targets and tonal dualities and we endeavor, we endear you, we dare destroy the darkness of the devil in its disguised diamonds.
words lie at my feet like pebbles of poetry and I promise personal demise, deterioration and ridiculous obsessions- there's madness to be had and fragments to be written and I play with silly alliteration instead!
serious and serene you stare as if my sanity has slowly faded and I sternly helplessly smile shyly. I suppose you are sincerely offering me your blessing before parting, so stumbling slightly I surrender…
if this is the prevailing promise of mere mortality, I'm graciously aware I was worthy of words.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 2:01 PM UTC
Weeaboo.
Owning this geeky word was not something I immediately understood.
Coming from a school where geeks were castaways,
with Otaku and weeb being even worse terms than that.
But now she, who loves video games, and cartoons
- a geek herself, dare I say, -
calls me a not only a weeaboo,
a term revered here,
but a failed one.
Many references I lack to see,
My circle of watched media is constrained,
me being the picky geek that I may be.
The simple act of putting on fluffy ears that I deem kawaii,
She takes as the action of a 'furry'.
I rarely see memes, something that not only geeks look at,
but social media as well,
yet she acts as though it lies within the domain of otakus.
Saying ohauyo, tadima, or even simply arigato,
gives me a snide reply of, "freaking weeb"
Making pebbles into boulders is her specialty.
Oct 25, 2016
Oct 25, 2016 at 8:49 PM UTC
The vivid grass with visible delight
Springing triumphant from the pregnant earth,
The butterflies, and sparrows in brief flight
Chirping and dancing for the season's birth,
The dandelions and rare daffodils
That touch the deep-stirred heart with hands of gold,
The thrushes sending forth their joyous trills,--
Not these, not these did I at first behold!
But seated on the benches daubed with green,
The castaways of life, a few asleep,
Some withered women desolate and mean,
And over all, life's shadows dark and deep.
Moaning I turned away, for misery
I have the strength to bear but not to see.
3.1k
I lost my inspiration long ago
Not quite sure where it's gone to
Somewhere around the time we went our separate ways
You know that I still think about you...
I still think about you.
My heart could not bare to be alone
Or spend a long time without use
I know that it's not your problem anymore
But after all, you were my muse.
Until this very day, I stare into the sky
Wondering where things went wrong
I admit I made mistakes along the way
Mistakes that can't be fixed with a song
And although I've managed to move along
The things I said then, still haunt my days
But I can't take it back now... No, I can't take it back now
"Forgiven" is just a fleeting word we say
Ever since that time, clouds have hovered overhead
With thunderstorms hot on my trail
I'm just waiting for the skies to open up
But I'm well aware that ship has sailed
I pray, that someday we'll wash ashore
Unto an Island made only for two
Then, we can live out the rest of our days
Under the shade like castaways, if we so choose.
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 4:03 AM UTC
Huge elm, with rifted trunk all notched and scarred,
Like to a warrior’s destiny! I love
To stretch me often on thy shadowed sward,
And hear the laugh of summer leaves above;
Or on thy buttressed roots to sit, and lean
In careless attitude, and there reflect
On times and deeds and darings that have been—
Old castaways, now swallowed in neglect,—
While thou art towering in thy strength of heart,
Stirring the soul to vain imaginings
In which life’s sordid being hath no part.
The wind of that eternal ditty sings,
Humming of future things, that burn the mind
To leave some fragment of itself behind.
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whirling waves
dance until entwined
when they lose themselves
with another
in endless effort
to find and be found
multiplying to infinity minus 1
castaways from the Original Big Bang Sin
spending eternity trying to return
to a faceless,
race-less place
and space
without clanging clocks
when-where nothing
could collude or collide
because all
was-is one
Apr 24, 2012
Apr 24, 2012 at 3:39 PM UTC
Love envelops my languid soul
I lounge in its warm embrace
A content poet is a dry inkwell
Yet the ink is congealed with satisfaction
I refuse to allow joy to slow my quill
Too many poets quest for love through language
Many drown in the bliss of El Dorado
Lost forever, bathing in golden love
I will drink golden cups of passion
Play in priceless fieds of frienship
But I will pause to respect it's fragility
And to be a beacon for those lost in windless seas
For I once wore the albatross around my neck
My thirst is now quenched in golden oceans
I wish to be a gentle wind in the sails of the castaways
For love envelops my languid soul
And so it can and must for all
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 10:13 AM UTC
Sitting at my lonely barside
I kneel before the patron saint
Of castaways,
And raise but two fingers.
The peanuts and peasants
Have much in common,
They are roasted, salted,
Glazed with a succor
No sweeter than savage starlight
They serve to compliment
The fine layer of salt
On the rim of my cocktails
The liquor as **** as their company.
This is the rite of reverence
That droops my eyelids
This is the gleaning genuflection
Of the day's stale bread.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 2:55 AM UTC
1.
Sweet love
Oh, such sweet love.
2.
Stick into the pincushion of hope
Gentle pins of far-off dreams,
Holding wispy threads of desire
For which time (as a heading) is never enough.
Push down and drown all thought
Which beckon expectation -
And trust to want less.... or nothing;
Thus reduced, we get no fails.
3.
All up to the sky
We cry,
Agonising -
That waiting of footfall.
Then.....
Lovely flow.
Yes, let's dare to increase
Irregular patterns of abdicated pain.
To fulfill what is so held back.
4.
Because of you
Three days can last a lifetime
Full of affection and delicious warmth
Within the bearings of your arms.
5.
Dreams in the coffee whorls
Willing spindles now
Turn as they eddy...like happy tidings
All around my head.
Dreamscapes thrive
In dulcet whirls inside our core.
6.
No shipwrecks here,
No abandoning of esperance.
No deserting,
No dereliction of love.
No grief,
No castaways on hopeless coast.
These proffered crumbs on palm
Become sought-after......and precious gifts.
7.
Sweet love garnered over time
Poured slowly.....into sacred cup.
Where phantoms run to hide away
No abode for wicked despair.
Oh, for lovelorn hearts and broken dreams
To find such gladness in a cup
We hold hope, ever bold....so deep in heart
And sink away in woven bliss.
Capsule of infinity.....
8.
Come, let us drink
From our coffee-cup.....
Of love.
Oh, come......
9.
Time to kneel and give thanks
Place forgiving wafer on tongue.
Take none in haste
Accept only when ready.
To....
Drink sweetness of sky's nectar.
10.
Of pastures plain
And meadow green
Swift do echoes fall
As moments slip away....like clouds.
11.
Oh, and....
One sugar....
(No analogy needed, surely :)
Hot.....
(Nor here!)
And BLACK, please.
S T, 11 April 2013
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 3:44 PM UTC
Photographers step out of hazy stairwells, tired eyes adjusting to dim light, looking for
their next muse.
“Works of art take time” they tell themselves
they look for the next spark of intrigue, their next fix.
You’ll find them on public transport, in old cafes:
cameras slung around their necks like billiard boards captioned ‘the end is nigh’.
Buzzing with anticipation of their next good catch, biting the lips of their disgruntled
faces like ancient gladiators biting the dust.
Castaways, oil paintings once brilliant and beautiful thrown into apartment blocks and
grey buildings,
ruins of art cast adrift by time.
Haunted by still frames and possibilities, all burned onto retinas, they stumble across
traffic jams;
finding beautiful people, forcing themselves into their lives.
Fleeting whispers rotate into double takes and flickers on the film of a Polaroid camera;
the subjects become muses,
cities are reborn as golden
flood into spotlights:
vibrant, reckless, insomniac.
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 5:32 PM UTC
Castaway,
"A shipwrecked person".
Aren't we all?
Just floating in this ocean we call life,
Drifting in the ravine we call existence.
No control,
Moving with the current,
Eventually washing up on the beach that we call death.
We are all castaways in this ocean.
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 12:59 PM UTC
She dyed her hair purple,
though not all of it.
She wanted to keep some of herself.
She didn’t want to erase everything.
She dyed her hair purple,
leaving some of that mousy color.
The purple was violets
like her favorite flower.
She was shy,
but now she would look bold.
She would stand out amongst the clover.
She dyed her hair purple
and bought all new clothes.
She donated much of those
childhood remnants
and took a trip to the thrift store.
She searched through the past,
through the castaways
and found her new image.
She chose how she wanted to look.
She dyed her hair purple
and tried new things.
She went on walks through the woods,
laid in the hammock at night
to watch the stars,
to catch lightning bugs
in the summer,
to draw in the sunlight,
to read in the grass,
write down the stories in her head,
and dare to be herself.
She dyed her hair purple
and kids at school thought she was weird.
But she didn’t care.
She dyed her hair purple
and her parents didn’t like it.
They thought she was going to do bad things.
But she didn’t.
She was a flower child,
a child of the night,
and true to herself.
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 10:13 PM UTC
There are castaways
People lost in the cold
People without a place
To go and wondering
Where their next meal
Is going to come from
There are people who
Are lost in their hearts
And in their heads
Stuck in an inner
Darkness that threatens
To consume their
Soul in hatred
And anger
There are people
Who are cast aside
Who are left out
Of society and
Ostracized on
A regular basis
Who can't fight
For themselves
And so they
Inevitably
Get left in
The cracks
Of life not
Belonging
Any place
Feeling like
They are lost
In the cold
With no way
Out in sight
We could all
Use a life raft
That life saver
That helps us
Float back to
Life and put
Our feet on
Solid ground
Helping us float
Through the hard
Parts and saving
Us when we really
Need it the most
We must be willing
To be that life raft
Or that life saver for
Other people in the
World who are the
Castaways with
No land or hope
In sight just stuck
In a never ending
Rolling sea that
Threatens to drown
Them with each
Passing moment
If we can all extend
Ourselves and be that
Life raft and that
Life preserver for
Someone else
I think you will
Be surprised just
How much life
Will throw you
'Those little lift rafts
In return when you
Need it the most
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 12:19 AM UTC
I coiled around your coast
and gazed at the foreign shore.
The breakers, they did break
and the sirens they did call
to the clipper upon that fallen, foreign shore.
Were we sailors then, you and i?
Or were we shipwrecked?
I think we were shipwrecked.
The mast lay rotting in the waves.
Rope and sail- strewn as a discarded scalp
Upon that foreign shore.
I know the day of leave,
As i know that sirens call.
And I felt the breakers
and the hidden stones that rose as black teeth round your coast.
The wind pulled forth and we did nought to stop the pull.
And crashed upon your fallen shore.
Now we are castaways;
outcasts upon this isle.
Now we are foreigners
on this foreign shore.
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 12:31 AM UTC
taking my time to gather my mind
before i lay down to rest
no need to drift away,
carrying emotional castaways.
its meaningless in sleep
they just make phantoms to keep us attached to our daily griefs
May 23, 2011
May 23, 2011 at 8:38 AM UTC
We took the Blakeney boat to see the seals
basking as seals do on the glimmering strand.
We were basking too: a year married,
happy as the salt marsh larks
singing out their fragile hearts
high above and higher (and yet higher still).
The sun sparkled on the ever so windy waves.
Tightly you held my hand in the bouncing boat.
And later on the island’s northern shore
we sat together on the sand,
castaways to passion, indelibly in love
and kissed and kissed and kissed.
13 June 2012
Aug 31, 2012
Aug 31, 2012 at 4:07 AM UTC
On this night I drown my sorrows, so cliche
But whiskey is a great friend
But I drink to an occasion this night
The occasion being, me.
Thanking all the socially unaccepted kids people frown upon
The ones the popular ones despise
The outcast
Rebels
Castaways
Whatever you may call Us
Maybe it's friends
Maybe it's enemies
Although we'll never be the ones that control the world
We will try our best to save it from itself
Society itself has eroded earth more than all the water and wind in the universe
The ones who destroy it complain about the society they've created
While Us
The outcast
Rebels
Castaways
We try to save it
But are frowned upon for doing so
Maybe our world is doomed
But we'll never give up.
I toast to all of you tonight
The outcast
Rebels
castaways
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 11:40 PM UTC
Some say we are all islands
solitary lonely shadow lands.
Some claim a community.
Is there a sum of humanity?
Poems - causeways between castaways
constructing insights into language
link lives, as well as brains can contrive,
summoning minds to share and thrive.
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 5:58 AM UTC
Shouts out to the post modern ironic twisted ***** of confusion making sense of a chaotic existence
Shouts out the the same folks for laughing at their own struggle
Shouts out to the bleeding hearts
Shouts out to the dried up stones
Shouts out to the snarky *** momentary breaks from the void that they carry alone
Shouts out to the religious castaways, to the tradition breakers
Shouts out to the tradition keepers, and the self evaluators
Shouts out to the pathfinders and the trailblazers
Shouts out to the lack of motivation and the desire to be admired
Shouts out to mania driven fervor satiated not even by approval
Shouts out to calculated efforts and spontaneity as a ruse
Shouts out to reused tropes and cliches strung together again and again in different orders
Shouts out to all living as peninsulas, carving themselves off as islands.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 4:23 AM UTC
As we are walking
Some run past
Some are way behind
Coming in last.
Complicated lives
Stressful throughout time
Castaways from the heavens
Diabolical farce in the mind.
We try to meaningful
In durations, steps of motion
The level trying to achieve
Makes a strange commotion.
Knows of unwilling insights
Weeps, look fine
Demeaning of the sad and lost
With their tricks and lines.
Speaks with unnamed words
The body is in a fit
Manifested and corrupted
Under all, we sit.
Tommy K
8/3/2014
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 4:59 AM UTC
*
I watch the sunset fade
beneath angry wintered seas
cresting furiously,
drowning possibilities
of another moonlit night
washing up on this
frostbitten shoreline
Fading reflections falter
atop a jet stream,
coerced from below,
chilled from above,
willing feats of great wandering
as sleet licks old wounds
and footprints
become yesterday puddles
of journeys ending
Castaways cling to ancient dreams,
their treasures sinking deeper
in the murky silt,
while I brace against a frigid wind,
traversing drifting dunes
and snow fence barriers,
heading towards the light
A lone flickering candle
left in the bay window,
the flame, a signal
that your love still awaits,
and my heart warms
as I approach the beauty
I have so longed,
on the other side of
a blue weathered door…*
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 6:53 PM UTC
Absolute authority
Does not belong here
Prostitutes of parody
Will not be strong here
Carriers of castaways
Sink in the ocean
Farriers to Far Aways
Shrug off the notion
They don’t think it
Could ever possibly
Happen to them.
Eventually, it will.
Oh how creative
Oh how imperative
it is
Irreparable damage
Has already been done
In the homes
In the brothels
They hide from the sun
Time measures distance
Between now and then
A filthy-snow Christmas
I see at the end
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
These airwaves keep speaking, enveloping my consciousness, stripping all fears and uncertainties. These are the days I strive for. The calming rhythm of life exposing itself without a care. The castaways all run to find freedom, and I run to find truth. Each and every ticking of the clock brings me closer to realization that there really is no clock. The clock is just an object, the ticking is just a sound, and time only exists because I think about it. I give the clock this amazing power to control what I do. But the clock doesn’t know that I’m conspiring against him. He watches and ticks away his seconds expecting me to act cordially towards his numerical speeches about the future. 3:45 PM and soon to change. We face this monster everyday. We watch and watch and watch, just expecting him to slow down or speed up or even stop. He has no feeling for human integrity, he just ticks and ticks until the batteries run down. Or I take the batteries out, he no longer ticks. His hands are stuck in the grime of my human intellect. And he just watches. Keystroke after keystroke, not saying a word. Good, I smile. I’ve stopped you.
"We sit and ponder on future events, not knowing, just theorizing everything. Hoping we get it right. Universal ideas become stretched into a cup of string. And lights undo themselves backwards into eternity."
-W.M. Mills
Feb 28, 2012
Feb 28, 2012 at 1:46 AM UTC
I want to be thrown-
def dumb and blind into your arms
So I can feel
what you really have to say.
It's only when I close my eyes and drowned out the words inside my head
that I see-
the way I am and who I really want to be
A drop in the ocean
metaphorically
speaking.
A needle in a haystack
we are searching
for meaning.
A feather in your cap
I adorn you with my attributes.
A trinket you collect
to be posted on your wall.
I want to be tossed
aside
with your other castaways.
It's only when I crash into the median
going 90
that I-
really get to see,
I mean,
really get to be
who I-
really,
truly, have to be.
A drop in the ocean
metaphorically
speaking.
A needle in a haystack
we are searching
for meaning.
A feather in your cap;
I adorn you with my attributes.
A trinket you collect
to be posted on your wall.
Oct 13, 2010
Oct 13, 2010 at 3:27 PM UTC