"divers" poems
Swim in the deepest part of the ocean,
With waves over head,
A life pieced by water,
A nautical life,
Or aquatic wonders,
There is no fear,
Living in fairytales,
Mithical creatures,
Sorrounding the waters,
Travel sea to sea,
Hopes disguised as flounders,
Surfers all above,
And here come the divers,
Ready to explore,
The kind I belong to,
Sing to them now,
They'll jump off from sails,
To follow the voice,
Deep in the waters,
Desperate souls,
Following as I speak,
Gullible minds,
When told to go under,
This siren awaits,
For sailors to wonder,
To bring them in deep,
In dangerous waters.
-Kathia Mariana Landeros
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 6:18 PM UTC
For every single barracuda smile.
Every apple that we didn't bite. All the dull exotic things I never had the chance to say. The way the ocean is louder at night, the glittering bones of the city, the taste of black cherries. For every paper star, and liquid street, suburban summer mattress like a shrine.
For hands like deep-sea divers through your hair.
The unknown red interior of you, the foreign countries of your thoughts. For every back of matchbook message, every finger tracing up my thighs, and for our reckless lips rubbed raw and red. For all the casual knives of conversation, the snow like stained glass underneath the sky.
For illuminated cities half-submerged.
Every exquisite impulse and grass-scented infidelity. For my heart like glass, like coal, like diamond. The salt and starless seas that crave a sailor. For the hand-grenade of lust and the ugly gardens of regret. For your eyes like earthquakes, like cigarettes, like disaster.
For every dark-haired, blue eyed boy.
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 10:27 AM UTC
i
i washed up for a living,lily,
for a while there
this is something george**
and i have in common..
on the whole i was treated
decently
pearl divers are a breed unto
themselves..
mine was a life of ease
over eating and boredem
it was hard on the spine
and knees..
a piece of cake compared
to digging holes
(surrounded by the boss
and his extended family..)
the pop wagon on friday
cement as a whole
the olive oil factory or
carrying bricks..
ii
the pop wagon on a friday
took only two hours
brevity
that was the answer..
the cement truck on
tuesdays
took two and half
hours..
but ended in tears..
the shift in the olive
oil factory
could last eighteen hours..
digging holes an eternity
carrying bricks up stairs
works up quite a thirst..
never mind soon be..
be in pauli´ s soup kitchen
where wine smooth and cool
as honey bees..
chicken and macaroni..!
iii
the cement was high in lime
and invariably chafed the skin
and in that hole it would set
to be picked out with olive oil
and a pin..drunk,the screaming
and carry on..
we laughed and held them down
better digging holes..!*
*it was so painful..!
**down and out in paris and london
by gearge orwell
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 8:33 AM UTC
a quote of Bernard-Henri Lévy
~~~
the divers’ recovery, diverse,
shipwrecked salvage from different locations,
auctioned to the highest bidder,
tho the excised excerpts are exceptional,
none come to do the bidding,
for the provenance of words
belongs to all, and to none
~~
“so oft we trifle words,
expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness,
as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler,
day tourists, to be treated as leavings,
refuse for daily discardation,
barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance,
but leaving not, a mark of distinction”
“the addicted pleasure words granted to we privileged few,
like every enslaved soul to the mind, which I am, I am,
evening dreams, midnight thinkings, sunrise seeings,
how can I infect and thus protect the young to the liberty
to love the crafted content of our human essence to better
comprehend that a moment caught on tape of our shared
words is a holiday, a celebration for the ages...and every molecule,
becomes a human tuning fork in concert, in pitch identical, in blood tainted with the simplicity of we are all the same, only words, this will transmit”
“murmur me, with soft downy charms,
these words discovered
recoursed and intended well to
pointedly offset and contradict
their very own tumultuous discovery uncovering,
tear tongue me
with calming, lapping word wages,
hymns harmonious and fine homilies,
a call, a request,
a bequest
to sedate my shrill life
“some cells, microscopic, preserved digitally,
aged to imperfection, thrash my eyes,
making me speak in tongues I do not recognize,
but fluently possess, no wonder there,
the memory place fairly empty,
room aplenty for passerby's and the imagery
of the vaguest of dearly departed
skin is not the only mot shed,
sloughing of woeful words”
“speak them slow and distinct,
for they arrive slow to you,
a trickling of refugees for your sheltering,
harbor them as full companions,
protected by natural law,
provision them well,
prepared and ever ready for a quick departure,
moor these words at the embarcadero,
for the next restless leg of endlessness,
which they themselves will inform you
will last longer than eternity,
long after there are no humans to speak them”
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 4:55 AM UTC
pastel monotone thoughts paint
an image of me in her mind
complete with shrinkwrap
and a bright smiley face sticker
her eager hand sweats the dealt moment
she awaits with impatience for
her daily christmas time package
her daily reprise of her happy moment
she remembers it with fondness
her pastel colours spread slowly
like an intellectual STD
a malfunction of the common man
she is a true modern miscreant
she wants a pretty girl lover
that comes complete with emo look a like
laptop gamer girl
attached the hip down to matchin **** selfies
a hundred smooth moves and cheat codes
she wants the complete package at the discount rate
shes a card carrying member of
some fan girl fandango
she calls me captain saveahoe
street nasty superhero with kung-fu grip
trailing through the dank alleys
in search of the legendary ultimate dumpster
the prize of every divers wet dreams
wandering all night with a few vampire hangers on
looking for a fashionable means to a glorious end
meanwhile the corner girl is waiting on me
thinking i'm just trying to find her a safe place to be
she is my safe place and i'm hers
the few of us that survive the moment
stroll on through the rain
to the dairy queen
to see and be seen
dont cha' hate that whole show up
to show off
she lives to die for it
but thats ok
cause i love her just the same
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 4:53 PM UTC
A old gentleman in a bar was sitting next to a very beat up man this tattered man He wore no shoes
He smelled
He was soaking wet and looked very pale.
The old gentleman bought the man a beer
and ask him what his story was
the man told him that he was once a successful buissness owner
a man of high class and standard.
He wore the finest clothes,
wore the most beautufl jewelry,
and went on amazing journeys.
The old gentleman began to laugh
he sipped his drink
looked over the man and asked him what happened
the man told him that he was driving out in the country comming home from a buissness meeting
He said he had been drinking and reached for his scotch when he
looked up
his car swirved in the lake
water seaped in
He said " water came rushing in so fast"
the old gentleman looked down at his beer
looked up
and the man was nowhere to be seen
he asked the bar keep if he saw where the man went
the bar keep insisted that the old gentleman was crazy that he saw the old gentleman talking to himself...
suddenly
The old Gentleman heard a voice over the television " Good evening we have breaking news it appears that Lyon Lemon Owner of Inka Industries has gone missing. Police have recovered his viechle but with no trace of Lyon inside it. They've issued scuba divers to search for the Lyons body. We will keep you posted on this story.
The old gentleman suddenly felt quezzy and uneasy. His lips dried, his skin went clammy, and his hair stood on the back of his neck. He knew he had seen Lyon not moments ago in the bar. The old gentle dropped a handfull of silver and paper on the counter and rushed out.
Javier Timble once a Master Con Artist and a Cheat was now the one being fooled and tricked with. He knew the game that was being played on him and he was to have no part of being set up for a ****** Timble was shakened but was far from scared. As he walked out the bar he noticed wet footprints. But they were forming as if someone was walking. Timble again felt the rush of adrenline come into his heart he began to mutter to himself and wonder what kind of trick this was. Javier stepped slowly towards the footprints and noticed that there was letters forming on the wall to the right of him. slowly the words formed out to say "InKa"
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 2:04 AM UTC
I feel as close to you as how wind is to my skin,
I feel as powerful with you as how I am with a gun.
I feel as courageous next to you as how sky divers are with working parachutes.
I feel as sad without you as departing rain drops from dark hovering clouds.
I feel as bored dismissing you as a good book read by a blind man.
I feel as far from you as how the visible sun is if you look from Earth.
I feel as clouded missing you as the moon is clouded by nebulae.
I feel as dejected promising you as government cronies over promising development.
I feel as lonely not seeing you as Golden Retrievers are when their masters are not around.
I feel as blatantly bloated next to you as over-heated air balloons raise up the shiny sky.
I feel as speechless around you as unprepared speakers in a conference hall.
And at the end, I feel as close to you as how my eyes met yours then cheekily, we detached our sight and pretend that we were never close at all.
I feel close to you still
but even closer
to sin.
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 2:36 AM UTC
The Seashore Gathering
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
On the seashores of endless worlds, earth's children converge.
The infinite sky is motionless, the restless waters boisterous.
On the seashores of endless worlds earth's children gather to dance with joyous cries and pirouettes.
They build sand castles and play with hollow shells.
They weave boats out of withered leaves and laughingly float them out over the vast deep.
Earth's children play gaily on the seashores of endless worlds.
They do not know, yet, how to cast nets or swim.
Divers fish for pearls and merchants sail their ships, while earth's children skip, gather pebbles and scatter them again.
They are unaware of hidden treasures, nor do they know how to cast nets, yet.
The sea surges with laughter, smiling palely on the seashore.
Death-dealing waves sing the children meaningless songs, like a mother lullabying her baby's cradle.
The sea plays with the children, smiling palely on the seashore.
On the seashores of endless worlds earth's children meet.
Tempests roam pathless skies, ships lie wrecked in uncharted waters, death wanders abroad, and still the children play.
On the seashores of endless worlds there is a great gathering of earth's children.
Originally published by The Chained Muse. My translation is based on an untitled text in Bangla (Bengali) first published in 1912 and known as "60" due to its numerical placement. Tagore made history by becoming the first Asian to win the Nobel Prize for Literature the following year. Keywords/Tags: seashore, gathering, children, sky, sea, water, dance, sand castles, shells, boats, play, nets, swim, fish, pearls, ships, waves, songs, mother, lullaby, baby, cradle, tempests, death
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 11:03 PM UTC
If our souls were oceans,
how many divers would take the risk
to brush against the seabed,
an urge to discover the unknown,
or just someone to call home?
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 5:46 PM UTC
I had a dream we were scuba divers.
We floated through life like nothing could hurt us.
We're all running from something, I learned.
I had a dream we climbed mountains.
We sat at the top and looked at the world from above.
We laughed and choked and felt our lungs close.
We're all afraid of dying, I learned.
I had a dream we were astronauts.
We said our goodbyes and floated in the sky,
Looking down only to remember that time
We were scuba divers.
We're all afraid to let go, I learned.
I had a dream you left one day.
You packed your bags and I went to your house.
We hugged and promised to keep in touch
And that I'd visit at least once a month.
I had a dream we grew up.
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 9:57 AM UTC
What can we do once we are ordinary?
Mother Teresa an ordinary nun, just a woman.
Oscar Romero an ordinary cleric, just a man.
The Beatles an ordinary band, just musicians.
An ordinary office worker changed all of China when he stopped the tanks in Tianamen Square.
An ordinary woman changed the rules about ****** harassment in the American workplace, by accident, just trying to embarrass a Supreme Court nominee.
An ordinary housewife changed the world. In a peaceful way. In a non-violent way. Corazon Aquino toppled the might of the American-backed Marcos regime.
We need moms and dads, teachers and technicians, people who work and people who play.
Pearl divers and trash removers. We need ordinary people doing ordinary things everyday - like being a carpenter - to make our world an extraordinary place.
What can we do once we are ordinary? We can save the world.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 7:59 PM UTC
A young youth
who'd family raised
as the divers of the sea
I was the first child
and daughter came forth
to these water elementals
Upon life
by my dearest
home sided
the vast ocean
I grew up
staying on
an asian island
where by
the oriental cloth
upon my skin,
cooling breeze
were always around
for the kites and eagles
to soar afar wide
above the ocean
even the villagers
used to have called
little me, their merchild
as I was always excited
to wake up by dawn
swimming in the ocean
after awakening
of my family
in their
sweet dreams
till the day ends
came forth the sunset
as I swam
few strokes left
to do, I was
always the last
of the children
to walk back
on the earth land
wave my goodbyes
I did, to the beautiful
sunset down
as for the moonlight
to shine on the
ocean's floor
later, after dinner
and some stories
from my loved ones
all rested with
hard work and
sweetest dreams
I walk over to
window and prayed
to make a wish
to the skies and
the ocean
that I was sure
I had finally
found of
my first love,
and he was the ocean
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 4:55 AM UTC
I
Side street in a yellow town,
Nothing happens but a heavy breathing man.
Careful steps to Linda Linda’s home,
This day, thinks he, is a barn owl’s song-
*Something else moves the wind chime,
Something else shoos the leaves.
Linda Linda* if you will.
Did you lock your keys in the car again?
I walked.
Just be quiet.
I willed.
But dust covers furniture as love eclipses better love
When wetted too much down where divers don’t dare,
Dropped. Left in mud.
Linda Linda did and dared.
II
Whale 1 one looked at Whale 2 and sighed, swimming off.
III
Owl,
You *******
Where love is once now love is mud,
Look what these doctors have dared and done.
Whales,
You kindly kindred floated friends,
You saw her last
Sinking moment
*And you’ll see my last eye cried dry,
Something else moves the yellow tide.*
And ******* You,
Smile crying, drowning and fat now,
It was probably
Just as beautiful as you wanted.
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 6:36 PM UTC
This heart that flutters near my heart
My hope and all my riches is,
Unhappy when we draw apart
And happy between kiss and kiss:
My hope and all my riches -- - yes! -- -
And all my happiness.
For there, as in some mossy nest
The wrens will divers treasures keep,
I laid those treasures I possessed
Ere that mine eyes had learned to weep.
Shall we not be as wise as they
Though love live but a day?
2.1k
Eons old ink
Echo from the depths of the sea where the distelfink
Lay. It’s resting place discovered by divers who deserve to sink.
Not because of their ability to dive, but because of their ability to lip-synch.
What do I do, and to whom do I do it to? Think
I must, for I am on the brink
Of collapse. Do I go on living; knowing full well that this paper, on the brink
Of destruction, will lay forever on the bottom of the ink
Colored water from which my work was discovered. Think,
For my life depends on it, the life of my beloved distelfink.
This whole tiddly-wink of a subject puts a kink in my ability to lip-synch.
Wow, what a link I thought, might this have something to do with the ancient sink?
Yes, yes, but of course, the sink
Of my past people; presented nicely in the present. My people, on the brink
Of destruction, now have but one hope…my ability to lip-synch.
Where is my paper? Where is my ink?
I must create more, more distelfink!
What can I do, this is such a stink? How can I think
About the distelfink? When I must think
Solely about the outcome, the cease of distruction, to our precious ancient sink.
No, no my brain of pink must help me render up some distelfink.
**** my mind is not in sync! My body is on the brink
Because of how much I have to double-think. The ink
Will not flow, and with that, in a wink, I’ve lost my ability to lip-synch.
Outthink, outwit, out measure, I must regain my gift of lip-synch.
This cannot happen unless the cross-link in my brain fixes itself and allows me to think.
What will happen if my ability to think and cross-link forces me to ink?
Like an octopus scared for it’s life, scared that we may never save the sink.
Like blue-birds that can’t sing, I am on the brink
Of madness, madness at the thought of never completing my distelfink.
What if I never complete my distelfink.
Will I ever be able to lip-synch?
Will I constantly be on the brink
With the thought of not being able to think?
Will I save my people, my sink?
It all depends on my eons old ink.
Eons old ink creates pink water soaked distelfink
As it flows into the sink and out as lip-synch.
I must think or I will stay forever on the brink.
Feb 11, 2010
Feb 11, 2010 at 9:05 AM UTC
From my new book, Poems of Ancient Rome and Greece, available in paperback on Amazon and Barnes & Noble, as well as eBook on Kindle, Nook, and Apple Books: https://www.amazon.com/Poems-Ancient-Greece-Christopher-Saitta/dp/B0DS6933HB?ref_=ast_author_dp
My mother the sea,
She woke my sandy eyes,
Just to tell me she had to leave,
Draw past the markets where the fish are sun-dried,
Snarled by the coral-rough hands of divers deep.
My mother the sea,
She left her running tab
Of the grocer’s choicest greens,
Thumbed the velamentous rinds and spiny scarola,
Her xylem and phloem are the slow moving cruciferousness of a breeze.
My mother the sea,
Charwoman of tides,
Who dips and delves upon her knees,
Who scrubs her brothel-coves with chamber lye,
Cyprian mistress of the salt-stained sheets.
I have looked for you, mother,
A scugnizzo amid the striped awnings of the marketplace
~ like sails to the sky ~
Where the fishmongers hawk their pride
Of conch, cavallo, and black sea bream.
I have looked for you, mother,
Walked sun-forged along the boardwalk,
Amid the neon-mascara of signs,
Hand-in-hand with only the ladyfingers of salt and vinegar fries,
Toward the crisp syllabub of pebbles and sand.
A beach is window-warmth spread free, cosmopolitan,
The longeur of eyes crushed in the glass-dust of cities.
And in the sputtering of the frosted spume of tides,
Held broken seashells in my hands like broken needles,
Heard the pump-click of the ventilator through your mask of sand.
My mother the sea,
A naked convalescent,
Whose ever-turnings have taken
A turn for the worse.
Who will know her by her death, who but me?
Jan 21, 2025
Jan 21, 2025 at 8:29 AM UTC
Under the water
below the sea
the whales are calling
They're calling to me
Divers discover the waters
bright glee
the fish are swimming for all to see
The sea holds tresures and souls
Secrets are waiting
in the under sea holes
What's waiting for me
in the depths of the sea
Is the answer I'm longing
It's the key to the sea.
Jun 19, 2020
Jun 19, 2020 at 1:12 PM UTC
Did you see that Usain Bolt
The surname sure fits there
Yeah, not bad thinks Dusty dog
But can he catch a hare?
That long jump champ, well done mate
You're better than the rest
But any Ozzie joey
Would hardly be impressed
Those divers, back flips in the water
Splashing two by two
Any dolphin anywhere
Could make you look like fools
So it is with everything
Try as hard we might
Mind, I've not seen anything
Go quite as quick by bike
Aug 8, 2012
Aug 8, 2012 at 12:25 PM UTC
Les ondes de la mer me caressent doucement.
Je me sens si heureux chaque seconde de mon être
Et j’oublie mes chagrins si divers légèrement.
Tout ce qu’on veut maintenant est s’unir aux belles-lettres
En quoi notre destin fut écrit autrefois,
Où les chemins de la vie sont toujours dégagés
Et nous sommes libérés des regrets, des outrages
Qui empêchent notre envie de partout voyager.
Nous manquons seulement de courage de fuir -
De nos craintes, vexations, amertumes et avis...
En étant caressés par les ondes de la mer
Commençons de nouveau: nouveau seuil de la vie.
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 2:34 PM UTC
A pearl waits indeed,
albeit of exceptional beauty...
No matter how rare or how valuable,
a pearl waits indeed.
A pearl waits indeed,
for the bravest of divers...
No matter how long or how far,
to swim deep for her historical harvest.
A pearl waits indeed,
albeit of celebrated rarity...
No matter how treacherous the ocean,
a pearl stays still and sits pretty.
A pearl waits indeed,
in the embrace of the sea...
No matter how tumultuous the waves get,
a pearl waits indeed...
A pearl waits...
to be worn as a necklace
or earrings by a poet.
A poet who also refers to herself as a pearl.
A poet so foolishly comparing herself.
But then again, she's not so wrong.
Asking questions to the sky before bed.
Will you pick me up and take me away
from this seabed of moss and loss?
Will you harvest me from the vast ocean
and its mass of loneliness?
A pearl waits...
to be held, touch and kissed by the fingers
of a brave diver, of a worthy surfer...
Or simply by a simple island boy,
whose heart is that of a lion's
and whose hands are able...
Apr 30, 2024
Apr 30, 2024 at 4:15 AM UTC
~
*You're an island in the anodyne brisk.
You're a holm of lonesomeness.
Your divers in deep diorama
sink like boats.
There's coins and clothing
and troubling notes
left by a female passenger
imprisoned on watery shore.
Run aground,
you harbor regret,
and speak in tongues of folklore.
If I had an ocean I'd give you to it.*
~
Feb 8, 2024
Feb 8, 2024 at 10:15 AM UTC
The wind chimes are melting,
The ponds are sweltering,
The roads run like black tea;
The flags aren't waving,
Sheets aren't sailing,
The grass looks like gold wheat.
The beaches have more bodies
Than Juno did in June;
The dogs aren't barking,
But the kids are laughing,
Their joy's not lost on me.
I should go to the banks
Of the St. Clair River,
Where the current cools
Beneath the bridges;
Read the names on the Huron freighters
Carrying coal and oil;
Eat tasty dogs and greasy fries,
The northern breeze there never dies.
I should hover like a dragonfly,
Applaud the divers hot ******* chances,
In the dog days of their youth.
Aug 3, 2019
Aug 3, 2019 at 9:42 AM UTC
Hello, whale,
yes, you there wallowing
and swallowing crustaceans
with all your calliousity
and my insatiable curiosity.
What a laugh that calf
of yours was
when it frolicked up
to us diverse divers
wanting to be survivors
of its childlike impetuosity
and eighteen foot
preposterous, gargantuan monstrosity.
When you rose up underneath us
I thought you were going to eat us.
You scared me, whale,
when you flicked us with your tail -
the one you splinter yachts with
when you act as Davey Jones' locksmith.
Of course, I retired then
from my dive-in on leviathan,
happy to survive
your forty-five
tonne introduction.
Then you glided into gloom
and sang your eerie song
about your alien, baleen life
in vast, mysterious,
deep areas of oceans.
Good luck along the whale's road,
you mighty minstrel, you diva of the deep.
This diver hopes all humans and harpoons
will spare you and you can share
your song again.
God speed, whale.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 1:04 AM UTC
Played by cheaters
Kicking a round ball
War of attrition
Divers open to fall.
Sportsmanship rarely
Revealing its sporting head
It's tribalism in a skin you cannot shed
Field of dreams
Beautiful game
Why do the players put the game to shame
The game is the game, it is what it is
The games played by people taking the p-ss
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 2:07 PM UTC
bernie the cheese
collapsed at the side
of the road
his measured response depleted
he watches as she folds up
her neat and meticulously spelled words
plied on silver tongue into her rucksack
and through such ******* ********** of kings english
she entices him ever onward where
faint lines can be sought
and yet to be found
that echo the face of true madness
its laughing sweating continence
painted with watercolours and
can only be seen in the reflection of
a mirror reflecting another mirrors image
her face slowly releases its dire grip
and her eye looses it screaming aspect
as she finds herself alone on the ***** alleys cobblestones
the battered dumpsters spilling treasures for the divers to find
she begins to hum a beatles tune from '63
and fingers the lace shawl hiding her deformed mind
trying once more to capture that vast lost feeling from
girlhood that dances a
dubious little jig on her headstone of the heart
singing 'lookie here....look at whats buried here'
she remembers his face but not his name
he drove a silver buick with a skull painted on the hood
his blond features engraved in the notions
his words mixed with foul smelling chicken soup
he was a soup of the day in her salad years
bernie the cheese
chews on the charbroiled taste of his
blowup doll lover's lips and tries to say
the three magic words
'made in china'??
his own words spent he casts about
in terror for a phrase or two to quote from
the masters of deception
who gather round in long grey coats
sinister eyes on the fruits of his labour
their wooden faces warped by rain
their mouths only a dim perceived line of
mumbles written in childlike scrawl
on the backs of closet doors
we hide here because we cannot see
therefore we cannot be seen
you cant touch me because i cannot feel
they gift him at price unnamed some loose parable
naught more that glib reprise of his own perilous straights
his is the beast that labours in their stead
he is their human face
she is but the road they walk today
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 7:36 AM UTC