"dutchman" poems
Here, I sail to regions unknown.
On the tides of bliss, you are shown.
Your sweet strokes can calm my heart.
As fear and pain depart.
How the sun is dim to your smile.
West winds blow as I dream of the Isle.
For one day, we will lock our hands.
Upon the golden sands...
Writhe and roar! Sea and tempest grow!
Rise, my Dutchman! Rock to and fro!
Set the sails and man all the helms!
Postpone our journey's end.
Death ascends upon the throne.
As wild as I am alone.
Come to the sea, and cut through the waves.
Hurry to your watery grave!
And my love, who can't be restrained.
I will vow that I'll make you pay!
Drag them, bind them, take their souls!
And hear the death bell toll!
For my love, I gave you my heart.
So that we will never part.
Forever you were my always.
I'll set the sea ablaze.
How I've dreamed we'd meet on the lands.
Words of love have crumbled to sand.
For years, I drown with misery.
I want my liberty...
Unlike you, my heart isn't chained.
Hear my ***** feel my pain!
Lost and cold, my heart knows no rest!
Within this dead man's chest...
Oct 3, 2017
Oct 3, 2017 at 1:13 PM UTC
Dear Night;
The day breaks like a child's neck,
And there she is -
Like a fresh sand hills beckoned seductively
By childish poetry that
Rings off the fingertips like marshmallows
Burnt from too much *****
A cradle erupts:
Two deaths turning into one,
A turning sensation of philosophers timid to experience
We are what?
We are the writhing fiends caught on
By electricity sought upon by
The high priests of a no man's land
Billy the Kid
Tragic care giving fiends telling tales
Of naturality that grow like figs neath virgins
And we share the fragrance of foreigners
Dancing neath' their dead bodies for we
Are the store fronts of the epileptic rich
Sharing nothing, we forgive the dead angels that
Share in nothing but their own salvation
And we the nation hold their hands as they are handed
Their medals that shine and beat against innocent
Sun where we - Good Humans - will always feel inferior
I take thee for my own prisoner
Let's go and check out the sun for mine own
I said I was having sun...asleep
Mine own mind was bent, crooked, doomed
Warranted evil will of course be put to light
Teller tell me what I wish to know
You tell me the secret
You wish to hold, oh' you wish to keep
We are the children you asked for
But you are so unwilling up accept
But the press is something that is intangible
They are spread spearers that are accepted as they are:
A good german; a fair dutchman; a funny Chaplin;
Genius moving with insecure marijuana.
But she presses her own soul on the glass
Never lasting - a pure bread horse
There she stands, like an egyptian statuette incarnate
Breaking through the clouds like a pillar
Bent only for salvation and glory
A cool informant next to Hemingway that breaks
The next vinyl that's hot mixed with devil sweat
Someone breathes something on my neck and I'm soon
To wonder what the next place I need to be is
So...I wonder...Myself is the one to take care of this mess?
Here we are - stagnant - like a tombstone,
Wondering what we are meant for and wondering
Where we are not supposed to go.
We have our labels.
We have our names.
And, yes, we have our jobs that were
Given to us by companies that have no face,
Only a name and yet we obey...
Too push a confidence you have to ask me
What I wish to know for the assignment that no one cares about
After I get what people will listen too
What the truth is a very thing
I love the hash that beeps like a dead hyena on the road side
Howling like a lost lover without someone to love
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 4:59 AM UTC
I feel somehow that they have mislabelled you
Perhaps just penned you in the wrong ink...
I'm not sure
It seems when I try to describe you, the idea goes sailing away and never anchors home
Slippery one might say...
As the man crawling out from beneath the wreckage of a rolled-over vehicle, slathered face to shins, in blood and *****
And the words that had beckoned to him
Now thoroughly lost...
Nothing more then a few gruelling moments in agony before it was just a memory and a phrase that didn't quite seem to fit...
Unreal. What did that word even mean?
It felt insulting.
As though the momentary terror that had consumed your reality was nothing more then a passing storm -- No more then a ghost or a Flying Dutchman...
But could the same not be said for it all?
Is any of this really what we came here for?
The choice alone is too much for me not to waste it and I fear if I leave it for too long that the choice will inevitably make itself...
But perhaps maybe that in turn is the choice
--The freedom to be or not...
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 11:46 AM UTC
Pardon, old fathers, if you still remain
Somewhere in ear-shot for the story's end,
Old Dublin merchant "free of the ten and four"
Or trading out of Galway into Spain;
Old country scholar, Robert Emmet's friend,
A hundred-year-old memory to the poor;
Merchant and scholar who have left me blood
That has not passed through any huckster's ****
Soldiers that gave, whatever die was cast:
A Butler or an Armstrong that withstood
Beside the brackish waters of the Boyne
James and his Irish when the Dutchman crossed;
Old merchant skipper that leaped overboard
After a ragged hat in Biscay Bay;
You most of all, silent and fierce old man,
Because the daily spectacle that stirred
My fancy, and set my boyish lips to say,
"Only the wasteful virtues earn the sun";
Pardon that for a barren passion's sake,
Although I have come close on forty-nine,
I have no child, I have nothing but a book,
Nothing but that to prove your blood and mine.
1.8k
----
The Superstition mountains
Have a mine, or so it's told
Its canyons echo riches
Many died in search of gold
Four rapacious desperados
Rode hard into its hills
In search of the Lost Dutchman
But it's said that his ghost kills...
They saw an onyx jaguar
Dark as a holocaust
It walked on ahead of them
When they found that
they were LOST
They saw Jacob's Ladder
Wraiths ascending to on high
They walked under as a good sign
But found this was a lie...
They saw a snow white owl
And asked it what to do
It stared at them with golden eyes
And simply answered, "Who?"
They found a wooden box
Carved with foreign runes
They opened It expecting gems
And found Pandora's DOOM
They heard coyotes laughing
As they closed in for the ****
Those bad men found no treasure
no one ever will
The mountains take their toll
As the outlaws will attest
The sky birthed out a Blood Moon
As they rode into the west...
SoulSurvivor
(C) 7/24/2015
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC
He was the only guy I met
Who wore a genuine fedora
And for all he struck a figure
He turned out to be a horror.
He was Satan with a swagger
A thin cheroot hanging in his lip.
He got into every nightclub free
I never saw him leave a tip.
His voice was like his words,
Smooth and slick and few.
When he talked everyone listened.
It seemed the proper thing to do.
But later when you remembered
It seemed he didn’t say much at all.
You just remembered his affect
His posture and that he was tall.
I don’t mean to imply he was a loner;
He had his choice of friendly fare.
And, it seemed the were both genders
So, there were lots of us out there.
We entertained, or at least we tried,
Just to keep him where we were.
And throughout the evening’s fun
Competition is what we all were.
So, we flirted and we flattered him
And we kept his cigarettes well lit.
Once in a while one of the silliest
Of our sycophantic group threw a fit.
Most of the time we stuck to our goal;
Some girl went nuts we’d ignore her.
For some mad reason all we thought
Was to please the man in the fedora.
I never heard anyone talk of him
And mention his accent or race.
In fact nobody seemed to be able
To remember aspects of his face.
And he never seemed to walk away
He just faded back into the flora.
He was like a will-of-the-wisp;
A Flying Dutchman in a fedora.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 1:18 AM UTC
A dutchman in dusty brogans
Hill and gully.
Walkabout dreamer mastlless ship
Hill and gully.
Raggamuffin rover.
Hill and gully .
Phoenix scattered in the sand
Smoldering embers.
Hill and gully
Shimmering in the distance
oasis in the heat..
Hill an gully walkabout
Waltzing all about
One day he walks up to himself
And ends his walkabout.
One climbing uphill
One trodding down
Tuckererd out and out of tucker
Waltzing matilda
Endless walkabout.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 11:16 AM UTC
Pardon, old fathers, if you still remain
Somewhere in ear-shot for the story's end,
Old Dublin merchant "free of the ten and four"
Or trading out of Galway into Spain;
Old country scholar, Robert Emmet's friend,
A hundred-year-old memory to the poor;
Merchant and scholar who have left me blood
That has not passed through any huckster's ****
Soldiers that gave, whatever die was cast:
A Butler or an Armstrong that withstood
Beside the brackish waters of the Boyne
James and his Irish when the Dutchman crossed;
Old merchant skipper that leaped overboard
After a ragged hat in Biscay Bay;
You most of all, silent and fierce old man,
Because the daily spectacle that stirred
My fancy, and set my boyish lips to say,
"Only the wasteful virtues earn the sun";
Pardon that for a barren passion's sake,
Although I have come close on forty-nine,
I have no child, I have nothing but a book,
Nothing but that to prove your blood and mine.
1.6k
Lashed to the side .washed by the rolling tide
I have traversed the oceans wide.somehow. my cursed soul
Cannot find surcease.
Seasons go and decades flow.
Down, down to the depths we go. A watery grave
I stubornly craved ,no such. Cursed beast.
"No whale. No cursed devil."
Release me to darkness.
To hell and gone.
Vengeance is mine saeth the lord
I Ahab spat defiance.
A wooden keepsake strapped to my knee.
A bitter morsel for mobey **** who bit and spit the cursed zealot
Away to drift.
Now strapped astride.his sworn foe
His soul long dead .sent ahead.
Ahabs sentence
To prowl the depths
To see the unseen.
Fathom for fathom.dark and deep
Never to sleep or feel the touch.
A horrific Dutchman to end of days
To repent for his blackheart vengeance.
Forever cast
Away.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 11:49 PM UTC
A singular cloud
Floats in the blue,
Cotton candy
I'd like to chew.
Make a stick
With your finger,
Hurry, clouds
Don't usually linger.
Now it's a galleon
In full sail,
Leaving a wake
In a wispy tail.
It sails the sky
Without a crew,
The Flying Dutchman
Sails from view.
Now a cauliflower cloud,
Folding in upon itself,
With dark green leaves
At its base,
Add melted cheese
For added taste.
A lamb, a hand,
A face, a pillow,
This cloud morphs
As lovers do.
One minute
I can see a form,
Then becomes
Part of the storm.
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 5:41 PM UTC
You've got memories, I've got ghosts
And I can't forget, hard as I try
I could map all the words you ever spoke
Like constellations in the sky
Second to the righteous and straight on 'til mourning
Like men lost at sea while soul searching
The repeated prayers were wasted breath
Used to **** time while we waited for death
The salts in the air and the ocean breeze
Burn the cracks in our skin and make it hard to breathe
While the remarks and past that cast our sail
Are lost from our lungs with each exhale
Hope and courage course through our veins
Trust and faith is all that remains
With defeat and pride guiding the waves
We set a course for better days
Onward to mystery
To make our mark in history
When clarity becomes a cloud
everything starts to let you down
I am the Flying Dutchman
searching for better ways
I am an undead crew
longing for better days
If you see me on the horizons
just let me be
I'm trying to find value
in a calm at sea
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
His last sunrise shone in his eyes
as we readied, aimed and fired.
“Shoot straight you bastards!”“Breaker” yelled
as his life and time expired..
Handcock and Morant together lay
sightless eyes toward the sky.
The courts-martial had convicted them.
Kitchener ordered that they die.
How did I feel about this man
my bullet helped to slaughter?
This man who ordered Boers shot
without a written order.
I’d seen him fight, and bravely too
when Boers struck the town.
The prisoners had manned the line
and helped us hold our ground..
Now stretcher-bearers took their limbs
and bore them from the field.
So fast and secret were their deaths
There was no chance of appeal.
Australians had been killed by Scotch
to please the Dutchman Boers.
British men and Africans-
we were all just following orders.
Feb 1, 2012
Feb 1, 2012 at 8:41 PM UTC
Where did he steal that fowl he has a-roasting on his fire
He looks a ***** scoundrel, a godless **** a liar
I've heard that they’re all rapists every woman’s dread
And when they've finished with ‘em they leave their victims dead
I've heard that they eat babies and broil them on a spit
‘Tis known in other the villages and that’s the truth of it
Thus whispered fearful peasants behind the soldiers pack
Should he leave them to the enemy they’d **** soon want him back
Hold your peace cried the village priest at his Sunday sermon
He’s come to fight the tyrant with the Dutchman and the German
They pay in gold for the food they take not plunder us like the French
And they’d hang them from the gallows should they **** any *****
And when it comes to fighting there’s none better, braver, bolder
Be he uncouth and foul of mouth God bless the British soldier
Be grateful that he’s come good folk be on your knees and pray
For we all will need god’s mercy on this June’s eighteenth day
For he’s fighting for our freedom for the sake of me and you
And many will be falling soon near our village Waterloo
Written to commemorate the200th anniversary of the battle of Waterloo which saw the final defeat of the self proclaimed emperor Napoleon Bonaparte on Sunday the 18th June 1815
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 2:23 PM UTC
His last sunrise shone in his eyes
as we readied, aimed and fired.
“Shoot straight you bastards!”“Breaker” yelled
as his life and time expired..
Handcock and Morant together lay
sightless eyes toward the sky.
The courts-martial had convicted them.
Kitchener ordered that they die.
How did I feel about this man
my bullet helped to slaughter?
This man who ordered Boers shot
without a written order.
I’d seen him fight, and bravely too
when Boers struck the town.
The prisoners had manned the line
and helped us hold our ground..
Now stretcher-bearers took their limbs
and bore them from the field.
So fast and secret were their deaths
There was no chance of appeal.
Australians had been killed by Scotch
to please the Dutchman Boers.
British men and Africans-
we were all just following orders.
Feb 1, 2012
Feb 1, 2012 at 8:41 PM UTC
I stay in my little box
I originally planned on only using it as a detox
But once inside I was trapped
No my arms weren't strapped
But I still felt kidnapped
So I did have to adapt
And honestly I'm thankful *** my life is no longer chapped
I've learned to be self reliant
An many of u may think that that makes me a defiant
But honestly no one was there when I was crying
when I didn't know how to keep fighting
I needed help and that box was my only guidance
You had one assignment and when I poured my soul out to you what did I receive? Silence
At first the thought of being alone was horrifying
But side by side me and this box we made an alliance
And when I'm inside of this small confinement
There isn't any lying or over trying or self confidence dying or any boohoo crying
..well maybe sometimes
but it's okay because when I sit in this quiet
this silence there isn't any judgment
There isn't any soul crushing
There isn't any unwanted touching
No nudging no punching no Flying Dutchman there's nothing
It's like I was forced upon this dungeon and ended up never wanting to leave
For a while my life was at ease but as it goes on Ive started to crave someone to come live within it with me
How ever it's not an option because I never venture out I never have the guts to flea
Sometimes I'll poke an arm out and feel a cold breeze so back in the box I go
Dreaming of a life I'll never really know
Living in terror of being hit with a crossbow
Fear is a powerful thing
Top reason why I'll never have any offspring
What if they grow to be as corrupted as I?
What if they live in a box so they can never reach the sky?
Fear is the reason id stay up at night and cry
My eyes couldn't really take It
At night they'd constantly spit
So I moved into this box and it's been a perfect fit
But be ware if you decide to come inside ur gonna need a permit
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 3:41 AM UTC
It might the flying Dutchman be
Or the fame of those fishermen three
How it we walk planks of our own making!
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 8:37 PM UTC
i never quiet know why
classic fm
never plays davy jones’ theme
but always the happy camper crap
of swashbuckle hip hip hooray
and an adventure on *** island;
but what concerns me more
is why an elephant stepped on my ear
and made mahler’s
das trinklied vom jammer der erde
sound too much like wagner’s
flying dutchman overture.
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 12:35 PM UTC
It was the less i could do
Climb the mountain
Scale the kitchen
Talk to the neighbours
Find a neighbour
Inspiration, need it
Words on the refuse truck
Toss it in
Screaming kids
Screaming mothers
*******
What, oh *******
Talking art
Modern stuff
Bed with a ****** in it
Jonny
Go home
Bus it
Converse in a foreign language
Can’t understand them
I live here
Inspired to shout
Who am i
This week
A sign on the wall
Jesus saves
Bankers own heaven
Hell
Drowning in realization
Happiness can be bought
What price
Yesterdays
Snow on the hills
Dutchman panics
Refuse collector has a Phd in
Wednesdays
Bus stoppers look in awe
Three together
Another day dead
Dear diary
Inspiration
Boots in bin.
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 1:15 PM UTC
a spirits' ship
cutting through the stormy mist
a cold wind blows
up upon her
crossing souls
off the Dutchman's list
just another human
to become a goner
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 3:20 PM UTC
How quiet is the rolling breath
Of foam upon it’s seeping death
The grey winds taken from the shore
As sand and rock are left no more
For life will not tally beneath the sail
Of crisp white linen, slashed by rusted mail
No more, no more the bell will chime
Upon the passing winds of time
The dead are sailing upon quiet seas
Their hopes are scattered in the breeze
Far from home and far to go
These unquiet souls lie below
Cursed forever, to sail and roam
This Flying Dutchman will hold no home
No port awaits this journey’s end
No harbour sits around the bend
It sails through twilight, night and day
The bow holds its course, the star leads the way
Jan 28, 2021
Jan 28, 2021 at 10:12 AM UTC
Here, I glide to regions unknown.
On the tides of bliss, you are shown.
A stroke from you can calm my heart.
Forlorn and fear, depart.
How the sun is dim to your smile.
West winds blow as I dream of the Isle
For that one day, where we lock our hands
Upon the golden sands...
Writhe and roar! Sea and tempest grow!
Rise, my Dutchman! Rock to and fro!
Set the sails and man all the helms!
Our journey never ends.
Death ascends upon the throne.
As wild as he is alone.
Come to the sea, and cut through waves
Hurry to your water grave.
And my love who can't be restained.
I will vow that I'll make you pay
Drag them, bind them, take their souls
And hear the death bell toll!
For my love, I gave you my heart.
So that we will never part.
Forever you were my always.
Your curse, I won't obey.
How I've we'd meet on the lands.
Words of love have crumbled into sand.
For years, I drown with misery.
.Dead chest, safeguard my heart...
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 5:17 PM UTC
I'm at the Superstitions: it's
nightfall
and the moon is close to
full, one smirk away from
solid-
I'm looking at the sky,
neck crooked up, and
waiting for the curtain of dusk to
pull her dressings closed and show
her stars
to me
I've found
the buried gold
in
Lost
Dutchman's Park.
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 6:34 PM UTC
Today is swaddled in yesteryear.
Left in the iron cradle alone.
Arise from repose, with stale mind
The morrow tarnished by dreams.
Pouring regret over my cereal
I take a spoonful so I stand in place.
There is no ideation, alas, also no striving.
The world's hue has faded from my eyes.
The blue iris around a sea of dreams,
Now is light ash around charcoal.
A type of purgatory, so I burn in my sins.
I think back to the lighthouse on the shore
Wistfully, wonderfully, beacon bright.
When the mind and heart made harmony
And angels proclaimed majesty on high.
The anchor was heralded by the mind,
Keeping the voyaging vessel docked at bay.
An anchor for my soul, yet naught of the heart.
Heart found not the Dutchman, but Jolly Roger
Slipping and setting sail, the mind melded not.
So now here. Each following breath is waning.
If only...
May 5, 2020
May 5, 2020 at 10:14 AM UTC
I comport myself with quiet pridefulness,
plus intellectual whimsy
aware that "FAKE" pretentiousness,
could be mistaken foreign egotistical vitae
furthering, feathering and figuratively
undermining jestingly,
poetically, and zealously
oozing, gushing, bubbling over
with faux snobbish suave re:
pulse sieve literary fatuous
haughtiness, and ludicrous narcissistic pre
ning all the while chuckling to me
self, and indifferent if
some anonymous browser
with Dutchman's breeches rolled up
upon cresting wave over Zyder Zee
disparages mine harmless
badinage, hence if ye
might qualify as such nitpicker,
who doth cavil - dee
crying wading thru
quagmire of verbiage,
a gentle reply to thee
might be more wise to turn energy
toward, how in many another country
the village people haint so free
spouting, sporting, and spoiling,
vis a vis intellectual sparring
(albeit innocent) black
barbs hatch chee
ving, and raising urgent
attention against he
(who **** squelching
constitutional rights) re:
pressing, rescinding, reviling,
et cetera access toward key
underpinnings within these fifty
constituent United States
of America beckon alacrity
for obliging citizens across
all points of the compass to alee
v8 his indiscriminate flee
sing, sans bedrock nation could tee
tear on the brink of calamity,
which political plug quite inadequate
to staunch hemorrhaging, viz upending
many a sacred liberty,
and foo to you reprimanding
against any agree
gee us objection to pen about polly lee
ticks and/or religion!
Dec 31, 2018
Dec 31, 2018 at 2:45 PM UTC