"hoist" poems
You are a sailor
Drift way from the harbor
Pull up the anchor
That binds you down
Set sail towards the horizon
Take off the blindfold
And hoist the sail
Let the wind be your guide
Sun and the Moon your compass
Steering through uncharted waters
Sometimes calm weather
Or, inclement weather, rocking your ship
Tackling the deep waters with alacrity
Unfathomable depths, yet the ship sails
Cutting through the waters
The saline water, which is a part of you
Seagulls guide you towards the shore
Anchoring at the preferred destination
Every grain of sand cushions your feet
Welcoming you to the island of bliss
Cut off from the mainland
Yet, helping you connect with yourself
Now it’s time to unwind
And join the party after a successful voyage
Ready to set sail for another expedition
As a sailor, cruise till the end
© Amitav (Radiance)
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
Sandman comes 'n starts t' raise
Golden dunes o' fairy land
A world o' dreams ahead now lays
Come on lovely close yer eyes, 'n
By th' gods o' sea 'n sky
Start 'n sail on puffy clouds,
'n with them green 'n pretty eyes
Steer yerself t' cotton grounds,
Dream o' love 'n joy 'n sea
Made o' liquid silk 'n gold,
As a cap'n ye shall be
Sailing in th' Nevertold,
Hoist yer colours in th' blue
'n trust th' heart t' point the way,
Ye be sailing straight 'n true
T' th' port o' Dreamland Bay.
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 8:57 AM UTC
The sunrise wakes the lark to sing,
The moonrise wakes the nightingale.
Come darkness, moonrise, every thing
That is so silent, sweet, and pale:
Come, so ye wake the nightingale.
Make haste to mount, thou wistful moon,
Make haste to wake the nightingale:
Let silence set the world in tune
To hearken to that wordless tale
Which warbles from the nightingale
O herald skylark, stay thy flight
One moment, for a nightingale
Floods us with sorrow and delight.
To-morrow thou shalt hoist the sail;
Leave us to-night the nightingale.
11.8k
Indebted shadows prey on a prayer
They drink up their glories and sins,
While contending for souls so rare
And endow nails upon my skin:
Clever born,
Hearty,
And silver to the bone.
Nevermore,
Sadly,
Now mutely grey in tone.
“Awake!
Arise!
Win our war in Rome!”
They break,
They lie,
And never came home.
Forget
Please never,
This threat
I sever,
Regret?
Too clever
to lie.
Faulty sins hoist a ****** banner
While goodness is only a trend,
And foes are convenient in manner
Convenience: a conclusive friend.
Too clever to lie
What a convenience am I
Am I: your conclusive friend;
Answer as to why
You raise the stakes high
When you have no soul to lend?
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 3:32 PM UTC
I wish for a hug...
One that lasts only mere seconds.
Yet could only mean nothing
but eternity.
I long for a hug...
One that finds me struggling,
and offers the line that'll hoist me up
so that the whims of the world
would simply fall away.
I yearn for a hug...
An embrace that grants me the briefest
moment of solace.
Amidst the clamour and chaos
that overwhelm.
I want a hug...
One that's unconditional.
One that'll just take me in, as I am.
One that wouldn't cringe
at the misfit of my bones.
One that wouldn't judge
if our heartbeats don't
thump in sync.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 11:37 AM UTC
T'was just before Christmas and I went down to the garage
To have my old car looked at by a fellow known as "Sarge"
He said I need tires and my wipers weren't so hot
My hoses all were leaking and my muffler was shot
The repairs just kept on coming and I saw a sparkle in his eyes
He was counting all my money, he was the devil in disguise
I told him "Thanks, but I would go and get another look"
Before I signed for his repair list and I was on the hook
So I went on to my friend's place to see what he could do
We've been friends for nearly 30 years...since 1982.
His mechanic took it out back and while he had it on the hoist
I saw a woman at the counter, looking rather moist
She said my car is leaking there's a hole that must be filled
I thought that if Rob had a coffee, it'd most certainly be spilled
A girl came in and she told Rob her boyfriend had loose nuts
And whenever he was driving her, they slid into the ruts
Rob stepped back, grinned a bit as he was looking down her front
And from where I stood behind her I could almost see her
Donation to the Angel tree that was standing in the corner
A door opened, a breeze blew in, and there was no time to warn her
Her skirt blew up, exposing her tattoo of some sprigs of holly
And Rob came round and covered her just like Sir Walter Raleigh
I'm sorry miss, for I did look when your skirt was lifted
And I must say, you made my night, for my drive shaft has shifted
And then a man came through the door and said "My name is Nick"
"I've problems with my reindeer and I need them seen to quick"
Rob said "we work on cars here sir , I can fix tires or a hose"
"It's nothing major son, I need a bulb for Rudolph's nose"
"It doesn't stay on like it should and the other deer get frantic"
"And I can't risk it going out when I'm over the Atlantic"
"So, if you would replace it now with something nice and bright"
"I'd pay you well for all your time and for aiding in my plight"
Rob stepped up, fixed Rudolph's nose and said "This one's on me"
"And for all work done in my shop you get a guarantee"
We all stood round as Santa left, for we new that it was him
For he left us each a candy cane in a metal alloy rim
And as we watched him fly away, I'm sure we heard him yell
"There's mistletoe tattooed on her too, but...where I'll never tell!"
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 3:01 PM UTC
I cast the muse into the sea
to wake her from a peaceful sleep.
This poet’s quill is void of ink;
it needs her words to strike the page.
She’ll fight the waves Poseidon sends
til Sirens drive her back to shore
to sip an oleander brew
and hoist the cup of Socrates.
Bring wolfsbane and a death morel!
Bring nightshade and curare too!
We’ll fatten her with woe and pain!
We’ll ready her for war and hate!
She’ll writhe and quiver, seethe and foam
until she spews her putrid verse
upon the blackened sands of time
from which men’s darkest dreams are built.
And when the gods are satisfied,
when Ares’ sword has slashed and burned,
this poisoned pen will rest at last.
Calliope shall sleep once more.
Jan 5, 2021
Jan 5, 2021 at 8:23 PM UTC
We come from the same gene pool,
but don't you dare tell me
that we can wear the same jeans,
because you couldn't hold them up.
You wouldn't be able to keep them in place,
to hoist up the weight of the world
that makes them so heavy.
Your size zero waist and thighs
couldn't handle the pressure,
couldn't handle the qualities
of life size pants.
Not 12 size pants.
Life size pants.
My whole life fits into the stretched out fabric,
the too tight button,
the zipper that struggles to crawl up its track.
These pants have seen days where I could slide in
and days where the squeeze was so tight
that I just gave up,
even when giving up shouldn't have been an option.
Holes have been torn,
rips have been stretched,
and yours have been fashioned to look that way.
Do not pretend that we could switch jeans
and be perfectly fine,
because you would be swimming,
and I would be missing.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC
hoist everything into the sky
on balloons
let every decision be universal
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 6:30 PM UTC
Little siren in the scrimpy, black blouse
Sought it is not to hoist cookies before coveted mouths
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 3:03 PM UTC
✨
*The Sun, misses shining bright in the clouds
Mellow, it smiles with the balmy breeze
Rain has been dancing for long in the whole town
Stars can’t shine in the night sky
The rain does its favourite ‘Tandav dance’
They never seem to be out of harmony
The earth, wet and damp
Mother Nature teaches us to accept and walk towards happiness, nevertheless
Light up the earthen lamp and hoist the lantern in the cloudy sky
The stars underneath brim with golden smiles
Diwali is the magical time to spend with the loved ones and feel blessed
To enjoy the festivities with spirits up and bright
Happy Diwali*
✨
Oct 26, 2019
Oct 26, 2019 at 1:37 PM UTC
Mountainous caverns
And cavernous depths
Plague and pillage taverns
Bridle beleaguered breaths
Forward the hour
And hoist the scattered skies
Time not to cower
Behind blatant lies
Prepare for the downfall
As the mountain gives way
Gruesome, thunderous brawl
Is my death in this day
If an avalanche is hell
Then I am surely home
Brokenly beaten and well:
Where chaos freely roams
Forget not our rise
For we are not our sins
But saints in the skies
Banefully, ****** kin
I am a vagabond in hell
And a vagabond: I am free
As heaven rings a final knell
While the mountains collapse for me
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 5:20 AM UTC
When I die, just let my body rot.
So every gust of air on the summer-tide
will hoist me to your presence, bit by bit,
— until with every breath, you’ll memorize me.
When the first light looms without me on your bed,
read my letters out loud…in an over-romantic voice,
— for those words I’ve written will whisper my promises,
and you’ll never hear yourself laughing...again.
But when my heart does not cease from beating,
or if the golden gates of heaven shut before me,
— do not rejoice.
For I will **** myself yet again (even for a thousand times),
just for you to know my worth.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 12:30 AM UTC
The undercurrents of society flow,
Like dreaming fog lights caught in the undertow.
A lone warrior fights only with himself,
So that soon one day he can be put on the shelf,
Ready to be picked at the drop of a hat,
Sadly misused I know not what is said.
Forty two mistletoe drive is where my baby lies,
Under the shade of my boondocks ride,
So long and farewell my princess belle,
No two times go together very well.
Feb 22, 2012
Feb 22, 2012 at 5:37 PM UTC
i pick up flowers from the pages of the calendar
and scatter them on the picture-frame
of my dwelling place
sometimes the spring comes
sometimes the buddhist monastery
along the pitch road of the city
thousand counts of uproars
the mess-building that is situated
on the top of the coconut-tree
has also joined the march-past
and who miss the last train
i offer them glasses of tea
as an anti-war campaigning
the plastic-made afternoons
hoist the flag of nail-polish
as there is no water-bottle
around your neck
the assembly of choosing
one’s bridegroom oneself
has rejected you
Oct 5, 2010
Oct 5, 2010 at 5:23 PM UTC
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
Seems to be a strange day
a cold in the breeze
in the months of May
screeching’s of the door
a mist at the windows
broken pane
The room was lonely
as the leaves, out whirling
a thump at the ceiling top,
rolling, shackling
like those ogling cats
for a savoring mouse
From an ominous weather
to the whispering waters
a crack brought my most
—attention
uncanny things lurking
came falling within
*I saw streamers
faking shimmers
I saw glitters
but aren't gold
I saw diamonds
yet it wasn't snow*
A strong wind gushing
hoist the storm came
toiling, warping
heaven and earth
were felonious, winced
and everything was settled
Crystal drops touching
the tender heart abrupt
shattered glass striking
a sorry won't be sought
memories engrave nothing
flagrant it is to mend
Crystal drops falling
true friends come for once,
an astral to a feeling
stalwart is to be keeping
till when, twas its end
and all of this begins again
Aug 23, 2017
Aug 23, 2017 at 10:12 AM UTC
A drunken ould sot named O'Reilly
Drank a bottle he thought of most highly.
On his way to the well,
He stumbled and fell,
And was hoist upon his own shilleilly.
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 4:17 PM UTC
I am aware of red flags
and really aware of the possibility
that these lead to red rivers:
red running rivers
in which I am floating face up
have you forgotten:
I am able bodied?
and able bodied as I am
I am equally swollen with boredom weight
and the weight of boredom
and the perpetual presence
of the inability to see my toes
(if I lean back far enough)
and with this body
(and that body floating in the river)
I have filled a lake of tears
and blood
and ***** and oil
that you have fished in and taken from
in that river I am stained red and blue
and so are the towels I used
(we used
you used)
oh fisherman
retrieved my body
(if you get this message)
because I am calling for you from heaven
you are weeping and heaving
as you hoist my body from the river
it is too late, fisherman
it is no use to pump
red and blue
(purple) water
from my lungs
I have filled myself with it
in its airborne state
and I am watching you, fisherman
from the skies and the sea
in every carp you catch
and whether you eat me or spare me
fisherman
I am perpetually grateful
to your choosing of my choices
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 8:57 AM UTC
Three Nails (...)
Not so many as to denounce
A job done to make me well.
Three rudimentary spikes to nail
A man's own flesh to wood.
Three nails cannot
Seem so much to proffer;
Human efforts complementing
God's sacrificial offer.
A self-inflicted crucifixion?
Yes, I would do my part;
Would do me good, I think,
To offer up an offering to God.
So let this painful work,
Human endeavoring,
Perfection capturing,
Begin.
A simple thing, I think,
To hoist and hammer
Nails into myself,
A manly job to undertake
Impaling self
To spare my God
A little work.
The first, perhaps
Most painful...
To stop the feet
Their wandering ways,
To give me pause for just a bit
To meditate in pain
And to reflect or to project
Myself in better ways.
.
Then on to nail number two,
One hand to hold the nail
And one the hammer.
The pain intense
Impacts my good intent.
.
And yet, I've nailed number two,
And finding where the problem lies,
I have no way to nail thrice.
My living flesh begins to writhe
Its will-ward way,
E'en though in sky-ward
Agony my soul now wails.
Then I remember
Someone said,
"Your crucifixion stands
Upon a different hill,
Hangs on a different tree."
. . .
Though I can never end my flesh,
He paid my debt for me.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 9:01 AM UTC
Beneath the water lived a nymph, beautiful as
A flower, if you like woman with petals
Growing from out of their face
And lips adorned with myriad metals
Moving silently with infinite grace.
Fishermen who caught her, in alarm
Tossed her back with dismayed cries
Fearful that she would do them harm
When she exposed her fangs, darting from her eyes,
Forked tongues from each palm.
But apart from all that, she was a delightful creature
As proud as a catwalk model
Sexuality impressed into each feature
Death in each cuddle,
Poison injected from each freshly opening suture.
At the sea’s dark bottom lived the nymph
Devouring fish raw, terrifying sharks and barracuda,
Dining on shellfish and prawns for lunch;
Darting amongst Angel Fish and eels, a hungry aficionada,
Tearing into shreds what she could not crunch.
Gentle with her own kind until coition
Was complete, when if hungry she devoured
Her temporary mate without undue consideration,
No please or thank you. Feeling duly empowered
By her actions, as confirmed by her explosive, acrid indigestion.
No longer young, her children dead,
She glides through the water from China to France
A preposterous seaweed hat upon her head
And in several places, impaling her scaly flesh a serrated coral branch.
Her sartorial taste filling even the sharks with fin-quaking dread.
The last of the kind. The others are (literally) toast.
Protected by animal charities here and abroad
She gladly subsists on ambitious swimmers who venture far from the coast
All she can now catch or afford.
A capricious tyrant until the last, when, victim of a fisherman’s boast
She was hoist up like iniquitous cod
Out of the sea, paraded on the deck while she struggled for breath.
Shot at. Abused. Poked and speared with a steel tipped rod,
Dragged into the harbour, pummelled close to death.
Screaming out, as she in unexpected agony died: “I thought, I truly thought, I was god!”
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 2:06 PM UTC
''And if your Nancy frowns, my lad,
And scorns a jacket blue,
Just hoist your sails for other ports,
And find a maid more true.''
2.3k
we
boarded
our
ships
and
hoist the
Royal Queen's flag
the
captain
shouted out
maties
all
hands on deck
while
the
shipmates replied
aye...aye Captain Bly
we
coupled our sails
and
we
started our
young maiden voyage
through
the
White Cliffs of Wales
upon
the
dark wine sea
if
below
her
where
we
joined our sails
and
the
Scottish
bagpipes march behind
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 12:14 AM UTC
a stripe of asphalt on the blanket of green
I stare wordlessly out into other people's lives
peeking past the violet-tinted windows of the freeway
as your chat-chatter spills from your coffee cup
filled to the brim with handshakes and impatience
You clutch your earpiece tighter, scowling
as I trace the horizon across the glass
smudgy fingertips that sigh boredom
and the Mexican workers in orange vests
peer back at me curious and wave
turn to their left and shout something in Spanish
tongues dancing, slick with dust
I smile as they crumple their lunch sacks and
pitch them down into the rubble then hoist
brick by brick, stone by stone
no natural-made boundary
into the chalky air and perch for a while
to mop the sweat from their brown
creased faces and sing rowdily to their neighbors
and the immobile in the SUVs
You lock the doors fast
and pat your hair into place
I've got no time for this construction
you say, can't they build this highway somewhere else?
as you drum your fingers along to the siren song
of CEOs and business connections
You're just the same as the rest of them.
Man forever building bridges
that will only topple down.
Jun 23, 2010
Jun 23, 2010 at 7:26 AM UTC
i recall
with a fondness
blurred by years
the town of
my formative years
in the mountains
the heart of the table lands
dissected by a highway
it crouched, along the sides
of a shallow valley
i remember a greeness
that came from the trees
eucalypt and pine
most prominent
in my mind
and the grass that grew
lush and tall
only to be mown
each Saturday morn
i remember
churches and schools
the wide expasnses
of playing fields
and parks with
hurdygurdys and swings
i remember the pool,
that too turquoise
rectangle,
that glistened
with wet invitation
and on the highest peak
the stolid grey water tower
lording it over all
i remember rough tarmac
under my feet, running from
light pool to light pool at dusk
and frost on picket fences
in early mornings,
like delicate sugar candy
solidier braving the early sun
our house, small on a large block
with hydrangea at the front
wisteria overtaking the fenceline
an at the back door a concrete slab
painted fire engine red,
but faded to overipe watermlon pink
poplar trees garding the back
and the smell of onions
burning on the grill
hill's hoist with tennis ball
and pantyhose
standing to silent attention
and in the forground
my brothers and clans
playing football, league
with passion and
burgeoning skill
all this comes to mind
on a cold winter's day
i may of come a long way
but my heart still
ties me to there
and the memories
make the knots
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 9:05 AM UTC
1120
This slow Day moved along—
I heard its axles go
As if they could not hoist themselves
They hated motion so—
I told my soul to come—
It was no use to wait—
We went and played and came again
And it was out of sight—
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