"mariners" poems
There were dividing lines
between Springfield
and Mariners Gate
soft, subtle lines
that spoke of origin
and code
and biting union
it was all
the reason
for being;
alive and living
dead or dying
deep in a pack
of pint size resistors
hell bent on the
marsh crow
and cannabis tower
jumping the rush
with *** shots
and anchors
and tribunals
camouflage creepers
and transient floaters
marked rebellion at the gates
(skullduggery and taunt
high on their favor list)
jack straws and flat paddles
for the evening charade
beakers and flailing hands
from the foot washing baptist
(the Pleasant Street conservatives with their
own something to say…“there’s gonna be hell to pay!”)
there's a
lingering effect
to this sentiment
(evident in the pump house stride)
the river winds
blow gently
into the night
as the huddling packers
and **** backs
chase the evening hours
it’s a bitter sweet
end of an era;
those traction bars
hood scoops
and nickel bags
will always
be the rage
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 11:13 PM UTC
The napalan man in a violet cape
descended the stair with a lopsided gait
a wretched procession, subscribers in cue
rattling off as they stream from the pew
sounds and smells from a shadowy place
a catholic priest to gin up base
lanterns strung from bolted doors
cobbled streets and wooden floors
stepping stones and iron bell
fortified by the citadel
hallowed halls and sepulcher
dragon cane for the horse drawn tour
castle turret, archer holes
centaur scribed in chamber bowls
garden columns in courtyard view
the blood ballet and hullabaloo
ancient tombs on warrior grounds
gods and saints who made their rounds
goliath still with battered scythe
knelt in prayer and mummified
battle fires and crowds that roar
gallows, caves, abysmal war
gargoyles flock the terraced slope
pearly gates to bring on hope
serpents, snakes and burning ash
lava bombs and trident clash
mariners drift in absentee
as neptune rises from the Tyrrhenian Sea
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 9:20 PM UTC
By David John Mowers
Oceanus, Acheron, Styx and Gyges, Phlegethon,
Phaeacians lament, mourn the loss, Scheria, dissolved in froths.
Virgil’s tale, found correct, a land too good, a nation wrecked,
Nausikaa, burn the ships; their minds released, cool airy nips,
Below the wave, watery grave, submerged to bottom, fathoms by stave,
Fathoms some more, until the whorl, descending to, another world.
Through Omphalos, to Land of Sleep, awaits a beast, where time has ceased,
Darkness here, underworld, cold and frigid, below the whirl,
In solemn grave, souls released, judged and counted, by the beast,
Deeper than, the deep itself, past drowning fairies and dying elves,
Who did mourn them? Those golden men, magic mariners, Mino's kin?
What wrong was seen? What vice not true? What awful sin? What did they do?
One thousand years, first black age, Two thousand more, to find the stage,
Cast off Aries and cast Orion, to find beginning, of Golden Lion.
Man of Heavens, Beast agrees, Bull of Sky, Ox of seas,
Land of Punt, Land of Éire, Ogyges blue, hearts on fire,
All the seashores, all the mines, Tribe of Dan, from ancient times,
Port of Sais, Port of Thera, Port of Lagash, bygone era,
Sailor’s horse, Minotaur, a lyre is crying, strummed guitar, nation dying, abattoir.
Ochre foams to sanguine depth, there they rested, where Kronos slept,
He’ll never answer, he doesn’t care, we’ll never know, if this was fair.
Our hearts in sadness, hands on the gates! I curse you Poseidon!
. . .and your Sea of Fates!
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 7:58 AM UTC
Overcome -- O bitter sweetness,
Inhabitant of the soft cheek of a girl --
The rich man and his affairs,
The fat flocks and the fields' fatness,
Mariners, rough harvesters;
Overcome Gods upon Parnassus;
Overcome the Empyrean; hurl
Heaven and Earth out of their places,
That in the Same calamity
Brother and brother, friend and friend,
Family and family,
City and city may contend,
By that great glory driven wild.
Pray I will and sing I must,
And yet I weep -- Oedipus' child
Descends into the loveless dust.
6.4k
Silhouettes emerge from the night lunar tide
lives still wriggling in their net
ghostly figures from the sea silken wide
reaping riches from the waves in spate.
The night a luminous smile wears
the belly is fired up for a bite
dried leaves would burn under stars
brewing another day under moonlight.
Mariners when not venturing into deep sea
release passions on the shallow shelf
harvest hope though the catch is measly
breathing in the winds the aroma of kelp.
I feel having long belonged to this place
wading breakers in the phosphorus' glow
gathering in my net a strange happiness
craving home when the tide is low.
Jun 27, 2017
Jun 27, 2017 at 9:21 AM UTC
A wind came up out of the sea,
And said, “O mists, make room for me.”
It hailed the ships and cried, “Sail on,
Ye mariners, the night is gone.”
And hurried landward far away,
Crying “Awake! it is the day.”
It said unto the forest, “Shout!
Hang all your leafy banners out!”
It touched the wood-bird’s folded wing,
And said, “O bird, awake and sing.”
And o’er the farms, “O chanticleer,
Your clarion blow; the day is near.”
It whispered to the fields of corn,
“Bow down, and hail the coming morn.”
It shouted through the belfry-tower,
“Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour.”
It crossed the churchyard with a sigh,
And said, “Not yet! In quiet lie.”
3.6k
The clouds hid the red sky that day
Amid the wind and rain
No red sky meant no sailors warning
The waves broke high and hard
They passed the breakers and the kegs
They missed the red sky morning
The ships out on the water
From the shore to the Grand Banks
Were helpless in the coming storm
No choice to turn and run
The best bet was stay put
There was no port to get warm
The skies were filled with nothingness
the clouds like a sharks eye
Shades of black were all they saw
The icy waves of winter
Broke the calm of the early morn
For red sky in the morning is an unwritten sailors law
The Captain closed the bar down
On the Digby ferry crossing
The doors were being opened by each wave
They couldn't see the white caps
Only sky and see was all
And the souls he had to save
There were fifteen boats in transit
When the storm came bearing down
Most were halfway home or so
Now they all were stranded
In the journey between heaven and hell
Which direction they were headed only God would know
Turn sideways and you'd flip it
Just sit still and you were dead
You had to ride the water hellish ride
Hatches all were battened
Windows sealed and doors shut tight
Sailors tried to stay inside
Water spouts were forming
Off the stern and then the port
Navigate the safest spot and keep low
The door to Davy Jones' locker
Was opened and ready to accept
Any boat who made the choice to venture down below
On shore the coast guard were all scrambled
Planes were sent out just in case
More to recover than to save
Families awaited word by radio
The lines from all the ships were down
Some lost to a watery grave
Each year the ocean opens up
Mother Nature takes some back
It's just the circle of life at sea
Prayers are said at the Mariners Hall
Bells are rung for the dead
The sailors soul belongs to the water and it never can be free
Are you one that lives on water?
You know one day your luck will end
You knew this fact from the start
Sailors know the sea's a minefield
It's a war with God each day
You have to fight with all your heart
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 8:44 PM UTC
© 2010 (Jim Sularz)
Heave ** Aweigh, the ship’s anchor,
lads, climb-up, the tall ship’s masts!
Unfurl the sails white billowed,
all pray, the stiff trade winds blast!
Men briny from white-capped oceans,
Terra Firma’s, a distant quest.
Feel the salt spray, stinging the faces,
of the ship’s crew, tossed fore and aft.
We’re compelled to sail the oceans an’ seas,
with a plumb compass an’ a ration’s tack.
Tattoos an’ a gypsy squeeze-box melody,
the gale blows on our ruddy backs.
All hands scramble, to assemble on deck,
for the Captain rings-hard a muster.
Churning waves in our rudder’s wake,
luminous, with a strange glowing luster.
Land ** A calm, deep harbor,
a smoke filled pub an’ a bonny lass.
But the sea’s, our only steadfast lover,
an’ she beckons, to call us back.
We stand proud to call ourselves - mariners,
Men without fear, we tame the high seas.
Bright stars as our comforting beacons,
fair weather with God’s given speed.
By moon beams an’ dawn’s faint daylight,
we’ll turn our ship’s namesake back.
Heave ** Aweigh, the ship’s anchor,
Lads, climb-up, the tall ship’s masts!
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 5:06 PM UTC
Uniformed and re-upped,
We are the mind sweepers,
The navel gazers moving lint,
Waiting for the image to strike.
We are the missals
And the launchers,
Looking through cross-hairs
From think tanks.
We captain verse vessels to shore,
Unload and return for more.
We are the Romantic
Ancient sub-conscious mariners
Stitched in hammocks.
We are rocketeers.
A force
To reckon.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 9:26 AM UTC
Not a wanderer stuck on the crest of lonely waves.
Nor running ragged on the sands of time.
Traipsing wearily through the wracks of sodden salty ****
As cold water laps over their feet abandoned on craggy rocks.
Not always at sea.
Vagrant migrants.
From rock to rock.
Hark,
Ungodly whistling, clicking and howling.
Wailing and bemoaning.
Poseidon knows that they're around.
They strut around the rocks, all knowing.
Their lives they live as one of two.
Choose their one for life.
Should you see one in your salty path.
Foreboding spirit, a warning of turbulence to come.
A past sailor boy seen in totem of bird.
Not so swell, an evil omen.
Moons long past, the only witnesses to a killing crime.
Saw Albatross have his feet cruelly hewed.
Tobacco pouch for jack tar and his pals.
Ancient mariners in a doctrine of distortion.
Sky sailors slept on the wing over night.
Such misdemeanour,
Their perceptions were not right.
The birds perished in the dead of night.
As they did not ever rest in flight.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 8:46 AM UTC
All oceans would this navigator discover
seven seas in seven years did he roam
whist sparkling stars in the heavens tried so hard
yet this broken navigator could not get back home
So he bites on solar winds and sails
to a place of many days of doldrums
this place so stagnant and most morose
he had to his sins, has to wait with his kin within
His crew are that hard of salty seafaring kind
with maps written on their faces cracked by sun and salt
they his, had only ****** smells and shells
call them hero's as seven seas they did horridly sea's fought
This was his last voided slipstream event
these mariners by the cut of their gibe
prayed to an Egyptian Hero some call Alligator
for he is the first and last of Navigator
So whist this captain of mapped minds falls
his company will care for his last orders
for they have witnessed in ancient tears
and the breaking of the navigator
Oh fly the flag and be proud
live poetry with passion long and loud
let your heart embrace this creature proud
whist you watch the breaking of the Navigator
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
By NeonSolaris
© 2013 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 7:14 AM UTC
May 2013
Memorial day weekend
It was warm with promises of sun
Beautiful blue skies
And no cloud in sight
Seattle prepared for crowds
People swarming the Center
For folk music, food
Laughter and smiles shining bright
My leg, a bright red
I woke up
Burning hot with red seeping up my leg
Pain swarmed my back
Tears gathering
In corners of my eyes
As I was admitted
To the emergency room
Greeted with morphine, leaving me in a haze
*** induced haze
Lingering around the fountain
Families occupied the edge
Children running in and out
Collecting droplets of water
Along with sunburns
While groups of friends
Gathering in drum circles
Slow rhythmic thumping could be heard for miles
My son’s heartbeat
Thumped in my ears
I watched the fear
As he focused on the antibiotic drips
Invading my body
The days in clipped moments
Passing in and out
With each wave of fever
And the doctors
Tattooed my leg with sharpie
Artwork was only one thing
Found in the vendor alley
People flooded the booths
Snatching up
Brightly colored creations
As they headed to find
Dance troupes, bollywood
Inspired activities
With stomping feet, swaying arms
They placed the central line
Into my right arm
My body had clogged each IV
the doctors warned me
If the redness started
To show patterns of serrating
Then they would have to take my leg
Diazepam had me slurring out
I am fine, I am fine
Memorial Day
A time of remembrance
Services to be held
Events to commemorate
All the fallen
From a concert at Museum of Flight
To baseball game with Seattle Mariners
To appreciate, appreciate
It took ten days
For me to be released
May 2013, Memorial Day weekend
I would always remember
As the beginning
Of my growing struggle
With gradual loss of mobility
I am fine, I am fine
Nov 12, 2020
Nov 12, 2020 at 12:03 AM UTC
She stands at the wall reflecting
on those who were lost at sea
names and poems and words connecting
her to those poor souls and to me.
Beyond those memorial walls
the mighty Columbia into the Pacific spills
whose depth and wealth have called
so many to sail from Oregon's green hills.
From the safety of their home
they left for the great unknown
where writers and poets travel
every time they pen their spirit in word
to explore what God and life has unraveled
what pain, sorrow and joy have stirred.
Her kindness and her reflection move me to write
my poems of wandering from a safe and tidy home
to regions of imagination’s heights
shadows, sorrows, or oceans’ foam.
She reads and lives life’s poetry
knows its canyons and desert sands
she yearns only to be free
of the noise and anger of badlands
to smell the freshness of a cool and gentle breeze
feel the air brushing her arms
to look up and see the greenness of trees
to be free from crushing and brutal harm.
I see her standing and watch her reflection there
with seafarers, poets and lovers at peace
where God’s creative breath stirs air
and torments, terrors, and quarrels cease.
Author’s Note: My sister Genie who lives in a large urban area visited Astoria, Oregon where the Columbia river ends in the Pacific Ocean and local citizens have erected a memorial park with several walls of polished black granite that display the names of mariners lost at sea. There are also sentiments and poems about those lost souls one of which Genie photographed and sent to me. As I examined the photo I could see her reflection on the wall as kind of a background for the poem. That photo and my sister who loves nature and trees inspired this writing. I wish I could post the pic here for you to see why and how it inspired me.
Below is the untitled poem on the memorial wall photographed by my sister.
Weep not for me that I go to sea.
I shan’t be lonely, though vastness surround me.
The brotherhood of the sea shall be my family.
The kinship of the deep my company.
Weep not for me, nor worry over harm.
My heart stays with you, still and warm.
In sunrise and starlight my hearth and home
I carry you with me wherever I roam.
Weep not for me, whether bad luck or good.
Tossed about in a shell of steel and wood.
An ancient salt sea sails within my blood –
I but follow its tide through ebb and flood.
Weep not for me that I go to sea:
in the limitless ocean I am free.
Jun 14, 2019
Jun 14, 2019 at 10:40 AM UTC
There was a time when we were strangers;
ships that passed in the cover of night.
We sailed parallel those lonely waters
not knowing that soon we'd be in sight.
There was a time when we were friends;
you wished only to reach the shore,
but my compass was spinning, our journey just beginning
and so I took you aboard.
There was a time when we were lovers,
but our ship soon started to leak.
We battened the hatches, bailing her out,
but hopes were battered and meek.
An unspoken pact and a final kiss,
letting you drift from my fingertips.
I readied the very last lifeboat,
but the captain goes down with the ship.
Strangers become lovers and lovers become strangers
through sailing the seas of time,
but this mariners tragedy's worth the memories
of when I called you mine.
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 11:10 PM UTC
I love lighthouses;
Lonely, desolate, cold
Grown out of rocky outcrops
Designed by monolithic architects,
Where only ascetic souls can call home
Their light, a beacon in the darkness
To protect sailors from the smouldering sea,
And all her whiles and trickery
One lonely light, that shines out
Like faith, like hope, like love
So mariners will not plot a course
Into the shallow depths of death,
Book a room in Davy Jones’ Locker.
Jun 28, 2019
Jun 28, 2019 at 1:47 PM UTC
Churning
Boisterous to me life a high powerful stormy sea will I ever see land again those peaceful
Dales the trees so deeply rooted in there canopy the swaying seems as undersea waves so softly they
Stir as at play deep valleys and hills below above aluminous sun light makes a rich glow in its tow I go
Ever so slow the sea grass moves in a musical undulating fashion the same as the grass on the plains
Colors diverse with coral markers at depths that unrest at the surface doesn’t reach the frothing foam
As it were a great goblet filled for god to drink a offering of thanks for such wonder that can be a
Complexity at once filling heights of emotional strands then instantly terrifying foreboding illustrious
Without equal so vast stretching all the bounds you have ever known by the sea blown tales that are
As voluminous as the sea itself adventure in the raw highlighted with charm by the cawing of the seagull
With the same speed they dive and climb on the surface races the dolphin the embodiment of joy and
Laughter the sea rescuers has been some of their duties to the blessing of many lost mariners in cold
Chilly waters these bubbly ones was the difference between life and death the sea does spray as with
Glory unbound in this all concluding vesture that is seamless all consuming tiring but invigorating once
The sea salt has entered your blood there is no escape its lore hypnotic unbreakable break waters will
Carry you inland by that she granted your greatest desire after she has reared her head and gave you
The Undeniable look at deaths watery jaws but when on her mercy you survive or in some fashion are
Flung on the shore you lose your emotional tiller and blubber like a baby then the manly part curses all
She Put you through you know one thing for certain never will she catch you a float but little do you
Know her winsome call withers all about so you hungrily crave the sea tossed tempest its excitement is a
Drug that a ****** has no cure for it puts robust living in your path all of your days while the timid land
Dwellers only look on in awe and admiration
Jan 9, 2012
Jan 9, 2012 at 6:54 PM UTC
Luna is a silent world,
a wasteland of sere beauty.
It’s “seas” are dust and waterless;
Rainfall? Zero, absolutely!
In this place where birds don’t sing
and nothing green can grow.
We built the Armstrong Geodome,
in secret, years ago.
Here, on the “dark” side of the moon,
in a Mare without a name.,
a climate controlled paradise
was built, and workers came.
Some were miners, strong and buff
who search for this world’s gold.
Some are research scientists
one hundred fifty men, all told.
In Twenty Forty Seven
all hell broke loose on Earth
There were nuclear exchanges
and what followed next was worse.
A winter like none other;
we listened, helpless, as they died.
Starvation is the cruelest fate
for any mother’s child.
One by one they all fell silent,
the great cities of that Orb.
Deaths occurred in magnitudes
the human mind can not absorb.
We struggled, yes, but we survived
without the ships from home.
One Hundred fifty adult males,
like the mariners of old.
We mourned the Loves we’d left behind,
We shuddered at their fate.
Our Refuge was our prison;
We lived deprived of child or mate.
The streets of Armstrong are always clean
as cleaning bots are on patrol.
but here no children laugh or play,
it’s a town without a soul.
Two decades we spent in that place
then came the words for which we yearned:
Atmospheric radioactivity
to safe levels had returned.
I was on the first ship home
to San Francisco Bay.
The landmarks all were flattened
The Golden Gate in ruins lay.
We mortals wept, I will not lie
Our cradle had become our grave;
The streets of home were silent,
there was no one left to save.
Terra is a silent world,
a wasteland of sere beauty.
It’s “seas” are toxic, lifeless now;
Children? Zero, absolutely!
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 10:44 AM UTC
*Commanding the 'Crows Nest' in search of submarines on Panama City Beach
Our curiosity in real time demand , blanket oceanside Admiralty
Mariners were towing the ocean yachts into portland that day
Tales of Neptune , ambergris , running *** and rough sail
Riding the easterlies , filling our shell pails
A prize for gifted imaginations indeed , sand dollars and -
cirrus clouds above the warm turquoise Sea* .....
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 7:53 PM UTC
Arthur dear, don’t fret.
Papers, papers, get your papers.
I have never been to the sea. I always wanted to go to the sea.
No, never since my husband died.
Oh aye, a sight to behold.
The rascals of Ballydrim out in force.
The maid peept out the window.
The fryar and the nun.
An old man is a bed full of bones.
Is he not, is it not, is it not?
Rose is red and rose is white.
New new nothing.
Row well ye mariners.
I have never seen the sea.
The pauper and the layman, the priest and the scoundrel, all moving
with intent.
Sometimes, fleetingly, never anything less.
Profound, very, yes dreadfully profound.
Labour in vaine.
In great concentric circles about the time your husband died.
Biting the bullets one by one, out on the green fields of Amerikay.
Interest rates climbing on the national stew fund. Spiralling into a new dawn of exoneration of traditional values.
Gracie did all those things and more.
And the quaker danced.
Rose is red and rose is red.
For judge and jury.
Very very far.
Quite near actually.
Further than strictly possible.
In all reason dear.
75 miles from the sea. Exactly.
And another.
And another.
AND another.
Drawing to a conclusion.
Bliss.
Seemingly.
Fleetingly.
(pause)
Have at thy coat old woman!
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 1:21 PM UTC
's favorite meal is not children as you may expect
it is old people, the elderly near death
they taste better to him
he fantasizes their whole lives with every bite
whose heart like bottles or ransom clinks against
itself eating the useless parts of its own stomach
rotors of bone hum about revenge
the earth clones pale enigmatic cyanide
my spawn sweat bourbon and bleed sweet milk
I'm the Tower
Look Look
let us hold eachother here until the dark blossoms
into an invisible canine snarl
crushed by feathers at a
tomb-encrusted countryside
wax swans bleed from
their eyes and bulls inside run
in circles around ancient ice prisons
Look a clock
century weary mariners
gape in disbelief
at a yawning dawn
of cadmium
on the tongue of
a bristling free roaming
continent of
gothic salt
Jan 5, 2012
Jan 5, 2012 at 8:31 PM UTC
A teacher is like a huge and bright light house
Which beacons the way to the mariners
and passengers in the mysterious and vast sea
It will stay for ages there
A teacher rarely gets promotion
Although he works with great dedication
He does not have either power or money
Like other employees in the society
He feels greatly elated
When his students get employed
She will teach almost the same lessons
For more than thirty five years
Teaching a number of students
With her and soul she becomes old
And gets eventually tired and retired
she will wait for her meager pension
And leads the rest of her life
Without much recognition
Tension and any sensation
One day she will fall like a leaf
In autumn and goes to dust and forgotten
Feb 18, 2011
Feb 18, 2011 at 5:57 AM UTC
Lord Neptune's daughters
sit fast to their rocks
like Grotesque limpets
singing their songs to the sea
for the sirens sing for blood
that of warm blood of mariners
To the howl of the wind
and the dreadful din
as waves crash onto this hell
many ****** are tossed abound
then commence to run aground
onto beaches of razor sharp shells
Hideous screams of victory
echo over this foul land
and these wretches of piscine descent
now feed on the carcass of man.
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 8:48 PM UTC
High above the teetering mast
A shout long awaited is heard at last
"Land ** Land ** Straight ahead"
Across the sea, the mariners sped
The mass of land, close in range
Ominously, the winds have changed
The ship drops anchor a hundred yards out
Rowing in without a doubt
Making landfall, the ****** cheered
A great appraisal to Brown Beard
Gallivanting, their songs sung loud
Roused, the sea soughed
Ripping from the strenuous tides
The monster emerges, the sea divides
Crashing down upon the ship
Fearful men tighten their grip
Threshing about as the beast descends
Into the depths where the mirk never ends
Duped, the mariners take their last breath
Inhaling, the seas grant them their death
Bloated corpses resurfacing
The dubious island repositioning
Full, the gulls await
For the next to take the bate
May 10, 2010
May 10, 2010 at 8:44 AM UTC