"moorings" poems
A woman drew herself up from wrecked wood at the bottom of the ocean;
whispered sea-songs into the wistful ear of a long lost love;
shook her locks 'til his heart beat faster;
looked longer than she should into the deep pools of his pleading eyes.
"I will call you when I want to;
I will call you when I want."
Cooled his temples;
breathed her watery breath
as silvered beads streamed down his shocked skin.
.......
Rumors rock an empty drifting boat;
a glazed shell faced with priceless pearl
broken from its moorings,
strangled by a knotted rope.
"You have not chosen me, but I have chosen you"
Hold fast the bestowed gift,
your Quinquireme of stowed treasure.
Protect its precious structure.
"Who are you, the one who stripped my soul?
Who is the third who stole yours?"
.........
Broken from netting I lie
a beached starfish on burning sand,
wishing the waves to wash me
back through Time's receding current
to find the silence that once was;
to turn away before the sacrifice,
before the Eye of the storm.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2010
May 20, 2010
May 20, 2010 at 2:05 AM UTC
December 2005; January
2006, Summer that year.
2008 round the middle - no not the crash.
2009, yes the muddle.
Tell me about how May 2010
was axed by December 2010.
Palm, palm, date palm, ash cloud.
February, April, August 2011 and
that dreaded December.
last grasp of the kite string,
off goes the dreamed of high
far far away the anchor moorings
when transmission stopped, all white
noise since then, empty
prattle chatter of the key board,
two millennia and counting thirteen, fourteen,
fifteen, march, October, March!
January 2016. A new landing.
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 4:09 PM UTC
Pale and swift the moorings lie:
Roosting on the masts were nye.
Peculiar was the indigo
in the water's moonlit glow.
The ship was ailing through the night
casting wayward, staggered light.
And oceanic tides were bound
to throw the ship into the sound.
But though the water pulled and fought
the Phantom ship could not be caught;
The cargo stayed and sat to mull
well within the sturdy hull.
It was a most peculiar eve,
though the average won't perceive.
The queer and devient, however,
noticed that the sky forever
loomed with great intensity
with clouds as far as eyes could see.
What secrets held this murky water?
Burning mysteries, growing hotter?
I was there, I hope you know
I have a ship, my own, and so:
remembering that eve's deception,
I take my boat in that direction.
Standing now to face the sea,
deciding where and whom to be.
For pale and swift the moorings lie;
Roosting on the masts are nye.
Distinctive be that indigo
in the water's moonlit glow.
Yet ** My schooner dipp and quaff
And with that, I must be off.
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 7:17 PM UTC
When in dark despair drowned
I was thinking, joy was nowhere around
A gentle breeze from the upland peaks
Came and patted on my cheeks
Softly whispering- ‘joy is here’
When the last ray of hope had been snuffed out
From the vapid plane of my arid heart,
A cluster of orchids, beautiful and gay
Smilingly nodding their heads on my way
Sweetly murmured- ‘joy is here
When I feared the earth was caving in
Under my feet with no chance to win
A butterfly with rainbow colors
Alighting on a bunch of flowers
Euphoniously hummed- ‘joy is here’
When all my yearnings got shattered
And sustenance alone was what mattered
The blazing sun from behind the hills
Wiping away all morbid chills
Affirmed beaming-‘joy is here
When I thought I was drifting afloat
Without any moorings on my boat
A crystal drop precariously balancing
On the serrated edge of a leaf dancing
Confidently chimed-‘joy is here’
When darkness settles on the scene
When life loses all tinge of green
When days seem inert and grey
Don’t be in a hurry to say
“Joy is nowhere around”
Before you jump to conclusions dismal
And write off life as abysmal
Wait to see the cycle of seasons change
From winter’s haze to spring’s lovesome range!
Aug 22, 2017
Aug 22, 2017 at 12:43 PM UTC
Press your ear close.
Sometimes you can hear the breath
rattling in my chest like a bone shrugged
its moorings and ought to be tied back down.
It’s the sound of a canyon
trying to expel a marsh:
hear the stones tumble down,
clatter and splash,
the stiff reeds scouring the walls.
Stuck bristles. Sticks.
The marsh is dauntless.
It can’t be pushed out through
the canyon’s narrow mouth.
It’s the sound of a cave-in.
Press your ear close and
listen to picks and shovels
plinking on the rock.
Soon the oxygen gives out
and all the miners go to sleep,
or they punch a hole through
to the sky and breathe,
mouths pressed to the breach,
gasping a little at a time.
It’s the sound of a brier patch
growing in your lungs.
It’s the sound of a brier patch
set on fire.
Oct 18, 2011
Oct 18, 2011 at 10:26 PM UTC
The dweeb lived in the dwellings of a dwindling tribe of dwarves
Who anchored little kayaks at the moorings in the wharves.
He organised this transport so that they might go at night
Deep into the dark dense woods to visit their Snow White.
But the dwarves were very old and weren’t getting any younger
And although they really wanted too it couldn’t last much longer.
Meanwhile the dweeb would study every minute of the day
So studious and serious with little time for play.
The daddy of the dwarfs known as Doctor Joe
Said to him, “Look dweeb, there’s little left to know.”
But still he studied on writing loads of lengthy notes,
Which sometimes he would use to make tedious little quotes.
Until eventually the dwarves found him annoying and real boring
Besides he woke them up at night with his constant snoring.
So Doctor Joe hatched a plan with his little tribe
It was devious and genius and this I will describe.
They knew Snow White was lonely and longing for a man
So this is what they had in mind for this dweeb known as Stan.
Snow White would lie there in a dwam pretending to be dead
And somehow they would lure Stan along to her deathbed.
So they told her that he was a Prince, the great love of her heart
She of course was up for it, and couldn’t wait to start.
Doctor Joe then told the dweeb, that Snow White was no more.
He said that he might save her and showed him to the door.
On their little kayak they paddled up the river
But the dweeb then said to Doctor Joe, “I don’t know what to give her.”
The Doctor reassured him that it would be real bliss
If only one time in her life she had a loving human kiss.
The dweeb replied, “This just won’t work.” So he quoted healing potions.
When Doctor Joe rejected these he suggested soothing lotions.
None of these the Doctor said were right for their Snow White
Only a kiss from a real-man could help her end this plight.
So eventually there beside Snow White all the party stood,
Outside of the stone cottage deep within the wood.
The dwarves should have looked distressed but they were full of glee
And so they had to hide their smiles in case the dweeb should see.
At long last they’d be rid of him, this boring little nerd
Some of them expressed this and they hoped he hadn’t heard.
But the dweeb was now distracted by the beauty of this girl
He didn’t know if this would work but he’d give it a whirl.
He puckered up his lips and planted one before he spoke
Then gob-smacked he stood there as Snow White soon awoke.
Immediately when their eyes met he knew that it was right
Likewise she felt this too, it was real love at first sight.
So you see that all of this now ended happy ever after.
Doctor Joe and all the dwarves left in bursts of laughter.
Dec 7, 2009
Dec 7, 2009 at 11:16 AM UTC
JESUS emptied the devils of one man into forty hogs and the hogs took the edge of a high rock and dropped off and down into the sea: a mob.
The sheep on the hills of Australia, blundering fourfooted in the sunset mist to the dark, they go one way, they hunt one sleep, they find one pocket of grass for all.
Karnak? Pyramids? Sphinx paws tall as a coolie? Tombs kept for kings and sacred cows? A mob.
Young roast pigs and naked dancing girls of Belshazzar, the room where a thousand sat guzzling when a hand wrote: Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin? A mob.
The honeycomb of green that won the sun as the Hanging Gardens of Nineveh, flew to its shape at the hands of a mob that followed the fingers of Nebuchadnezzar: a mob of one hand and one plan.
Stones of a circle of hills at Athens, staircases of a mountain in Peru, scattered clans of marble dragons in China: each a mob on the rim of a sunrise: hammers and wagons have them now.
Locks and gates of Panama? The Union Pacific crossing deserts and tunneling mountains? The Woolworth on land and the Titanic at sea? Lighthouses blinking a coast line from Labrador to Key West? Pigiron bars piled on a barge whistling in a fog off Sheboygan? A mob: hammers and wagons have them to-morrow.
The mob? A typhoon tearing loose an island from thousand-year moorings and bastions, shooting a volcanic ash with a fire tongue that licks up cities and peoples. Layers of worms eating rocks and forming loam and valley floors for potatoes, wheat, watermelons.
The mob? A jag of lightning, a geyser, a gravel mass loosening...
The mob ... kills or builds ... the mob is Attila or Ghengis Khan, the mob is Napoleon, Lincoln.
I am born in the mob-I die in the mob-the same goes for you-I don't care who you are.
I cross the sheets of fire in No Man's land for you, my brother-I slip a steel tooth into your throat, you my brother-I die for you and I **** you-It is a twisted and gnarled thing, a crimson wool:
One more arch of stars,
In the night of our mist,
In the night of our tears.
2.4k
a loop of spume immune to fumes of eastern tombs
a burnin'; a mad flash of candied wrath
and junebug randy newman;
what rumbles jest in vestments yet
to loom a knit or pearl two... a ****** crest
of ***** wrecks and rubber necks
to view you...
a nop of lopsy,
fever pitched in thicket rich begonia;
and roman roads
too golden
kicks
from hydro
in
your hedge
row.
a droop of noon in cool remove
from gypsum dim sum laude.
a drowning witch on boney creeks
of needles and salami.
untongued. a pool of fringe
rhymes with orange,
yes a door-hinge,
off it's moorings...
off it's Meds
death beds
for trampolines
in petrified forests...
a nop of lopsy, frogging Gatsby,
greatly famished to the Nines;
an olden toll of wish fits
then nothing
comes.
and that's
Life.
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 2:11 PM UTC
Have I ever been profoundly lost? Yes. Railroad tracks and a river wide as the Amazon, yet lost. Living in the intense sunshine of northern New York summer, but lost in the shade of a gazebo. And here? Here I am enclosed in a tomb of porcelain machinery. With another winter passing its calling card in at the window. The warm steam no longer cutting the rough edge. Wearing wool sweater nights. The freedom of summer gone and only one **** What a nightmare, what a strange dream, life on planet, winter all around.
A system, they call it a system. I call it an evolved anarchy. Repetition, never. What do I know. Repetition, every two thousand years. Coming of a frost, coming of a fire. When nature proves furious beyond remembrance. Polar bear mugs wino.
--------------------------------------
***********
Tall, attractive, talented WM, 31,
trumpet player, takes pleasure in
performing *********** with clean
attractive women. Age, race, marital
status no object. All replies answered.
Marlowe went to bed. He had a headache. Used an empty bottle for a teddy bear/sap. In the middle of the night, three secret men approached the rock he slept under. They did not see him there, the fire had long ago gone out. But they'd seen it across the valley, and tried to estimate. They were close.
What do I care. They did this, he did that, they did this and this and that. He used his feet, took off his shoes. It mauled him to death in two minutes of the first round. Would have been better for him if it happened faster. Never got his knife out of his pocket. But he lived, with one eye after that.
--------------------------------------
What do you do with a drunken sailor early
in the morning?
You pull that sailor out of bed by his hairy
moorings.
Why should anybody believe this, this tiresome outpouring of old moans and groans, grumbles about loneliness of life and dominance of telephone. This gamble on print, above the spoken, sung word. The meditative call to inhabitants of planet to kneel woefully and pray. No, to chant as if the planet were mending.
Mending rhymes with ending, why not. And television, radio appreciated. Drugs and ***** jagged bent faces, black wet rock. The mantle of moss ripped away. Period. Amen to men. Absolute magical ripcord.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 9:29 AM UTC
Look into the Innenhof
not out upon the rain-slick street
it’s easier
that way.
Decadent hail at the window
brings the history of rain
running, dripping
down your languid gaze.
Dream important things
are taking place inside the Innenhof—
while the water rises
they choke under its weight.
More water, green and choppy
the Innenhof is undone
sloshing, wet and pure, immobile—
birds are drowning.
Out of the frothy wash
your place bobs to the surface
freed of its moorings
in boring things.
You are lucky and precarious
floating on your hollow buoyancy
waiting for the rain to quit
watching the slow clouds break.
Feb 1, 2010
Feb 1, 2010 at 7:30 PM UTC
Warm tears run down my face
The pain to great for my heart to bear
It breaks
At losing you
But my love is tenacious
And yours alone, my Rachel
I have caused you heartache
I have brought you shame
But know that you are sacred to me
A gift from God
And still, my love is yours
I am not yet complete
Not yet competent
Nor worthy of your love
Yet in vows now written
Unspoken
And still, my love is yours
My soul is wrenched from it's moorings
My mind now must face my flaws
No longer can I hide in false naivety
And still, my love is yours
Mark my words, Sweet Treasure
Watch for the day, My Beloved
For I will make you proud
And still, my love is yours
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 12:41 AM UTC
vapor on vapor moorings
your lips end when the smoke fades
brunette ashes on black tile floorings
(lit from above)
mascara tear ducts' lathe
eat a blown glass dove
with halos of smoke rings
the angels resurrect then bury
stock and store
nicotine for the winter
2 moths between doors
and 7 leaves of cherry
you
lift the latch
and slip inside
knowing
no one has heard you
but me
turn out the light
and
be my pure fire
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC
according to my mother happiness was a choice
religion country then family a fortress
and why was I so sad and cold
According to daddy at least
I wasn’t in Karachi where rats and corpses littered the streets
jesus bled a ******* lot in the streets of another city
and was my redemption
but how was he different from
another corpse?
how was
his blood and dissolution
different,
besides a better eulogizer?
He seemed to me
simply a man
a philosopher betrayed
by supposed friends
I did not find redemption in confirmation
of the knowledge of gold rimmed pages
and biased text.
Where I found divinity
was in the flesh and blood arms
of people that I vaguely knew
they held me together
while biochemicals
tore me apart from my moorings
and there were no lies
about salvation through death
they said only,
once you go,
you can’t come back.
Jun 3, 2010
Jun 3, 2010 at 8:25 AM UTC
Out of the dark she came
scars on her haul her crew in pain
all contact lost
no other vessels survived
Even her port and refill point
all gone, all dead
her last warship
her last weapon
The captain, oh come on
all know it is me
and my ship the Neon Solaris
god has nothing on her plans
Sleek and killer
beautifully wonderful
matter not the scares of war
for she is warship forever
She lives around a outer planet
cloaked in the inky black
she is my all
and her crew are loyal to me
Just a visit
from her last warship
for soon we fold space
to find our lost race
Death will scream morning
as we break our moorings
called to the deck
another battle, well what the heck
Here we go again
the last of her fleet
back to the black of forever
back in time to find our own kind
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka Neon Solaris
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 11:06 PM UTC
I watch the harbor through the falling snow
the sky and sea form one vast, gray tableau
the sun is nothing but a weak, background glow
the scene draws me, as if hypnotically.
Five mile’s lighthouse warnings go unvoiced
its strobes not lashing out, so what’s its point
it stands majestically but disappoints
replaced electronically
A tiny lobster boat makes its landward way
towards the inlet from the wider channel bay
a powdery blizzard is underway
which melts into the mirror sea.
Ospreys still hunt round the lobsterman's pride
snowflakes stain them as they soar and glide
other seabirds huddle side by side
shivering and crowing lividly.
Through the narrows the lonely boat steams
past icy Luddington Rock and East Breakwater's breech
its berths and moorings, within minutes reach
and sadly, it’s time for me to leave.
.
.
Songs for this:
Far Far Away (Charles Tone Mix) [feat. Brenda Boykin] by Tape Five
Nobody by Mitski
Feb 15, 2025
Feb 15, 2025 at 1:42 PM UTC
Travel, traveling Ben, travel to the stars,
See the world as it comes again, produced from afar,
Spirits of the Dawn make haste for Time is coming…
When the Sun will crest her waves, bringing forth the light of days,
Loose the moorings set your clock, burn incense for the Spirits,
Travel! Traveling Ben, you know the universe, is happening!
And all time will be told again, in a machine-space of stars,
Her oboe of horology, for the sailors tune –cosmology,
Loose the moorings set your clock, burn incense for the Spirits,
Sail your ship over the sun, the place of your appearance.
Travel traveling Ben, travel to those stars,
Your ship a cap, you ship captain, from a sandy field of ours.
I could not think what else to say to end this little ditty,
But thinking on my ancient Egypt makes me oh so giddy!
What has Ben, will be Ben again, for Ben plus Ben makes two,
And there you go, I’ve gone and done it, given you a clue…
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 9:55 PM UTC
A walk upon the waters; nigh
Shalt not split thy vein
Lest furtive glances; sigh
To bear upon His Name.
What twills apart my Being
Must extricate a feeling
Is truly trying triumph
For brew upon the brow.
If moorings mast is cracking
then ****** upon the wind
for deeper trust be lacking
my Bow I must rescind.
a Keeper of her stables
should roll up bales of hay
a Reader of her Fables
would wish to port her Bay
Make for meager living
In a time as starkly stout
To climb upon the mountain
Into the tempest, Shout!!
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 12:56 PM UTC
~
*With all too
familiar moorings,
holding fast the chain
of sons and daughters,
this hiding place
isn't watertight,
life trickles in everywhere,
hopeful to the bitter end.*
~
Apr 14, 2022
Apr 14, 2022 at 2:28 PM UTC
Daughter of Promise
They speak of the waters in the strait of Gibraltar how the space shuttle photographs look near sunset how the waves glint by the sun revealing two sets of waves one can be read like rings from a tree and how as diurnal tide they pulse over the shallows in Camarinal sill at Gibraltar. Then flowing eastward they refract around coastal features. A child and father stand arm and arm together in the wider wonders of our world. Power and strength the great body of water the littlest wave in concentric circles ever enlarge from its source and anchor his hand and love gave the pulse and life for this newly birthed blessing to flow. The first years the father her harbor no ill wind the heart could disturb he the rock she the wave crashing showing her exuberance she washed as sea waves against his mighty arms that held her gave her peace and confidence without alarm. He took her from the moorings she knew so well introduced her to the grander diversity beyond the common ordinary life of home. In an ancient land her innocence would be honed to grasp greater truths and realities showing by distillation deep tides that flow from creation’s fount the linage of man shown in the shifting sand of the Sahara. See the dune of sand how it slowly rises in the silver moonlight toward the distant moon a glow it seems that you could walk the sand to its very door. The bonds there strengthened into cables of steel how rich they feel they hold against the Gail all is not calm and nurturing seas the wind will pick up its howl announces the typhoon has reared its ugly head it unleashes its anger pent up in the warm calm now destruction will be its end. The father measured the depths of days he tried to prepare the heart so tender warning giving such richness of himself trying to protect to secure the heart when absence would be the cost for the love they shared. No matter how hard you build the fortress wall all must listen to the invading call. Such treasures these circles once small holding your hand to prevent a fall. Then arms around your neck tightly squeezed oh how it did please . Bitter release tomorrow in shaded sunset sweetest peace until then you the flower he left to bloom you show his grace his blessed face.
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 11:06 PM UTC
*The conveyance of the mind , carrying you to the previously unknown ..
To the seas of Europa , the mountains of Mars ..
Open your eyes to the wonders of creation , release the moorings of your imagination...Nature provides the vehicle to attain the light , freedom to escape the limits of our physical being , cross conventional parameters and expectations minus fear nor hesitation ..Disregard ancient rituals , seek the teachings of every religion ..
Take a powerful work of art , free your mind as if opening a well remembered door ...
Transform music into pulses of light , telegraph our universal neighbors throughout the night ..
Let your personal reflection relay the image of great peace and meditative bliss .. Retain , relay these gifts through song and poetry without end* ...
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 2:59 PM UTC
late september down at the docks
is always fulla sadness.
closed up in the civic, parked with
steve stills shoutin' "love the one you're with" over the radio,
car otherwise quiet like a long sleep.
little rounded waves lapping
empty moorings,
the boats all dragged out & shrink-wrapped
'til next year
and fall comin' on in earnest now
with summer gone;
skies grey but sunset stains the clouds red like
th' cheeks of a drunk who cannot brave sobriety
as the cold settles the hills in full & even
a good book (big sur - duluoz)
not doin' any good b/c that old wino jackie k. keeps makin'
a mess o' things and goin' back to the sauce. worn out.
~
O this silence! (O this awful fuckin' waiting!)
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 2:51 PM UTC
93
Went up a year this evening!
I recollect it well!
Amid no bells nor bravoes
The bystanders will tell!
Cheerful—as to the village—
Tranquil—as to repose—
Chastened—as to the Chapel
This humble Tourist rose!
Did not talk of returning!
Alluded to no time
When, were the gales propitious—
We might look for him!
Was grateful for the Roses
In life’s diverse bouquet—
Talked softly of new species
To pick another day;
Beguiling thus the wonder
The wondrous nearer drew—
Hands bustled at the moorings—
The crown respectful grew—
Ascended from our vision
To Countenances new!
A Difference—A Daisy—
Is all the rest I knew!
994
Deception sought to beckon in the shadows,
But the wind carried the gentle lips of Wisdom,
Whispering;
“...only fools believe in the trickery of darkness.”
Such a fragile bridge
From dusk to dawn today
Its moorings & way too narrow,
The fingers of the heart
clinging to deceit.
Set the dew of diligence at the gate
Like the flaming sword of Eden!
Forbidding fear ingress, but
Thoroughfare to the Comely Trio;
Righteousness, Peace & Joy!
Permit the Spirit of His Kingdom
Wholly reign within.
© Qwey.ku
Jun 30, 2020
Jun 30, 2020 at 6:29 AM UTC
Light of light disclosed...open and upended--arch
shone, there you under it...come to pass.
The filaments of earthly wears burn gently away...
there the last of them--upright and out of mind a
steady waking.
Body once upon a time explained away and folded.
Waves of euphoria gust weightlessness, the
cast of First and Last Things rattle their blinding
moorings.
Footsteps are kissed away, submit their mountain of
weight to the Halls of Posterity.
Beauty's freshest presses lay depth and proportion
upon the entrant at hand.
As a river in continuous stride--profundity endows,
carries along the: I of being.
It is when it runs through the Elysian Fields pause
is taken.
Live lights kindle, break their pillared conscription...
as radiance knows no rigidity.
Light by All definition, giver and taker...everything
we swore was about to happen Has happened--
eternity is too large to recount.
This embrace awaits the body's duration, has storied
its exit timelessly...the Elysian Fields are our playground.
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 11:28 AM UTC