Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
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)
Sjr1000 Apr 2017
The Navigator stands
at the top of the hill,
a spotlight illuminating the fog,
looking for a direction.

The stars are gone,
another moonless night,
all he has is his intuition
and questionable insight.

And so the dance of change begins

Moving outward
while moving in

Like a blind man at a drive through atm,
wondering how he got there,
listening for a sparkle
looking for an animal spirit in the dark.

There are cliffs and caverns
sinkholes and canyons
along the way

He's been known to fall
and rise again -
while heading towards the river

The Navigator, he is an expert
on moving in the darkness
looking for that one flash
our lives on display

The Navigator, he knows the signs,
sometimes right sometimes wrong

The paths have many directions to follow
But with the first step
all other paths
fade away.

Decisions are made

The Navigator, he has his day,
his way.
One day everything was white for a few seconds again, but not because of some bombs or some sort of global phenomenon. This time it was because I woke up and got up from my bed so fast that I started to feel a little dizzy.
“This is odd,” I said.
My brain had some parts that were 3D printed. The inks used to print these implants consisted of real brain fiber and tissue as well as other synthetic brain materials. I guess the cells started to grow along with my old brain and at the time I did not realize whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. I almost forgot what it felt like to be dizzy.
Once I started seeing normal colors again I took a few steps and accidentally stepped on my phone. I probably dropped it when I got home the night before. I looked down and saw that my screen cracked and I picked it up and tried to turn it on but it was dead.
I stumbled out of my room and opened the door as I made my way to the bathroom so I could wash the blood off from my face. I opened the faucet and left the water running. As I watched the reflection of the water in the mirror, it suddenly stopped. I glimpsed down and checked to see if the water was still on and it was. I wanted to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. My reflection started doing something else in the distance. I didn’t freak out because my body suit was in invisibility mode.
It felt as if someone was looking at me even in my room.
I thought, “There is a mirror in my room too.”
I keep a long vertical mirror in my room that I write on with a dry-erase marker that I use as a to-do list. I had heard about a villain who called himself The Mirror and he was on a list of villains that need to get researched. I did the research. He existed in a world where everything was opposite just how a mirror projects a view that mimics reality. Many people of the Mirror World could try to make eye contact and hypnotize people of the real world and ask them to do anything. When they do this it appears as if their own image talks to them as their own conscious. Often times people of the mirror world stayed away from them. Mirror people can only be seen through mirror reflections, but also can only escape through mirrors if they break in reality. Mirrors in that world function the same way but they do not break.
I was going to meet an older but younger version of me. This guy did not fully undergo the process that enabled him to become immortal and gave him full control of his superpowers. During this time, he was still getting dreams of the future. He was dreaming about his encounter with Hotbox. There was law that stated that all entities within the timelines had to register as individuals to the authorities. This meant that they required a different name. This old, other me named himself Phyro. He blasted rings of fire to his opponents and trapped them in a scorching fire and could also shoot fireballs the size of gumballs that were about 500 times the temperature of the Sun. The fire expanded through the body so quickly and turned his opponents to ashes in a matter of seconds.
In order to go meet with Phyro, I had to get a hold of The Navigator but that was nearly impossible. He was put to sleep and kept in high security prison. It was the same year of the War in 2095, the day the bombs were dropped but in that timeline, people were prepared for the tragic happenings. The Navigator was being used to help the Enemies of the Colony. They used him for his memories and endless banks of stored information. He had unlimited amounts of memory space as one of his tasks was to keep track of everything and everyone.
I planned on meeting with his inventor and creator, the one who invented the time machine. That’s basically what The Navigator was. A time machine. The Navigator had the ability to think and feel just like humans.
On my way out to meet with the The Inventor, I opened my front door and there I was. But in reality that wasn’t me. It was an old friend I made during war named Pseudo. He has the ability to shape shift to anyone they have met. Pseudo was pretending to be me. And that’s how I knew it wasn’t me because no one had travelled trough time in almost 500 years. That’s how long the Navigator has been shutdown.
Suddenly there was an earthquake. Shudder was the one probably causing this. Most cities in this time were floating and therefore, earthquakes were not real. Shudder had the ability to shake things around at an incredible force within a certain radius.
That sudden quake caused all the mirrors in my house to fall and break. Thousands of Mirror people escaped from the broken mirrors. And there I was all alone surrounded by Pseudo, Shudder, and The Mirror along with an army of Mirror people.
Lemonhead Mar 2014
I'm the resurfaced urchin merchant urging you to take a look at my wares and tears
Nothing fishy about these lines, it's the real deal. Like a mealworm I won't be off the hook until you take a bite
I'm the sentimental sailor searching for an ex who is worth all the treasure in the world
I imagine the tides rising in your eyes and I realize I'd rather drown in your love than be lost in the desert praying for a drop
Stuck in the same senseless cycle of, "Remember when's" and wondering what could have been
Had I been in the moment and noticed the twinkle in your eye or the sparkle in your smile
You're a dazzling display, an amalgamated array of blood diamonds and the will to fight for a little bit of shine
Now I can say you're  mine without any hesitation. You're mine and it feels right
Our relationship slips out to sea and we set sail to chase the sun. We've only just begun
I'm the nostalgic navigator taking you back to forever. Because the weather was never better than when we reigned over our future
Finally getting back to writing and it feels great!
David Barr Dec 2013
The Kingdom of Morocco has a rugged mountain interior which reminds me of the British meal of mince and potatoes. But hold that thought, and examine our seemingly superior Western legislation. Just like the pickle, the dynasty of death is a brazen festival percussionist who is celebratory in her bitter and gustatory inevitability. Jizyah is that taxation which is imposed upon those who fail to conform to those expected societal norms. Although we have the status quo, one cannot help but wonder what happened to the rectitudes of individuality and paradoxical equality? So, where do we go, oh navigator of the great and mighty West? Marrakech or Rabat? I have no concrete awareness of where solace is to be found. I am lost! Therefore, I can only offer the following direction: Contemplate the ever-changing intricacy of the dunes in anthropological amazement and acknowledge the sky at night. Allow the celestial pole of the North Star to speak to your deep uncertainty. Our purpose is openly displayed if we simply open our heart in the midst of our Bedouin oasis. That, my friend, is the essence of being psychosocial.
navigator’s balcony cocktail hour
rocket orbit ocean liner rising
clenched no teeth no guernica no bam bam bam
correspondent notary republic
address book dial figure 8
charred with a thousand jigsaw pieces
false as a beach chiaroscuro black
on black graveyard womb naked milk glass lit
footprint tourism by candlelight and flare
vaccination fatigue puke fingernail fish
moving a bandaged echo **** him **** her
familiar bell music **** them both **** them all
stretched shirtsleeves spanish toffee slashed tires
(failure as a painter he shaved his wife’s fur coat)
bust your ***** Barcelona red alert
knock-kneed broken squeezebox no hands
standing room only ladies first (please)
unbuttoned interrogation coffee rolls (stop)
marine’s vegetation (stop) early morning tea (stop)
armless menus (stop) pink cathedral fingers (stop)

and (begin again) move

we move

moving inside an eye this eye
that advances step
by step
Jo Baez Jan 2016
"No one loves a flower when it withers away"

He navigates on hope and will
With no sense of direction
Surviving only on memories and inspirations
A castaway
In search of something more than destiny
Something more than storms and uncertainties
I am the map you navigate
Wren Djinn Rain Oct 2015
Hate me. Why not take an arm off?
Maybe my arm's already gone and missing.
Maybe tonight's the night I won't
wake from sleeping.
Shame as pestilence incarnate
rakes my beating heart and brain.
Nails as sharp as shards of memory.
I ingest the scent of corpses in a
cold storage adorned with limbs and organs,
underneath the floor of that burned
out/burned in periphery beneath the rain.

Sprang up again, arose in sweat,
toward the toilet. Some things never change.
Will this never change?

Hard jobs **** up my night,
and I can't rest in day.
Hard jobs **** up my day,
and I can't rest through night,
but I cannot stay awake.
What came before comes now,
becomes the future, turning loops.
The present keeps pace steady, only to
slide the Earth below me to prove

Some things never change.
Skai Jun 2015
I had a dream
I had a dream I was flying over all of us
There were so many pretty people
So many pretty faces
I talked to some birds
I fell in love again
And none of this ever ended
Everything just kept going, and going and going
And even when you laughed, when you cried
And even when you were sad you were really happy
Because you were here
And I got to meet every star, every planet
Everything that made me
And we all kissed
And became the same
We became the same
We became the same
jessiah Aug 2014
I just want to go 200 on the interstate
and see if the world still wants me

My skill is wasted on slowness
Underappreciated and mistaken for arrogance

Behind the wheel I am confirmed
Decisions here are not the customs of monotony

But a nuanced puzzle of physics
I am a navigator in an ocean of outcomes

The engine is roaring with me
We were made for exploding
This beautiful island seems lonely, as if it yearns for a shipwrecked sailor.

It has a hidden current that repels ships and swimmers.

Navigate that sly, strong pull
And risk being dashed to pieces on invisible rocks.

But oh, the rewards, should you reach that sandy shore.
Another old one, written last year and never posted til now.
Father, this year's jinx rides us apart
where you followed our mother to her cold slumber;
a second shock boiling its stone to your heart,
leaving me here to shuffle and disencumber
you from the residence you could not afford:
a gold key, your half of a woolen mill,
twenty suits from Dunne's, an English Ford,
the love and legal verbiage of another will,
boxes of pictures of people I do not know.
I touch their cardboard faces. They must go.

But the eyes, as thick as wood in this album,
hold me. I stop here, where a small boy
waits in a ruffled dress for someone to come ...
for this soldier who holds his bugle like a toy
or for this velvet lady who cannot smile.
Is this your father's father, this commodore
in a mailman suit? My father, time meanwhile
has made it unimportant who you are looking for.
I'll never know what these faces are all about.
I lock them into their book and throw them out.

This is the yellow scrapbook that you began
the year I was born; as crackling now and wrinkly
as tobacco leaves: clippings where Hoover outran
the Democrats, wiggling his dry finger at me
and Prohibition; news where the Hindenburg went
down and recent years where you went flush
on war. This year, solvent but sick, you meant
to marry that pretty widow in a one-month rush.
But before you had that second chance, I cried
on your fat shoulder. Three days later you died.

These are the snapshots of marriage, stopped in places.
Side by side at the rail toward Nassau now;
here, with the winner's cup at the speedboat races,
here, in tails at the Cotillion, you take a bow,
here, by our kennel of dogs with their pink eyes,
running like show-bred pigs in their chain-link pen;
here, at the horseshow where my sister wins a prize;
and here, standing like a duke among groups of men.
Now I fold you down, my drunkard, my navigator,
my first lost keeper, to love or look at later.

I hold a five-year diary that my mother kept
for three years, telling all she does not say
of your alcoholic tendency. You overslept,
she writes. My God, father, each Christmas Day
with your blood, will I drink down your glass
of wine? The diary of your hurly-burly years
goes to my shelf to wait for my age to pass.
Only in this hoarded span will love persevere.
Whether you are pretty or not, I outlive you,
bend down my strange face to yours and forgive you.
Myra Apr 2015
If I were lost,
I'd write a farewell note
A letter to each person before boarding onto my journey
If I were lost, I'd gather my belongings and assign them to loved ones
If I were lost, I'd purchase rope
I'd learn to tie a noose
If I were lost, I'd purchase the finest blades
And buy a painting of a sunset of some destination I'll never go to in this life
And place that painting near my bathtub where my last breaths will be
So that I can leave this world and be lost in another....
But I'm not lost.
I'm just a navigator in something new.
And this, too, shall pass.
Kassel D Nov 2013
unbound feet escort me
afar from whence i came
the long forgotten footpaths
lay long behind my memory
searching, i wander
through the vast sea of green before me
the raging wind captured
in the brief rush of eager leaves
quick to their demise
sheltering my easy steps
from the traces of the shadow walkers
who track me in the night

hark, now
i hear them
their hungry voices
decline in me the longing for new land
beyond the crystal coastline
where i can abandon the thick desolation
of the land you once called home
putiira Jan 2019
It's ok to be vulnerable and let someone in.
If they decide to leave, just know that it will be ok
because you are your own navigator
and the stars shine so much brighter with you in them...
Katy Laurel Oct 2012
These autumn sunrises bring a remnant

Of cool spring mornings we spent
moments of content, encompassing silence.

What is the foundation of this feeling

You once claimed to brand me with

Inside other lips?

The truth comes out,
coated in masks,

And unknown hopes,

That we have already proved to be wrong.

Can we rewind?
Can I bring your mind

To understand the beauty of the present?

Will ghosts always follow the trace of footprints

You left when you took flight from me?

But this language of ****** magnolias dipped in salty water

Recognizes the impossibility within her pleadings.

How selfish I become with the possibility of magnificent love.

Perhaps all I do to you now is inflict pain upon the

Wary navigator who sails the ocean of your soul.

I feel the weight of your ship sink into the water well of my mind.
I let it sink into my numb mind.
This juxtaposition fills my veins with anxiety,
For all that places itself in my hands
Quickly dissipates, melting under my overbearing love
And insecure need to be fully loved.

This has led to a natural novocain,
Which I am unable to keep from filling my blood,
And infecting the dear heart within my ribs
With nothingness.

I sink into the comfortable, encompassing black
With a blank stare and shiny scars.
Reminders that this abyss,
Often leads to insomniac slicing.
Watching my own blood leak out with happiness.
Sickfully joyful to see my liveliness,
Praying the physical will call upon frozen passion.

This is the secret.
This is how I could bear to look at you for years without emotion.
Your love sang too true for my many masks to survive,
And my fear of feeling became cold, guilty friendship.
Perhaps, my guilt hoped for your understanding.
I just couldn't commit you to my own insanity.
Too many times have I tried to find fulfillment in lips,
I would never permit inside the lost water well.
You were better off without my tactless attempts at love.
Perhaps, that remains the reality…
Doubt haunts determination.
My difficulty in recovering our old language
Begins to overshadow my bright hope.

So now I contemplate the truth in my journey.
Am I merely chasing down your ghosts
Fighting to show you the value of your own love,
When you are so pridefully aware of its worth.
I wonder if you have ever truly observed my own love?

It existed, long ago, once within childhood
And then transformed into trapped, teenage hubris;
Prideful of my naivety, and what I then called fate.
But almost all evidence has been destroyed,
Out of selfish preservation.
How could I expect you to understand,
I only continue to breathe to rebel against these violent memories.

Yet, my fearful pride continuously tears at my honest ambition.
So, I call upon rhythm to release me.
Bon Iver breaks all my honor,
Evoking all memories of my ******.
Moments of time I keep deep in my silent sorrow.
Only this particular pain,
Allows me to isolate my words,
And continue singing.
I realize I have become lost in the water well.
When will this precarious ego finally shatter?

The silence returns to the mountain night.
Frigid, soft breeze breaks my blank stare,
As I fight with my twisted nature.
I continue to hold out my hand,
Shaking and trembling,
As you stare at me with shocked confusion.
I am no good with promises of the future.
So, I remain in the present,
And believe,
In the vulnerable emotion,
You unconsciously paint upon me.
Danziel Jul 2014

To give you a regular old compliment
I would deny your complete existence
Your beauty as a person is making me ecstatic
If I were a magician your beauty would be my greatest magic
God gave you many blessings
Intelligence and *** appeal and that’s only two of them
If you were to ask me, would I ever hurt you?
I would say no, I’d never try to,
That would be out of the Question
I would tell you I Love You
Only if I meant it
I can never picture Leading you on
But, I can be your Navigator leading you to a place that you would enjoy
My Heart
To continue my tour, I would lead you to my brain
So you Know 99.9 percent of the Time
Your Knocking at my door to ya special place in my mind
You’re so sweet; I can taste your emotions
Most males can sit there and leave your heart broken
Me I can be your Super Glue to put your Heart back into Motion
This is my compliment to you or even a gesture
I just gave you all my confidence
I hope I leave ya heart and your mind feeling like
A True Angel Feather
Brujo Alligatore May 2016
We followed our giggle
Of course that was right
Sychronized destination
Real fulfillment and delight
Victor Marques Dec 2009
You care and love the right wine,,,
You are great and always fine,,
Navigator of dreams, you love the fresh air...
Your smile is kind and fair...

Douro valley is a sacred place...
You will come, don’t wait...
The vineyards and the olive trees.
Are waiting for you and me.

The wine is in your imagination...
A kind of love and passion.
The universe cares with positive energy...
Red bottle is for you and me..

Kindest regards from the best region for Port wine, Douro Valley..
Victor Marques
Luna Fides Sep 2016
Manic Pixie Dream Girl
fingerpainted rainbow
on a flat canvass, you are
cardboard pretty.

Like this pastel-colored cupcake
you once saw on television
with sprinkles and little marshmallows on top
something you know
you can never taste
but still thought
“That must be delicious.”

One-sided postcard
With a beautiful scenery at the front
and empty surface at the back
No words to tell
No stories to give
Just a vacant lot.

Manic Pixie Dream Girl
I’ve always thought you were beautiful.
with your colors spilling out of your being and your smiles
that could light up anybody’s world
I’ve always thought it was like peering through a kaleidoscope
And you were a perfect symmetry
of everything a little boy could ever dream of.
So as I grew up
I dreamed to be something like you.
And for a while,
Without really meaning to
I was something like you.
People often told me,
“You are so pretty.”
“You are nice and funny.”
“You have a great smile.”
“You are fun to be with.”
“You are different.”
and guys liked me.
They adored me.
most especially when I exist
only for them.
When I am there to pick up the pieces
and make them whole again.

But manic pixie dream girl
I realized I am no dream girl
I am just—


I feel ugly most of the time.
I eat a lot when I’m sad.
I am very impulsive.
I give irrational comments.
I have temper tantrums when I don’t get what I want.
I get scared of the dark.
I cut when I am hurt.
And there are days when I just want to sleep
and disappear forever.

I am no dream girl.
I am just a real girl.
Trying to make it out alive
in the real world.

I am not a navigator
meant to save lost boys.
I am not
a box of crayons
meant to grow smaller
as I color this blank page of a guy
I am not
a white glue
meant to disappear
once I am dry
I am not
a bandage
meant to heal wounds
on careless little children.

I am not supposed to be a fantasy
I am flesh and bones
I am human
with ribcages that are meant to crush
with the weight of a broken heart
I have lungs
I can breathe on my own.
I don’t need a broken boy
to feel that I have a purpose in life.

I am my own destruction.
I am my own salvation.
I am no dream girl.

Manic Pixie Dream Girls are usually static characters who have eccentric personality quirks and are unabashedly girlish. They invariably serve as the romantic interest for a (most often brooding or depressed) male protagonist.
Brianna Elise Aug 2014
My dearest friend,
We have been written together
Drawn side by side
In this cosmic masterpiece.
The stars wrote the map to me
On your heart
When we were only consciousness.
Before you knew my name or face,
You knew the secrets of my soul.
You've wandered through my gardens,
And braved my catacombs.
You could find your way
Through this labyrinth of my body
With your eyes closed.
My soul mate, my passion
The fever that breathes life into me,
Surely without you,
I could not find myself.
Peter Watkins May 2014
A tall, lanky boy.
Face dotted red with acne.
Seen to be oddly;
focused on the future.
Perhaps he should enjoy the now,
instead of planning on how;
he's going to live.

Why does he write at his home,
he'd rather imagine and be alone.
He values education highly, seriously.
Sharing his thoughts quite carelessly.
Sociality isn't his concern,
he cares not for a friends yearn;
to see him once more.

It's simply weird and that's the only way to explain,
Peter Watkins in complete soul and name.
An explorer who searches the depths of his mind.
A navigator that guides the way with swedes of ink to find;
a sea of creativity laced with nothing more than happiness.
He searches for a place only real in his dreams comforting caress.
Peter's aim is pointless just as the way he depicts life; utterly pointless.
I've tried to give a 3rd person description of myself and merged elements of the 1st person alongside. I hope you like the sentiment, this is me in both how I am seen and how I see myself - Peter
and the wind will blow
and you will drift
guided by chance
and an unseen Navigator  
like a ship on a raging sea
or a butterfly caught in the wind

just don't close your eyes

the light may be
too bright or too dim
the crumbling ruins
may fall hard
beside and inside you

but don't be found
holding tightly to the cocoon
when the metamorphosis
has long been completed.

          --Daniel Irwin Tucker
It was the year 2121. There was only four of us who actually remained together. It was me, Hotbox, which is a name I picked up due to my father. He was a boxer who then became a firefighter in his later years. I was half human and half metal. I worked at a place where we customized engines for flying cars before it went out of business. Crisis on oil similar to that of the past decades was still prevalent in future times. One of the engine parts we received from the Colony in Outer Space had a defect and it exploded upon arrival. It left me feeling like I was Johhny from Johnny Got His Gun. I nearly lost my hearing, sight, speech, a chunk of my heart and many of my bones and limbs disintegrated. During the time I was hospitalized, many special doctors took care of me. Many of them supers themselves spoke to me telepathically. I was given a new body armor made of Tantalum, a metal that often replaces platinum and is very efficient for implants and coatings in the medical field. But enough about me. There’s FrostFyre, a girl I met at a superhero convention. I had a super crush on her. She was born in an artificial planet called Brone that no longer exists due to an unexpected shutdown. She was able to absorb the energy from the explosion which allowed her to be stronger than the citizens of her planet. The disaster caused her family to relocate to one of the Colonies in planet Earth. Fyre could change the temperature of the flames that she fired and could potentially freeze-burn her opponents. Her fire was hotter than the center of the sun. We had two best friends who also happen to be fraternal twins, they're names are Sloe and Slic. Sloe had the ability to fly, teleport, and slow time down which consisted of making everything appear to be paralyzed. Slic on the other hand had super speed and would one day travel faster than light. After the Third World War in 2095, several hydrogen bombs were dropped all over the world, almost everything had vanished. There were no more skyscrapers, no more Mount Everest, no more Niagara falls, no more pyramids in what’s left of Egypt, and no more overly saturated Earth full of humans. The human population was at about 11.2 billion at the end of the century according to the United Nations. After the nuclear warfare episodes, the known population dropped to 3 billion. It became the duty of the Heroes of the Colony to take hold of the Earth. With the rise of enemies of the colony, the world was now in the hands of evil.

“It’s time to light up and take flight!”, shouted Fyre. It was easy for her to say. She was born with the ability to produce fire by herself. After my accident I was struggling with feeling like I wasn’t even human anymore.

“How hot is Lava?” Slic said.

We were standing at the rim of the largest human-made volcano to ever exist. Lava was a villain that was threatening to erupt the volcano in where she dwelled in. Sloe was using her powers to slow the process down, but Lava used her powers to speed up the eruption.

“Lava can reach temperatures of 1,600 degrees Fahrenheit to up to 2,000.” Sloe replied.

“No smartypants, I mean is she good looking?” Slic replied.

“We have to go in the lava and attack her from where she is standing,” Fyre said in a very calm voice. She and I knew that my armor material had a melting point up almost 2,500 degrees so we couldn't risk it. The lava's temperature was increasing at an alarming rate as the seconds passed. If any of the lava seeped through the pores of my armor, my body could instantly be vaporized.

“What if you go in instead?” I said.

If Fyre went in to swim in the lava she would be more safe than me. Her body was made from a material found in the distant home-planet she comes from. Lava's body in the other hand was still human-like. She was not susceptible to the lava she produced or lived in but perhaps a nuclear explosion could vaporize her for good. The vaporization would occur so quickly that Lava would simply cease to exist. The nervous system that sends pain signals to the brain would be gone quicker than the speed in which signals reach the brain.

This was a moment of chaos. There was enough happening in what was left of the world. The people that lived under the fear and control of Lava would die due to being exposed to the lava even if several feet away. The magma of the volcano was very vicious at this point and sloe could not do much about it. Fyre was getting ready to detonate as she stood at the center of the rim. She does this by going into a fetal position as she floats in midair.

There was a sudden flash in the sky. A voice said, “Prepare for flight!”

It was the Navigator. He was here to teleport us to May 31st, 2095. It was a Tuesday afternoon and we were at a diner in a floating city. There was a lot of commotion around us and it felt as if  the Flight of the Bumblebee was playing in the background.

“Sorry, wrong date.”

We quickly teleported to the day before, a Monday and I hated Mondays but we were still at the diner and I was having a chocolate milkshake so it wasn't so bad. There were so many people looking at the sky as they cried, helpless and hopeless. The bombs were being dropped. The navigator asked Sloe to slow everything down. In the moment of panic there was peace. We enjoyed milkshakes and talked about how to save the world as we were the only ones talking in real time. Slic ran back home to get his video camera and he started recording as the first bomb reached grounds. A few seconds later everything was white.
Sarah Jones Dec 2014
Titan of old,
Bearing both your love and mine.
Guide me, Navigator.
Let me take the weight.
You’ll shatter,
I’ll just break.
There was nothing unusual about Alan Pearce – he ate breakfast, he liked golf; perfectly normal.

Rocking the boat wasn’t in a day’s work for Alan Pearce and he liked to keep to a fairly strict schedule in life.

But what happened to Alan Pearce just wasn’t normal, not even nearly normal in fact.

Like the sufferer of a sudden and unannounced illness, Alan Pearce was rather knocked back by a turn of events that eventually led to a sort of personal crisis.

Alan Pearce: adventurer.

Alan Pearce: wanderer and navigator (whether he liked it or not).
This is a slow writing exercise (, which I like to do to tune up my mind for the day's writing. It's fun, you should try it. I think this one is HEAVILY influenced by the opening of The Philosopher's Stone: "Mr and Mrs Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense."
JR Potts Aug 2017
I want to fill my days with you
the way I fill my mug in the morning
with coffee

my passenger seat is full
of empty bottles in the shape of a conversation
we need to have

because that seat used to be yours
and this boat has gotten harder to captain
without a navigator

I can’t read the stars like you
even with the telescope you gave me,
I lack your patience

except for that night on Outer Beach
when we laid on the roof of my car to watch
the evening blue turn black

it started slow but soon the night sky
was consumed by the shine of a billion lights,
some over a million years away

but today I’m staring at an empty closet
draped in naked hangers where your clothes
once hung

somedays I still catch a whiff of you
the smell of your shampoo on my pillow case
I should have washed it by now

I know I am not a perfect man
and I need not remind you of every flaw
but I find it easier to be a better one

with you here...
Clayton Woolery Dec 2010
Such a shame to let loose
That I have absolutely no clue what I'm doing
But pretending seems to work so well;
You all claw at plasticine symbols
The letters deplored with a swish of the ink well.

Calligraphic self destructions mean something to somebody
Over an ocean with eyes so slight as to shine in the darkness,
Glinting in robes of black on the rooftops of rich dynastics
And the rhymes of yesterday creeping to the forefront,
Reminding me just of how hopeless hopelessness is--
The assonance of a retreating boxcar
Is steaming into the backdrops of consciousness.

Is it time to rewind somewhere?
The visages of paintings only mean so much
To the blind bats on cave walls in cavernous reaches
Of static television snow drifts.

It seems that you and I have come to the biggest of filamentous rifts:
Sifting between now and then we have mind-skips
Of epic proportion, a sickened distortion
Of all of the children left in their contortions
It's all leprosy in my eyes
Since the skies are burning down as we pinpoint abortion.

And we release that defeat, and try to find meaning in it all:

A lie of great size
Told from my lips yet it was--
You who believed me.

Together we made a chimera
A deception even worse than anything I've ever known
I said that some god had told me all the things that

I can't begin to begin an apology
My mouth mummified by request next to Jeremy Bentham
I only wanted what's best for you--
But look at what you've done!
Oh, Crusades! Oh, Crusades!

Children don't lie with your eyes on the sunset
For Nietzsche is the ultimate navigator!

And you finally catch sight of the top of an alligator
floating in the oil, staring at you
slanted eyes smiling cruel.

It all makes sense now, what half believed lies
That explain how the darkness will come to rise
But the opposite side of our crystalline marble
Has known all along, they knew all along!

Facing the east, wasn't He?
Then even he knew
Perhaps what I said was not all untrue
And in fact
the fault lies with Him
Not me,
Not you.

The Bible.
Western Philosophy / Eastern Philosophy
Willow-Anne Nov 2015
Once there was an army
Who's forces were made of five
Together they were stronger
Than anything else alive

First there was the leader
Who was confident and calm
She offered words of encouragement
She was like the army's mom

Next there was the guide
Who was like the army's heart
She kept them all on the right path
Always happy to do her part

The army had a single warrior
That acted as its claws
She joined after seeing her lover's death
And was fighting for a cause

Next there was the strategist
Acting as the group's brain
For every single move they made
It was her behind the reigns

Finally there was the healer
Who represented their soul
Full of innocence and purity
That they were fighting to keep whole

But in reality, no one is perfect
Everyone makes mistakes
One small error along the way...
In the end, that's all it takes

The leader was the first to die
And her ego became her fatal flaw
After turning her back on an enemy
Her death was one everyone saw

After watching her closest ally die
The navigator's heart became filled with hate
Without a thought she ran into the fray
Where she too was met with the same fate

Now what becomes of a warrior
Without a leader or a guide?
She lays down her life and fights till the end
Making time for the others to hide

But the soul had lost its innocence
And the world had all turned grey
And with no body left to contain it
Her essence fades away

Left alone with just her thoughts
Is none other than the brain
She blames herself for everything
And it slowly drives her insane
Gary L Misch Oct 2011
The sea's grown calm,
Just two days out,
The ice is in our wake,
We're thinking of a
Run ashore,
We've earned it,
Six days through
The sea smoke,
Ice bergs,
Bergy bits,
All the usual debris
Of travel in these parts,
Now the only debris,
Pods of whales,
Folks pay to see them,
We get paid to see 'em,
Sort of,
It's been a long cruise,
But still,
We are getting paid,
In the morning,
We'll give the ship
A bath,
And get ready for
A real reward,
There's got to be
Some reward,
For vigilance,
And boredom
All across the pond,
And there is a reward,
There'll be Newfie merchants
On the jetty,
Bringing to us,
Barrels of...
They don't have much,
In Newfie Land,
But lobsters they've got,
An over supply,
We'll bring 'em home,
Steamed and frozen,
Ready to eat,
And while we're here,
Perhaps a little beer,
A reward for not hitting
A single whale,
Let's keep the Navigator sober,
Insurance that he miss
Sable Island,
On the next leg south,
After all,
It's the last leg home.
And so,
St. John's,
Not a garden spot,
But good enough,
To be the last stop.
a brace of wind blew
across the rocky cove
where the hull of a cargo ship lay
twas caught in a torrid tumultuous sea
as it sailed to the port town of Dalmont
strong gales
lashed the deck
and broke the rigging
such disaster
befell the crew
all perished
on that moonless night
with ferocity the elements
did conspire against
the ship and its hapless occupants
no news of where the ship lay
came until 1935
a coastal surveying team
spotted the wreck
a mile out to sea
the ghostly skeletal hull
sat askew on a rock ledge
in a small dingy
they rowed
toward the shore
to make inquiry of the ship's remains
the only object
they found
a twisted navigator's sextant
Zac Carlson Feb 2013
You are a curious fleshy navigator
Explorer of mind and world

You are a synapse searcher
A hemisphere lurker

You are a voiceless idea
An unopened potion

You are beautifully blurry
An ambiguously cryptic existence

You reach my extremities
A nice warm flow

You burst from my body
The only existence I know
Name XI Jun 2015
a speck on a train of evergrowing thought,
i simply exist in your periphery
deploring each opportunity unsought
trying to wash myself clean of your mem’ry

you are certainly a skilled navigator
you make your way into every part of me
the earth was a kaleidoscope of colour
now it’s achromatic–you are all i see

my desires remain to me inchoate
whether aspiration or admiration
to be like you or be with you: the debate
either of which a mode of self-destruction

as to vertiginous heights i watch you soar
i realize it’s neither option at all
for my wings can never quite take flight like yours
lest you crumble under your great wings and fall
(i try to rhyme) (and count syllables) [reposted from my wordpress]
Under the sepulchre where my heart beats slowly,

There lies a necropolis where the dead lay glowing.


The undercroft beneath my ribs inhales frailty.

The tombstones of the truth here reminisce of failing.


An Acolyte to the corpse of Babylon,

The basilica spire, lies thereon,

A whisper of what had there been,

Before the Plague, the demise of Men.


A Monk to the infected Abbott,

The cathedral drowning in the cab’net:

The darkening secrets, too much to let go,

The flowing blood, too much for the snow.


A Coquette to the blistering Brothel

The modern meretricious hostel,

Lays Her cradled head down to rest,

The false hopes of a Prince, there infest.


The memory of a malignant massacre,

The Cancer spread like fungus on cadavers,

He tried to scream with no chords to make

The sounds emitted to keep the worms away


A Father of a Failure, afraid of the mirror,

As well as his own damnable creator.

The dissolution thereafter commences,

Although none change his recompenses.


The Leader of a glorious tribe there fallen

Rotting, decaying, like the rest of the solemn

With all respect, I know not His name

Forgotten in time, as was His fame


A “Friend” to a Martyr turned to a Betrayer,

Betrayer embroiled terms of the conveyor.

Martyr’s eyes and entrails are now long gone,

Though not with time, his head absent along.


A Dread-Worker to His mortuary,

His concept of death one day did vary,

Found were His diaries of a necrophiliac,

The town had him drawn, and quartered at that.


A Navigator of the salted sea,

He lays here now, bereft of memory;

It took His ship, the rocky cove,

His body here, His soul with Jones.


A Prophet of a fictional God,

He said he’d save the sacred sod,

And yet no miracle ever made He

His followers putrid now, festering.


The Violinist to His melody,

Forgot to eat, His mortal form craving,

Developing the perfect serenade,

He fell starving ‘fore having writ the last grade.


There is no judgement among the dead,

Except for what we give unto them,

They sleep soundly, forever eternal

Caring not who lay next to them, fraternal

Are they, and with silent kindness

Accept those also sharing their blindness.


The piercing shallow eyes,

At least for those who still have them,

Lack vision of the sky,

Or of the flowers who up to it stem.


Under the sepulchre where my heart beats slowly,

I feel a chill inside my spine that takes advantage fully,

The necropolis has inner bliss

It lies under ground and in our midst.
Sam Hawkins Jul 2017
Let this be spark to collective action!
The exercise of natural freedoms and equality.

Sever attachments, break from your safety,
from the shores of who you think you are.

Set sail with faith,
placing ideologies in abeyance.

Set sail with soul songs,
join with saints and strangers
harmoniously singing.

Be ALL as One
in open repartee.

Brothers and sisters, all of a wild nature–
none left uninvited.

Friends at heart all, all welcome!

Who shall be chief navigator?

Trace sensitive fingers on contour maps the Universe makes.
Apply improvisations; as we navigate, we invent.

With tiniest of maps (the same is the largest
with infinite pathways) we are destined exactly
to found and inhabit New Earth.

Who brings gifts of intuitive sensing?

Shall we draw straws?

Any can buddy up with the experts
at the rational sextant.

Every single she and he of us
is a guiding star.

Accordingly, let’s begin
convergent conversations of stars.

Of the humans who choose to stay behind, let us love them.
Let us love them and let’s be on our way!

It is enough now that many have had good intentions,
have spoken authentically, enthusiastically.

Yet they do not wish to enter in.
Each in his or her own time.

Others have voiced opposition,
demonstrated resistance.

Some others — stuck in apathy,
in numbness, powerlessness.

Is fear of ****** death
the ultimate stopping?

What is living if living itself
is death?

Are you one who has ears
to hear?

Are you that very passenger
ready to disavow, to disembark?

Have you awakened
to your own alluring whisper?

Let us begin.

— The End —