"ports" poems
They rest all over
whilst I was rooted to the ground,
the water acting like superglue
as my limbs stretched out.
Towards the clumps of land
rods of steal and wood weaved,
to connect and *****
that which we call humanity.
But there were abuse on the rods
formed by hands who'd calloused hearts,
poison coursing through their veins,
but not a single thought was given
for they were innocent in their brain.
Said limbs and rods spiraled out,
as nothing was left to chance,
intertwining everyone's destiny
in majestic flare and grace, grand
like a ballerina's dance.
But the poison was too corrosive,
the termites were too much,
as everything eroded, imploded,
crumbled and buried under
mounds of earth.
But today is different,
a new beginning, a new life.
As if the gods have willed
something better to arrive.
Indeed they came: Ports
forged from purity anew,
where fresh legs are delivered
and old legs whisked away.
For no matter how dark it
was, is, will be,
even during the night,
there always is and will be
a pip of light.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 7:46 AM UTC
Shadow man,
an unusual human being without a name.
You called me one night out of the blue
and asked me to run away with you.
I was baffled,
but as night turned into day
we both jumped in your boat and sailed away.
You told me about the lonesome life you live and how you've sailed these seas for many years and was in search of a hand to hold.
You told me that I was the most beautiful flower there was.
Your world was without a sky and you told me I am the calm of the storm,
and that I should stick around for awhile.
You showed me all the constellations
and all at once I was lost in space.
I closed my eyes and smelled the sea salt and felt the ship shake smoothly over these waves.
I laid here with you.
We landed on many civilized city's ports and explored for more.
We'd have lunch in the woods, see movies, and explore the inside of museums.
Breathe it in because there will come an end.
You told me I wasn't the first you ran away with.
There have been others but in the end they always broke your heart.
You cried to me on the nights memories found their way back into your mind
and knew that one day I'll be the one causing tears when my time ends.
If I leave
don't worry, don't weep
dry your eyes so you can see light
and notice that I'll be in the stars.
I'll be trapped in time.
Just sail on and find the edge of the ocean
and become friends with the moon, and stars above,
before the curtain falls.
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 9:05 PM UTC
Maybe it's the poet in me
that believes
that after all these years,
and miles,
and songs,
that you might untangle yourself from her arms,
tug on the string I tied to our fingers before you left,
and find your way back
to me.
Your heart
is pulling you across the ocean,
to ports with open arms waiting for you;
and I'm left here wondering
why it wasn't enough
that I would have tore out my rib cage
and made it into a boat
for you to sail yourself there in.
I would wait here,
at this port
that is both where you have been
and where you still are,
until I turned to stone.
It's the poet in me
that can't let you go.
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 5:18 PM UTC
I sit and try and be a lotus
after killing the third fly of the evening
with a pocket book of recipes and a
thirty centimetre ruler stolen
from bathroom **** measuring contests to our knees.
Young professionals tread these boards
and I watch, trying to paint them lotus.
I listen and learn like I was told to do
then clock watch, mop, cycle home to you;
I am still trying to be a lotus
even in wet shoes and no socks.
With less than five-hundred pounds to my various names,
an office-chair-cum-clothes-horse, eight USB charging ports
and a future that stretches to Sunday’s last reluctant second,
I am sitting, trying to be lotus figuring out the professional path
David Attenborough heard in his gentleman’s class: that son of a-
- I walked into an army recruitment vault with dreams of being Gulliver,
though was asked to leave out the cat flap cathedral door back into war
as they’d got their laugh and didn’t applaud.
Perhaps I should’ve been better at maths
where apparently a career can be predicted on a scatter graph,
and the pigeons of today were the pigeons of next year and the months that’ll follow the century after that.
I am still trying to figure out the hoo-ha of ************
and ring fingers and collar sizes and the inner circles
of hyenas when the winter solstice splits the seasons.
There is no reason for this lotus procrastination
when what’s there to live for but a crooked world
and one bandage left.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 2:18 PM UTC
lost in a sky
of strange and far places
a hint of a house
and treetops in the mist
guide my way to you
she gazes
into the same skies
as you do
may your thoughts also
come to be one of accord
if you answered
the tapping of every
water bird
even a wandering
moon could enter
if the haze had not
come out to go in between
the moon and flowers
otherwise even the birds nests
might have burst into blossom
boat upon high seas
if you are drifting without
a harbor or course
give me a call and I'll row
out to teach you about ports
not even knowing
the meaning which the color
of lavender has
but watching it carefully
this one's heart is deeply touched
Murasaki Shikibu, A String of Flowers, Untied...
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 3:53 PM UTC
Eternity is closed !
- come back another day with
flower smears for eyes and sincere
passion on your
palms (weathered)
I need another Russian Doll -
Princess to frequent curtains
fashioned from fire & lead
equaling out to crimson folds
which mysteriously call to
the mystical hierarchies of
imagination
Silent requirements signal beneath the steps
which welcome
one (a stranger/
an Ibis-Beak cane & dark coat
stamped with August rain)
They arrive unexpectedly, as if to play the game
of cliches, they carry promises fashioned in foreign ports
tapping my knee
instead of my shoulder
having only known or recognized
entombment
(there is no hyperbole which lacks within
Nature's haunted heavens)
My strange visitor leaves / glass umbrella
in hand / to privacy / our brief interaction begins & ends with simple eager undertakings implemented
in the afterword
What is in another's contemplation of me?
whiling in manifest Theosophy -
- Thought form -
Primal child-rage / whisp of violet smoke &
inksplotches abolished, mutually panting.
Our decorated
four-legged hunter
has arisen and impatiently
craves for the Earth to partner at last with
the Sun
..The Sun a blazing dime
I can smell crispness
in the air
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 1:20 AM UTC
There are ships sailing to many ports,
but not a single one goes to where life is not painful;
nor is there a port of call where it is possible to forget.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 10:00 PM UTC
. what?
between MC hammer...
and men at work...
there's a choice?
come on...
you could have given
me an easier question,
like... Debussy
contra Satie...
or, like...
egg yolk or egg white?!
point being...
i'd love to see
christopher lambert
play the role of
raiden in that... mortal kombat
game made into a motion
picture...
you know...
if i owned a PS2...
i'd still be a gamer...
but i never owned a PS2....
or the metal gear solid 2
gaming experience...
not the PS1 experience
fighting ****** mantis*...
you know that hack / cheat...
when you switch controller
slots...
when ****** mantis* is
giving his grandiose speech..
and you switch the controller
ports, so that in in the game
you're not predictable...
final fantasy 7?!
completed it with a walk-through...
sorry... homework...
that being said:
all of Friday night and all of
Saturday morning...
and some Tenchu....
wacky-Jacky...
cow later chow,
enter mein...
choppers chop chop...
these days?
i game...
when i take a ****
i figured... if there are people who
take a book to the crapper...
i'll take a game...
war robots....
you know what's fascinating?
the interactive applicability of
a game...
team-work...
mesmerizing...
the whole gaming
structure drifted from a narrative,
to a congregational dynamism...
solipsism unraveled...
i dig the whole team work,
while taking a ****
love it... 5 stars review...
but am i a gamer...
do i not think that
a.i. is a revamp of Pinocchio?
no...
but metal gear solid?
a ******* solid game
on PS1...
you would be talking to a gamer
if i was allowed to buy
a PS2 console...
oh right...
i read books and listened to music,
and ended up writing anti-routine /
anti-technicality poetry /
anti-rhyme poetics....
my bad;
"we're" calling a revision
of chess in play;
yeah... sorry...
i was never into paragraphs,
with dialogue interludes...
for me...
poems were always above
a structural stature of paragraphs;
something to do with
haiku or... whatever came out of
Godzilla's mouth.
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 11:05 PM UTC
We plyed our oars as we sweeped across the surf,
our ships skimming the water with ease,
we seized towns, plundered fishing ports, sacked cities,
we worshipped the great Odin, in his hall in Asgard,
All for what?
We did this, so we might go to Valhalla, the last revelry.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 10:25 PM UTC
Cold beer,
a long necked bottle held to my forehead
and in my throat,
to my lips,
so relief comes both ways,
glad for it,
the double of the cool,
helps the day of troubled nothingness,
and the long necked bottle makes it
worth the extra second of anticipated tasty wait
can't drink in the river park,
don't cotton to brown paper bags,
do it anyway cause the East River
tides me over on its way
thru the Verrazano Narrows,
bound for the Atlantic with me low rider spirit in tow,
a devil may care attitude en contrôle
this troubadour opened the store at 700am
but not a one came looking for a song,
but the mail came reliable,
with dues due,
promises that need keeping,
and other items,
what the grownups call responsibilities
June Monday early eve and the Moran tugboats
ply their trade like reliable ****** to the sailors,
and their larger than bathtub size toys,
turning containers, freighters, into docile boys
who do as they are told on their way to ports far
there are stick figures outlined on the hexagon
paving stones that are so nyc for me,
here pedestrian! follow your designated path
here pedestrian, you must walk to be safe arrived
but I take to the railing,
where Isaac-bound and mesmerized,
I imagine surfing the churning wakes on the surface
of the riveting tides and wonderous wanderlust for
where we are bound...
no voice heard from the heavens,
saying Abraham put down that knife,
because I have not passed the test of true belief,
perhaps the river's invitation is my test,
if I should sing another song here,
perhaps it will tale the end of this tell...
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 7:24 PM UTC
*is it like a feather
is it now or never
our faces are neglected
our souls are introspective
gravity collected
space and time dissected
water is our mother
the earth is our shelter
a blessed sacred elder
lilikoi is my favorite fragrance
tastes like innocence
and you must respect her
amazing feelings to select
the headwaters call collect
protect our sacred mother
dance upon the other
call upon the winds
feel them on your skin
remove the falling stones
that cover up your bones
rest in love unknown
concentrate until it is shown
phone calls steal our happiness
accidents dent our marriages
darkness is our daughter
streaks of light and color
falling stars kept captive
we plant them in our yards
keepers of the spark
sisters of the sparrow
made of light and yarrow
feathers flicker softly
all our woven glory
givers of the heart
singers of the dark
if you wish to hear them
make yourself a part
of the symphony
lifetimes of abandonment
oh so quick to fill you in
on all the tragic stories
what if we ignored them
and stayed present in this moment
filling up our cups
simple days spent with simple eyes
kindness supplies our alibis
respect is valued
like a stream in our hearts
we are dipped clean
threads of beauty
borrowed from the scarecrow
next lifetime you’ll become
another source of hope
ports of pleasure in our seas
forever we are feeling these
hopeless ropes tying up our antidotes
confounded sounds mounds of hope
stereoscopes and isotopes
poets freely speak
seek islands of wisdom
on stormy seas of chatter*
Oct 24, 2017
Oct 24, 2017 at 9:34 AM UTC
Screaming midnight chimes,
hidden alibis illuminate your crimes,
ferule moonlit beams of light,
recoil in the shadows, glowing in white,
shaking soul in the twilight zone,
kicking up dust as you run for home,
emotions take you by the hand,
scatter away like the desert sand,
cold trip in a purple haze,
eaten away in the last of these days,
haunted, we are all haunted,
ghosts of the past gnaw at our thoughts,
searching in vane for safer ports .
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 6:32 AM UTC
I want to open my ports like never before
I want to welcome you into my shores
I spent months bending my trees
I spent weeks without sun or sleep
Until you came, my summer sky
I forgot about the heavy rains of December
I forgot about all the damages from November
I feel like I could even grow mountains
Like I'm brand new
I feel like an unnamed island again
Because of you
My new season
My summer sun
My rebirth
My new earth
Apr 29, 2022
Apr 29, 2022 at 4:45 AM UTC
I write words with passion, I write words learned from wisdom
I study the works from the greatest; I even study the stars in the sky
Look to the North West on a dark Southern Autumn‘s night
Hanging side by side with the king of the jungle and holding a *** of honey
A relative to the one in the deserts with stinger in its tail you will see
A Giant that walks on ocean floors with meat that is ever so sweet
Constellations that fill the sky all been given a specific name at an earlier time
Many a being read the wise man tales in the daily papers
They live there day to look to see if there predictions come true
Your visions can only come true if you search without looking
My journey today took me to the second floor I’m in a ward
Doors open exposing many smiles and many, many frowns
Team Poppy’s Ride for one dollar I bought into yes I did
Relay for life fight the silent killer and have fun doing it as well it says
A dozen silk roses pull me near to the table to touch them
Fur lined slippers; ports open on his body, one in his neck
Another in his arm with plunger attached I can see
Flush him clean and pure I pray aloud rid him of his pain
Give it to me I cry as I looked into his eye
Tapping red heels with anxiety she’s called in next
Chairs with wheels fill the room to capacity
All with hoses and green cylinders attached given a fresh breath of life to inhale
Delicatessen of food on a low cart is now delivered from the one with child in the womb
Smile she puts on my face for there’s another life to keep the circle of life going
Journeys not over for they have just begun
Stacks of Danielle Steele books are scattered all about
Comforting the mind, comforting the soul they do
Precious words are better than man’s medicine I believe
Come to me, my written words are stronger then the script you’re looking for
No ringing of the bells here to mark the toll
To the left I see a three leaf clover hanging in the window
On the Next there’s a hanging cross
Waiting is the master, to do your part
He welcomes you and your soul.
CELEBRATE, REMEMBER, AND FIGHT BACK! (CARSr. 5-21-12)
May 28, 2012
May 28, 2012 at 12:25 PM UTC
_________________________________________________________________________
*
While the dawn storm blows,
Baghdad is calling
Soldiers stationed at the boundaries
The houses are on blaze!
Still,
Desert wind is blowing so unkind!
While the white ghost’s laughs,
Baghdad is crying
Bombs and shells blustered in the cities
The huts are in flames!
Still,
Desert wind is blowing so unkind!
While the dusk light fades,
Baghdad is burning
Sounds of boots repeat at the villages
The Mosque is crowded!
Still,
Desert wind is blowing so unkind!
While the dark night falls.
The debris of war is floating
Date palms line alone the shore in grief
The women are being *****
Still,
Desert wind is blowing so unkind!
While the dawn wind blows,
Mother’s breast bleeds
Troupes watch in silence from top
Blood is remixed with soil !
Still,
Desert wind is blowing so unkind !
While the dusk light fades.
Pregnant Mother’s are lamenting,
Armored men near the entry ports.
Father lost, Mother ***** !
Still,
Desert wind is blowing so unkind !
*
__________________________________________________________________________
By
Williamsji Maveli
email
[email protected]
www.williamsgeorge.com
www.moonmakers.com
__________________________________________________________________________
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 10:13 PM UTC
''And if your Nancy frowns, my lad,
And scorns a jacket blue,
Just hoist your sails for other ports,
And find a maid more true.''
2.3k
719
A South Wind—has a pathos
Of individual Voice—
As One detect on Landings
An Emigrant’s address.
A Hint of Ports and Peoples—
And much not understood—
The fairer—for the farness—
And for the foreignhood.
2.1k
Maps drawn with lines and X’s
Marking the spots of interest,
Treasure.
I’ve drawn a map on my body
with lines of scars, scabs, and blood.
The spots of interest being my
Mind, Heart, and Soul
all parts of my body,
marked with an X each.
Which one holds the treasure,
the desire to live?
The search continues,
following the lines
and braving the sea.
Taking over ports and other ships
just to find the happiness
I might hold inside.
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 10:51 PM UTC
While many people all over the world
Are busily running to and fro
Engaging in cheerful holiday
Festivities, one thing we know:
Children are starving and dying in Yemen.
While Saudi Arabia nonchalantly
Covers up its heinous act
Of butchering a journalist,
We cannot ignore the fact
That children are starving and dying in Yemen.
While Congress fails to intercede
And chooses instead to bicker and quarrel
Over whether America should
Keep supporting a war that's immoral,
Children are starving and dying in Yemen.
While the oppressive Houthi rebels
Backed by Iran dig in their heels
And Saudi Arabia bombs the cities,
Intensifying a clash of ideals,
Children are starving and dying in Yemen.
When ports are blocked and money is scarce,
And fishermen's boats can't leave the shore,
And food and medical equipment
Are cut off in a three-year war,
Children are starving and dying in Yemen.
A 12-year-old girl weighs 28 pounds;
An 8-year-old boy weighs about 30.
Chances are slim that they will survive.
Who dares to say that war isn't *****
Children are starving and dying in Yemen.
The people caught in the middle are certain
What the fiendish fighting portends:
A huge, unimaginable
Catastrophe unless the war ends,
For children are starving and dying in Yemen.
-by Bob B (12-14-18)
Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 11:16 AM UTC
Do you remember when we walked
into the sea
and on the sand ?
Do you remember
Liza with a Zee
as if she was here only yesterday?
And the people
in the ports of Amsterdam?
You loved them as I did,
As if they were flowers
someone had forgotten to water.
The moments with you
were the moments in my life
I could scarcely forget
even if I tried to shove them
into some dusty hideaway corner.
How many times have I remembered,
after forgetting for so long?
As the wind would blow and stop,
and blow again some day.
And do you remember
the seabird overhead,
trying to tell us
something about life.
With his voice full of anguish
and loneliness-longing …
flying high,
flying into realms of seagull joy.
Inviting us to join in heart
as we watch from far below.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 2:36 PM UTC
The way in which we cower away
From desolate words
Yet we dream of bottling them up
To wear as perfume
We carry with us to ports and piers
Where the wind and water waltz
And take our hands in a line dance
Where fire can never touch the surface
So, it lives deep in our hearts
These are the ways I dream of our
unconventional circumstances
Wishing them into happenstances
That could possibly bloom into purposeful love
but I fix clocks, and no matter how hard I try,
I can't change time
...Don't forgive me, just don't forget me...
Jan 1, 2022
Jan 1, 2022 at 5:38 AM UTC
The street was dark and so too were my eyes
I walked down the cobble under darkened skies
I walked down the stone, ankle breakers sets
Gamblers in the alleys watching on, making bets
The buildings stand guard on the night for their lords
keeping them safe, open their mouths; in filth pours
Light poles, with dim candles, give hope for safe journey
Dark alley ways steal eyes, make nervous muscles in our sides
Window light, guardian ports, fly catchers, laundry holes
Shines on the street, waiting for me, with it meet
Footsteps creep around edges avoiding sight
But it’s easy to see, all this going on in the night
Out of law exchangers making changes in pocket stuff
50 for the things, that make pigs squeal, illegal deal
Children's eyes are shut, in bed, not here with us
Tucked in warm and tight, not here with the people of the night
Street sweepers weep, we drink, bottles broken at our feet
Bar tab one too many, stumble, mumble, home on the street
Pickpockets delight, puts up no fight, pockets empty when drunk
Bourgeoisie snobs make prison demands! Lock them away tight!
The street, is ***** I know, I do
But this is o.k, with wary watch
For indeed
In the absence of the light
Come the People of the night
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 11:35 PM UTC
Eli tossed the ****** novel aside; a radical tale
of painters in the far future when paint itself
would be illegal; arms dealers, drug traffickers,
*** workers gathering in dark interstellar holes
bored into passing comets & orbiting meteors
docking illegally at satellite ports & unloading
chemicals frozen into place by the artists
who can never let their identities be known;
all colors on earth are registered & trade marked
by the Beast's Corporation & so Space Art is
highly sought & lucrative but lethal as it can
made to explode w/ enough energy & radiation
to leave a small planet barren for millions of years;
the Beast is reasonably worried as Space Art, or
Action Painting [after the ancient school] is wildly
popular & traded openly for billions of dollars;
the Beast may be able to keep everyone stupid
& greedy but Art liberates them into heights of
ecstasy & kindled wisdom; freedom of thought
the last frontier no one suspected & so abrogated
their intelligence & imagination to fembots
who pump their heads full of colorful action sequences;
the illegal paintings too stiff, just stand or lean
& look back at one w/out blinking
& the female-computer-network unable to bear the silence,
initiates automatic shut-down of itself; femportals
abandoned on stations where the painted images
projected on microcells to the clandestine buyers,
spread as an unseen mist through the various
artificial environments;
the distant star paint miners
smoking up a storm & using steam-powered
fembots
to mine for their oil & charcoal;
Eli putting on the kettle for tea,
thinks about the fembots in the novel & calling a **********
demands she not speak; the girl arriving naked in stockings
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 8:38 PM UTC
You look lost, a stitched-woman, voiding the wind in your hair.
Like face-free-eyes lighting a temple in their reflection
you glare knotted in fall-spokes dreaming of winter.
-Tea is steaming from your glass -
God has turned left-hand memories into ports beneath skin
filling in the dreams of your frozen hair, like veins.
A gold-oil spills from your lips as you breathe
in my mouth - Your glass still steaming -
When you come back: Will lay me in your reflection and listen
for the sound of my hair in your hands?
Aug 28, 2011
Aug 28, 2011 at 5:16 PM UTC
Trials and Tribulations.
Miles and Hesitations got me struggling and tussling to hold on to you.
It's like I have to convince you that love is worth fighting for and money is nothing but dead gluttonous men that we can spend or save. Let's not spend but save up to get up and out. I want up and out of this town full of memories of you but lacking the subject of my subjected poetry.
Our future can be picturesque. We are just being put to the test cuz God has a plan for me and you. We have been tried and turned out true.
Sad and blue your eyes weep while I smile faintly in the distant memory of your cerebral time capsule. Time is moving Slow Slow Slowly down the river banks and ports of seas that part us with waves and waves of salt and Poison.
Water got me feeling heavy so I break down the levy with my sonnets and rhymes, trying to plead for time to speed up so we can grow up and get out. Grow up and bust out to any place with a name that is far from that which we came, where nothing is the same and we can just be together in the metaphors of a summer's breeze.
I'll put your mind at ease with the calming flow of poetry and the strum strum humming of my guitar as I lull you to sleep and watch your face so serene and at peace. And I kiss your soft lips goodnight as i hang up our phone call and place my head adjacent to my pillow and meet you in my dreams.
Apr 18, 2010
Apr 18, 2010 at 3:35 PM UTC