"seafaring" poems
In the night, those shadows come alive. So little do i know about this heavy doubt.
Cold wind biting the heart. Trying to figure out where I've been.
Dark winter pulls me closer, now theres a place i'm thinking into the air.
A voice calling, "Who knows but that which seems omitted today, waits for tomorrow?"
Nothing is as it seams, just as beauty leans from the earth in a sunset--a harp for the soul to sing.
But You are life and you are the veil.
Beauty is eternity gazing at her self
But you are eternity and you are the mirror.
And if you want to know truth retire of solving riddles.
We wanderers, ever seeking the lonelier way,
begin no day where we have ended another day;
and no sunrise finds us where sunset left us.
Even while the earth sleeps we travel,
back into dreams.
Ay, my bow rests on my chest.
There is the flame spirit among a starry mountainside.
Oh it was but yesterday we met in a dream. You watched as I built a ship towards your shore.
My spirit goes wandering upon the wind, off to the desert sands, deep beneath the ocean's sound.
I am the gypsey and the fortuneteller, liken an honest thief. No I'm the myth builder and dream master.
who laughs with me when I destroy,
the sand castles of my innocence. The
sun warming my back just as the wicked, and drawing my image locked in a shadow.
Here the soul a battlefield, where
reason and passion become one.
they are the sails of my seafaring soul.
There I found the naked body of my dreams, in silent sleep my spriit walked the path.
I am the star-gazer who feels the power of endlessness, Aware of timelessness and
neverending space. The love in me still
present amidst the scattered fires that
burn in black ink.
Just as the caveman draws his fears on lost walls, speaking of misfortune and
treasures gallore. A fantom ghost in Hade's Fate.
Now my ship wanders forever on a pearlous course but never sinking.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 12:47 AM UTC
Viking chiefs Valhalla bound,
at death, were not interred I've found.
On a fire ship they 'd place their chief
and cremate him per their belief.
Was it an obsequious grief
that gave rise to this strange belief?
For seafaring folk it scarce seems mete
to lose a captain, then burn the fleet.
With Dragon heads fixed fore and aft
Those ships brought terror, sword and shaft.
Irish Monks would think its fine
to burn one to the water line.
The ship of death was burning bright
as it sank within the fjord that night
carrying the Viking chiefs cremains
to his Viking gods' domains.
Was it conspicuous consumption
that drove the Vikings to this junction?
Perhaps after a life , ****** and gory,
they craved going out in a blaze of glory.
May 26, 2012
May 26, 2012 at 8:17 AM UTC
let me wish upon a star,
not to light up the entire universe,
just to cause a shimmer,
in someones pitch black life,
just to add a glow,
in a few tiny dreamy eyes,
just to give some warmth,
to any cold hapless soul,
just to cast a ray of hope,
to the seafaring men out there,
just to lighten an unexplored path,
to those in search of adventure,
just to reflect the hidden evils,
to those repenting souls,
just to brighten a few more lives,
before melting away to nothingness.......
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 6:22 AM UTC
Ships, boats, seafaring vessels, and barks of yore
Showcased in acclaimed poetry
From Homer to Donne to Flores
Metaphors to represent sundry notions
Ships
Uncontrollably swirled in an unforgiving sea
An arc
persecuting the sinners ******
A shipwreck
on a desolate island, defining a lost soul
A speed boat
Perhaps, mans' innate desire to escape
Or searching for lands unknown
What marvels poets behold in ships?
If I scribed a verse about a yonder vessel
It would be a childish innuendo
About a ships mast
Or I'd make an astounding observation
Such as ships are big boats.
However, poets, true visionaries
Scope massive ships from
Microscopic aspects of daily life.
And I. . . I look at a powerful ship
And think I'm a little dingy.
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 6:23 PM UTC
*Over the centuries
a transforming logo
promoting and shaping
our dance with coffee..
a seafaring birth
fifteenth century siren
exposed and sensuous
twin-tailed mermaid..
her seductive history
reached to Seattle
with nautical theme..
one lasting effect
many centuries told
with modified modesty
her crown remains..
this enduring connection
upper and lower
crown and creation
transcends the coffee..
the logo reminds us:
senses through time
stimulate and attract
crowned light above...*
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 8:47 PM UTC
Did we then sit beside Zeus and talk of men
was Hera there,when we talked of
the ****** Artemis,who with a kiss to thrill, for a kiss to kill,for a fire that Hestia lit upon the mountain top.
While Iris painted colours on the rainbow bright,Persephone and Hades lived a permanent night in their underworld,where all mankind would fear to go,
and Aphrodite trod lightly among the strewn flowers of love, with beauty and the wisdom of Athena
I wish I'd seen her face.
Apollo painted her **** on the bed and Ares went to war with that picture in his head and all the Gods said,
'what is but a wonderful sight,that we see our good people being slain in the night',for the old Gods were callous and jealous to a fault,thinking nothing of sending a lightning bolt to destroy what man made.
Neptune and Poseidon had tried to be nice but with water in their veins that ran cold as ice,they gave up and went home to the sea,saying,
'the mountain is no place to be for us seafaring deity,and with duty being done at the set of the sun and when the moon crooned slowly against the still of the sky,
the Gods slept.
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 11:27 AM UTC
"Still water runs deep." - Yiddish Proverb
To sail within a boat
never rocked or tucked within a sea.
Long grass kissing the bow.
Mosquito hum, siren stand-in.
Brother big, brother strong.
I, the groove of big brother's elbow.
Clothes on the line.
Canary yellow, A-line dress.
The spring girls swelling, rippling
from the bashful shore.
Big brother hold me over edge.
My arms, my oars.
Splashing pasture, blades receding.
Adults at birthday parties.
Brother big, brother mast.
Climb.
Not only sail, but zephyr, I.
Snake through Rusty Bike River,
the tributary.
Spill.
Into the wide, into the Harding Family Ocean.
Where dolls, hair frayed and faces smooshed,
lounge half-submerged and mostly forgotten.
Where sea dogs test chain, test spike.
Eye the confident chickens strolling dock.
And then Mother turns on porch lamp,
soft words, ebbing to lighthouse.
Brother big, big brother.
My arms, my arms.
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 4:56 AM UTC
And the cyclist said to the seafaring man that it was the best **** poison he had ever drank.
The seafaring man was uneasy, wishing that the cyclist would put the bottle down.
He had cautioned his friend in the past--
"Poison will **** you, you know. That's the very purpose of the stuff."
-- And the cyclist's reply had always been the same:
"Well, I've had two swigs, and it hasn't killed me yet."
Then three swigs, four, five....
"Yes," the seafaring man would press,
"But it makes you horribly sick every time. You've told me so."
The cyclist would give a peculiar look and say in a peculiar voice,
"I know what I'm getting in to. And it hasn't killed me yet."
Months later, the seafaring man left the cyclist's funeral either sad or disappointed.
He wondered if the death went down as an accident or a suicide.
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 7:11 PM UTC
People build million dollars homes
Far away from the city dwellers
To be free from ordinary folks
Are well known loners
They even tried to own the high sea
Unfortunately, it belongs to all nation and mankind
It’s known as freedom and seafaring power to all
In hopes of a segregation
without the unnecessary advocating
they build swimming pools;
and Bob wire fences
It’s hard for many of us to create duplicates of heaven
Without the approval of the mighty one
These efforts would remain tantalizingly and unreachable
Like the keys to the golden gates;
Some of the loners that goes down to the depth of the ocean
To do business in the water, have failed miserably
after they have seen the works of the all mighty
However, with all their money and the power
They is no escaping from your neighbors
There is only one thing that separated us
is death
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 10:15 AM UTC
This is the last time I write about ships; the mighty seafarer, clasping in the deep. The last time the esoteric tides capriciously change their erratic minds, left torn between rousing up to fight and solemnly crawling into the shapeless night. I’ll haul, I’ll haul. Outward bound, I’ll haul away from the safety of the buoy, through a thousand spiralling knots, batten aground and set anchor upon the recondite bay. I’ll avast the journeys where the compass takes an unprompted turn, where celestial proves consort to nautical woes, awoke awash amidst the darkened shallows.
This is the last time I go back and fill vast depths, bearing right, then left, across the beating breadth. This is the last ring of brash audacity resonating in chime with the gull’s hooded pride, the last of the salt and sway commandeering the longitude of each tumultuous ride. I’ll roll, I’ll roll. Hanging on behind, I’ll roll with the salted souls of Nelson and Hook as they furl and collide, hand over fist, drawing the curtains from their chariot’s majestic height. I’ll gybe and set back to sail, quarrel with the rushing sands, and grace every fractured notion that tooth and nail can siege the devil’s rest and forge currents capable of hustling both vessel and man.
This is the last of the gallant endeavours, set adrift from buccaneer’s voyage to a solitary pulse at the end of storm’s tether. This is the last stern embrace of Poseidon’s harrowing howls, the last of the rapturous applause mordant as it rises and swirls, the last time I wrestle away from his scaly hold. This is the last time I change tack and set course into the path of the sound, where finally, the tides settled
I’ll release control of the helm.
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 8:26 PM UTC
she turned the questions in her eyes aside
and stealing away in the quiet
of the pine forest winters day
the taste of wood smoke was tangible on the sharp cold air
and his eyes hunted the ridge crest for sing of flames
as they hurried their steps along the rough hewn track
she carried the child whos silent contemplation
showed his understandings of the gravity of this flight
the bundle of possessions on his shoulder
weighed upon his mind
counselling himself not to regret casting it all aside should need arise
the woman and child so fragile and dear to his heart
mean so much more than mere trinkets of gold
he would surrender without pause life and limb to spare them
she was a smoky version of bobby dylan
complete with winged snakes in each hand
complete with a crown of jewels
and the thousand words dance
he was a seafaring man
they reached the shore of the sea
and found the wreckage of a sailing ship
her fine line speaking clear of her swiftness
and her appointments show without shyness
that she was of the finest portugal shipyards
they spent days making her seaworthy
laying up in the harsh tropical sun
neath the palm trees drinking *** from her stores
they put to sea in the birth of the new year
singing 'goodbye spanish ladies'
the three of them on the skiff tacking up-channel
trying to determine latitude by sighting
but a fog rolls in off the coast of grande bahama
as dawn breaks
man woman and grown child
the miles and the treasures cast aside
each wore on open hearted face
but neath the weary of sea miles
was their joys in the true riches
of eachothers soft hand entwined as they sailed into
a golden dusk
of a lesser throne
a kingdom of the sea
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 11:30 PM UTC
Which one was Achilles's heel.
Hector's hand spun the wheel.
The Face that launched a Thousand ships.
Why not a bottle of the bubbly to the prow ?
Olympian intrigue.
Odyssey seafaring fatigue.
Tempest in a teapot
Time to ****
Nothing good on T.V.?
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 8:03 AM UTC
In the days of seafaring yore, in a candied littoral time, my parents shared a love for wingsails; propelling their craft on the surface of gentle waters.
It was here my father navigated me into existence, by taking my mother for a long enchanted boat ride.
And like a hook and eye, they so clasped and rowed into the boundless deep. The tender rhythm of their waves stirring a rivulet that would come to be called me.
Floating in this colostrum bed underneath the heart's thicket, I settled to sleep; dreaming of cradle song and breastmilk.
My unborn hands and feet routinely practiced swimming toward the open shore; until that day when a familial voice called.
And there in the dilation of a growing current, I sprang forth; thirsting for their love from my very first cry.
Feb 24, 2022
Feb 24, 2022 at 7:15 PM UTC
took sight of the seafaring kind
in a queue, in a cafe, that wound around
tables and carried on the line out the door.
your small vessel body will travel
with clothes and stitches and sails of material,
mapping points in the tide that'll
slide away as you move on
unafraid.
your jumper hangs off your left side
shoulder, or is that your port
side shoulder that dips lower in the air
than you starboard blade?
i'm new to this, please stay and listen
Catamaran girl with a smile as white as wave tip breaks,
what a sight you are on this flat sea lake
of-a-queue in the height of summer,
the air-con-is-broken-
we could leave now and do a runner
find a boat and paddle out,
fix the rudder and raise the mast,
have summer on an island
and not look back.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 3:33 PM UTC
All oceans would this navigator discover
seven seas in seven years did he roam
whist sparkling stars in the heavens tried so hard
yet this broken navigator could not get back home
So he bites on solar winds and sails
to a place of many days of doldrums
this place so stagnant and most morose
he had to his sins, has to wait with his kin within
His crew are that hard of salty seafaring kind
with maps written on their faces cracked by sun and salt
they his, had only ****** smells and shells
call them hero's as seven seas they did horridly sea's fought
This was his last voided slipstream event
these mariners by the cut of their gibe
prayed to an Egyptian Hero some call Alligator
for he is the first and last of Navigator
So whist this captain of mapped minds falls
his company will care for his last orders
for they have witnessed in ancient tears
and the breaking of the navigator
Oh fly the flag and be proud
live poetry with passion long and loud
let your heart embrace this creature proud
whist you watch the breaking of the Navigator
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
By NeonSolaris
© 2013 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 7:14 AM UTC
A deluge of earthly sins,
A waterspout on green leaves,
A hurricane among lull seas,
An equanimity of autumnal eves.
A dilated tale of mundane me.
A million abstruse blocks of C of Co²
A walker among you and me.
A wanderer lost in blue.
Attired by crimson lust of artistry.
A masquerade brew of red wine and dark coffee,
A stark blithe of sanguine comatose,
All drunk and clinging to the thin threads of this unstaged life,
All murdered by the sinical overdose.
The seascape choirs of ocean waves,
Embracing the narcoleptic yellow shorelines,
And evanescent castles
And sail headwind with a mystical concubine.
The iced conundrums of this lost forsaken echoes of winter breeze,
The insanity measured in ones & zeroes,
We're the kings of this deadbeat time,
And praised victories of unsung heroes.
The wanderlust sailors drank the skies,
In mixed cocktails,
And thy heavens sang to this night,
As a melodic madness of wild gales.
Her pale white body declares some love due,
As our lips bled rapture,
And rose a melodramatic cue,
Like words of a closing chapter.
Charged with the flow of adrenal enzymes,
A surrogate from affinity to serendipity,
For in flashback of these forlorn events,
I write this epiphany.
And though these letters are on fire,
And bestowed the bullets over armored heart,
For life exists in the heartache symphonies,
Like a stratagem cliché of painted art.
Call your unfurled knots of wrecked sanity.
A wildfire has gone wild within,
The eloquence thirst of your red lips,
Inked the words of love on this skin.
An audacious lover of seafaring,
Beside the starry onset of a beautiful dawn,
A tide of marvelous mystery,
Whose side are you on?
Its all fiction served with tea,
And through warm sips of this worthy minute,
Change is tempted to render seeds,
That swam through wind, till it escapes and wanders the infinite.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 3:05 PM UTC
My mind's like a seafaring vessel,
Ready to sink with an overload
Of volatile rhymes that scuffle and wrestle
And at any moment may explode
Heaven knows I've tried to stem the tide,
But every thought turns to poetry;
I fear, while interred on some peaceful hillside,
I'll be rhyming through eternity!
Oct 28, 2021
Oct 28, 2021 at 1:09 PM UTC
As Old As The Sea
Deep and mysterious
With an endless roar
Lies the ancient sea
With its’ mystical lore
Eternal,boundless,Sea
What creatures you hold
You harbor such secrets
Rich stories you’ve told
Both complex and moody
In storm or breeze
Showing a Clear blue face
Man sails across with ease
Deep within its depths
Lay cradle and grave
A final resting place
For the seafaring brave
Jun 29, 2010
Jun 29, 2010 at 1:26 PM UTC
She was sprawled out,
draped in grey,
lying on her ocean bed
tinted in evergreen,
and wafting sumac scent
moon resting on a silver chain
around her neck
she was a presence of peace
loving eyes locked
lingering on the bejeweled strand
of pearls around between my breast
a seafaring man would fear her,
but a salt laced maid would love her
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 10:01 AM UTC
Drift
••
Sun
••
My eye
••
Ain't gonna fight no more
TAKE YOUR DEATH AND DIE
••
Drift boy
To the edges of life
To the places where we live
••
War paint
--
Aura bright
••
She made a promise to herself
--
Hey babe
Take all my strength
Every child
Every one
•••
I saw a child in the shadows
Looking out
She had no eyes
••
Death comes easy
On the cheap
••
Drift
--
Sun
••
My eye
••
Stop your ******** if you can
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 12:45 AM UTC
~
Far out past the breakers
a group of sea otters roll and play
in kelp beds.
nearby seafaring ducks and gulls
frantic for scrap
dive and squawk
splashing and throwing a sardine fit.
I stand upon the shore
wishing to participate
but the cold of the Oregon Pacific
keeps me safe and warm on the beach.
Still, I find myself imagining a streamlined body
riding currents and waves
a natural surfer never needing a leash or wetsuit.
The sun lowers and changes the patterns
shadows play between whitecaps
and I no longer can see shiny heads
pop through the surface
scan for friends or food
and duck again beneath the waves
where I can only imagine what is happening. /
Jul 27, 2017
Jul 27, 2017 at 12:38 PM UTC
My bumpy taught me the word boobelachi when I was too little to remember my own age...he made it up of course, but it was and still is the word for seafaring snails for everyone in my family...My bumpy taught me how to turn a warm loaf of bread over and cut it from the bottom so you don't smush the top...it was a thing only he could know....We talk about The Cottage and The Bakery, that he and Nanny once had as if they were the only ones that ever existed...and I never cared to notice because they were the only ones I ever knew...Just like I know if he were here today, Bumpy would be yelling at me for taking time away from my work teaching here in China...He was my greatest supporter, my dearest friend, and my Bumpy...I will carry him in my heart for all of my life...and every boobelachi I see will always remind me of how much he loved us all.
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC
Beach Glass
Wrap your hand around
beach glass in your pocket
seafaring meteorite washed
up from another galaxy
cool lozenge squeezed
by degrees from deep
within the shoulder of a wave
eased glistening onto sand
glint of sunlight driving
a splinter through your eye
the hollow of your palm
exquisitely matched
sculpted seed ordained
sea vast on your tongue
in holy communion
body and the blood bottled
in blown green glass
a sign cast up
from the belly of a whale
or nothing more
than a world weary
vagabond drawn
to this lightning kissed beach
fused skeletons of sand
writhe in recognition.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 7:22 AM UTC
Though I navigated their world with a poet’s compass,
needle pointed northward towards the stars,
sails set open to capture heaven’s winds.
Clear fabric flapping;
I found strangers laughing
at what I had that they were lacking.
But with the quill of curiosity
and the telescope of hope
to chart the rough waters ahead of me,
I became the sea scribe of humanity
wanderer in love with those
who will never love or know me.
Squid ink to parchment,
I write to the complacent
sending cresting waves of
hope, wisdom, and love.
The seas become the ocean.
My arguments become less cogent.
Till, my heart capsizes
leaving no survivors
in this saltwater wasteland.
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 8:48 AM UTC
“**People say they don’t understand [my songs], but I never believe that.
It’s like understanding an embrace…**”Leonard Cohen
<>for cj<>
perhaps, there is someone in this world, who does not
understand an embrace; something physical no doubt.
perhaps, you thought that first kiss was the portal to
shedding the inhibitors, lobes stings, first arousal aroma.
but you’ve been practicing embracing from toddler age,
but someday, it traverses from hugs to all-encompassing,
the sensory adaptors, go wild from shock; and you think
to yourself, dear god, you’ve been holding back on me!
<>
two hands,
*smooth the shoulders, slide down, elbows grasp,
you’ve been taken unawares, while fully aware you’ve been,
taken, taken, and need to take, more and back, take again,
and you can’t decide between reciprocation or incantation
breaking separation, if only to start over from the last lingering...
touching vibration and every sense erupting, and you think
I’ve never been fully embraced, and now I understand the
music and muscle of your poetry, and will add my verses,
lay on my stanzas,
ocean crossings, seafaring voyages, exploring hands on hips,
then encapsulating another’s face, stroke, not squeezing
arms come to rest on a pacific neck, the hairs tensile teasing,
and you can’t believe this newly formed addiction and why
everyone simply doesn’t go about constant craving embracing,
racingoverloading uncomprehending, it’s fulsome fulfilling, quenching
a new thirst, a new taste, extending your ********* reach everywhere
you clear the catch, the cache, and your voice now begs, announces,
commands, whispers, screams, so many things that all emerge as
simply a guttural exclamation raw and needy, again, again, again,
you say it as if that was your vocabulary entire, a one word language
because it is, it is, the language of insatiable, the speech of
only love poetry
embracing.
Aug 22, 2020
Aug 22, 2020 at 1:27 PM UTC