"voyagers" poems
It was a cold dark night
Sailing for Hopes for Dreams
An Island beyond the sea
A home of victory
A home that will
Now never be yours
Flashes of light
In the torrent of the sea
Father and child
Held on tight
Struggled for their dream
Before my eyes
I saw their dream die
In the cold black pit of the sea
I want to say
I am Sorry
I am Sorry
To all voyagers
Of despair and courage
Their lost Hopes and Dreams
Crossing to
An Island beyond the sea
To the Hundreds of Souls lost on the journey to Lampedusa
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 1:02 PM UTC
I pride,
In many things.
Little and big.
Existing and imaginary.
Useful and unnecessary.
Almost ubiquitously.
I take pride in my mind, most of all.
In the many wonders it brings me.
It lets me wave
at the voyagers that zip by
as I swim,
weightless and cold
in the eternal stardust of would bes.
It lets me simmer
in the memory of a younger day.
Of all the loves loved
and the ones lost
I pride the ones that never gave way.
Like old paintings
stowed away deeply
fragments,
moving,
ageing effortlessly.
I take pride in the fact that I have one true friend
and not many.
I don't know why I take pride in it though
I would understand culling a herd, if I had any.
I take pride in a soul that has learnt to love so deeply.
Deeper than the rivers of the world
and tumultuous as the sea
I take pride in my dog, sitting
when I command it.
I take pride in the fact that,
At least he understands it.
I take pride in the words that I think
and regret the ones I don't.
I take pride in understanding the existence of truth
and its relentless need to run and hide away.
I take pride in my people
and in their endless rebellion against sanity.
I take pride in their manic displays of affection
despite their distaste for the same affectations.
I take pride in their synchronized entropy,
beautiful,
much like the death of a galaxy.
I take pride in the songs I hear,
the sonnets of love and despair.
of first discoveries,
and fevered dreams.
Of Kings and conquerors
and knights against the regime.
Of their legends that soar and rise and
go beyond where the grave lies.
I take pride in the mirror.
Though broken and shattered beyond repair
it bestows me with honesty
about the one that I care.
I take pride in all these aberrations,
in these tiny little manipulations.
These effervescent little marionettes
forever dancing within constellations.
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 11:30 PM UTC
one who basks in the soft heat of grandiose moonliness
growing fatter on honeyed imaginations
their sicklysweetness soaking through the pores
of countless generations
their minds invade a collective consciousness
burning arcs of inspiration – torches of the collective vision
in drilling through mutual experience
great gaping black holes of creation
effigies of super-egos, lynched on altars of desire
neon flames and disco lights, emotions on a massive pyre
maiden voyagers on never-ending cruise
sinking in foreign oceans – their endurance dupes
minor gods of destiny and fate they await
dionysian ****** of wine and food for thought
and hearts that beat in unison
a schizoid muttering that enlarges and deafens
manic pleasure that spins and spins
in eternal circles of pleasure and pain, loss and gain
opioid mists that dream a dream of everlasting name
an addiction an obsession that sumbits
to some masochistic drive
to empathize.
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
06.09.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Sep 6, 2012
Sep 6, 2012 at 4:55 AM UTC
We shall launch our shallop on waters blue from some dim primrose shore,
We shall sail with the magic of dusk behind and enchanted coasts before,
Over oceans that stretch to the sunset land where lost Atlantis lies,
And our pilot shall be the vesper star that shines in the amber skies.
The sirens will call to us again, all sweet and demon-fair,
And a pale mermaiden will beckon us, with mist on her night-black hair;
We shall see the flash of her ivory arms, her mocking and luring face,
And her guiling laughter will echo through the great, wind-winnowed space.
But we shall not linger for woven spell, or sea-nymph's sorceries,
It is ours to seek for the fount of youth, and the gold of Hesperides,
Till the harp of the waves in its rhythmic beat keeps time to our pulses' swing,
And the orient welkin is smit to flame with auroral crimsoning.
And at last, on some white and wondrous dawn, we shall reach the fairy isle
Where our hope and our dream are waiting us, and the to-morrows smile;
With song on our lips and faith in our hearts we sail on our ancient quest,
And each man shall find, at the end of the voyage, the thing he loves the best.
2.7k
It's a rugged terrain that would roughly be translated
survivor.
The vast mountains make the trees feel weak because they don't grow very high.
No one blames them.
The ground and snow are intimate and unashamed. They called in sick because today wanted to be a memory.
The cottages and home protect the defendants of Vikings and barbaric voyagers.
These towns are clean and safe.
This island is hostile, but welcoming.
Our visit is not a burden because Mother Nature has been ripping herself apart
to embrace us
like family.
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 7:18 AM UTC
There is a candle burning in the dead of night
Shining brighter than any other light
The smell of wild fills the air
Leaving the towns people without a care
A starry night fills the woods around
Leaving nothing but quiet for this town
A cabin of wood sits on a hill
Leaving everything and everyone standing still
The town peaceful, but full of secrets
That only the residents could truly see it
The visitors that came by, could never believe
How such a small town can be so full of grief
What's there to cry about in a peaceful town?
A place with no laws or rules that bound
When voyagers enter, they feel at home
They do not know what is a stake in modern Rome
The people so stagnant stare on with blank faces
Waiting for the visitors to feel their silent graces
The people of this town have seen so many bleed
So many vanished to the works of creed
And in every citizen is a little guilt
For the evil motives on which the town was built
For when a group of tourists stay in the cabin on the hill to sleep
They do not know that tourists is that on which the towns people
feed
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 7:49 PM UTC
our fingertips meet gently on the rim of porcelain
and as we take a sip from liquid infinity
all the numbness abides - induced by frost and rain.
the ember glow ascending from your eyes -
no tender coffee with cream could ever achieve -
is the epitome of what makes my inner child arise.
and i adore the way your index finger moves around the surface of the storm-kissed-window,
while you utter your thanks for whatever makes this autumnal evening swirl in an indigo-colored vertigo.
and i see it too.
© fey (27/12/21)
Dec 27, 2021
Dec 27, 2021 at 5:26 AM UTC
i’ve been sewing love into daisy chains
and i’m willing you to pull off each petal
ask them
and they will spell
/s
h
e
l
o
v
e
s
m
e\
in your palm
its a love letter written in botany
this is how i love you in spring
the same way the sun sends rays of gold
hurtling to the earth
to me
this is how i love you in spring
the same way the ocean hosts voyagers
you hold me
this is how i love you in spring
with each intake of air
with each new blossom, the bluebird that lives in my chest grows
and its funny
i never saw the beauty in the world
not like this
i never saw the earth glow
with such intensity
heard it hum
until i was able to watch flowers bloom
in the reflection cast in your eyes
that is a beauty i will never fully articulate
and
this
this is how i love you in spring
May 4, 2018
May 4, 2018 at 6:36 AM UTC
If I touch you... here
would oxygen hiss through your
(suddenly open) mouth?
If I touch you here,
will your shoulders knot and
your throat turn pink-
my little voyagers descend...
will your pupils dilate
'til they swallow me whole-
and your moan turn the curtains violet,
turn the air to blackberries?
As my hand commits the sweetest
secret patterns
as time turns to friction
and your sudden cries puncture the room
tell me, would the blackberries burst?
Paint me purple, my sweet man.
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 6:47 PM UTC
Ink boiling, pure thought toiling
Vibrational frequency high taking us to the place of all knowing
Would shadows and dust leave us pale when we do not trust the rhythms lush?
Best we trust this echo speaking volumes of rough diamonds and crystals
Poet's Society, a kingdom of advanced beings, trusted messengers of Light beings
Spreading the truth to the world beyond what the eye sees
Arousing godesses, yes deities, over eighteen
Caressing the vapour of waterfalls
shaking the tips of mountain peaks
massaging the waves of lakes and leaves -
all in thought.
Poet's Society, a pilgrimage of enlightening
Recepients of complex thought forms from sacred future stations
The poets, stars, prisms and mediums - the tether between the seed of Creation and young races elevating
Evolving, their hunger deep, their sense (dull) of belonging
Voyagers they are taking you to the moon, the sun, stars - galaxies high above
The Keepers of Ancient Timeless Wisdom
The Monks who are always on song in a world out of tune
Omniscient beings seeing the seed and creed of all being
Searching for the fruits of life in gardens where the darkness has taken over
The time-travellers, the creators, the aid of knowledge seekers
The poets who live in Poet's Society
In Temples of sacred Wisdom
in multiple bodies carrying out missions
The poet's eye is the vision, the picture of television; division
Feel it within intuition for it is a call to the see Light for which many are wishing... And it is poets who are on the mission.
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 5:16 PM UTC
self righteous, self published
sought out and backlash
sick of black and white
pictures of **** women
and being taboo
and the only thing left in the house that’s interesting to see
is the moon through the window
but you came along
smashing my head against a windshield,
and the moment of collision
a weightless jolt
voices echoing through the cracks in the asphalt
gas leaks making me light heading and I’m hearing
little melodies in light bass tones
a gust of wind down the hill blows cracked leaves
between my boots and I feel as if I
was falling from a tree myself.
And you hit me again
thrusting over and over
pulling my skin off
in a delirium, where
I numb my mind and try to read
the story of your wall before you open your eyes again
or I watch your chest, wondering how quickly
your heart must be beating and how
my legs are soaked
wreaking of *** for the rest of the afternoon
before wandering back to my bed
sleepwalking to the beach, with images,
rapids, sediment ashtrays covered
in squatters,
voyagers trying to stay the night without
freezing to death because the residents
across the boardwalk wouldn’t trust a
tattered traveler with only enough possessions
to fit on his back.
reveries, savages, vagrants,
in dreams follow me in the woods
syndicating ****** schemes
to keep me on edge
the moon plays these motion pictures
and I consume myself every night
before the sun light.
May 21, 2011
May 21, 2011 at 11:52 PM UTC
Allow the spontaneity of the idea to carry your hands, your fingers, upon keyboard, across canvas, dashing on paper.
Don't fear it's arrival, but leap when it does, strike whilst it gets you and keep it within the heart of the soul.
Let it take you down wondrous ventures of originality and great voyagers of emancipated art.
Oh, it falls from the sky and explodes in the mind. It's intangible and nobody has ever seen it, but by god have they felt it.
Now never let it linger, never let the flame fall to embers. go whilst the glorious fire burns inside you and amaze yourself at your spectacular projections, as they leap out before you.
None know when it comes, but lord behold when it does. It will take you the pits of your anguish and illuminate the rainbows of your joy; unfolding before you see the magic of the mind, sparkling in the beauty of your work.
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 12:49 PM UTC
Despite our sundry transportations, trains and planes,
I don't believe us to really be voyagers;
The years, months, ticks and tocks that come and go in vain,
Like Ulysses at sea, they're the real wanderers.
Doomed to drift on water, timeless, yet growing old,
Aye, never setting anchor, always setting sail
To the end of th'endless river, where lies fool's gold.
That's all the future is; just Melville's ***** whale.
When the boat is languid, we ask it to go faster,
When the boat is lively, we implore it to stop;
The ship capsizes, it had too many masters
But just go with the flow and it'll stay on top.
We couldn't captain a tiny rubber dinghy,
Time's the real pioneer, and we her passengers.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 11:37 AM UTC
There seems to be no escape.
The MAGA cult is all queued up.
Tickets in hand, gathering their baggage -
Prepared to board the leaky ship
For a one-way trip to the bottom of the sea.
Their bags are exceedingly heavy -
Filled with their leader's failures,
Formed of laundered cash, ****
Top Secret document theft, fraud,
Abandoned faithful allies
And defenders of Ukraine's freedom.
There are no first class seats on this ship
Because there are no first class passengers.
They long ago sold off all they should value
To stand by a creepy hotel clerk
Consumed by grift and self - idolatry.
Their hero arrives in a three-piece suit
To escort them to their cabins
As soon as he scrapes the mashed potatoes
From his corruption-soaked vest.
But wait - there seem to be empty seats
Many voyagers are turning away
Tearing their tickets as they go.
They tell how they’re finished
With lies and losing and treachery.
Too bad for them - for you see,
There's no place like the ocean floor
To gurgle on the wrong side of history.
Feb 18, 2024
Feb 18, 2024 at 12:37 PM UTC
Have you not seen...
*The twinkling stars like glittering gems
Guiding voyagers, inspiring philosophers
The sublime horizon at dawn and dusk
Blackish blue, Pink and tangerine hues
The majestic mountains like titans stand
With crowns of white, an awesome sight
The mighty river, the great life giver
Meandering her way to a briny abyss
The endless ocean; its blue horizons
Of abundant bounty; of great voyages
The blooming meadows where cattle graze
Where maidens play; where poets gaze*
Do these wonders not make you ponder -
Can such beauty exist, without an Artist?
Can a poem ever exist, without a poet?
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 11:18 AM UTC
She was everything
I thought I needed,
Yet I was everything she didn’t need.
We,
Two lonely midnight voyagers,
Treading water
in a sea of not meant to be.
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 9:22 PM UTC
If I touch you... here
would oxygen hiss through your
(suddenly open) mouth?
If I touch you here,
will your shoulders knot and
your throat turn pink-
my little voyagers descend...
will your pupils dilate
'til they swallow me whole-
and your moan turn the curtains violet,
turn the air to blackberries?
As my hands commits the sweetest
secret patterns
as time turns to friction
and your sudden cries puncture the room
tell me, would the blackberries burst?
Paint me purple, my sweet man.
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 6:47 PM UTC
I’ve entered the Inner Passage
Thought of as the safe route to Alaska
Protected by friendly coves and sheltered bays
Shields voyagers from the uncertainties
Of the tectonics of a heaving Pacific
The Inner Passage
A compass point of
Jack London’s imagination
Spinning fantastic adventure yarns
of audacious Sea Wolf sailors
And rugged fortune seekers
Answering the call of the wild
The Inner Passage
Fraught with hidden shoals
And submerged rocky promontories
Lay just below the water line
Jutting on the steep banks
Of a glaciated mountain lined sea
The Inner Passage
Precludes an easy escape
To the boundless freedom
Of the open seas
One cannot sail away
One must firmly
grab the wheel
Guide the rudder
map the terra firma
Of a misconstructed life
The hazards and mishaps
Buried in the unconscious sands of the mind
interred to protect the heart
From the walking ghosts
Springing to life
Emboldening
The daily aches of living
The Inner Passage
Seemingly the safe route
Yet the hidden shoals
The ship wrecks
crews of stranded castaways
Call out for recovery, resurrection,
Watchfulness and recognition
Careful navigation is required
To salvage the wreckage
Rescue the unfortunate victims
Of the disasters and gales
I engendered along
my life's journey
The Inner Passage
A promise of rebirth
Reconstitution, recovery
“Can a man enter the womb again?”
The Gospel writer asks.
This inner passage may yet
Deliver me to a reinvigorated life
Let me uncover
What lies deep
In my tell tale heart
Let me tame
the mighty beasts of the sea
That rule the fathomless waters
Of my tumultuous emotions
May Thy Will and a better course
Heal my restive soul
My I finally free
my grounded vessel
From the false sanctuary
Offered by shallow shoals
Freeing me to dive deep
Into the hidden reefs
Of my heart and mind
May this pilgrim make good progress
May I accept life on life's terms
May I practice a well considered
engaged stewardship
May I never arrive at a staid place
And become wholesomely satisfied
with a serene state of being
The Inner Passage
Indeed a difficult voyage
Is underway
a new course mapped
I will pass through
The dark ranges where the
Commanding heights of
Fear, anger, resent and regret
Become nothing more
Then the precipitous peaks
Of a harmless silhouette
Fading away into the mist
Of yesterday's twilight
The Inner Passage
Aboard the Kennicott
Near Ketchikan, AK
8.22.19
jbm
Michael Nyman
The Piano
Aug 22, 2023
Aug 22, 2023 at 4:50 PM UTC
Trying to learn, while I learn to fail
Not to be fixated now that I have set the sail
Towards a wiser me, maybe a brighter me
Decided to travel through the travesties,
Only to enlighten me.
All I was hoping for was an illusion,
Was it an illusion of my creation?
Maybe nothing but just a delusion,
Maybe I'll get through it, hoping for an end
Never realized how I was missing the point,
When I let my laughter suspend.
They say it is all about the journey and not the destination,
I always figured they didn't understand my situation
What's the worse that can happen, they ask
Well, I may come short of the handed task.
Is it all in the process, I wonder
Is pondering about the end game always a blunder
Weren't we all meant to get somewhere, achieve our goals?
Or are we always trying to fill a hole,
A hole without which we can't be whole,
A part of us, this hole so wide,
It can make you do the unthinkable,
A hole of the unknown in our very own little fable.
I'm always at war to figure out the answer,
Maybe the quest in itself is a paradox,
Maybe I'd be better off figuring out the way
To love the journey and finally think outside the box.
The answer had always been in front of my eyes,
I couldn't unwrap myself from all the lies
The untold truth of what we were supposed to be,
Not finding the hidden treasure but being the voyagers of the sea,
For the treasure is what you see,
When you become better than what you were meant to be.
Just a little older, just a little wiser
Now understanding that I was always a miser
Holding onto my darkness and never letting go,
Now I'm making memories that I can never blow.
The destination had always been on my mind,
Always right in front of my eyes,
I was clouded, I was stranded
The rewards always seemed nice
But walking when I was supposed to run
Made me comprehend that the journey is what is fun!
Jun 7, 2020
Jun 7, 2020 at 10:11 AM UTC
They swept through a sea of long dark hairs
And beautiful black eyes. Alas!
What a marvelous sight it was,
They continued on with the exploration,
Getting further and deeper, each step
Bringing out ever growing wonders.
They turned to the west,
the wooded land far across.
They turned to the east,
And met the sight of the great Guru.
Yet, they continued the voyage, until finally,
They saw those two enchanting marvels.
Ai! What beauties were they?
shyly responding to their frequent glances,
Frequently getting lost in the vast sea.
Then, they would reappear
Just to get lost into the sea again.
They would reappear again,
Glance at those voyagers and sink down again.
The short sights at that marvelous wonders,
Kept the voyagers thirty for their sights.
This would continue for the rest of the voyage
Till those hands hit each other and brought
Dreamy mind of mine to close the voyagers and
Start thinking about the voyage.
Mar 30, 2012
Mar 30, 2012 at 2:39 PM UTC
I thought I'd catch a wanderer,
As sand through glass was seeping.
I'd use more time than I'd afford,
yet perhaps he'd be worth meeting.
I waited for him here and there,
his restless soul kept straying.
My patient words and hopeless love
could keep him not from staying.
But far unshaken, my heart desired
a wanderer I'd be too.
Inseparable voyagers we soon became,
'til the dunes at last fell through.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 11:34 PM UTC
I’m fresh out of thoughts,
or feud to fuel.
Stick around and I’ll think of something,
or leave right now and I won’t blame you...
These next words prove a point.
The ones that follow eradicate a meaning...
I’m breaking a wall
and I’m standing next to you.
Speaking to you
through you.
*Can you hear me?
Are you breathing?*
I wish we were true…
Then we could read a word in time forever,
together…
But alas we’re just passing through…
(we are) The Voyagers.
An experience for two…
And all the others-
We ever knew.
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 6:32 PM UTC
First Boat
*first boat off the island @ 5:40 am,
the sun, savvy and knowledgeable
makes sunrise @ 5:14 am for ‘late’ is
not an adjective extant in its stellar lexicon
a safety check, sunlight invades every crack,
pilings vested & secured, ferry engine hums a
warming, morning cranking tune, a sailors
favorite from the global seamen’s hymnal
those early morning voyagers, who are exchanging,
one island for another, note their coffee steaming up
coordinates with haze, burning off, all to see the first
waves come to rock them voyagers to “all awaken”
sunlight then slow spreads its envision, from the Heights
over to Mashomack, rousing, disturbing, nudging the
remaining, for there is work, living aplenty, we who stay
to tend to the most appropriately named isle in the world*
6/12/21
Silver Beach
Shelter Island, New York
Jun 12, 2021
Jun 12, 2021 at 3:48 PM UTC