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Jack Bennett Feb 2018
Come to the sea
Hold my hand a while
Let the waves melt our feet
Into the sand
The seagulls land
On our shoulders
Calling out to the wind
The salt rust our bodies

How many years will it take
For our light
To burn out
For all sailors to see?
Marc Hawkins Sep 2017
AB
The crew of ****** all hide their own secret loneliness. At every port the deserted dance halls beckon, and there they dance with familiar ghosts. At twelve midnight sharp the spirits disappear along with the tuxedoed band and the music dies leaving red white and blue tinsel, miniature plastic flags, and balloons that glide and bounce to a solitary, prolonged note.
The sailors cease spinning and their arms drop to their sides. They drown in bottles of *** in search of solace. They rarely find barely a taste. And so, in frustration they fight and draw first and last bloods. Now, in scuffed shoes and torn clothes, with damaged pride, they stagger arm in arm back to ship.
The water laps and licks it’s tongue like a cat at cream and the crew whisper breath rings in the chilly air.
Master Chief Petty matron mother waits on deck, rolling pin in hand, kicking backsides into cabins.
The ship bobs and dips in rhythm to sailors heaving snoring chests, and there they sleep, fly catching open mouthed, hugging their pillows in desert island dreams.

Copyright Marc Hawkins 2009
Branden Youngs Dec 2016
She became to me what the constellations are to sailors lost at sea.
A map of the way home, when your heart has given up and is too terrified to roam.
Marieta Maglas Aug 2015
(Erica went into her room to rest. Geraldine and Carla started to read the journal they had found in the box.)


He left England with a ship and sailed east until he reached
Portugal; then, he took a stagecoach and traveled to Venice.
He was in danger of highwaymen who couldn't be impeached.
His coach had a high speed, ‘cause those men could become a menace.


He had made a gold deposit at a goldsmith, who gave him
Some receipts to exchange them with money at the British bank.
Then, he traveled through Europe choosing those pathways which were dim.
There, he missed London and its air being restless and dank.



He achieved knowledge of the Europe major languages.
He was seemingly traveling at his own expense,
Covered, by his own account; in fact, he carried messages,
And any of his messages had an important sense.


He traveled as merchant bringing drugs, rare books, and some
Exotic commodities like pine nuts, pistachios, and coffee
From the Royal Exchange instead of waiting a false peace to come.
In London, his luxury shops looked like covered in toffee.



(In her room, Erica started to read the document written in the Russian language. It was one of the most fragrant, pleasant smell papers she ever had in her hands. The person owning that document was a Russian one living in London.)



This document was also a letter from the Surveyor
Of the Royal Exchange, to an Indian official asking
Him help to buy some new shops in India; the payer
Could reveal the understanding of the retail shopping.



(Geraldine continued to read from his journal written in the Russian language.)



The man described the luxury life of the British elite,
His grand house, which had been built in the rich west of London,
And his horse-drawn carriage used for rides on the main street.
He wanted lead pipes for his house as any rich Londoner.


(Erica continued to read the document.)



That paper had an annexed one about the gold needed
To help a noble lady forced to spend the rest of her life
As a penniless nun; her words about freedom were heeded.
Imprisoned as a nun, she was, in fact, an abandoned wife.




The gold was brought with a ship that should anchor in that place.
Ivan was the liaison with that man and had to take that gold
To pay the lady's freedom; tears appeared upon Erica’s face.
Ivan caused the deviation from the ship's course as he was told.




He didn't know that the carrack had been hunted by some pirates.
Erica realized that the merchant had died, but she
Did not know whether the gold had been stolen or not, those bandits
Were still around having the link letter; she fell down on her knees


To pray for her life; she understood that the ex-husband
Of that lady could torture them to death for having plotted
Against him; she prayed while needing to be many thousand
Miles away and while looking at the hill with olives dotted.



(Erica burned the document.)
(Geraldine became meditative and told Carla,)



''These treatises generate some ideas of magnificence
And splendor; the luxury is realized with the skilled
Workers and the specialized knowledge, '' ‘‘the extravagance
Of these books is declined by the wars, where the life is killed, ''



(Replied Carla. She continued,)



'' These wars bring the decline of retailing, the stagnation
Of building, and the disappearance of a real
Art market, '' ''They use all the methods to fight for their nation
On the waters to protect the land; their strife is a squeal, ''



(Replied Geraldine. Maya entered the room to invite them to dinner. She said that she had seen someone having two dogs and walking around. Suddenly, Geraldine said, ‘’ I think I give birth to my child now. I have a sharp pain. I’m so afraid! ’’)


(..To be continued.)

Poem by Marieta Maglas)
Swim in the deepest part of the ocean,
With waves over head,
A life pieced by water,
A nautical life,
Or aquatic wonders,
There is no fear,
Living in fairytales,
Mithical creatures,
Sorrounding the waters,
Travel sea to sea,
Hopes disguised as flounders,
Surfers all above,
And here come the divers,
Ready to explore,
The kind I belong to,
Sing to them now,
They'll jump off from sails,
To follow the voice,
Deep in the waters,
Desperate souls,
Following as I speak,
Gullible minds,
When told to go under,
This siren awaits,
For sailors to wonder,
To bring them in deep,
In dangerous waters.

-Kathia Mariana Landeros
Jenn Nix Nov 2014
They set off from white rocks,
red geraniums, blue tile,
and let the green sea
lift and drop their ships far above the white foam waves.

The stony islands that were home
were swallowed in minutes by the hungry Atlantic
but they hunted the big fish,
the giant whales  with human eyes
who rolled and sang and swam
in oceans a continent away.

They came from Sao Jorge, Sao Miguel
Faial, Pico, Terceira, Horta -
Nine island emeralds set in a black volcanic chain,
neither of the old country nor the new:
Halfway there and halfway gone -
secret jewels of the Portuguese sailors.

They sailed into unknown waters,
south around tropical shores
where dragons smoked and writhed on the rocks
and birds with brilliant red and yellow plumage
rose in clouds around their heads.

Then north, and north, north again
to colder waters
where sea lions barked and lunged
at the strange massive wooden beast
that coursed the waters,
strung with brown bodies swaying
on the lines and cursing the sails.

North still they swept
casting contemptuous eyes on
the cheap turquoise waters and monstrous slow turtles
of the Sea of Cortez.
Coming up from the desert, past the palms and the yucca,
the Joshua tree and Spanish daggers,
they chased their smooth grey prey,
riding the vast Pacific on their wooden island,
herding the leviathans onto their spears,
adventurers with an audience of only
gulls and sky and seal.

Until they sailed too close one day
to a rock-strewn shoreline
and saw the golden hills.
Gnarled oaks like grandmothers from home
with orange poppy jewels at their feet,
missions strung like beads in a ruby marked rosary.

The boats slowed, ****** in by a Scylla of soil
rich and brown and loamy
waiting to be seeded with grapes and apricots
peaches, avocados, lettuce, alfalfa,
fertile and heavy with sweet promise.
And the whales sang and the lions barked and the gulls cried
but the sailors were entranced, encharmed, ensorcelled.
The treacherous sea, the mysterious deep, the stony jewels of home,
called and wept
and waited in vain for the sailors 
 - beached and grounded -
cutting not waves but earth,
tracking seasons not whales,

seduced by dirt.
Àŧùl Nov 2014
It was time till now indifferently writing my destiny,
But now it's me who determines all of it as its owner,
Yes I am the draftsman in-charge of my destiny now.

Yes I am the boss of my own destiny from now on,
I realize that this is my life and I will draft it now,
Dear time accept my apologies for belittling you.

Also, I have a beautiful objective in my life now,
But she's not just an objective - she's the co-owner,
We shall both sail peacefully in this armada of love.
My HP Poem #696
©Atul Kaushal
Ourfirstfarewell Nov 2014
Upon the ocean rests my heart.
How unique when soul and corpse are set apart...
My body lifeless without a voice of reason
And lifeless I'll remain until that final season.
When my soul will arrive back here
And hush the voices that remind me of my fear.

Upon the ocean rests my heart.
A boy I loved before the start
This is temporary pain
But the longing in my heart is a passion to remain
In my depths until my soldier comes back home
When my empty house won't seem so alone.

Upon the ocean rests my heart.
My love for him a sacred art.
I knew he was leaving
But my heart keeps believing
That I'll some day be his wife.
He is my pride and joy; my life.
I don't know if he loved me then,
But I know when I see my soldier home again,
He'll be my Hero now and forever,
Regardless of land or sea, there's nothing like "together".

Upon the ocean rests my heart.
And tonight I'll ask the sea
as the sky looks down on me,
Protect my soldier from every danger,
And keep my loneliness a distant stranger.
Bring him home, bring him back to me,
But for now, my delicate heart rests upon the sea.
Shruti Atri Aug 2014
She sings her sweet songs,
Calling all the sailors home;
*A homing beacon.
They're enchanted, unaware;
Their doom awaits them...
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