Best Ferryman Poems
Mourn not my Son... your Father's dead
And there's nothing to be done.
Do not mount the battlements in my defense
As the race was fairly won.
The kitchen table has not been set...
My chair lies stark and bare.
No one leans against the window sill
To enjoy the good night air.
The wooded trails lie hushed and quiet
Where my thoughts no longer stray.
The geese who consumed my crusted bread
Grow more peckish by the day.
And excuse the Baker if he looks confused
When I am not there to buy his rolls.
And commit to the Ferryman two copper coins
As we all must pay his toll.
And Nature will seem modestly indifferent
As the Sun will rise again.
But remember well this road we've traveled
Where I called you Son and Friend.
Gird yourself against the slings and arrows
And receive my falling torch of deeds undone.
But before you walk the hallowed ground
Be sure to overindulge a little fun.
I weep for those who have not journeyed
Upon the wondrous track to mark our gain.
But with you my Son...who really knows?
We may yet... get to do it all again.
Mortality is lovingly given by the Grace of God
And to its betterment all should strive.
But alas our lives have one primal flaw...
No one here... gets out alive.
With this my spirit soars to celestial heights
So please accept this well-earned death.
And as Son and Friend... we will meet again.
When you partake your final breath.
And be not shy... about my demise
That allows me to walk on Heaven's path.
As only a fool like me would keep a toaster...
In the same room a person takes a bath.
The End
Before the weary pilgrim, flowed a river fair and wide
The way was filled with danger, he couldn't cross the other side;
So the pilgrim sought another to be his expert guide
With a boat that could take him through the surging tide.
The sailor man was strong and he steered the boat so well
Or did the river bear the boat? It was so hard to tell;
The sailor told the pilgrim of the signs that he might seek
Of the secrets of the river and the message it would speak.
Then the pilgrim felt the peace so he listened and he heard
The murmer of the river and sighs of whispered word;
He heard the river laugh and then he heard it cry
And the pilgrim heard the message as sad tears filled his eye.
He heard the drums of war in the torrent of the rain
And the awful cries of anguish that he never could explain;
Was there a reason for the crossing, or where the river ran
Was there another reason for the journey of this man?
He heard the sounds of death, he heard the sounds of mirth
But nothing that he heard gave tribute to the earth;
The sounds were fused together till they reached a common goal
And the quiver of his heartbeat found a cadence in his soul.
The river lost its birthplace and embraced the open sea
And the pilgrim gave his thanks on reverent bended knee
He opened up his eyes as the sunrise slowly died
But the sailor man had gone and the boat rocked on the tide.
The river filled his veins till the two at last were one
While the tide rolled on forever and earth went round the sun;
The pilgrim was the river and the boat and sailor man
Were the journey of the song, the singing river sang.
This is my adaptation of "The Ferryman" by Herman Hesse
"Fata Morgana"
feet hardly touch the ocean
when silent stars of no voice
transmit words to pay the ferryman
on the water no reflection
gently the sun waves smiling as if to say
feel that, the warmth of waking sleep
no fear of what remains hidden
it will unravel from inside that which is all too deep
walking towards you across the briny mist
from ancient stories forgotten
a halo of St Elmo’s Fire surrounds
it stands still for a short while before you
watching
you,
walking water with your bare feet
faith in dreams consistent in their constancy
that visit you when you are complete yet incomplete
holds out its hand to lead the way across
sharp burning rocks, now a desert, climbing mountains that are steep
a small life crumbles to powdered sand
more than 40 days silent gone astray
years the turning of untimed tides pretence
meets a haunting vision beckoning, new horizon, odd unclear
safe harbour left long ago,
lost in that ornery time, cursed by flying monkeys' bellows
of bloodletting and betrayal, stock still, standing amidst the shallows
somewhere along the way dark narcissus followed
what breaks over the bow
washes all stern fear away
sacred wings of albatross
ne’er to be sacrificed, no more night nor day
souls of ancient mariners
forever follow me, even when I stray
the rich baritone of bedtime stories
messages in code conveyed, I hear them still today
now swallows spooning spinnakers
running directly before wind and sea
the water turns to wine, much stranger the belief,
all manna of trust it feeds
bells tolling
no man’s an island entire of itself
in unusual reckonings
observing swimming hearts, that hear and see
the eyes that melt, this more curiously
in truth, the dream defends
messages eternal
life it never ends
tides move in and out
never alone when we begin
fata morgana
softly the moon ascends
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
VCB
Lux Vitae
5.5.10
"Under a splintered mast,
torn from ship and cast
near her hull,
a stumbling shepherd found
embedded in the ground,
a sea-gull
of lapis lazuli,
a scarab of the sea,
with wings spread—
curling its coral feet,
parting its beak to greet
men long dead."
("Talisman", Marianne Moore)
“The Sacrificial Burn”, a very short story of a pyromaniac, who loved the Light too much.
A writer’s journey. Perhaps it’s about life. Perhaps it’s about death. Perhaps it’s about the end of the world and wanting to take back time again. Perhaps it’s about ghosts. Perhaps it’s about becoming a ghost. Perhaps, as another writer friend of mine advises, it’s up to the reader to interpret for themselves relating the story to themselves. If it doesn’t, then the writing unlike ectoplasm doesn’t stick. Perhaps poetry is just the biggest mind f*** of all, like love, an addiction, that gives great pleasure and the most immense pain and one just has to walk through the walls cutting up their words each time they pass through, like some grand reincarnation. Some ghosts are eternal, remembered, some fade forever and are forgotten. The worst ghosts are best forgotten or jailed up in a Dybbuk box, not to be thrown into the deepest ocean, not to be buried, but to be burned. The sacrificial burn with a few incantations, a bit like poetry. A flaming pyre of poésies sent off in its boat with the ferryman across Styx. Of course, all this is done with Love biting its tale.
(LadyLabyrinth/2023)
“You arrive, now that I must leave
I'll take one step out of the nice dream
Into, something unknown, something unkind
Somewhere so quiet, gone from your side
Send me to lie here
Forever unseen”
“Why, why would you leave here
Right when I need you
No, I can't see you
Out in the open
Out in the darkness
Here where I knew you
Here in my heart
And on somewhere unseen
The distance is killing me
The distance between
I'm taking the water, taking on time
Does it ever leave
Does it ever leave
Taking on the water, taking on time
Does it ever sleep
Does it sleep at all…”
(excerpts, “The Distance, Emma Ruth Rundle)
There Are A Thousand Treasures Of Kings
Worth More, Than All The Wealth, There Could Be !
Some Say, It’s In A Kingdom Of Dreams
Others Say, It’s As Real As You & Me
The Legend Says, There’s A Kingdom Of Love
In A Kingdom, Far Away & Above
Kings-Treasures, To Be Claimed By The Best
Those Worthy Of Courage, To Quest
& So, This Is Where I’ll Start, My Friend,
Tho’, This Isn’t Where The Real Tale Begins
You See, There Was A Merry Band Of Adventurers
Who Went On A Quest, As Treasure-Gatherers
There Was Moses, The Freedom-Circle-Rider
Stayed His Course, Like An Eagle-Glider
There Was Goff, The Monk Of Sky and Trees
His Visions Of Life, Were As Open As Doors With Keys
There Was Kendricks, The Keeper Of ‘Interesting’ Tracks
& Marty, Of The Hale & Hearty & Power-Pen Pack
There Was Adell of Deep Wells … & Dio, The Devoted
& Dame Brown Of Mountain-Ground, So Sweetly-Noted
There Was An Irish Lass, O’Leary Of Laughter
& The Golden Daughter Of Grace & Audrey Of Gifted-Banter
& Devonshire, The Dove & Highlander Of Heather-Cove
Of First To Join Search: For Soup & Treasure-Trove
Of Course, We Have A Prince Of Passion Land
& Ismael, A Dream-Merchant From His Own Island
The Prince, Paints Of Pleasures; The Islander Speaks of Treasures
Both Know Of Biggest Royal Cache That We Could Ever Measure !
There Came Tim, The Archer Of The Wit-Forest
& A Determined Mother with Son, The Lady Doris
Maid Adams, Who Teaches How To Keep Cold Away
& The Lightning-Voice Of Linda Marie, Keeps Wolves At-Bay
There Is Sir Lamoureu of Sir Lancelot's Order
He Wields Words In Articulate Axes & Armor
And To Those Who Dare Say Chivalry Is Dead ...
Is Because -The Sonnets of Sir Lamoureu, They Have Not Read
& The Legendary Language That Sir Lamoureu Pledge
Then There's Lady Linda, A Chatelaine & A Poet Destroyer
But She Only Versus The Verses of The Vanity Voyeurers
Her Skill With Quill Accurately Quite Accords
As Proof of Pens Being Mightier Than Swords
We Have A Pretty Elf Known As Anne Lise Andresen
Her Piquant Topics of Poetry Makes Her Our Taliesin
And We Have Our Very Own Kind Maid Merryman
She Transports Adventures Better Than A Ferryman
Part 1 of 2
To speak for those, who no longer have a voice,
were I to get it wrong, would they really have a choice?
No.., they didn't choose me as spokesperson, why would they?
I am not clairvoyant.
But they haunt my dreams still...cause me to rise, plead me to look back.
They won't let me alone, point in fact.
“I am waiting patiently. Goodbye my darlings"
Bill didn't have enough water to write much more than this.
Born on Valentine's day, with his heart set on Chubby,
eight days to dwell on a love that almost was, now missed.
Mia was a sad-eyed beauty, there's no denying that.,
she never got free the shadow cast, Ernie's early demise.
Though a mother's love, given and reciprocated,
found a fondness binding, throughout her short life.
Marty made the day special for friends and family,
never thinking of himself, a miracle and twin borne.
Forsaken in life's wishes, called only for justice seen,
lived life fitting of a brother they'll always mourn.
Save up the coins for the ferryman while you still can,
the days will bring swift recounting.
Leave lasting memory for love's empty hand,
and debts of the heart ever surmounting.
Have you ever listened to Rock Me Amadeus on Karaoke
I would rather be a Bat Out Of Hell on my Stairway To Heaven
And that is what they will have to sing when my box gets lowered
Sunk into eternity while the pastor's Guitar Gently Weeps
For Singing In the Rain we can be sure A Hard Rain is going to fall
Pitter patter on the Eve Of Destruction and Smoke On The Water
Overcoming Sounds Of Silence on a miraculous Yellow Brick Road
Funeral For A Friend Knocking On Heaven's Door Born To Be Wild
I wish for a cacophony of voices a true concerto for a Tambourine Man
Honest and truthful recitations of Lucy Jordan when I cross the Styx
Caron shouts Don't Pay The Ferryman for my ultimate Ticket To Ride
A Script For A Jester's Tear has to ooze gracefully and Slip Sliding Away
Dance Me To The End Of Love and don't forget The Famous Blue Raincoat
For it's The End Of The World As We Know it and The Doors know The End
The Song's Over and from now on it will be Radar Love on Telegraph Road
Another One Bites The Dust and I have peace Somewhere Over The Rainbow
23rd December 2019
RIVERBANK
The river of life flows fast toward the weir
This scene is now reality, not a pantomime
So smile for the ferryman as he draws near
Is that sweet music that you can now hear
It is calling softly with a melody so sublime
The river of life flows fast toward the weir
There are now only memories to hold dear
As recent years pass, they no longer rhyme
So smile for the ferryman as he draws near
Be resigned to one’s fate, then shed a tear
The underworld is calling, no need to climb
The river of life flows fast toward the weir
Shared understanding as others gather here
In the distance, can you hear the bell chime
So smile for the ferryman as he draws near
With no more to be done, it would appear
The beginning of the end, now is your time
The river of life flows fast toward the weir
So smile for the ferryman as he draws near
Atmospheres of the weary tears that flow through the river Styx
Bonded by the watchful eye for Hades is in the molten mix
Cerberus is in his bliss as he watch’s the grotesque gates of hell
Death becomes as it nocturnally numbs the souls underneath its spell
Eurynomos watching rotting corpse’s aromas of the dying dead
Ferryman extends his hand, Charon’s purse must be faithfully fed
Grimly graves in massive waves of victims frivolously falling in
Hell awaits with open gates as the pandemonium does begin
Ignominious retreat for those that would repeat many lifetimes
Jagged rivers edge for those who would wedge their cunning crimes
Kabbalistic rituals leave their residuals as the underworld is overflowing
Lachrymal souls never reach their goals even in their constant crowing
Many do make it as the rest can’t shake it, to outrun the rivers grasp
Necromantic wizards cross the rivers to help undo the candescent clasp
Odysseus in his cunning shall be stunning the querulous Queen as he planned
Persephone in her majesty rigidly rules the underworld by candid command.
In Greek Mythology...a river that forms the boundary between Earth and the Underworld (the domain often called Hades, which also is the name of its ruler)
Cerberus...often called the "hound of Hades", is a monstrous multi-headed dog, who guards the gates of the underworld, preventing the dead.
Eurynomos...was the netherworld daimon (spirit) of rotting corpses dwelling in the Underworld.
Charon...is the ferryman of Hades who carries souls of the newly deceased across the rivers Styx...for a price(coins)
Odysseus...hero of Homer's epic poem the Odyssey...was a frequent visitor.
Persephone...was the daughter of Zeus and Demeter, and the queen of the underworld. She was abducted by Hades.
Sept.03.2016
Alphabet Soup - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Kim Merryman
"Burning Bushes Treacherous Cargo"
They say hell
is on fire
but there in
The Lawrence Forest
exist many,
burning bushes
waiting on deliverance
delivering messages,
hidden shadow angels
waiting for their
Bardo exodus
they are
allowed to
come and go
but they are
drawn back
to their torched
habitats
like moths
to flames
their footprints
scorch the missing years
in the desert sand,
the place of the great undoing,
and through that wilderness
broken they glide across
the slippery mossy passages
towards the banks of Styx
waiting at the River’s edge
with tokens for the
Elysium visits
twin flames
lost souls
for once
and all
clearly see
the other
for what
the other is
you will not see
them clearly
unless
the match
is well lit,
they carry
their own light
in the shadows
they shapeshift
a staggered procession
they come and go
exchanging contracts
where sentences
are despatched;
the words
with a life
of their own
are released
like promises
in the flow,
returning in the
wake of the boat
the Ferryman
takes them
journeying
through
strange channels
deep and unclear
towards
the most clear
and shallow
some will say
treacherous -
cargo
transferred
back to below
so above
back to above
so below
burning bushes
treacherous cargo
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
Charon—The Eternal Ferryman
The mythical ferryman extraordinaire of such keen gaze,
Who braves the Styx and Acheron in the deepest of haze.
Charon is a most sordid God who relishes his work as the
“Ferryman of Hades,” carrying new souls to their oblivion.
With an obolus as payment and a flash of his fiery-fierce eyes,
Charon performs his morbid task with a frightening alacrity!
With his winged-demon appearance and horrifying demeanor,
He terrifies all newly-deceased souls who face his vile being!
The world of the dead is the final destination for those who
Depart from the dark, dreary shores of the Styx and Acheron.
The deft ‘n cruel skull-crushing force of Charon’s ferryman’s pole,
Ensures that all lost souls in his charge never question his orders!
Charon’s fealty and devotion to Hades are absolute in his actions as
He secures the paramountcy of the world of the dead from the living.
The fleeting and finite nature of our mortal coil ensures that we shall
One day ascend heavenward or descend into a state of total perdition.
Without any doubt, if it be perdition, Charon shall be there to greet us
With the grim gaze of his fiery-fierce eyes as he carries us to our doom!
Don’t forget your obolus—or else!
Without this silver coin the wild wrath of Charon shall be upon you!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
January 21, 2018 (Couplet)
Hands reached out and grabbed my heels as
I walked this once bloody field. They were
just everyday hands, miners, carpenters, the
hands of the butchers boy, the bank clerk,
the sordid hands of the local Johnny no good.
The tinker, the tailor, the poacher, all pressed
for the glory of war, a glory lost in knee deep
mud and indiscriminate lead. Where the Devil
played poker with fate for the right of souls,
the Ferryman busy that day. Before my feet
the Poppies fall like men in sights at duties
call, then and now the field turned red. I sit
the depression where some cannon chewed,
now overgrown with moss and memories.
Whispers glide by me, idle banter, everyday
chat, sport, sisters getting married, mothers
worried, will anyone remember me, why.
This muddy morass where men walked or
ran, never realizing that death had its own
pace. And yet every step was made of duty,
glory forsaken as a lost cause, every step
seen as one closer to home. How many
names beneath this soil, how many stories
feed these poppies, and how many dreams
still lie bleeding.
Walk the battlefields and you will feel those
hands, the tinker, the tailor, the butcher boy
A. W. Nutter
Daughter of Satan and Jezebel
Obeying the wishes of her father
Sent from the fiery depths of hell
Issuing a decree for the Reaper
Reveling in the darkness
A soul, black as the night
Never seeking forgiveness
Announcing death, her delight
From the chalice of fear you sip
As you view this female demon
Incantations spewing from her lips
Summoning the ferryman, Charon
The Reaper suddenly appears
To harvest your evil spirit
Wipe away your foolish tears
Kingdom of hell, yours to inherit
On unbearably pleasant days
she beckons the ferryman
to taxi her to the
dark places of her past
to stock up on bitterness,
envy, rancor
a delusional cocktail for the
attention-starved addict
with the trademark, fatalistic,
false sense of power.
Self-respect makes a break for it
while she coddles demons in her sleep.
Every step forward brings an
energised momentum. Leading
me toward a portal which leads
me to the Styx ferryman
I am confronted with this resoundingly
unique shape, the emblem of its industry.
His coffin puts out its tentacle seeking my
name
Past aisles filled with '***-ash' Lils and lipstick
smothered whore's, I walk inexorably
on. Past the row of walking stick,
benefits claiming, blue badge carrying,
hand-me-downs.
And those 'mutter-under-the-Breath' blue
veined brigade, always ready to Judge the
dress you've chosen for such a solemn occasion.
Well, today I didn't let them down!
When I get there, what I see is a pseudo-realistic
pantomime. A Frieze of alibaster-marbeled
features, a mask of barely recognisable
'What used to be'
I'm confused. Am I supposed to love
this empty form of you? Should I kiss
your brow? And taste the loss of you
on my lips.
Or enter into a pact of believing that
you lie there, waiting to kiss me back.
What I want is to be guaranteed this
will never happen to me again.
I want to be able to give my love to
someone and not have it thrown back
when their 'use by date' has expired
I want the time, before time stopped,
to start again. I want the muscles in my
neck to become unknotted and my wine
bill to become averagely normal again.
Oh, and I want his wife to know I
was the other woman