Long Beacon light Poems
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Author’s Introduction - A word about Minot’s Ledge Lighthouse:
The Minot’s Ledge lighthouse, built 1850, lying off the southeastern chop of
Boston Bay, was the first lighthouse built in the U. S. that was not protected by
exposure to the fury of ocean storms. It was, then unfinished, in the shape of an
egg-shell painted red and supported by iron pillars. The first keeper, Isaac
Dunham, quit after 10 months citing how unsafe the structure was (swaying 2
feet in each direction in a storm). His fears were well founded, for in April 1851, a
colossal storm struck the New England coast. The lighthouse was toppled and
swept away, and the two attendants, Joseph Antoine and Joseph Wilson, were
killed.
The following day only a few bent pilings were found on the rock. This tragedy set
the standard for the construction of more solid structures using granite blocks for
greater support and a new light was built by June, 1860.
To this day, legend has it, that in dark and stormy weather, sailors hear a voice
coming from Minot’s Light crying in Portuguese (the nationality of one of the
deceased keepers – Joseph Antoine) – “Stay away!”
The Ill-Fated Lighthouse
The towering light that threw
Its friendly beams afar
Over the foaming waves,
The sailor’s guiding star,
Is quench’d – and darkness glooms
Where late it bless’d his sight,
As homeward bound he came
In the dark hour of night.
The thundering surges swept
Over the rocky bed,
From which the lighthouse rear’d
Aloft its flaming head.
And lo! They bore away
In that mad fearful hour,
The work that man had made –
The tempest’s rightful dower
And yet a richer freight
The heaving billows bore,
Than wreck of perished Light!
For tossing to the shore
The drench’d and lifeless forms
Of youthful dead there were,
Two brave and manly hearts
That sadly perish’d there!
Farewell ye faithful ones!
Your memory shall live,
While feeling hearts remain,
Pity’s sweet drops to give,
Or any to recount
The terrors of that night,
When the drear sea engulf’d
The hapless beacon light.
And you, ye rushing waves!
Sweep – foaming, sweep along,
And ever as ye go,
Lift high your noisy song;
For thou, remorseless sea!
Maketh all things thine own!
Then send aloft your tune,
And madly thunder on.
Hushed
The
Crescent moon
is
Tossed
To and fro
In
a
Turbulent
cloudy
Sea
like
a
Specter pirate’s ship
October
Stars
Flash their beacon light
To guide the ghostly vessel through
Blue-black stormy seas
November
Wind
Is coming
Bare armed trees
Groaning whispering
Swaying pointing
Saying…
‘This way this way
Follow the vapor phantom mist
Along his nightly stay’
Leaves rustle rushing
Scattering and skittering
Moved by some unseen foot
from a lonely apparition
Smoke falls from chimneys’
Long gone fires’ after-glow
A snow like hush fills
The nightly air
She is a vision of white
An image lit
By cold bright
Shimmering moonlight
Just like her sister
Beautiful
Spring
Warmest charm for
Summer
She too has gone
So will follow
Fall
For golden days
Cool nights she is a delight
To us mercy from
Winters’
“Icy claws”
She calls to those in the night
We are hushed with fright
We bar our windows and houses tight……..
Now turn out the Light! NIGHTY-NIGHTY
Form:
In twilight’s grasp a love once bright,
now tangled in a fading light.
A cherished soul, a memory’s dance,
embraced by time’s relentless trance.
In wandering paths, they roam,
a journey through the mist unknown.
A mind adrift on waves unseen,
yet in their heart, love’s flame still gleams.
The moments shared now echoes past,
a fleeting smile, a love that lasts.
Though memories may slip away,
their essence lingers day by day.
In moments when confusion reigns,
And words are lost in flight,
I’ll hold your hand through all the pains,
And be your beacon light.
Through laughter, tears, and tender care,
we’ll hold them close, their burdens bear.
For in the shadows, we will find,
a love that’s boundless, intertwined.
In the depths of eyes once bright and clear,
flickers of recognition may appear.
A smile that graces like a gentle breeze,
though the storm of forgetfulness may seize.
With tender touch and patience, we embrace
the fragments of their essence, a sacred space.
Each day an adventure, a new journey’s start
as we traverse the labyrinth of the heart.
Though the past may fade, love’s flame will glow,
its embers eternal, steadfast, and slow.
For in this dance of shadows and light,
our bond remains unbroken, day or night.
Through laughter, tears, and moments bittersweet,
we find solace in the love that cannot deplete.
In every tender touch and whispered word,
we find the essence of the one we have heard.
In the twilight of memories, they reside,
a soul once vibrant, now veiled and tied.
Yet we will stand by their side, forever near,
for love transcends the bounds of what we hear.
So, let us treasure each fleeting day,
embrace the fragments in twilight’s grasp.
For in this journey, together we will be,
a beacon of love for all eternity.
You make me love you to death, in the depths where light refracts,
In the labyrinths of the night, you are the whirlpool that tightens its grasp.
No mercy you have, oh cruel fate, you shorten the bedding of my days,
In my heavy wandering, with your love, you envelop me, you consume.
Like the turbulent sea, the storm cannot find its calm,
In my chest, you swell with waves, of my desire, you're the balm.
You make me love you, you are the dream itself gone astray,
Carrying my soul in a dance, in whirlpools of relentless sway.
Beneath your invisible banner, I, the unarmed soldier, do rush,
In the battle with your hot arrows, each strike is a melodious hush.
Oh, you weaver of dreams, plunderer of the fickle heart,
You show no mercy, you swing me from ecstasy to agony's art.
I painted you among the stars, to live eternally over my late nights,
But stars die of longing, and in the vastness of the void, you place sights.
And when in the sky there’s not a single beacon light, in the wind I hear you guide,
Oh love, that mocks me, a shanty of grief, a place where dreams at the gate have cried.
You, glorious weeps in the night, in echo, you transform and you fade,
While I, the guardian of your temple, with tears sculpt the stars you've made.
You have no mercy on my beating heart, yet you stay silent, keeper and penalty,
You make me love, even when my soul, in shadow, departs and forsakes me.
A blustery love through me, a whirlwind of emotions, a mournful parade,
Through my pale body, a ghost of a butterfly in crazy flight made.
You, unsoothed storm, unforgiven, with your cureless blaze,
You burn me, envelop me, and then, with magical sadness, bid me to fly, and I obey...
A young Shepardflees fascist Italy,
in a boat crossing a tereachorous sea.
His rudimentary education,
ending sheep in Abruzzi, Italy.
His venture, to seek a life of freedom,
on the cold gold ground of La'mere-rr-ika.
He walked out of the pasture near Penna,
into the black pit coal holes of Scranton.
Pick and shovel in hand, clothed in black pitch,
a beacon light upon his tired head.
A young no-good lazy bastard "guinea"
working for a fast talking lying, "mickl".
Day and nighrt, night and day, anday annight.
pick, shovel, load, push, pick, shovel, load, push,
four weeks of darkness, thirty days of night.
Working double shift days in the coal pit,
sucking dust, ingesting coal from the hole,
a nickel a load for pasture clear lungs.
Greenback money in his empty pockets,
mark an "X", on the clear white payroll sheet,
then settle up with the company clerk,
paying his month long debt of servitude.
A slave to the industry of demand,
dictator Baron's that trade in black lung.
Days to months, months to years, a month of years,
living in clapboard company houses,
with bambino's running around his feet.
Just enough left for a couple of beers
and a gallon bottle of cheap vino,
then back to the grind with facist "mick",
Was it in the fragrance of the grapefruit mint that brushed against my red blush cheeks,
or those lilac petal chains on
moss-strewn pathways,
was it in those rays that dance sequentially across some green flake grecian urn, or the tearful noonday noodle from a seagull’s
stricken cry, or that scarlet robin roosting on a grey grain granite wall?
For whatever reason nature’s vivid ministry appeared in locust swarms,
a tag on aural stimuli to whet one’s dormant vision.
Suddenly the golden brook within my compass bared its fountain,
each moonstone mountain peak its beacon light,
the twig on every tree revealed an olive branch
with verdant august wellspring at its cusp.
Each sprouting plant became this silver chalice rooted
in a centrifugal aliment.
When morning shoots at last boldly ripen ironic winter phase
blackberries loom above mundane detachment
as cold snap iridescence that normally
eludes quotidian tides.
''T'' Contest, New or Old Poem
Sponsor ; Constance La France
This is an old poem submitted to this contest 8th November 2021.
It was first entered on Poetry Soup in Brian Strand contest judged
March 17th 2020.
Title for that contest ; For Whatever Reason
For days we were assaulted
By vicious sleet and snow
It brought life to a standstill
Many were in survival mode
Records show, it had been decades
Since such fury we had known
Just more reason to be complacent
And show how careless we had grown
Then one morning, an open curtain
Revealed bright sunlight and calm wind
There, a sigh of relief was instilled
The turbulent storm was near it's end
To me, it's a perfect metaphor
Of our sojourn in life
At times we glide on mountaintops
Then dark valleys bring pain and strife
Often after egressing from a storm
We appreciate the sunlight more
It can help us align priorities
And bring reality to the door
Though life is short, it can be sweet
If we keep the beacon light in view
By His guidance we can emerge
Into a day, - with a brighter hue
My mind is anchored on the fact
Ahead, - is a plateau calm and warm
In Heaven, there'll be eternal bliss
Truly that will be, the "end of the storm"
Colan L Hiatt = 01-25-16
© All Rights Reserved
Open My Eyes
Lord, give me vision, let me see.
Open my eyes help me to achieve.
Like an Eagle that’s in flight.
Give me true vision and sight.
Help me not to doubt but believe.
Whenever the safe nest, I do leave.
While I soar over the lowly clouds
In reverence to you not proud.
Your caring heart to be in mine
Letting others know what is thine.
You are the one I wish to please,
Time for prayer if I want to seize.
Grant me wisdom for the task.
Enable me to touch a heart, I ask.
People that are in the valley below.
Where the steps are hard, spirit low.
If you give me the words to say.
I want to show them a brighter day.
Shining forth like a beacon-light.
A brand new day for those in the night.
Cleanse the inner parts of my heart.
Let your Spirit come in and impart.
Simply I yearn for your fire
To ignite a spark or to inspire.
Who am I but a vessel to fill?
Guide me according to your will.
Pour love into my heart from you.
For they long to hear what is true.
By tiptoe
We need to dance on Mountain tops
Flying, soaring, way way up high into the sky
We need to grasp at every single rainbow
And laughing slide down them for the ride
Not to live in unhappiness, doubt and insecurity
We need to believe in all we see and be a shiny light
A help out of the darkness to be a beacon light
Life has such cruelties we must not add to them
Careless words, stupid thoughts, so easy to hold back
For some the road is easy, a skipping playful ride
For others torment, tragedy, a life of only strife
We need to lift the spirit to offer all we can
We need a cup overflowing, not scalding in the hand
A little thought of tenderness, a smile can make a day
A special nod, outstretched hand, a tender loving hug
Oh yes we need to dance on mountain tops
Together let us fly, let us soar way way up into the sky
To love, to give, to hope, and most certainly to dream.
This country began, with the melody of an orange rhythm,
Then lady liberty showed her beacon light
Giving in the twilight,
A hope for a new, beginning.
And as these people escaped
A less understanding place,
By God’s grace; we accepted them
And with this understanding came.
Eventually, a hybrid land named, America.
Turmoil of the civil war, but that soon past,
Giving a race, freedom at last.
We fight for the weak, weary and the sick,And usually win.
But one thing has always been practiced;
Uncle Sam is an activist.
With people of different walks of life;Passing in the middle of the night.
Americans, we call ourselves, and since the beginning it has been true.
That a piece of paper called The Declaration of Independence;
Was written, signed and sings true,
That certain rights are bestowed by God;
Like life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.