Long Helmsman Poems
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Come, let us sing a song of equality and unity;
We seek a home of peace, pledging our lives to this vow.
Upon this restless earth, a flood of blood now surges;
War drums beat in every direction; corruption runs rampant everywhere.
There is no helmsman to guide us across this turbulent sea;
The nation, having lost its way, now bleeds and burns in agony.
The soul can no longer bear the searing pain of war's wounds;
Darkness shrouds every quarter; lamentation echoes all around.
Caste prejudice and malice—these are the forces that ravage the heart;
Neither the blue heavens above nor the vast oceans below find any solace.
Barrenness consumes the soul; the heart breaks in weeping;
Amidst the blasts of bombs and explosions, sleep eludes our eyes.
A tide of torment washes over us, filling the soul with dread;
Through every window drifts the ominous roar of impending cataclysm.
Will anyone answer the call of my pain and suffering?
Will anyone heed the yearning that seeks to breathe new life into this world?
This earth is enchanting—rich in beauty, color, and essence;
And amidst it all, know that men and women are its most precious jewels.
Adorned with flowers, fruits, rivers, and streams—she is fertile and lush;
A motherly savior, she cherishes her children with boundless love.
Why, then, do war and hatred plague every corner of the globe?
Why do people weave such webs of savage cruelty and violence?
As the Earth's weeping intensifies, her dam of endurance finally breaks;
Come, let us rush to her rescue today, steering our vessel against the tide of adversity.
Hand in hand, let us declare: no more war, no more hatred!
We seek only love and affection—no more the torment inflicted by foes.
Come, let us sing a song of equality and unity;
We seek a home of peace, pledging our lives to this vow.
Across the roaring 40’s
I sail
I fly
She’s in a hurry
To reach out
That Southern land
Like a horse
That knows the way home
She bucks
She sways
Her cloth
Slides across the wind
Hell or high
I will make sure
We harbour
The leeward side
And the Jack tars will sing
Hey ho
Here we go boys
Hold your breeches
And heave ho
Hold ya breeches
And heave ho
With white knuckles
I hold that wheel
As helmsman
I fear breaching
I won’t let it go
The wind
She blows
The waves
They tower
Nothing will stop me
Heading Over
That rising sun
And the Jack tars will sing
Hey ho
Here we go boys
Hold you breeches
And heave ho
Hold ya breeches
And heave ho
Swinging through the rigging
I take me time
To set a working sail
Up here
With Albatross
And god
I ‘am sailing
Through time
On a wing and a prayer
And the Jack tars will sing
Hey ho
Here we go boys
Hold your breeches
And heave ho
Hold ya breeches
And heave ho
Land ho
The call is made
There she be
That Southern land
Soon we’ll be safe
For sure
Me mates
On the leeward side
We"ll harbour
And the jack tars will sing
Hey ho
Here we go boys
Hold your breeches
And heave ho
Hold ya breeches
And heave ho
Tis the Season ???
It seems, – at times – for some, life is lived in vain!
As they reflect, look back upon all the pain,
tear drops fall profusely, a torrential rain,
drowning all the efforts, nothing to gain.
Then comes change – New Years
is at the door, winds of change dry the tears,
dissipating the essence of all those fears.
As the helmsman, you guide, the crew hears.
The dark waters, the stormy seas,
left behind, the winds of change frees
and the soul flies upon a worm breeze.
Like that of song birds, they land in trees.
Trees - wise, strong, ancient - stand tall,
never letting their charges live the fall.
The souls stand firm, until the call,
then fly off, leaving behind, it all !
B. J. “A” 2
January 1st 2014
You, the loving helmsman of this
Pounding heart.
Who was your slave from the
very start.
I,am not feeling well today.
Bring your flickering flames
enclosed in your Herculean body,
To warm me, please do.
Hold me close to your amorous chest,
And let's get lost in each others space!
To travel and traverse the Universe
On a starship purely run on kisses.
You, helmsman of this this wanton
heart,
Keeper of my fragrant kisses,
You~ the dream of all my dreams
And my soul's deepest, most divine wishes.
With my deepest love,
Panagiota
July 2, 2019
6am PST
Through the prism of the soul, a mysterious alliance of reflections is bound,
Pieced together from shards of worlds lost under bare soles.
Streams of betrayal trickle over the skin, constructing ruby maps
In ten directions, to be wrung out, to be cleansed of primal anguishes.
The agony writhes, a tremor of despair suffocated between stammering sobs,
A home is built upon the canvas of reality, just to see it shattered in the porcelain of promises.
The sign of peace is vain when screams sustain an endless echo,
From the ashes of your being, the fire stubbornly flares up towards the infinite.
You tread over embers hidden beneath ash, anguish on hot coals –
Your home smokes the reddish light of dusk under the weight of silence.
The scent of cigars and the noise of fallen bottles in a symphony of shadow and flight,
Each step echoes a gathering doomed to insignificance.
A disjointed section, a star-studded rainbow with the caress of fleeting hope,
Are broken dreams and wilted wings yearning to envelop,
A flicker of the firmament, proud in the moon's reflection, testimonies of imperfect brilliance.
You are lured by the dungeon's aroma, but it's just a dream encircled by passions to which you succumb.
Rustling through oceans of quiet, the fear of the grave keeps you from the depths,
A laugh of hypocrisy breaks through, the metaphor of a cave full of echo and re-sanctification.
Be a guide on a tour of truth, if you are a helmsman on the rivers of the soul.
When the veils of silence fall, we will find ourselves in the unsaid verb, in the long-lost vow.
If I were to expose my vulnerable breath before your pure gaze,
Would you continue to kiss my wounds, to confront the red that paints your lips?
And, at the moment when scars weave stories on our skin, will you venture forth,
To embrace my enigma for a long while, even if the fire burns and sparkles within us?
Will I still be arcane enough for you, then?
In the odyssey of my soul, I have sailed seas of uncharted destiny,
Embarked on the ship of time, under the flag of a stormy youth.
Six years under the starry sky, I forged myself among the wave crests,
Learning the language of the winds, the silent dialogue between star and compass.
I wove dreams in the workshops of the day, in a symphony of masterful gestures,
From painting dawns on the canvases of walls to building fortresses from old wood.
I planted gardens in the heart of the earth, carved beauty under the burning sun,
And purified the day's scents in the silver coat of kitchens, where time weaves its flavors.
On the paths of yoga, I was the flame of calm, master of ancestral balance,
Guiding steps on health trails, coach of spirits in search of harmony.
A wandering teacher through the halls of knowledge, I was a helmsman in the ocean of science,
Mentor for those weaving their path in the tapestry of education.
In the sanctuaries of museums, I became the weaver of silence,
The storyteller embracing centuries, opening the gates to the chambers of the past.
In hidden taverns, I was the evening's alchemist, pouring the elixir of stories into crystal,
Living among spirits and shadows, I found oases of peace in the everyday desert.
In the realms of factories, I lost and found myself in the dance of fire and iron,
In every corner, a story, in every spark, a promise.
I carved desires on small objects, in a miniature universe,
And discovered the hidden joy in the small gestures of existence.
I was the light in the night of those seeking meaning,
Guardian of silence in the temples of learning,
Weaver of lessons of history and society, for hearts open to knowledge.
My last journey, a master of balance, guardian of a kingdom of green and stone.
Writer of dreams, I gathered the echoes of each experience,
Weaving from the threads of reality a tapestry of fairy tales, transforming the mundane into magical.
Each job, a chapter in the epic of my life,
A pilgrimage through the labyrinth of memory, in search of the light lost among shadows.
Tears in the night
In unwritten chronicles, time embraces me with its fear,
On the shore of refusal, I withdraw, without wishing to be close to any soul.
My tears, mercurial, weave experiences hidden from worldly eyes,
My mind is the helmsman navigating seas of calm, deceit is mine.
No wing unfolds for me towards the clear sky for flight,
They fall, the tears, heavy like stones of a river that cannot find its bed.
I am like a dyke ever-fighting the approach of collapse,
How shall I find salvation in this desolation called "alone"?
My tears are fleeting sparks, almost unseen,
And my step towards the light of courage is the only sustenance remaining for me.
Suddenly coming, they enshroud me, like a veil of the ephemeral moment,
They are the merciless mirror, where my esteem breaks, melts away.
Time’s fragment measures the absence of self-confidence,
In their cadence, the tears tell me I must go on, not falter,
Embracing regret, it lays upon me, its pallid shadow,
"Cease now, stream of pain!", my cry goes forth to the stars.
Until the tears dissolve, become just dew for the coming dawn,
And the darkness that held me captive now yields, becomes translucent.
I contour an answer in the mirror of the world, my shadow merges with light,
Every moment is sensitive to the pull of hope, becomes consonant with it.
Someone said, “Now you’ve turned forty-,
What have you learned?
Your experience must be varied,
Your fingers quite burned.
You must’ve gone through troubled times,
Of disappointments you’d’ve quite a share;
But how does life’s learning
For your future prepare?”
I looked at my questioner
With a baleful and gloomy stare,
Not with anger or reproach;
There was no fire in my glare.
“Life, son,” I told him,
“Is what is learnt alone,
All advice from others
Is crumbs to a beggar thrown.
It’s what one takes out of life
That matters much more.
One’s own experience is what counts,
Go, knock on it’s stubborn door!
I’ve been sitting where you sit,
Asked the same riddle as you do;
But was pointed out a direction
And left to steer a course that’s true.
The helmsman determines the course,
The rudder needs control;
It’s how you determine your goal
And steer from the treacherous shoal.
So don’t ask of experience,
Test the waters on your own;
Find a guiding star to steer by
Don’t wait for it to be shown.
And when you, too, turn forty-
Think back and count your deeds –
The path you’ve trod is well behind,
Look ahead, move on, you’ll know where your future leads!
Form:
The helmsman sings a merry song:
Haec est vera fraternas,
and downs a cup of something strong,
Hick, vera, hick, hick, fraternas.
The sailors dance a lusty jig,
forsaking sails, crow's nest and rig.
Young princes and their ladies fair
join in the drunken helmsman's air:
Haec est vera fraternas.
Commoners with nobles prance.
Friars and laymen, how they dance!
The jester sports a broken lance,
a trophy from the fields of France.
"To Henry!" sounds the raucous toast.
Hear the young knights, how they boast
of conquests on and off the field,
when foemen or coy maidens yield.
While Fitzroy strokes a wench's leg,
the boatswain opes yet one more keg.
See their chains of gleaming gold,
but feel the wind grown strangely cold.
William the atheling alone,
to the marrow of each bone
feels what sorrows must atone
for the sins of court and throne.
Woe to the ship, woe to the realm,
where none is mindful of the helm.
Woe to the king who ne'er shall smile,
woe to those bereft of child.
Gone is that day and gone that night,
gone that ship so ghostly white,
gone the prince who bravely sought
to save his sister, deed ill bought!
If, one night by Barfleur's shore,
you may hear that song once more:
Haec est vera fraternas,
et haec est aeternitas.
Crossing the Swamp
The enemy within, if unchallenged,
Will destroy the nation to achieve power.
Singing and composing to deceive the innocent,
Spinning narratives to suit their agenda.
For them, the country is a tool to use
To satisfy their selfish interests.
They hate Jesus, Christians, and Jews
And curse the United States of America.
Boldly, the bowman poles away the ‘gators,
While the helmsman rudders straight and true.
Brave Trump, “Commander in Chief,” leads the troops,
Crossing the swamp to root out traitors.
By beacon’s light in murky waters’ blight,
Proudly displayed, “Old Glory” waves
As a nation prays for freedom from evil’s grip
And for the killing of unborn babies to stop.