Long Navigators Poems
Long Navigators Poems. Below are the most popular long Navigators by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Navigators poems by poem length and keyword.
Somali Pirates prowl the Gulf of Aden
For merchant vessels with cargo laden
From the tenement rows of Puntland
Poor fishermen, ex-militia turned brigand
Now pledge fealty to the lucrative capitalist brand
Which polluted their waters and denuded their coast land
Fitted mercenaries scout the narrow strand
Booty and hostages from itinerant ships to remand
From mother ship, crafty navigators plot vessels' course
In speedy skiffs, armed with guile and every pliable resource
Stealthily stalk their prey gratuitous demands to enforce
Their mantra greed; ransom and loot their tour de force
Battering ram of rocket, grenade; calm hands from cargo to divorce
With hooks, ladder springing aboard, subduing crew with little discourse
Pilfering their bounty; enslaving the crew without remorse
Most are related to shipwrecked ghosts,
accomplices of my blood
that can still be found
in geographically scattered albums.
When there were cities to occupy,
they lived one level below expectations.
Like defective fireworks, some went off early.
A more dedicated few grew old and medicated.
They built defunct railroads and dug ditches
they later fell into.
They were navigators of small shady schemes.
Their brief settlements and abrupt departures
left fuzzy lines on blacktops and concrete.
As a family, we are estranged and unknown,
but we do speak to our dead
if they come to call, of course
only after a respectable period
of life-long disinterest.
Stilled again across the canals broadening
Girth;
Mesh cages of rock-filled Gabions
Reinforcing patches of exposed and arid earth,
Reflecting the glints that gleefully
Twist and dance in the hot glare of the sun...
Provoking images and stirring indefinable feelings
That begin to irrevocably up and run;
Pictures and voices crowding into my mind:
Immersing me in the flooding moments
To which i am briefly resigned.
Now momentarily staid by the shimmering
Instance
In which i find myself inextricably caught,
Perplexed by something rather intangible,
Seeming almost to tease and laugh
Whilst confounding upon my evasive and
Fleeting thoughts;
As glancing across at the opposite bank
Where drawn up a line of densely packed trees..
I swore...I heard the reel of a high squealing
Fiddle -
Playing ever so briefly alongside a tricky little
Breeze.
For stood there I, wondering,
On a grey painted swing-bridge:
Of brightly painted Steamers, dirty Trampers
And of double masted white canvassed Brigs.
Oh! The everlasting glory of a New World order
Redefined:
Entrusted to those instructed in her Majesties
Construction of sprawling Victorian sublimes!
The men who heroically dug, picked, blasted and
Strove:
To securely fasten an Iron cast girdle around
An ever diminishing blue globe.
Dreaming of long ago, dutiful, Golden-Age days
Rigorously pursued down, what are now,
Weed strewn, abandoned byways.
Faustian clothing and a Velveteens cap;
The thick buckled leather gaiters held about
By the strap.
Many the word spoken in a soft southern brogue:
All hail the glorious navigators -
The navvies of old!
Staunch and desperate men forced to resign
Their native Gaelic shores
And burden unto themselves with
Mattocks, shovels and garishly painted-up whores.
Under the high flaming beacons
And over the obscure little brow -
They carved out the new waterways
To float the laden down prow.
Yes! Men of the Emerald Isles
I salute you and your kinsfolk
From lands cast westwards afar:
The magnificent "Paddies" from the verdant island -
Of Erin-Go-Bragh!
I spied a ship and descried the flag it flew.
It was nothing like the flags I had seen before.
It was red and blue, with white circles and yellow stars
The highlights of white and yellow stood out
like stars at night, and town lights bright.
The red like the color of the dawn and dusk.
The blue the color of the deep blue ocean.
It was clearly the flag of a sea faring nation.
As the ship got closer, you could clearly see its details.
It was a large primitive Polynesian outrigger voyager vessel,
a ghost ship as no one appeared to be aboard.
Where it had come from, the fate of its crew a mystery?
But the vessel sure knew how to sail
and knew where it was headed
as it sailed fast and free,
passed our sailing boat 'Snail'
on a true heading for a spot on the horizon.
For many years the Polynesian voyagers were decried as flotsam and jetsom.
How could these primitive people navigate through the vast open ocean
between tiny islands, pin-prick dotted in oceans of space?
It was assumed they migrated and populated the far flung oceans randomly and haphazardly
via their fishing trips and day trips being blown off course.
But research has descried their skill and fabulous knowledge of navigation.
Each island has a gild of navigators.
They use songs and stories to memorize navigation methods:
including the movement of the stars, wave patterns around island,
local currents, clouds, weather and bird behavior.
Polynesian navigators used the rise and setting of particular set stars on the horizon to set a heading.
They had wooden instruments, string and fiber maps of wave patterns and star movements to guide their way.
They skillfully know when they were near tiny islands
from the change in the wave patterns, currents
and their vast knowledge of birds and wildlife.
So don't be quick to decry Polynesian navigation.
Instead, descry its beauty, simplicity, nouse, proficiency and elegance.
I contemplate my words with caution
i forge my stand with speedy resolve
as my student appears lost in time..
in a secret place of daydreams where
my surreal lecture boring penetrate in
My students eyes light up and i can feel
feel the rich beat vibrating in his essence
but today were teaching discipline..
and focus to master navigate life's hurdles
am teaching the soft navigators skills
I speak in manner devoid of flattery
for unto man the path is laid ahead
and pilgrim you have to take it..
its the only jail.. the journey of life
with discipline you attain destination
A times when i yearned to achieve
A times when my future was bright
A times when i was a servant of time
i yearn to tell my student.. freedom
is freeing yourself from the jail of time
I yearn to tell my student not be
fooled by the three dimension illusion
i yearn to explain the flaw in time..
i yearn to free him from the false mindset
i yearn to point the way to liberation
Yet the beat keeps radiating from
my young student... the unconscious
booom boom radiates back and forth
its the of the joy of parting the elixir..
of freedom without knowledge of it
There is freedom in the beat my friend
there is freedom that frees the mind
and there is freedom to partake all..
the good things in life.. i teach discipline
for with it you rule the world you rule you
The path of discipline seems like a punishment
but it's whats makes you victorious.. feel..
the restraint of the bond.. restraining a free soul
adorn your soul in music but restrain your excesses
it the key to overcoming the time prison..
The time warped concept of viewing life in three dimensions
the warped context of material visualization of the divine..
an ascension of thoughts as you overcome the time constraints
and achieve peace in servitude to the divine will.. the only duty..
worth of a mortal.. worth of a god.. worth of a great mind.... sage
SLS...
CODE 254
lewis nyaga
supertime..
Through veils of bright red pain
They bring us to this life;
Through tears and laughter
They love their small pink wonders
Through all those gates they must pass
On their way to full humanity.
They are lilac-love and discipline
Navigators of our stormy seas
Heedless of themselves for our sakes
They bring us all the soft sweetnesses of home and hearth
That ever call for our return.
So from every tongue
There falls the sacred one-word prayer
When the wide cold world affrights us
When the hand shakes, palsy like
As the heart beats hard against its cage:
In deep of night
When something unseen stirs
The whispered hope is "Mother".
When the flat grey weight of grief
Lies hard across our shoulders
The word that lifts the stone is "Mother".
For scorch of stove, for frostbite sting
We conjure cool and warm with "Mother".
In the place for giving birth: "Mother".
On the battlefield: "Mother".
Whatever pulls us to our knees
To rudely remind us how small we be
In the Grand Scheme of Things,
The idea of Her pulls us up again
For we are hers entire
In a way unique to Her -
Things will be alright
Because She says it shall be so,
And one may never never Never
Disappoint that Sacred One:
"Mother".
A poem I shall attempt to write of heavenly delight,
About all the wonders that shine deep in the night.
There is so much more than the Moon and stars above,
From the earliest navigators that fell heavily in love.
All those that sailed across all the known seas,
They all relied on the stars and many of these.
Often they would follow the morning and evening star,
Just one of five planets that they knew of so far.
Mostly guided by many and many they certainly knew,
Galileo saw much beauty in the Southern Cross too.
The Earth spinning at one thousand and forty miles per hour,
Still, they could master the art of using star power.
So what could they do when a storm came through?
Just stay at the helm and keep the wheel true.
And what could they do if the wind blew them off course?
Pray to the heavens that their sails could take the force.
For life as a sailor meant much more than hard labour,
They had to read stars in constellations to favour.
Forty-eight constellations before eighteen hundred and eighty-eight,
They existed well before the others gathered at a later date.
Then becoming eighty-eight constellations for a general to know,
And used the Pole Stars that never disappeared as they go.
Using particular stars that would always rise and set,
Knowing portside and starboard and which side they met.
In the third century BC, the Greeks used the Little Bear,
These days called Ursa Minor, now navigated from there.
Once Draco was closest to the North Pole than Polaris,
Between Ursa Major and Ursa Minor are the stars over Paris.
The sextant became the most used instrument for navigation,
Before then they had to understand the winds interpretation.
Today a compass is used with the true direction of North,
Every ship you will find has one that leaves every wharf.
But a star gazing soul has no use for a compass rose,
They'd rather get lost and just follow their nose.
For there is something to be said for this lost ancient art,
And I'm sure a true sailor is born with stars in his heart.
She loved the evenings lying in the grass next to her dad…looking up…enjoying the view
He would teach her all about the stars…everything he knew.
He’d point up to Polaris, the North Star and tell her it was so bright
navigators for years would use it as their guiding light.
“When boats navigated by the stars,” he’d say,
“from the smallest boat to the largest ocean liner…
they would find the north star on the handle of the little dipper…also known as Ursa Minor.”
He’d point to Sirius, the Dog Star, saying, “it’s the brightest in the night sky.
I know why it’s the brightest…do you.”
She’d smile repeating what he taught her, “Because it’s not one star…but two.”
He would teach her about all the constellations…the planets…
his favorite was the red one…Mars.
He always said, “when it came to teaching about the night sky…
“We’ll run out of time before we run out of stars.”
“Would you like to touch the stars?” He asked one day. She sat up, “I’d love to.”
“On the next clear night when the ocean is calm…that’s just what we will do.”
“Try not to make too many waves.” He said after they waded into the ocean one night.
She was still unsure why…
The stars are still so far away.” She said, “Still high up in the sky.”
“Your looking in the wrong direction.” He told her…noticing her frown.
“If you want to touch the stars…don’t look up…look down.”
There at her fingertips floating…was the North Star, Sirius, and Mars.
They spent hours and many an evening…in the ocean…touching stars.
As he had predicted earlier (you read it in this rhyme)
they did not run out of stars…but they did run out of time.
Not before however, he taught her to look up at night and enjoy the view….
not before he taught her…everything he knew.
Which she is teaching to her children…who can’t wait to touch Grandpa’s favorite…Mars
when they wade into the ocean together…into the ocean..to touch the stars.
Shrilling seagulls spreading broad wings
are bound for another flight into infinity;
unlikely us who perceive fear and adversity,
they know how to conquer boundaries:
and as soon as daybreak begins, they don't wait
but venture further than hazy horizons
with a straight line that guides navigators
on their trail until they vanish from limited sight.
Was Columbus or Vespucci more fearless than bold seagulls?
Didn't they defy storms and pushed forward to match their grit?
Their zest for discovery never threw them into irrational wit;
they goal was to project a vison and turn it into daydreams.
Had there been voluptuous women to weaken their quest,
there would have been none to behold other than deep regret;
and unlikely us who fall for shallow desires and accomplish little:
we ignore seagulls and navigators that are brave and yet fragile.
It wasn't the truth they wanted, but an illusion they could live with,
A canvas woven from moonbeams and delicate shadows on the water's face.
They were seeking a tale in which to slumber, beside a fire that burns without warming,
They, the night's navigators holding the broken compass of dreaming.
They had clasped in their palms sand crystals - hourglasses for time that does not pass,
Their hourglass was filled with moments smelling of eternal postponement.
Under the guidance of a star that does not shine, yet carries them through the darkness,
They dreamed of horizons without land, of casting anchor in a harbor that awaits not.
In worlds composed only of echoes of fulfillment, they carved their path among promises,
Chasing a marvel that embraces the spirit but does not encompass it.
It was a languid dreaming, a spell poured into the cup of unspoken longing,
A sweet melancholy, like dark honey, that kept them afloat on the tide of life.
Thus rose smoke castles, on summer evenings too lengthy,
When the sky seems to speak in the forgotten language of eternity.
And so they passed, shooting stars through their own unseen galaxies,
Voyagers on a paper ship, embracing a dream, an illusion they could live with.