Long Navigators Poems
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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.
Historically speaking, they forged restraints,
handcuffing themselves to other hard heads.
They built defunct railroads for the Indians
they dug ditches for the sun.
They were navigators of small schemes.
Their brief settlements and abrupt departures
left fuzzy lines on rodent paws.
As a family, we are distant and unknown,
but we do speak to our dead
if they come to call,
after a respectable period
of life-long disinterest.
Ash
Existence has turned into ash.
The day has become night;
There are no stars in the sky
And the chapel rings no sound at all.
Everything is sad in my world.
The haunting voice of the man with the scythe;
There is no light in these darkest of times.
No butterflies; only flies.
The train slowly rolls along the lines.
No people to be seen;
Is this all a bad dream?
Or a place where I have nowhere else to go?
I am left hopeless without my hope.
There is smoke in the air;
The smell sinks into my lungs.
No radio message; no song to be sung.
Just a requiem written on a wall;
Graffiti art spells out ‘A lifetime is so short.’
When I think of my time, just a second in creation;
Another second of life, a final second and then an ocean,
Where all is sinking away.
Everything is lost to never be seen again.
At the bottom of this ocean there are only bones,
Of those who sailed; they never made it home.
Princes and pirates;
Novices and navigators.
None know the answers;
Nobody to say see you later.
In the end all things they must go…
(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Form:
CALMING WAVING WRINKLED THOUGHTS
In the fog of the sea of mind,
Skiffing thoughts flow to and fro
On wrinkling waves frothing
To who knows where, as they
Ripple to be or not to be, echoes
Of negativity, neutral, or whatever:-
In the mental sky’s hovering of all of this,
A flash of enlightening awareness reveals
The necessity of the need to test the rudder
Of these wandering, skiffing though, towards
The reality shores of waiting sands of positivity:-
Praise be to the Giver of divine wisdom,
In the midst of such shipwreck-like thoughts,
Where it becomes necessary to realize that
We are not only navigators of the sea of mind,
But also controllers of its mental flow skiffed
Wandering thoughts in need of divine guidance:-
As seen in nature, the flowing waters of life’s seas
Are not always waving calmness and collectiveness:-
Rather, they are sometimes watered-skinned with turmoil,
And are in need of divine climatic attention to settle down:-
Thus, whenever turbulent thoughts enter the sea of our minds,
Remember, in its nature, we must also control our mind’s climate:-
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.
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.
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.
The huge sky overseeing the emerald and bluish earth...
wouldn't be the only sky in our incredibly diverse Universe,
if limited sight weren't the obstacle to the awesome images that surprise couldn't conceal;
but many more galaxies hiding their splendid suns and planets,,
are still unknown and Man, overtaken by such a magnificence, expresses
himself in more atheistic ways not to compromise his own foolishness!
If we declare faith non-existent, cupidity can become our fetish...
filling us with more rampant pride to enforce its hypocritical seal!
More universes, like ours, lay dormant in their stillness,
" And will life be found on them? " is a question too inconclusive
that we can only answer by being so compellingly delusive;
more universes await the discoveries of the intelligent mind,
to lay out their awsomeness and beauty to discard the thought of finding life,
impelling us to preserve ours, not to destroy it by valiance or insanity!
Search history's events, are we capable of pursuing happiness...
without conquering and proclaiming our power with mighty armies?
In ancient days, they created unrealistic gods and goddesses...
not conceiving that the Supreme One wasn't a god in human form,
but rather the Invisible One, who often scolded them for their wickedness;
so in stone and marble they continued to sculpture divine faces
that the common people hailed and worshipped, and would they refuse
to obey their tyrant's wishes: their worthless lives would be taken...
and did Paul, the follower of Christ, go back to that cult so perverse?
We know, from the Holy Scriptures, he was converted and put down his sword...
More universes more magnificent than this one,
can be discovered and inhabited if they are livable;
and scientists are working hard along with astronauts to accomplish our dream,
and who isn't excited and show interest to take a voyage into the outer space?
Navigators ventured on perilous seas to attest that their concept was solid and real;
we, with more sophisticated computer science, are groped by the unthinkable!
Persuaded or not, discouraged or doubtful, researches must continue at our expense;
and what if we were successful, wouldn't everyone be taken by shock?
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
In the labyrinth of time, our hesitant steps sketch the path of the unknown,
Each moment, a drop of mystery trickling into the ocean of possibilities,
We are actors without a script in a play whose acts are written as we live,
The curtain of uncertainty rises slowly, revealing scenes that take our breath away.
Life, a dance on the tightrope stretched between past and future, the balance is fragile,
We breathe deeply the air imbued with the bittersweet aroma of waiting,
Each heartbeat is an echo of the question "what will follow?", unhindered,
We are leaves carried by the wind of change, floating towards the unknown.
The melancholy of suspense envelops us like a fine mist at dawn,
We wait with bated breath for the outcome of our unwritten story,
Each smile, each tear is a note in the symphony of the unpredictable,
We are the living poetry of the universe, verses composed with each moment.
In the mirror of the soul, our reflection trembles like water under a breeze,
We are the clay vessel shaped by the invisible hands of destiny,
Each day is a blank page on which life writes its secrets in invisible ink,
Suspense is the silk thread that binds the present to the yet unreached future.
We embrace the mystery of life like a dear friend, with open arms,
For in uncertainty, the most beautiful flowers of hope are born,
We are navigators on the turbulent sea of existence, our compass is curiosity,
And suspense is the wind that fills the sails of our ship towards unexplored horizons.
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!