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.
Polaris, Star of Ursa Minor
among her suns, you are chief shiner.
Commonly known as Pole or North Star
you guide navigators from afar.
Can you also lead and guide me
as She who led the Magi Three
to the Desire of all Ages
prophesied of by many sages.
Polaris, famous as the North Star
what a fit metaphor you are
of Jesus, the “Bright and Morning Star”
who leads and guides men from afar.
Fellow travelers, life’s wayfarers
Don’t be detoured by naysayers.
Jesus is the true Polaris,
He is the guide to get to know.
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.
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.
aquamarine seas
beyond those blue horizons
navigators dreams
5/ 8/ 2018.
Sailboat afloat on a journey of light
Seagulls take wing, navigators in flight
The sun is a timepiece, seconds in the sand
The clock tells no time, it's missing a hand
The wind is a dancer, to the rhythm it sways
As the waves become angry, looking for prey
The journey of light is now at an impasse
In a darkness so fragile it shatters like glass
"Anchors on strings, hanging from sails"
Lifeboat capsized by a humpback whale
On the waves of a nightmare in a sea of surreal
Dorsal fins circle, jaws needs a meal!
---
12/15/16
Making uneven faces as you sit displeased
Something unsweet has you sour
With adoration.I try to console
Beginning to hold, shockingly pushed away
What has become of us?
The navigators have become lost
This quest has changed us dramatically
The voice of hate
I've heard of late
Has sunk me down in terror
A crippled ship
I drift the depths
Of navigators error
Once bathed in light
I'm now undone
Left struggling in the dark
My memory turns
To days far gone
When the voice was of a lark
So tortured life
Now ends in strife
I gasp in vain for breath
Just left alone
Froze to the bone
I'm shaking myself to death.
©Rhumour 1974
The Lighthouse
Splash amidst plethora hullabaloo,
Dark skies reflecting illuminate,
Act beacons, vigilant navigators,
Mask lighthouse's glistening magnificence,
Guides marines, bewildered mystifying,
Roars rise , evanesce scintillation,
Deep ocean heritage disparages,
Waves erode abyssal operations !
Written September 24th, 2014
By Dr. Upma A. Sharma
For nette's contest 'The Lighthouse'
Wind-driven, deceptive, mysterious,
cries vixen's pulsating, debauchery
with haunting arias, mesmerizing!
The lighthouse, fearlessly, captivated,
by siren's symphonic orchestrations
shines brighter, exclaiming calamity!
She cautions vigilant navigators...
fog's mirage masquerades mortality!..
______________________________
Inspired by Nette's Contest: The Lighthouse
9/23/14 By Carrie Richards
The Smeaton Eddystone's architecture
First lighthouse protecting navigators
Light blinking, pulsating, luminously
Loud foghorn resounding resonantly
Guides shipwrecked mariners vigilantly
Or swarthy seafarers incessantly
On oceans perilous, tempestuous
A sailor’s salvation eternally
09~19~14
Jan Allison
Contest: The Lighthouse
Sponsor: Nette Onclaud
Form: Rhopalic verse
~awarded 1st place
I walk around in the
parks of Oslo
A bird scrapes
Ibsen’s ear with its
beak
The ash-colored
seagulls
Strut on the square
They resemble
unsightly hens
An ensemble from
South America
Plays music of the
Andes
With long violent
colored flutes
The summer night is
so generous
The day can’t fill
itself with
obscurity
For a long time
Here the greatest
paladins
Aren’t princes with
swords
But valiant scouting
navigators
Who gave other
dimensions to the
world.
Their unyielding
spirits
Are not in museums
They wander
unceasingly on the
fjords.
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
Beneath the swish of red dresses
Around the ballroom floor
Behind the leaden masks and
Secret dreams of floral scents
There is something with no center
No ceiling and no floor
A world of contact bounded by crossed strings
Pulling each dancer into the next spin
Catching every dip
But flooded with midnight water
That buoys and sinks
Leaving no one where they were before
Clustering strange people and partners
Bringing lives together only to be torn apart
Trapped in this chaotic web draped with dew
Even spiders are helpless navigators
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