Damaged Staunch
A route you 'll live close to far - equinox doldrum;
complete it was, some flaws in, tangible to revive
moments when my coastal ports stare of me, upon
my knots link to northern parallels, light of dawn,
(how could you be with me upon, a ghostly dawn?)
My dimmer of a Southern Cross, a damaged staunch;
imperious, an ideal route, moorings within stars,
we pilot in strange ports, Sete Cari, Bacau, Aden
Horizon of misty cutter fog, we to repair a rudder
(a blow of eery, ghostly wind, danger of half-tides)
Rains, embraced adjoining, you of a picture still,
my flag's domain persecutes, mail, my post arrives,
absently you - yet absolute, as all my life's tinder,
A gift of your trajectory, an odd caress to abide,
(shallows hide dangers, tidal washed rock's side..)
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Forty Two Lost Seagulls
I cud coffee beans bitter,
atop the cutter steersman,
pale dusk, sets to skitter,
our trip to far began.
Our engines thrum sadden,
Africa's coastal to alargo,
round is the moon on Aden,
upon coffee sacks of cargo.
A dreadful equilateral link,
that persecutes your time,
when ghostly shadows sink,
like monsters in odd rhyme.
Upon the deck are dancing,
the wraiths of three fools,
with broken smiles gunning,
galleys of medieval ghouls;
and forty two lost seagulls,
astray from Bacau's shore,
change odd flights to regal,
upon our non caressed chore.
Four of lost sunken friends,
singing hoarse calls blither,
they gallivant from depths,
upon a frail reality dither.
The Madonna beside my berth
reminds me of your prayer,
twas next to our home hearth,
closer to my route of never.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Floating Brim
An eerie song spelled by the auster,
but no one, must listen to the gusts
we receive on our cargo's pilot cutter
as we sheer off, to a nightly cussed.
The wind sings this divergent song,
with a conceived vision to whisper,
upon the pilot cutter, sailing along
Atlantic, as we stare at the big dipper.
On long route, attention sharpens,
with our steersman's whistling song,
heard in a liquor bar in Antwerpen
but he was not so lucky or strong.
A quarrel and a flashing blade, drawn
just for a solitude's question spend,
on Ocean wondering his soul 's upon,
in the winds, a harmonica will blend.
A ghostly port to stop, at Cape Coast,
a shinning and all was a dim past,
an end aghast, a thorny crowned post
to visit my sleep, for I remained last.
Our cargo slowly cuts on a bluish drape,
our diesels hum a besetting rhythm
in mists, as we envision a dark gate
that opens to engulf our floating brim.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Brass lantern lights
So egregious of a western datum to command
of this travel and conquer new, unknown lands,
what an effusive cause of my tidal obsequies,
my galley had taken an imperious route west.
Nomad women named of this, a ghostly route,
nobody had survived to report, or preached,
on new lands that no one before placed his foot,
my monkey shrieks at this analogy bewitched.
I spoke to the steersman to be aware of stars,
that shine south, beyond the parallel of N.27,
because their luminance is evident of storms,
and of the morning rainbow that brings tempest.
Brass lantern lights illuminate to a nowhere,
around the steadfast an immense void to dismiss,
lonely serenity embraces a dim fear, as we stare,
because dark monsters will emerge of the Abyss.
We have a Crucifix to talk to, He maybe listens;
my ancestors were sailors, got lost in deepest sea,
As we bear away, my bitter mouth is curving down,
all we edge to pay a coin, for a darkened grave fee.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Quarta Maria
Quarta Maria bears up round,
favored route before Gregale,
helm a-weather to surround,
concaving head and main sail.
Bearing west, for four days,
a-steady course at two-thirty,
she goes large on mile chase,
foremast curves full and sturdy.
Sails apt away closing to wind,
for not striking an opposing sea,
with square sail, routes winged,
Quarta Maria, Gregale nestle.
Ghost steersman upon rudder
a drunk crew upon dead water,
hoarse voices in dark shudder,
bearded fools in ocean, totter.
A ghostly route, for four days,
sails in solitude away forever,
comradely lost crew in craze,
able is the pilot in bad weather.
Gregale blows in gale frantic,
for four years, route to void,
adytum vastness this Atlantic,
drunk ghosts, on links to avoid.
For four centuries on link arcane,
aright working masts and ropes,
beholden to the Queen of Spain,
Quarta Maria's nautilus hope.
________________________
Gregale = North East wind
two thirty = at 230 degrees -
sailing west and slightly south
________________________
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Northern Wind
There is a wind, my billy, and its awful strong
Come for you, and anyone whos helped you along.
But I want to live, live, live and let the stars shine bright
Yes, I want to live, live, live and let it on alright
And when that bird sings from over that silver wall
I dont want to fight it, billy, cause I want to go
Theres a northern wind, billy, blowin up a southern change
And a northern wind really makin me feel kinda strange
Theres a northern wind, billy, blowin up a southern change
And a northern wind really makin me feel kinda strange
And with this gun goes everything I want to say
Not for you, but for anyone who takes it away
Let it fill his life, life, life until theres nothing left
Let it kill his wife, wife, wife until he goes to bed
And when that bird sings from over that silver wall
I dont want to fight it, billy, cause I want to go
Theres a northern wind, billy, blowin up a southern change
And a northern wind really makin me feel kinda strange
Theres a northern wind, billy, blowin up a southern change
And a northern wind really makin me feel kinda strange
song performed by by Cat Stevens
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Bunyip
Oh, came you up by the place of dread
(west red, and the moon low down)
where no winds blow and the birds have fled
and the gum stands dead and its arms gleam white,
and the tribe sneak by with a stealthy tread
in the ghostly light,in the ghostly light.
Brave Worraland went one grey nightfall
(A woi! woi!) where the grim rocks frown;
he came no more to the camps at all
(Skies dark, and the moon low down).
As we came up by the gully side
(Deep dusk, and the moon low down)
A Dingo whined and a Curlew cried
and the reeds replied as in hushed affright
where tall brae Worraland screamed and died
in the ghostly light, in the ghostly light.
For the Thing lurks there in the haunted place
(A woi! woi!) where the pool is brown,
where lost ones vanish and leave no trace
(Day dead, and the moon low down).
Of, go not by near the bunyip's lair
(Stars dim, and the moon low down)
or tip-toe past and beware, beware
the dark pool snare and be set for flight,
for things of terror have happened there
in the ghostly light, in the ghostly light
and in the gunyas we crouch and hark
(A woi! woi!) where the dead men drown
The monster's bellow across the dark
(Stars gone, and the moon low down).
poem by James Martin Devaney
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Sheffield knife
On equinox coastal unguarded brims,
forever far spent beacon's life,
small imperfection, a riddance still,
moon-flash on a Sheffield knife.
I hear his voices in this mauve dawn,
a resolution of his life's altruism,
the images he left before gone,
of odd Styx rife adventism..
One instant of hypothesis his glance,
a tragic wilt, distance of stare,
it was a never equation to solve,
a wine's spill, dim marquee of despair.
I 'll go away from that coastal of Aden,
assuming earth will be mine,
Sunday's sweet, mane of a maiden's mist
and a recall of a wilted sign..
An image of a kid in Sundays feasts,
with my voice of our friendship's skies,
of those that escaped in high mists,
sad advent will be, our shipmate's eyes.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Insomnia I
Some nights it's bound to be your best way out,
When nightmare is the short end of the stick,
When sleep is a part of town where it's not safe
To walk at night, when waking is the only way
You have of distancing your wretched dead,
A growing crowd, and escaping out of their
Time into yours for another little while;
Then pass ghostly, a planet in the house
Never observed, among the sleeping rooms
Where children dream themselves, and thence go down
Into the empty domain where daylight reigned;
Reward yourself with drink and a book to read,
A mystery, for its elusive gift
Of reassurance against the hour of death.
Order your heart about: Stop doing that!
And get the world to be secular again.
Then, when you know who done it, turn out the light,
And quietly in darkness, in moonlight, or snowlight
Reflective, listen to the whistling earth
In its backspin trajectory around the sun
That makes the planets sometimes retrograde
And brings the cold forgiveness of the dawn
Whose light extinguishes all stars but one.
poem by Howard Nemerov
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Ports-of-call
Written by gerry beckley and dewey bunnell, 1994
Found on hourglass.
I cant help thinkin as those ships sail away
What sirens beckon and call
How long at sea this time how long between
The ports-of-call, ports-of-call
Under the bridge they move to far off lands
Maybe australia or north african sands
Complete the mission, supply and demand
To ports-of-call, ports-of-call
And everyday as the sun is setting
Along the bay city lights appear
Snake charmers sway while the smoke is rising
Time is growing near
When theyll be casting off anchor as they sail away
Into the morning light
Rising and falling thru the blue and gray
To ports-of-call, ports-of-call
And everyday as the sun is setting
Along the bay city lights appear
Snake charmers sway while the smoke is rising
Time is growing near
And everyday as the sun is setting
Along the bay city lights appear
Snake charmers sway while the smoke is rising
Time is growing near
Ill take the chance this time to change my world (change my world)
And break those ties that bind (ties that bind)
Far from those people passing through my life
Like ports-of-call, ports-of-call
Under the bridge Ill move to far off lands (far off lands)
Maybe australia or north african sands (north african sands)
Complete my mission, hope you understand
Ports-of-call, ports-of-call
Ports-of-call, ports-of-call
Ports-of-call, ports-of-call ...
song performed by by America
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Swept Idea
Beatitude whelmed is visiting my esteem,
to coincide with my remorse, and dream,
and there, as my unguarded pride rings,
another solitude to invent on lost sea links.
A shudder from the northern blow travels,
an antidote to my soul's solitude unravels
kills silent worlds where my failures hide
pushes my suspicion of a dim hope aside.
On dark roads my enthalpy is a dull emitter,
a fly in skies of a sole try, my altimeter,
your memory recounts, my fervor of cauma,
a knock on my tearing wound and trauma..
And still.. Today's dream is one more code,
that laughs as only one visitor will approach,
a wind carries last year in his cold embrace
my one attempt will wipe off, a sand trace.
The wind cries; it passes my soul's burden,
a message dim never read, call of a maiden,
that invites stranded souls of lost wars,
to wait on Heaven roads where ether soars.
A swept idea of a smile and another of tear,
her ghostly upwardly turned hands and stare,
guide my senses and my route towards tides,
where I felt her to wait for me inside Hades.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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The Ghostly Ship (Fantasy)-Triquatrain Poem
In the blue sky height, the red strange sun’s waves of light
Rend here and there the painful horizon making it to be mobile.
Touching the Southern Bight, they seem to reach the night,
Making the sea to be more empowered and more ennoble.
The sea waves transgress, the diaphanous moonlight is in a mess
And cannot displace the waves of the painful horizon in universe.
The moon's whispers, nevertheless, can touch the sea with finesse.
The stars are sky's tears, their light is really true in reverse.
At the horizon's frontiers, from another life, a ship appears
To reach the ghostlike moonlit memories on the shoreline.
The past sinks its fears into the inaudible music of the spheres.
We're on that illusory ghostly ship and you are forever mine.
poem by Marieta Maglas
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Wanted Soul
A broken glass allows light
cuts my solitude in half
ways search to find a bight
and asks for your away laugh.
Humble light, and evanescent
was my destiny to count upon
a failure? Maenads demented
enfold me in a travel I conn.
Wanted man by ghostly blithe
I loved her! there she imbues
counts my petals and a scythe
sepia shades monotonous hues.
Wanted man, of ghostly dawns
with you not there! I string
gallivant song that mourns
designs lost, poems to sting.
forms dim that dance and lilt
lanterns that half hide dark
river of sorrow deposits silt
tears to sting, as souls lark
Wanted soul, to travel across
a slender ghost, and lissome
Was it a gift, a golden cross
and your benign smile dystome.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Ghostly Man
Ghostly man
Look at my Life
I can see thru and thru
Ghostly man
You're alot like me...
And you...
Pale grey heart
full of wisps of love
Oh, Ghostly man
What reason do...
Pale in sight
Hollow, Hollow, vision
Do you haunt my way
Ghostly man
poem by Midnights Voice
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Hawker, the Standard Bearer
The grey gull sat on a floating whale,
On a floating whale sat he,
And he told his tale of the storm and the gale,
And the ships that he saw with steam and sail,
As he flew by the Northern Sea.
"I have seen a sign that is strange and new,
That I never before did see:
A flying ship that roared as it flew,
The storm and the tempest driving through,
It carried a flag and it carried a crew,
Now what would that be?" said he.
"And the flag was a Jack with stars displayed,
A flag that is new to me;
For it does not ply in the Northern trade,
But it drove through the storm-wrack unafraid,
Now, what is that flag?" said he.
"I have seen that flag that is starred with white,"
Said a southern gull, said he,
"And saw it fly in a bloody fight,
When the raider Emden turned in flight,
And crashed on the Cocos lee."
"And who are these folk whose flag is first
Of all the flags that fly
To dare the storm and the fog accurst,
Of the great North Sea where the bergs are nursed,
And the Northern Lights ride high?"
"The Australian folk," said a lone sea-mew,
"The Australian flag," said he.
"It is strange that a folk that is far and few
Should fly their flag where there never flew
Another flag!" said he.
"I have followed their flag in the fields of France,
With its white stars flying free,
And no misfortune and no mischance
Could turn them back from their line of advance,
Or the line that they held," said he.
"Whenever there's ever rule to break,
Wherever they oughtn't to be,
With a death to dare and a risk to take,
A track to find or a way to make,
You will find them there," said he.
"They come from a land that is parched with thirst,
An inland land," said he,
"On risk and danger their breed is nursed,
And thus it happens their flag is first
To fly in the Northern Sea."
"Though Hawker perished, he overcame
The risks of the storm and the sea,
And his name shall be written in stars of flame,
On the topmost walls of the Temple of Fame,
For the rest of the world to see."
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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The Deep Sea
Enormous dreams as ghosts on horizon
soul in troubled waters
without the sails and a broken rudder.
New Moon guides with twinkling stars.
a Mermaid's song en route the passage
and gives strength to survive.
Lighthouse is unlit
and the Love country is not visible yet.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Falsity of care
Seamen know ports, where old ships,
gather, upon completing a trip,
dim specked liquor bars, weathered
sea-men chew on tobacco sticks;
Strange women await, a prepaid love
reaches almost an expiration of this end,
every time, for every started crime,
and every pre adorned preserved dime.
Christened by nautilus. Whichever name
accustoms needs, ghostly mortised
new forms of every dusk, sea-men, turn-in
in blue coats, burnished bronze buttons.
They drink false-liquor. Not of a choice,
but of a rueful condemnation plea,
smoke; laughing as crying, a hoarse cackle,
a dormant envy of an abstract embrace.
Latent trust, and longing. No one links
so far, mud of a rain on the walk
Gimballs of compasses non-fixed, mental,
fake trust extorted traumas, extolled.
In a adjoining moment of grievance, all,
will talk about adventures, acquaint
of lands, of ghosts, an alliteration,
of lonely timed unfurled touches strange.
Better enter of never, invited in, by every
darkened touch. Controlled by need
for such, or trust. Never to attain. An even
vain of your soul to cry or explain.
Sea-men roll a hand made thick smoke,
large, like black-board white chalks
solely because the cigarettes remind them
of a alone blinking faraway lighthouse;
one buckled souls failed to pass. Every one
has a death toll to even trus, you see,
a soul of odd ports, in causes of failure
has an even just cause to a falsity of care,
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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An Aurora Borealis
O STRANGE soft gleam, o ghostly dawn
That never brightens unto day;
Ere earth's mirk pale once more be drawn
Let us look out beyond the gray.
It is just midnight by the clock--
There is no sound on glen or hill,
The moaning linn adown its rock
Leaps, but the woods lie dark and still.
Austere against the kindling sky
Yon broken turret blacker grows;
Harsh light, to show remorselessly
Ruins night hid in kind repose!
Nay, beauteous light, nay, light that fills
The whole heaven like a dream of morn,
As waking upon northern hills
She smiles to find herself new-born,--
Strange light, I know thou wilt not stay,
That many an hour must come and go
Before the pale November day
Break in the east, forlorn and slow.
Yet blest one gleam--one gleam like this,
When all heaven brightens in our sight,
And the long night that was and is
And shall be, vanishes in light:
O blest one hour like this! to rise
And see grief's shadows backward roll;
While bursts on unaccustomed eyes
The glad Aurora of the soul.
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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Flying Dutchman
Old lady with a barrow; life near ending
Standing by the harbour wall; warm wishes sending
Children on the cold sea swell ---
Not fishers of men ---
Gone to chase away the last herring:
Come empty home again.
So come all you lovers of the good life
On your supermarket run ---
Set a sail of your own devising
And be there when the dutchman comes.
Wee girl in a straw hat: from far east warring
Sad cargo of an old ship: young bodies whoring
Slow ocean hobo --- ports closed to her crew
No hope of immigration --- keep on passing through.
So come all you lovers of the good life
Your children playing in the sun ---
Set a sympathetic flag a-flying
And be there when the dutchman comes.
Death grinning like a scarecrow --- flying dutchman
Seagull pilots flown from nowhere --- try and touch one
As she slips in on the full tide
And the harbour-master yells
All hands vanished with the captain ---
No one left, the tale to tell.
So come all you lovers of the good life
Look around you, can you see?
Staring ghostly in the mirror ---
Its the dutchman you will be
..floating slowly out to sea
In a misty misery.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Evening
When little lights in little ports come out,
Quivering down through water with the stars,
And all the fishing fleet of slender spars
Range at their moorings, veer with tide about;
When race of wind is stilled and sails are furled,
And underneath our single riding-light
The curve of black-ribbed deck gleams palely white,
And slumbrous waters pool a slumbrous world;
--Then, and then only, have I thought how sweet
Old age might sink upon a windy youth,
Quiet beneath the riding-light of truth,
Weathered through storms, and gracious in retreat.
poem by Victoria Sackville-West
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Seas closed above
We left Thule's icy moorings, three days ago,
13 hundred miles SW of Greenland, regards
from cumuli down on side-scuttles the snow,
memory of your figure still, amid dockyards..
Daffodil blossoms, bloom today, in my yard,
my goals will meet my end in voids dimension,
a ghostly sonar blinks, our entreats en guard,
of no warm recounting, January of ascension.
January, day twenty one, a latent still embrace,
A flash of Centauri, bad weather, fromward aft
our beckoning to you, fog's horizontal trace,
Maenads of us inherited, envious of this path.
Recall our summer of eighteen, a twinge within,
my soul's obtusion golden cross, I tightly clench,
our dreams on nimbus are, you, my Naiad kin,
dum dum, diesels oddly hum, and decks drench.
The stars of south shined eery-like, so, I knew,
from arctic we away edged, upon deathly links,
at 63 N,30 W, our twilight souls withdrew,
our cargo sided the wind oblong, and final brinks.
January 't was, 'n' we immersed to Triton forts,
it was your smile a sea gull's flight in our cove,
it was a sweetest rain of afternoon, a dim deport,
felt of your glance as foreign seas, closed above..
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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