Drowning the Sea
My walls shudder and the persiennes rustled
Whispering secrets to each other
And tingling my curiosity
To open the portmanteaux
Where I have stashed the tides
With surges I cannot defeat
But I would not let myself deplete
Into the seductions of the ocean
And her airborne secrets
Your tides, they were pristine and feral
And I had pleasured myself
From the delusive consoles
Catching it in my palms
Like a paramour's hand
In spite of the saltiness of your fingers
That would detour from my frantic clasp
Filleting my hopes, every time
Until I gladly drown with all that I have
In your sympathy
That I have taken erroneously
Everything sank
I am dead-beaten and sea-sick
With the drifting consoles
Of the voracious sea
Because at these times
Where the gears of the clock collapses
And does not seize each other
I am drawn to reckon
And probe for honesty
In the vertigo of surrender
And I grew sterner by the helm
Taking the mistral gale
As an endless beating
With the mistral blades
Of different shades
Like tonight, for instance
The cordial yuletide hue
Is ballasted by my veracity
As another vacant holiday
In a vacant banquet
Of vacant platters
Indeed, this is how I grew sterner;
Surging the breaking waves
With a sea-sick stomach
An overwhelming surf
Over the slopes of skepticism
Until the undulation settles
And the sea drowns
Into a numbed state and
The waves and the gusts
Would be driven back to the shore
And I shall attend
The pangs of a vacant holiday
And that, I do prefer,
For it is not inflicted
By my own flimsy hands
And I would not be shaken
By the whispers and the rustles
Inside the bolted portmanteaux.
poem by Norman Santos
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Related quotes
Vacant Space
this is the vacant space
of my room, you may come
this is the vacant hour
you may barge and talk simply talk
this is the vacant lot of my being
you may build your home
this is vacant
fill it with space, drag your hours here,
start watering the roses in your garden
beside your house
this is a vacant hole in my ear
talk simply talk
i am always listening
this is my vacant line, please fill in the missing
word
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Vacant Smile
A vacant smile on someone’s lips,
someone I thought I used to know
from a yesterday a long time ago.
A life I wanted with,
but remained as vacant as the smile.
A future never realised,
as the years grow old.
A vacant smile a memory perhaps
of a time long ago that has now lapsed.
7 August 2009
poem by David Harris
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Vacant And Alone
They all go into the dark
The sea lifts and falls
The moon goes on
And the vacant go into the vacant
Shelley wrote:
'Poetry lifts the veil
From the hidden beauty of the world
And makes familiar objects be
As if they were not familiar'
So I pick up my pen and write
Sometimes well, sometimes not
But always well intended
And the veil lifts
But then somethin' turns
Sometimes of a sudden
Sometimes gradually
And I go into the dark
Perhaps a song, or a word
Or a memory, or a picture
Or a dream, or a feelin'
Brings you back
And I know you are gone
And you are not comin' back
And I am vacant
And alone
poem by MacGregor Tagliaferro
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Alone but not lonely
I see colors reflected in my vacant eyes
Like millions who have come before me,
I am alone
The days stretch out to years and still I see only reflections
They pass like vessels upon the open sea, into and out of safe harbors
Back to the nothingness of quiet or angry clouds
I am alone
Still - no one can catch my sail,
No wind can help me ride - I am alone
And in my apathy I find peace
I hold no secret, I seek no truth
I am alone
And when I am dead and my vacant eyes reflect no more
I will still be alone
poem by Carolyn RellingSurrisi
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Vacant
This room of my love is vacant and,
It is well swept waiting for you;
So you can be affected by it when you do visit.
When the economy becomes very bad,
We all compare the prices of items before buying;
And like the wedding dresses sold around us,
But the room of my love is very vacant.
Of small sizes and big sizes,
Water me with your love is you can;
Because this room is vacant and,
I am waiting for your love.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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For Sybella
In the blind corner of a slope
Mellifluously painted by her lips
And the crow claws clinging
Into the vividness of her orbits
Was a clandestine damsel
With lithe hands that dangles
Lifelessly for a valiant knight
To fill in the vacant spaces
Of the latticing jocund events
And the silence spoke of so many things
Like the yawning of her ocean's tides
Calling in an esoteric plea
For somebody to arrive naked
From a face, a name,
A myriad of promises,
But a soul made of amber and warmth
Holding a key to the ethereal
Impasse of consistent forever.
In the corners of her rooms,
Weaving a blanket with yarns
To fondle and embrace
The crying maudlin in the nights
Of vying for the rise of the sun
Ornately entangling the strings
And it pulled back to ail
Tightly in her skin of snow
Melting in the ubiquitous summer
But never losing its mistral curse,
Extemporizing gaiety and anguish
To people with cellars for ears
And thieves for hearts
Touching the emptiness
From the belly to the heart
And gorging it with abandonment,
Fueling resentment.
Sybella, the lady of secrets
Have you heard the sun singing
For the warm flight of canaries?
Is it futile?
Do not fall in blind rile.
poem by Norman Santos
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My Own Sea
As the wind of peace blew my stormy clouds away,
I could see a hint of sunshine peering over the trees,
It swept through the bluest sea and brought happiness to me.
My own sea brushes away your doubts when you touch it,
My own sea washes along your heart and soul,
It creates high tides to protect you and it calms down to sooth you.
My sea is a sea of loyalty and harmony,
My sea is a sea of kindness and honesty,
My sea is a sea of determination and long haunted paths,
A sea of rocky waves and crashing tides,
On shore I hide my secrets and wishes,
But when the red light of summer sun sets behind my turquoised
kingdom,
I could float beneath the blue silent world and explore my own
mystical realm,
A maiden of the waves.
poem by Mimi Fakhira
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The Refugees
In the shabby train no seat is vacant.
The child in the ripped mask
Sprawls undisturbed in the waste
Of the smashed compartment. Is their calm extravagant?
They had faces and lives like you. What was it they possessed
That they were willing to trade for this?
The dried blood sparkles along the mask
Of the child who yesterday possessed
A country welcomer than this.
Did he? All night into the waste
The train moves silently. The faces are vacant.
Have none of them found the cost extravagant?
How could they? They gave what they possessed.
Here all the purses are vacant.
And what else could satisfy the extravagant
Tears and wish of the child but this?
Impose its canceling terrible mask
On the days and faces and lives they waste?
What else are their lives but a journey to the vacant
Satisfaction of death? And the mask
They wear tonight through their waste
Is death's rehearsal. Is it really extravagant
To read in their faces: What is there we possessed
That we were unwilling to trade for this?
poem by Randall Jarrell
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Vacant Chambers and Cigarettes
The Gods have spoken
Of what I am, was, and shall
In a telegram of impious sighs
Marauding an open door
That I had left ajar with my eyes
Always sleuthing in askance
For a serenading knock,
And the castigators
Riding the yuletide wind and cars
Revved a gyrating silence
Of a lamented psyche
That I have naught but
Black lips made of cinder and derision
Engulfed by a daft genocide
And my chest hangs on a scaffold
Whilst the sun sprawled in recumbence
When the clock divulged
The barren quarters
In the teeming alleys,
The unrequited eyes
Amongst the adamantine
Petals of a blossoming asphodel
The empty hands,
Amidst the bountiful grains
Of time and its subterfuges,
The quavering lips
That had never talked to anyone
But fated to kiss the rings
Of the vacant chambers
In these squandering cigarettes
And as I wait for a key
That lingers on the billowing air
Palmed by infinitesimal humming birds
A colossus mauling in the small of my frame
Undraped to be a heartless beating
And until one stepped into the trellis
Close enough to the gaping antechamber
Of my vacant city
I shall shed a salty sea
In the pseudo-heavens mantling above.
poem by Norman Santos
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Depression
Oh horid ways of emotions.
All actions tryed are of no use.
All actions acted are usless.
No matter the action its all in vain.
I cant go anywhere
Running is usless and of no point.
I cant go no where.
Even if the option were open.
Oh depression horrible depression
Hold me back ever more
Pin me down with the force of your grace.
Depression my one true friend.
A sad dark and lonely place.
Sit upon the walls.
Its so sad and vacant.
Vacant like my happy days.
Depression takes me
More and more each day.
Feeding on my sadness.
This is an everelasting scar
A scar not to heal
A scar not to mend.
It will bring me to my end
poem by Amy Louise Kerswell
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A Woman's Surrender
Down down there
Deep deep in the hidden recesses
There lies a little space
Vacant and welcoming…
That’s where she resides!
And when she submits herself
To him, who fills that vacant space
Willingly does she forgo
All that she once believed in
And when she submits herself
She’s not mere body
All that’s buried in the niches
Of the subconscious
Come to the fore for
A willing surrender
And when she submits herself
She willingly reduces herself
To a blissful point of death
Only to be reborn in his hands
To rebuild a life for him and her
A woman does rarely submit herself
And when she does,
Every nth part of her self
And her world is surrendered
To him, alone!
10mar2010
15.01hrs
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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Like Scraped Up Dust to Save
1-2-3 and,
Put-your-dollars-in-your wallet,
And pretend its vacant paper!
Like scraped up dust to save.
And...
Put-your-dollars-in-your wallet,
And pretend its vacant paper.
To e-vap-orate like vapor.
And...
Put-your-dollars-in-your wallet,
And pretend its vacant paper.
No-longer-to-savored.
To 'trip' on treasured capers.
And...
Put-your-dollars-in-your wallet,
And pretend its vacant paper!
That's all it's worth today!
And...
Put-your-dollars-in-your wallet,
And pretend its vacant paper!
Like scraped up dust to save!
1-2-3,
Like scraped up dust to save!
And...
1-2-3,
Like scraped up dust to save!
And...
1-2-3,
Like scraped up dust to save!
And...
1-2-3,
Like scraped up dust to save!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Throne
I stood amidst a thousand place
In a single shifting of a day
My legs ached, my knees throbbed -
In malcontent and bereavement
And my salient stance cringed confounding
To muse on too many places in one glance;
In the hollow vestibule of churches,
The putrid cushion in a bus,
The noisy creaking chair in a class,
The rocking chair swinging for decadence,
The lavish divan in a parlor,
The Victorian craft in a banquet,
The eiderdown in a perforated cloud;
All were impressed by presences
Because to matter, you occupy space
And weigh it down with your grace
Whilst I stood amongst seated legs
Crossed and folded in security
Married to a vacant throne
Assembled by my agog hands,
Lacquered by the hands of time
And weighed by the colossal
Absence of a queen
Because to live you have to give life
So I stand here, waiting hopefully
For someone to take this open hand
Of this vacant throne betrothed to
The myriad reasons to doubt
To have and have not hope
So I stood amidst the blaring crowd
Faster and fastidious than a rose
Taking it slowly, unraveling the eternity
Of waiting and the artistry
Of never effacing the neutral poise.
poem by Norman Santos
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(Japan) Out Of The Sea
Tides, wind, and shaking quakes
I cried for hours when the waves
Crashed in, into them
Who gave us the Tamagotchi
And gave us everything cute
But nature knows nothing
But they are proud and ready
Pull out of the sea. Don’t drown!
You’ll rise again without a doubt
The waters that have covered the land
Have led so many to lend a hand
And you’ll rise out of the sea
Just like Godzilla or a proud creature
Out of the ocean you will rise
And fight to survive another century
Words of sorrow and tears of pain
The quake destroyed everything
And the water washed it away from you
But to dropp dead and give up is a crime
So swim out of the sea from under the ruin
Don't let your ancestors feel any shame
They felt Hiroshima and rebuilt for you
Don't drown, because there’s been worse
Right out of the sea you’ll pull out
So many dead and counting
In time that will be nothing
Those left will carry the memory
And each of them live on
So pull out of the sea, rise again
Tides and waves won’t ever understand
But you know what to do
Nobody dared to loot
Pull out of the sea like a proud beast
poem by German Alcala
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sick of Being Sick
I’m sick of being rejected;
I’m sick of being emotionally neglected;
I’m sick of crying so many tears;
I’m sick of running away from my fears;
I’m sick of my childhood nightmares;
I’m sick of being told to do those stupid dares;
I’m sick of not having friends;
I’m sick of all these dead ends;
I’m sick of myself for what I’ve become;
I’m sick of feeling oh so numb;
I’m sick of watching myself drown;
I’m sick of my heart falling to the ground;
I’m sick of this life;
I’m sick of this everyday strife;
I’m sick of not having a dad;
I’m sick of getting mad;
I’m sick of my childhood past;
I’m sick of being harassed;
I’m sick of the dread;
I’m sick of wanting to be dead;
I’m sick of being the one who’s always so strong;
I’m sick of being somebody that doesn’t belong! !
poem by Shelby Brockway
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In Margate
The curtains in the bedroom
are drawn close
and you lie
in semi-darkness.
Through the open window
I can smell the sea
and hear waves breaking
beyond the road.
The wind pulls at the curtains
and every now and then
the white beach
and the blue ocean peeps in.
We came to Margate
for a holiday at the sea
to bathe is shallow waters
to swim with the surf,
to have some fun
and tan in the hot sun,
but darkness hangs
like a shroud over you
while the white beach,
the bright blue sky
and the dark blue ocean waits
on us to come.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Pleas of a Claymore II
Have you ever seen a saber?
Took so much beating
In a plethora of derision
As the hands pounded his convictions
Against the feral adversary
Of his stale conqueror,
Lackadaisical and crestfallen
But still fawning in a lash back
To find the elusive direst
Of his tethering fate,
And his silver blood spilled
And scintillated in stellar
Like the mistral tears of a maiden.
And some people esteemed it
Musing in avarice for the clout
That this claymore possessed
Despite of the scarred visage
Or perhaps, because of the incisions
And they would lather the lacquer
Of his chipped and dying blades
To thaw the poignancy
And bend him down to his knees
Rasping upon the stance
Of defensive resistance.
The surrender of a saber
Would stab his own soul
And the hero inside
And his parched tragedies
Would whittle and fritter away
Into the very zenith of cusps
To become a despondent weapon
In the final incarnation of a claymore
But the hands forget
Or sometimes do not care
What the saber was
And seize him in their cradles
Fervently seeking bloodshed
In favor of their legendary conquest.
Have you ever seen a saber?
Malleable with a sole graze
As the hands guided itself
Down his glacial crassness
Reckoning the beatings
In the crevasses of his edges
Ravening upon the triumphs
That the saber gave them
And in spite of the disease
The saber would plead
To be held once again
And take the brunt and blames.
And when the hero bequeaths
The glory of his subsistence
Coming clean and pristine
While the downtrodden friend
Smother in the draping
Of the chrysalis in his scabbard
The claymore would plead
In profound reiteration
To be held once again;
Have you ever heard the hilt of a saber
Call for euthanasia?
poem by Norman Santos
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State of Emergency
Vacant minds.
Fat behinds.
Gossiped innuendos,
As rampant as crime...
Defining today's times!
Pesty racists.
Bigotry freed.
Bleeding done by everyone,
To spread fed philosophies.
It's a state of emergency,
Declared, announced and condoned!
A state of emergency inflicted on humanity.
Forget about peace!
There is none on the horizon...
Whether sunrise or sunset shown!
Vacant minds.
Fat behinds.
Gossiped innuendos,
As rampant as crime...
Defining today's times!
Pesty racists.
Bigotry freed.
Bleeding done by everyone,
To spread fed philosophies.
It's a state of emergency,
Declared, announced and condoned!
A state of emergency inflicted on humanity.
Forget about peace!
There is none on the horizon...
Whether sunrise or sunset shown!
'Shelter anyone? '
Jokes like these should be left alone!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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In The Prison Pen
1864
Listless he eyes the palisades
And sentries in the glare;
'Tis barren as a pelican-beach
But his world is ended there.
Nothing to do; and vacant hands
Bring on the idiot-pain;
He tries to think--to recollect,
But the blur is on his brain.
Around him swarm the plaining ghosts
Like those on Virgil's shore--
A wilderness of faces dim,
And pale ones gashed and hoar.
A smiting sun. No shed, no tree;
He totters to his lair--
A den that sick hands dug in earth
Ere famine wasted there,
Or, dropping in his place, he swoons,
Walled in by throngs that press,
Till forth from the throngs they bear
him dead--
Dead in his meagreness.
poem by Herman Melville
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People Who Live
People who live by the sea
understand eternity.
They copy the curves of the waves,
their hearts beat with the tides,
& the saltiness of their blood
corresponds with the sea.
They know that the house of flesh
is only a sandcastle
built on the shore,
that skin breaks
under the waves
like sand under the soles
of the first walker on the beach
when the tide recedes.
Each of us walks there once,
watching the bubbles
rise up through the sand
like ascending souls,
tracing the line of the foam,
drawing our index fingers
along the horizon
pointing home.
poem by Erica Jong
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