Snuggled up in my words
I wait for the turbulent el ñino.
Tides are calm indicates my logbook.
The equinoxes are still uncertain .
I'm sending a mayday into the depths...
The ink of my ambiguities sailing
through the doldrums...
Shipwrecked storie for gentle dolphins ,
love torn assunder by coral daggers...
I am a penniless poet who will not
boarding the Titanic !
I'll stay on the pier while I wait
for a large white bird which set me down
on the slopes of a volcano, angry at me
for daring to defy it !
But this is merely the molten mass inspired by
chaotic landscapes and bipolar climates...
There are no set hours for the sailor at the heem
of the ship of fools ...
'' Let's have a glass of rum to Madame la Mort ! ''
I would survive in the memory of the old buccanneer,
inititiated into the mysteries of the heartless compass
that points only to misfortune ...
The yellow submarine crushed into the abysses
of the tropic of cancer .
We've lost track of Lennon somewhere between
Abbey road and the dock side of the moon .
Admirable Nelson is still rusting away on his pillar .
And we haven't heard from Nessy since
the 66 world cup ...
One day , the killer wave will surge
from the steep cliffs of my imagination .
My soul lacerate on the reefs of the sacred insomnia.
Controlled drift that plays the dream of the waves...
I'm leaving my bitter poetry on the ocean ,
scripture knows which way the wind blows.
I am the survivor who sculpts the skin of the storm...
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Author:
lorenz (Pseudonym) (
Online) - Published: June 4th, 2026 11:01
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 10
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange
Online)
Comments4
an engaging write my friend, much enjoyed
The key is not to get lost in the doldrums !
thats very true, a much enjoyed read
Before us unfolds a chronicle of catastrophe, yet one written with the soul-chilling calm of an observer. It is the journal of a man sitting within the storm as if enclosed in a glass cube, studying the geometry of lightning and recording every movement of the surrounding chaos. There is something here that speaks of the absolute autonomy of the human spirit.
The art of poetry consists in sculpting the matter of chaos !
Have you checked the octopus garden
I'd like to be under the sea
in an octopus's garden...
Lorenz, this reminds me of those late-night thoughts where one idea tumbles into another with no concern for borders or chronology. History, music, myth, weather, and personal reflection all end up sharing the same deck. I found myself happily carried along by the current. Great job on this, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
The survivor is not the one who escapes the storm, but the one who learns to shape their own image in the darkness of the storm.
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