Best Tugboat Poems
A tugboat needs a river;
A sailboat needs a sail.
In order to deliver,
A mailman needs some mail.
A baker needs an oven;
A bicycle needs wheels
And pets require lovin’
And a place to sleep and meals.
Plants need sun and water;
Children need fresh air.
Every son and daughter
Needs a mom or dad to care.
Feet need shoes or sandals;
Stores need lots of stuff.
Birthday cakes need candles;
Just to wish is not enough.
Schools require teachers
And kids who want to learn.
Movies showing features
Need their patrons to return.
I’d go on forever
If inclined to take the time
For I’ll jump at each endeavor
Which requires a little rhyme.
Other places have their charms,
Like oceans, mountains, forests, farms
And I can visit and admire
Why they match someone’s desire
Yet no matter where I roam,
The city is, for me, my home.
Back in town from out of state,
My river walk did me await
And right away, what did I see?
A perfect moon, there just for me
And then, beneath that glowing sliver,
Gliding past upon the river
Two cool tugboats made me smile,
Doing tugboat work in style.
Mountains may make many swoon
But give me tugboats and the moon.
A warped board on a bench seat
causing discomfort
to an old bum, an aching foot,
a touch of pity all came to keep me
self-sealed inside a bag of skin.
I took no note of the river
almost licking at my feet,
the evening's prayerful quiet,
the sky slowly switching on
its nightly extravaganza of stars.
I was too far into myself
to see past my rim.
One can get lost in a stare,
that blank, formless blur
reflecting the endless distances
stretching across the self.
I was bubbled there.
Then slowly things happened,
a tugboat went past, seagulls
protested my presence,
the smell of river mud
thickened the air.
I stepped out and saw
an old man on a bench seat
who I have long known,
brushed the dandruff
from his shoulders,
helped him up and walked
him home.
I see darkness; coldness; an abyss. I feel cold; lonely; and fear. I know not of how I am able to change my current course in the sea of indifference. My oars are but a shell of the person I used to be. My boat is a hollowed out soul. The fear I feel is irrational, but it’s my truth. My anchor is the pain of my anguished self. The water I float on is the tears that I can’t cry and hold within. My destination is unknown but not worth the trip. My navigation equipment is the smile of yours that I will never be able to obtain.
Does the course make the person or does the person make the course? Will we ever know until we get there? Is the pain of life worth the trip? When does one know when the trip is even over? When we die? Is it before our death? Is it after our death? Does it even matter? Why do we make impossible plans for our future, when our present needs the most tending? How can I allow one person dictate how I choose to course my voyage? Not anymore.
I tried to hold on to you with whatever strength I had. I don’t have the strength any longer. Now you are nothing more than debris in the river I am forging. Your opinion is like a drop of water in the midst of the ocean I have taken my voyage on. The tides are lower everyday because I no longer cry over you. There is nothing left for me to do, but to ride on my present course, and to find my true inner self. My course has been changed. My navigation set anew. Now my course shall be whatever I choose. No longer will it be what I think you would have me choose. Never again, will you be my tugboat. I am my own ship now!
Glancing down from breathless heights,
Amidst climey sighs,
The looming colossus awakens from slumber
And stretches across Thelwalls linear skies.
The hot engines hissing steam -
Recalled from fond memories long back -
Tumbling like huffing little rain clouds
Down from the lofty metal track;
Wherein brightly painted carriages:
The publicans daughter, the verger,
The magistrate, the chief executive -
Seated first class, all habitually sat.
Swift grandiose arches, a celebration
Trumpeting the artful masons cunning devise,
Boast loudly of the great towers
Parallelogram of terrific forces:
Crossing over in giant leaping strides.
Here below, like Hercules reclining,
The stoic gates of Latchfords black fortress locks
Lift to brace against the immense swell
Far and beyond the chimming remarks
Of Greenhalls absolute, mechanically proven,
Georgian bell;
When, ensconced within a purpose-built,
Purple brick tower:
Strikes the centuries old brewery clock
On the twelfth
Of every God given hour.
A rich bankers cantilever
Pushes doggedly against opposing, sheer,
Red Sandstone walls;
Again the mauve and azure rock pigeon claps...
And then...coo, coo, cooingly calls.
Dry buzzing heat blurs over
The hum of a high noons imcumbent midday;
The coup-de-gras scimitar wing stoops -
To fasten onto its slower-witted prey!
Steeped sides slipping amidst tumbling yellow
Gorse and sporadic flowers
Balk at the foreboding waters edge,
Where, over the denizens swirling bowers,
The resolute little rusting lugger,
Puffing and chugging,
relentlessly dredges and scours;
Churning the murky Eastham silts
That drab Manchester draw:
Into the vast hollowing quays
On beachless, concrete Salfords industrialized,
High-rise dockland shore.
Through the deepest part of the black
Channel
A salt grimed hulk smoothly slips...
Attached by a twisted hemp to the tugboat
That hauls the great ships.
Stirred by the bow waves
Flowing and ebbing like currents in time:
From the trough to the peak
The jettison and flotsam climbs -
Before succumbing to powerful undercurrents
Of irresistible designs!
A tugboat named Mary
Was towing a barge.
The tugger was little;
The tuggee was large.
They glided on past
As the sun hit the river,
With engines a’chugging,
A load to deliver.
I marveled at Mary,
So cool and in charge,
Using all of her might
Just for hauling that barge.
It doesn’t much matter,
I’m sure you’ll agree,
If the strength and the stamina
Stem from a “she.”
Proud Mary is out there
To prove without fail
That for fortitude, one
Doesn’t have to be male!
And if I come
I'll bring the dew
Blended with cruor
Of our veins
And if I reach your hand
I’ll become the tugboat
Of dignity and pride
Preserved with countless lives
Then... If I fall
I'll be the victor (anyway)
By sacrifice of blood
I'll bring the Happy Easter
To those
Beneath the coat
Of diminishing faith
a note
against the rhapsody of hate
PORTLAOISE,
17/02/2016
Grandfather relaxed
While I cleaned his grimed toenails—
He was a tugboat captain.
It was tradition,
As soon as he fell asleep,
I painted his toenails red.
© February 22, 2012
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: Sedoka me any subject
Sponsored by: Russell Sivey
I Wanna End Me
It’s chill dawg. I’m just a savage. Gotta take that redpill homie. Two squared. Remember the illusion and have a giggle. No need to pout. It’s just a lil fun and games. Haha. Paint me like one of your Trojan horses. Why be sad that I’m returning home soon? Big bad voodoo daddy. Let me know. New Orleans. It’s likely that I’m a sociopath. But what would it matter? Chairs don’t sit, so why would I let the thought do so?
Mcguffins. Pilgrims. Plow rainbow serpentine. Turps. Wax on, doze off. I wanna kiss Billie Eilish. Her dead inside look matches my ensuite. Reckon she’d carry a lot of Bilbo baggage. As do thee unto mishaps. Perhaps. Hmm. Plausible. Ocean endeavours. Funny to think she’s younger than me. Origami. Murmur more peasant.
No board here. Rest easy mudblood. Whichever jumbo cup, always worth the diabeetus. Science, beach. Card master rates, deep down low. Don’t watch on acid. Reads palsy palms. Muster the leap of faith. Sow the famine field of bliss. Certified manga madness. Mango? Two for five dollars. Get like forty of em’. Fiddy bucks. Lez go. Who the hell are ya? I wanna know. Who do you think you are? Coming round here. Fancy pants.
Route 66 roadtwister? I don’t think so mister. Haha. Fly away. Debate the ways of the flying dutchman. Fly over yonder with thou stout in hand. Bound for the beasts riches in tires. Burnt rubber smells so good, not as good as keytamine. Tammy you little dinglebat. Rest easy little nymph. Driftking stands for doorokrats. Laundries. Coin? Denary. Tugboat the infestation. Retribution. Mortify. Grrrrr. That’s a growl. I don’t care. Zoo wee mumma. Throw that little Rat in a tub of acid. That’s nuts.
A sliver of river appears in my view;
The window has served up the slice.
Of course, thought I’d love the whole vista, to me
A sliver is almost as nice.
It gives me a glance of the watery ways
That surround us as we stroll the city.
Our island existence we often forget
As we deal with the gruff and the gritty.
Yet just a short distance away are the waves
Which are churned by each ferry and barge;
And at times, Nature’s wrath rises over the banks
Which reminds us just who is in charge.
The river is calm now, the part I can see;
A tugboat chugs by, trailing foam.
I stare out the window and smile at the thought
That this sliver’s delivered this poem.
As a creature of habit, my daily routine
Doesn’t vary when I take my walk,
Yet each morning there’s something that I haven’t seen
Like some rainbows, on sidewalks, in chalk.
Sometimes pigeons, in circles, are flying above
Or a tugboat is pushing a barge;
Maybe bright fuchsia flowers, a color I love,
Are in bloom, though no gardener’s in charge.
But it’s rare for a sighting to cause me to laugh
Like today’s did. From what, you might ask.
Well, the Peter Pan statue was sporting, no gaffe,
An appropriate surgical mask!
Granddad Breathed River Air
My grandfather worked on the river.
A tugboat captain was he by trade.
His jobs were diverse and he loved them.
Grandma and their children waited home.
As a teen, he helped ship a sculpture.
On the river he hauled in wrecked boats.
He tended the dredge for a train bridge.
For a lifetime he breathed river air.
Some days he came home to great laughter.
Tall tales and new pranks he always shared.
He caught fish for family fish fries.
When rested, river air called again.
Written 12/19/16
In the purple haze of the bar room
you muse lustful moves
like the true artist you are
you stumble but find yourself
in the midst of shipwrecks
swaying to the trash band
of suburban artifacts
the dance floor groans
like a wooden sailboat
in a hurricane
pot smoke belly aches
too much acid
messes with your head
your sailor escorts you
like a tugboat down
the wonky lane
where in the backseat
of his Cadillac
you swallow the salty
cocktail of regrets
dawn breaks and
you'll do it all again tonight.
The luminescence of low hanging mist whirls
Agitated winds shiver the tall cottonwoods
The ever present sound of the old river passing
She stands on the small rustic pier daydreaming
Watching the waters carry an old tugboat south
She waves as the captain sounds his sad horn
A breeze catches the hem of her dress, lifting it upward
Her long slender legs and bare feet exposed to morning rays
A single teardrop falls from her troubled eye
She knows she will soon be leaving this magical place
Traveling far to the western desert, and away from her folks
She turns and leaves, making her way up the wet path
She ponders her anxious future amid the vines of honeysuckle
The smell of bacon soon fills her senses as her home appears
Smoke curling down from the antique stone chimney
Porch steps squeak, the screen door slaps, she has decided
© Copyrights G. Jones 2006
Trees swaying in the cold
November breeze, as I
ascended up the hill
a brown path, a dull
line drawn across the
two sides of grassy green
Moses parting the sea
I walking, splitting the
cool air, the grass, the
atoms and particles
dancing around my head
passing the silent guardians
eyeing me with hungry, unforgiving
eyes. passing the Trio unsure
of their intent, perhaps
they are here for the
same reason as I, hard
to tell. Passing by the old
rock-hewn tombstone, bare,
worn and stale against
the dying sunset. The
Pink cotton-candy sky
is slowly appearing in the
cold horizon. Scanning to
my right, the fresh graves,
my reason for being there.
I see before me the flag,
sports teams, a conch-
shell, Wizard figurine, all
keep company to the lone
marker, the signal to
the grave, the plot, the
final resting place of
him. I begin to realize
how much my loneliness
is irrelevant in comparison
to his. His only company
are the two plots
beside his own. The hill
top overlooks the dead
village below, the bay-
bridge across the housing
of the living, bringing
the soulful from one
place to another. Through
the silence, only my voice
rises above this company
I begin talking, asking
him to forgive me for not
being there for him and
hoping he is in a
better place. My tears
being forming, my voice
cracks, as cracked as
that dusty, corroding
stone nearby. I say my
piece, then carry myself
down the hill, pass
the Trio, pass the silent
guardians, down the hill, passing
the signs, pass the living.
We grew up together
amongst adolescence, chaos
and changes. The tidal-wave
of emotions, we the small
tugboat in the center
late night wrestling
pay-per-view adventures
we cheered on the greats
along with the televised fans
we imagined a world beyond
our own, a land of fantasy
and wonder. But now my
dear friend, you are onto
the next adventure, the real
undiscovered country. You will
always be buried in my
heart and soul, as you
are now in the ground.
But we will meet again
one day and the adventure
will continue, for now
goodbye.-For Andrew Wasson