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abortion absence
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Long Travel Poems | Long Travel Poetry

Long Travel Poems. Below are the most popular long Travel by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Travel poems by poem length and keyword.

See also: Famous Long Poems

Long Poems
Long poem by Ivor Davies | Details |

Legacy of Penang

Back in 1962 when I was just a lad
my dad gave me a holiday
the best I ever had.
A holiday of every dream
that one lifetime could hold
so listen while this wondrous time 
to you I now unfold:

In bygone years to travel far
was not a normal thing,
to travel some six thousand miles
by plane was amazing!
Propellers aided by a jet,
a very modern way,
aboard a British Eagle plane
my life would change that day.

A little island in the sun
where British troops were based
on active service out Far East
where they would get a taste
of jungle warfare while they helped
to form a brand new state
by helping stop objections from 
a few this change did hate.

But as a teenage boy, you see,
the politics of war
were not as noticeable to me
as other things I saw.
I felt the beauty of this land
with folk of every kind
for at this time in England
few ‘cultures’ could be found. 

For back at home in Blighty
a youngster such as me
had to know his place in life
and couldn’t roam quite free,
but out here in the tropics
no prejudice I found
of the nature that had kept me thus
by England’s limits bound.

Now out here in Malaysia,
on this island of Penang,
I found a place where deep inside
stirred memories that sang
of a time in my existence
that I’d never felt before
born of ancient inner knowledge
that my soul was screaming for.

To continue with my story
of the time I was a lad,
when in a British Barracks
with a soldier for a dad
I had given up my schooling
for adventure in the world
and like a butterfly emerging
my wings were now unfurled.

On this truly wondrous island
Minden Barracks was my home
with excitement and adventure
wherever I could roam.
I immersed in all the wisdom
of simplicity I met
and learned that what you give to life,
returns in what you get.
For the Chinese and the Indians,
Malays and some ex-pats
had found ways to live together
though all wore different hats,
in perfect symbiosis
where all fulfilled their roles
and by leaning on each other
could emancipate their goals.

Now even at this early age,
I was not too dim to see
that the rich were getting richer
and the poor were never free,
but something buried deep inside
these people of Penang
bore a certain understanding
of the common song they sang.

Now I grew up very quickly
as my friends all went to war,
young soldiers who were now my age
what were they fighting for.
Atrocities befell them 
as they fought Malaysia’s side
against those from Indonesia
who would not join this ride.

Skirmishes abundant
though Penang was hardly hit,
it was only very seldom
that we faced a scary bit.
When Minden B’ was threatened
all the locals stayed inside
just in case the British soldiers
started shooting the wrong side!
But throughout this ‘confrontation’
my job became pure joy,
for the Army’s recreation 
then became my brand new toy.
On the island’s sandy beaches
you would find me day by day
driving speed boats for the soldiers
when they found the time to play.

In Penang, their favourite island,
 the troops would take their leave
and have fun while water skiing
as they took a short reprieve
from the nature of their duties
that had brought them to this land
and for just a fleeting moment
could enjoy the sea and sand.

For three years whilst Water Skiing
I enjoyed this paradise
but the days I was not working
were all equally as nice
for at home in Minden Barracks
was a special swimming pool
where friends would meet
and wash their souls
with conversation’s tool.

This really was the centre
of our commune in this land,
the meeting place for sharing
where all friends would understand.
Soldier’s wives, their men at war,
and others gathered round,
if any place is hallowed
then this pool is sacred ground.
But Georgetown and its traders
was the place I loved to be
where the colour, noise and culture
always let my soul soar free.
Where the many, many trishaws
and the bikes and traffic mix,
with the hawkers, shops and markets
this is where I got my fix!

Four good years I lived my life
in this very special place,
absorbing understanding
at a multicultural pace.
I’d been born into a country
that the world thought was mature,
but maturity is lost of mind
when progress is the lure.

Back in 1962 when I was just a lad
my dad gave me a holiday
the best I’d ever had.
Back in 1966 I went back home again
and the schooling that I’d given up
had not been lost in vain,
for I’d learnt the real meaning
of my Life in this short stay,
a meaning full of everything
I carry till this day.

So now I’m in My sixties,
not the sixties of my past
and the thing I’ve found along the way
is most things never last.
But learn from where you travel,
let morals be your guide
for none can steal the things you hold
and carry deep inside.

Ivor G Davies

Copyright © Ivor Davies

Long poem by john fleming | Details |

And still i drive - Part two

Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars do not cry.
Into Ochs valley, through the Vale of White Horse...prancing 
besides a Dragons Hill;
It was here that a Roundhead - did a Royalist Cavaliers blood in 
Oxons streets so spill!
Where Great Alfred strove to drive out the Dane and his Law;
And blazing fires were lit to roar in the open grates of Christ churchs 
Great Hall.
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars do not deny.
Along the ever stretching A34 littered with the slaughtered carcasses of the
Daily score;
Over Royal Berkshires balding heights, where from every bush 
And every turn,
Reflecting back from my glowing headlights
Sharp green piercing eyes - cunning Red fox that so discerns.

Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
And still i drive.
Between the clearing acres of ten thousand gnarled boughs
That once did so ably fashion for great Windsors mighty beams.
Steering along Newburys pass where Civil war was played out thrice
Against the brow:
Same old crowd - bloody encounters and fisticuffs - same age old
Greed driven schemes!
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
And still i drive.
At the approaching roundabout i must begin to slow -
First exit left - M40 - and steadily onward i accelerate to go;
For i have the Immortal Bards Warwickshire set within my determined mind -
My own forlorn loves far distant...long gone behind.

Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
And still i drive.
Wide motorways with boastful, imposing overhead gantry signs:
Grandly heralding the names of "just up ahead" places
Boldly framed upon blue panels within white trim designs,
Straddling wide lanes - huge and brightly lit,
Prompt and remind the tourist of the "sights" they must surely visit.
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars do not lie.
Here the reflective waters of Shakespeares Avon still peacefully flow
That pushed upon the old mills rustic wheels so many forgotten years ago.
Where, carting slowly, the Hathaways would come for flour, or so it was said,
To bring back unto Newlands farm to bake and offer prayers 
For their daily bread.

Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars do not die.
Pittering hail blows across my glass windscreen - the swinging rhythmatic blade
sweeping it clean;
And staring, as if caught in a trance, my mind casts back
To that last meal we ate - you on the settle - i by the exposed and varnished 
Brick stack;
In your warm, comfy little lounge loudly arguing back and forth over this and that!
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars do not cry.
Unfurling before me the M6 toll that impedes my progress upon this hour 
So late,
As queuing, my whirling thoughts drift again to the moment, where in silence,
I had quietly stood at your little open gate:
Incandescent with cruel stabbing words you did me so violently berate;
Crashing door slamming tightly shut - sealed now upon a doomed forgone fate!

Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars do not deny.
The barrier rises as once again the blizzard contrives...
Whereupon, engaging the gears and steadily revving the engine,
I Resume the drive;
Speeding towards Staffordshires potteries of ceramic plates:
Pattern ware for commoner, landed gentry, Lords and Ladies, 
And lofty estates.
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
And still i drive.
The monumental journey of one hundred leagues is nearly all but done,
The resolute chimneys and Bottle kilns i will soon outrun.
For now a sailing Moon begins to shallow and fade -
Whilst gathering together her skirts -
A final encore before daintily retiring from centre stage.

Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But i know not why.
Hesitant grey light in the wings steps aside bleak and rugged tors;
Dawns waking orchestral chorus prepares to perform sweet clarion chords;
Beacons that coursed constant along my long troubled way,
Soon to be gradually extinguished at the onset of another slowly waking
Cheshire day.
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars should not cry. (For men do not cry! Do they?)
The painted black and white metal railings that secure the pastoral herds
Of the shire
Are adorned with the icicles and hard frost from a fierce biting ire;
And as Moonlights diminished beams disappear behind thick drawing drapes
- Finally drawn -
Back in the land of my fathers fathers to which i am forever inextricably sworn!!

                                Forgive me, Julia!!


Copyright © john fleming

Long poem by Isaiah Zerbst | Details |

Highland Lassie

Inspired by the painting "Highland Lassie" (1871) by Thomas Faed.

(Verse One; In introduction to Cailin)
Walkin' on the highways, searchin' down the byways,
Tromps a lonely figure on the Highland roads;
Peerin' from the Highdown, breezin' through the lake town,
Askin' of a question erry where he goes:
(Chorus; Cailin, followed by some villagefolk)
And it's, "Marry, gather 'round! for she hasna' yet been found;
I come lookin' for the truest lass, as only one can be:
I've a letter do deliver; as you see, it says to give 'er
To the fairest Highland lassie from Loch Leven to the sea."
"Here's a lass," they proudly say, "fair as June and sweet as May,
And it's sure that she's the fairest in the Highland mountains steep:
Through the heather you may go, climb the mountains capped with snow,
But you'll never find a better lass on which your eyes to peep."

(Verse Two; Cailin's thoughts)
Some of them were pouty, others even dowdy;
"These," he thought, "would never do in fifteen years:
Beauty on the outside, nothin' on the inside,
Leaves a girl with nothin' when it fades to tears."
(Chorus; Cailin's continuing journey)
Trav'lin' all around, for she hasna' yet been found;
He's come lookin' for the truest lass, as only one can be:
With a letter do deliver; as you see, it says to give 'er
To the fairest Highland lassie from Loch Leven to the sea." 
"Here's a lass," they proudly say, "fair as June and sweet as May,"
But you canna' tell the fairest one except you see them all:
And the lassies sweetly smile, for this stranger to beguile,
As 'e treads throughout the Highlands from the winter to the fall.

(Verse Three; Cailin's travels and troubles)
From the banks of Lomon', up to Durness roamin',
How's a wight to judge betwixt a thousand score?
Steps were waxing weary, days were growing dreary,
'Till 'e saw a lass 'e hadna' met before.
(Chorus; Cailin, to a lass called Ellsie and her villagefolk)
And it's, "Marry, gather 'round, for the lassie here is found!
I 'ave searched and found the truest lass, as only one can be:
Here the letter I deliver; as you see, it says to give 'er
To the fairest Highland lassie from Loch Leven to the sea. 
"Here's a lass," I proudly say, "fair as June and sweet as May,
And it's sure that she's the fairest in the Highland mountains steep:
Through the heather you may go, climb the mountains capped with snow,
But you'll never find a better lass on which your eyes to peep."

(Verse Four; Ellsie's villagefolk reply in confusion)
Then they said, "Oh, please, Sir, don't you taunt and tease 'er,
Caint you tell she's plainer e'en than Skye down dell?
Caint you tell you've pained 'er? don't do that again, Sir,
Lest you 'ave a reason, and if so, pray tell."
(Chorus; Cailin's reply, followed by Ellsie reading the letter)
"O'er the braes an' through the moor, I 'ave trode my walkers sore,
All to find the truest lassie in the Highlands boggy peat;
And the truest lass is fair, for the true shall never wear,
So I say that here's the truest, fairest lass I've chanced to meet."
Then she opened up the scroll, and she read it to the full,
And for those who chance to wonder, I shall quote you what she read:
"When the fairest lass I find, if our wishes are aligned,
I should wish to know thee better, lass, and then, perhaps, to wed."

(Verse Five; Ellsie's reply to the letter)
Then she said, "Oh, come, Sir; don't be sad or glum, Sir;
Meet my father, mother, and my sisters small:
Soon the bells were ringin', people gladly singin'
"Here's the lad who worked to find the best of all."
(Chorus, which Ellsie's villagefolk sing at the wedding)
"O'er the braes an' through the moor, 'e 'as trode 'is walkers sore,
All to find the truest lassie in the Highlands boggy peat;
And the truest lass is fair, for the true shall never wear,
So I say that here's the truest, fairest lass I've chanced to meet. 
"Here's a lass," we proudly say, "fair as June and sweet as May,
And it's sure that she's the fairest in the Highland mountains steep:
Through the heather you may go, climb the mountains capped with snow,
But you'll never find a better lass on which your eyes to peep."

Note: the verses are written using trochaic feet, meaning that they begin with a stressed syllable, followed by an unstressed, and so on repeatedly. The fifth foot (syllables nine and ten) in the second and fourth lines of the verses is a spondee, meaning two stressed syllables in one foot. I mention this for ease in correct reading. An example of this same device is "Since the Savior Found Me" by Edgar J. Haskins, (in last line of verses and refrain).

Copyright © Isaiah Zerbst

Long poem by Robert Ronnow | Details |

The Ordinary Care of Providence

Madison's defense of the establishment clause to the Virginia legislature:
"Religion both existed and flourished, not only without the support of human laws, but in spite of every opposition from them, and not only during the period of miraculous aid but long after it had been left to its own evidence and the ordinary care of Providence."

                                          May I say
electromagnetic waves. Radiant energy.
Light travels in waves
                                  Waves of what?
Electromagnetic waves consist of electric and magnetic fields
oscillating at right angles to each other
and to the direction of motion of the wave.
                                                                 All waves can be described
in terms of amplitude, wavelength, frequency and speed.

Waves of what?
                         Think of a hand waving. The wave itself
is virtual, ideal. The hand and eyes are waves. The wave's
a quantum guess.
                           Religion and electromagnetic waves - visible, audible,
causing real reactions in earth-time (real as it gets). Madison's
             care of Providence
                                          impossible to handle.

Needed is a medium: antenna, cathode ray, page,
        hairy, sweaty
with the capacity to say Providence electromagnetic visible light
element god.
                    Alone in your life and body. Say
the heavy word
weighty word
            charged word (ion god)
the particle physicist and political philosopher have it over the poet
who is sharing ignorance
                                      pretty much all he doesn't know.

Or who stays within a dimension she knows she knows, extrapolating
her hand in a child's hand or husband's hold or nest in a tree hole
limited government
                             separation of powers
                                                             daily low intensity warfare
light, radio and gamma waves
                                             Waves of what?
"Matter can be treated by both wave and particle theories (the duality of matter) since its convertible counterpart - light - has long been treated successfully by both theories."
convertible counterpart
                                    light matter light

Solutions to the equations are called wave functions, or orbitals.
"Religion or the duty which we owe our Creator and the manner of discharging it can be directed only by reason and conviction, not by force or violence. It is proper to take alarm at the first experiment on our liberties. We hold this prudent jealousy to be the first duty of Citizens, and one of the noblest characteristics of the late Revolution. The free men of America did not wait till usurped power had strengthened itself by exercise and entangled the question in precedents. They saw all the consequences in the principle and they avoided the consequences by denying the principle. We revere this lesson too much to soon forget it."

Last night's movie She's No Angel on the Christian channel
begged many essential questions (and had bad music)
the loving liberal successful couple should
keep a shotgun in the home (later used per Shakespeare)
the community's (authority's) reaction to the violence
and precipitating dissembling might have been (per The Crucible)
the golden spiritual couple would subsequently dissemble lobby or defend
themselves and the loved one legally and lengthily (per Dostoyevsky)
unclean tragic outcomes end in Death's cleanliness
ravens eat the fur and guts of bad guesses off the roads (per A Designer
      of Systems)

but not I think missing
the deeper lesson

that she is neither her past
nor her wings

but a pure goodness
                               bone stillness
                                                    potential energy

a light wave
and a particle.

Copyright © Robert Ronnow

Long poem by Scribbler Of Verses | Details |

A Story My Mother Told Me

someone always told me this with tears in her eyes...

(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)

a wife left South Africa in the 1960’s to join her husband 
who was in exile at the time...

in 1970 the husband was sent by the African National Congress to India to be its representative there...

the husband and wife spent two years in Bombay...

one afternoon the husband fell and broke his leg...

the wife knocked on their neighbour’s door, in an apartment complex in Bombay

the neighbour was an old Punjabi lady...

the wife asked the neighbour for a doctor to see to the injured husband...

a Parsi ‘Bone-Setter’ was promptly summoned...

the husband still recalls his anxiety of seeing ‘Bone-Setter’ written on the Parsi gentleman’s bag...

by the way, the ‘Bone-Setter’ worked his ancient craft and surprisingly for the husband, his broken leg healed quite soon...

but still on that day, while the ‘Bone-Setter’ was seeing to the husband...

the wife and the old Punjabi lady from next door got to talking about this and that and where these new Indian-looking wife and husband were from as their accents were clearly not local...

the wife told the elderly Punjabi lady that the husband worked for the African National Congress of South Africa and had left to serve the ANC from exile...

and that they had left their two children behind in South Africa and that they were now essentially political refugees...

the Punjabi lady broke down and wept uncontrollably...

she told the foreign woman that she too had had to leave her home in Lahore in 1947 and flee to India with only the clothes on her back when the partition of the subcontinent took place and Pakistan was formed and at a time when Hindus from Pakistan fled to India and vice versa...

the Punjabi lady then asked the foreign woman her name...

‘Zubeida’, but you can call me ‘Zubie’...

the Punjabi woman hugged Zubie some more, and the two women, seperated by age and geography, wept, sharing a shared pain...

the Punjabi woman told Zubie that she was her ‘sister’ from that day on, and that she felt that pain of exile and forced migration and what being a refugee felt like...

Zubie and her husband Mosie became the closest of friends with the Hindu Punjabi neighbours who were kicked out of Pakistan by Muslims...

then came the time for Mosie and Zubie to leave for Delhi where the African National Congress office was based...

the elderly Punjabi lady and Mosie and Zubie said their goodbyes...

a year or two later, the elderly Punjabi lady’s daughter Lata married Ravi Sethi and the couple moved to Delhi...

the elderly Punjabi lady called Zubie and told her that her daughter was coming to Delhi to live and that she had told Lata, her daughter that she had a ‘sister’ in Delhi...

Lata and Ravi Sethi then moved to Delhi...

This was in the mid-1970’s...

Lata and Zubie became the closest of friends and that bond stayed true, and stays true till today, though Zubie is no more, and the elderly Punjabi lady is no more...

the son and the husband still have a bond with Lata and Ravi Sethi...

a bond that was forged between Hindu and Muslim and between two continents across the barriers of creed and time...

a bond strong and resilient, forged by the pain and trauma of a shared experience...

and that is why, and I shall never stop believing this, that hope shines still, for with all the talk of this and of that, and of that and of this, there will always be a simple woman, somewhere, anywhere, who would take the ‘other’ in as a sister, a fellow human...

and that is why there will always be hope...
hope in the midst of this and of that and of that and of this...


(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses

Long poem by Timothy Hicks | Details |

While Waiting For My Return Flight Home

"You in the military?"

I was confused at first and didn't know why the man would ask me such a question. But then I remembered my recent haircut.

"No... is it because I shaved my head, that you think that?"

He laughed, in confirmation. At the time he seemed good-natured and so I decided to try and spark some kind of conversation. After all why not? I had two hours worth of sitting ahead of me, and I was bored of the silence.

"Do you think it's weird that I shave my head?". Admittedly I'm not the most graceful conversationalist. "Not at all... so why are you headed to Boise?". I told him I live there and that I just got back from Europe. For some reason where I came from didn't interest him much.

"You study at BSU?". I told him no, and he started to sway back and forth. He had a weird habit of not being able to stand completely straight. "What do you do?". And I said I was just a pizza-maker, and thought the description was ample. He paused for five minutes and then said in a low condescending voice "I'm gonna pretend you didn't just say that. Now what do you DO?".

I was exhausted from almost twenty hours of drawn out sitting, and plus I was never good at clever responses, so I said dumbly "I don't know". He said "What about CWI? You know, coll-ege-of-west-ern-i-da-ho", pronouncing each syllable precisely. Did he think I had mental problems or something? "I don't know, I haven't looked very deep into it".

He seemed irritated with me and continued that annoying sway of his. My shallow side got the best of me and I couldn't help but form conclusions of what he thought of me. Like for instance; this kid probably spends most of his time playing video-games... that is when he's not smoking pot. Hell, maybe he even does both at the same time. Those were the thoughts that came to me and I was helpless to stop them.

He showed me his military ID, saying proudly "See here, I'm in the military." Placing his finger right on his portrait. I said "Cool!". But I really just wanted some peace and quiet. He put his card back in his wallet. But he had this look about him, that showed deep disappointment. He looked as though he was waiting for some profound response from my end. Did he expect me to bow down, kiss his feet, and shout out "Oh you brave man! I'm simply not worthy of your presence!" But no, all I said was cool and continued to look at the giant digital clock on the wall. Will this plane ever get here!?

"C'mon man, you gotta know what you wanna do in life!". His badgering just wouldn't stop, but I was in no mood to breathe any comebacks beside mechanical responses. I could have told him I had a passion for composing songs on my piano, and that I was self-taught; or that I had enough material on my Kindle Fire to start at least a couple books. I could've even quoted Plato, stating "College polishes pebbles, but dims diamonds". But I don't think that would have jived well with him and would have simply caused me more stress. Why should I bother defending myself to someone who knew absolutely NOTHING about me? I just wanted to get home after a month of being away. Not get lectured by this complete stranger who refused to get the hint.

"My son is seventeen years old and has no idea what he wants to do". Was he talking to himself or me? "I'd like to show him brochures of Michigan or Hawaii," he snickered, "Heck, maybe that would get him out of the house!". I mentally rolled my eyes at him - I was simply too beat to do it physically. I've never been so grateful to have a dad like mine. That poor, poor kid! When the plane, at last arrived, I rejoiced that I didn't have sit next to that meddlesome man. I say this in complete seriousness, that he was quite possibly the most irritating person I've ever met.

Copyright © Timothy Hicks

Long poem by Eve Roper | Details |

My First Steam Engine Train Ride

                               Sunny, hot, humid, summer morning, 
                 Taking my first train ride, I’m so excited and it’s thrilling 
    Can’t wait to go north where it’s cool to stay with my grandpa and grandma 
                Ma and pa say I’m old enough to go by myself, I’m in awe
                                Dressed in my Sunday outfit, crinoline,
                                                   And my fine
               Bonnet decorated with ribbon and blooms I watch with my pack
Passenger’s restlessly anxious waiting with me at the depot for the train to come up the track 
                     Buck boards and horses with their riders running by 
                    Dust clouds form, covering everything with dust, I sigh 
                   Making us use our handkerchiefs as we cough, and pace
           Beads of perspiration causing tiny streams down my brow and face
                              Leaving thin streaks in the brown dust  

                                    A great swell of the blackest   
                   Charcoal smoke billowing smokestack, whistle blowing
       Steel wheels against the rail cause a braking, screeching, vibrating sound 
          Locomotive coming up the rails into view, like a charging black rhino
                   A massive moving machine, a fantastic sight to take in
                           To carry me off to places I have never been

                Conductor howlers, “All aboard! “As we stand at the depot
                     I hurry to sit in the hard wooden seat by the window 
                       The conductor in a black uniform and hat, usher 
    And walks up the aisle of seats to check everyone’s ticket to see if it’s in order

                      We finally start with a jerking move, whistle blows, 
               Smokestacks start billowing with the circling gray, black smoke 
 Staring out the window for hours at the scenery of the outside world as it passes by
        Prairies, telegraph poles look like pick fence, buffalos grazing on the way 
       Smoke starts coming in through the windows, settling all over, and pollute
                                 Getting my Sunday dress black with soot 
                       Conductor routinely came around checking for sparks   
                    That flew in among the passenger and started small fires
                                      It’s an uncomfortable experience
                   Every bone in my body aches from the hard wooden seats,
                                      Every bump and sway of the train 

                                   Beds are a little more accommodating 
                               Wooden shelves stack one atop of another
                                 The swaying of the train lulls me to sleep 
                                  Dreaming of the things I will see and do 

                               Cannot wait for this journey to come to an end  
                       So I can get off this miserable, filthy, harsh riding, train
  To a warm bath, and grandma’s cooking, with a comfortable chair, and feather bed

                                            By: Eve Roper
                                    Contest: Railway Journeys
                                   Sponsor: Shadow Hamilton

Copyright © Eve Roper

Long poem by Ivor Davies | Details |

Budget Flight

The plane looked old and fairly worn,
the sky was grey, about to storm.
They hurried us along the aisles,
in tiny seats we’d sit for miles.

With creak and groan we taxied out,
at runway’s end we turned about.
With roar of jet and screech of wheels
we found out how a take-off feels.

Climbing high into the air,
forced back by pressure, hard to bear.
Our eardrums trying to explode,
The plane a-shudder with the load.

But alas the plane was old,
a ‘Bargain Flight’ we’d all been told.
But nothing said about the thrill
that turned us green and made us ill.

With sudden surge we lurched back down,
the plane now aiming at the ground.
Not the way t’was meant to be,
diving sharply for the sea.

But Captain Bob was on the ball
and wasn’t going to let us fall.
He pulled back sharply on his stick
as we swooped up I felt quite sick.

Just then I spied the strangest thing,
a massive piece dropped off the wing
and at that point we turned about,
          ….about this airline, I had doubt.
A ‘Budget Flight’ it might have been,
but had I known what this would mean
I may have paid a little more
to keep from falling to the floor.

But Captain Bob was on the mark,
‘he’ treated problems as a lark,
for up and down, and turning round,
at least we hadn’t hit the ground.

He straightened up and things went calm,
announced, “There’s no need for alarm”
”Although a bit’s broke off the wing,
I’m sure that I can fly this thing.”

“I’ve flown for years… err, make that weeks,
ignore the grinding and the creaks,
this plane is safe and sound, I know,
the auctioneer assured me so!”

With that we heard the engines stall,
in swift decline our plane did fall.
We prayed while diving in free flight
that Captain Bob could put this right.

“Your life-vest’s underneath your seat,
please put it on to save wet feet.”
Our captain was a caring man
like all good ‘Budget Captains’ am.

But shudder, shake and roar of jet,
maybe our feet would not get wet.
Again we rose up in the sky,
above the clouds and really high.

For near a minute we were free
of bumps, and noise, and malady.
We hoped our problems were all done,
but ‘Sods Law’ said ‘there’s worse to come’.
I really don’t remember how
all in the sea, alive somehow,
I’m glad I put that life-vest on
before both wings had finally gone!

Now froze and tossed by stormy sea,
an orange lifeboat rescued me.
I must admit, t’was quite a ride,
and I was glad to be alive.

But Captain Bob I’m sad to say
did not survive that woe filled day.
They tore his license up in shame
and never more would speak his name.

The plane he bought was meant for scrap,
he said they never told him that.
He claimed, although it looked quite old,
there was no way that he’d been told!

The passengers, to save a fuss
were taken from the boat by bus
and just in case they might complain
were told they’d fetch another plane.

But most of them decided, no,
by land, and sea, not air they’d go,
and keep their feet upon the ground,
not up, and down, and round, and round.

Budget-Flights, so I’ve been told
are the cheapest that are sold.
They carry millions on their way
departing daily every day.

But please be careful when you book,
and chance a crafty little look,
to see the plane don’t look too old
unless a ‘lifetime’ flight was sold!

Ivor G Davies

Copyright © Ivor Davies

Long poem by manek kohli | Details |


Once night Gretta Foster sat in the backyard, 
building a rocket ship that ought to take her a-far, 
she had been working day and night - tirelessly, 
hammering, programming, all so dexterously. 
Then when the sun arose and sparkled in the sky, 
Gretta was still working, that too without a sigh, 
the ship was finally built, Gretta was on cloud nine, 
but going a bit farther up than that seemed rather fine. 
She sat inside the cockpit, tightened her seat belt, 
pushed a few buttons, with such admirable stealth, 
algorithms aplenty - all perfectly aligned, 
as the engine started roaring, boisterously alight. 
The rocket ascended at last, it set sail yonder, 
to the farthest frontier that this universe could conjure, 
and after it finally left the vivid atmosphere, 
Gretta was so happy, she let out a smiling tear. 
Days passed and she was put in catatonic sleep, 
immobile and still, immersed in lovely dreams, 
suddenly with a thud, the ship had landed still, 
She woke up instantly, with a newfound thrill. 
She wore the lunar suit, which she had stitched herself, 
opened up the bolted door and descended the metal steps, 
the moment she touched ground, she turned around, 
and got pleasantly surprised by what she found! 
A red-hatted impish elf, sat crossed leg, 
a large nosed fairy stood, munching on nutmeg, 
two rabbits bowed down to the rabbit goddess, 
and two more pressed her feet, in a soft caress. 
Gretta walked a step and heard the elf shout, 
"oh silly person, take that suit out!, 
we've got oxygen, plenty of em to breathe, 
that suits a waste o' time and energy!" 
Gretta obeyed, and unzipped the heavy suit, 
underneath she wore a dress - flowery and cute, 
"good going, young child, now lemme show you, 
this lovely wonderland which you dub the moon!" 
And the elf was right, they met unicorns, 
box-laden garden paths and joyous little fauns, 
walking and talking scarecrows, nursing little crows, 
small blue doll houses with chuckling gnomes. 
within a crater lived a colony of werewolves, 
but they were nice and fair - specially one named Ulf, 
he'd give her milk and tea with chocolate biscuits, 
and in order to keep her warm, red spotted mitts. 
The goddess too was nice, a wise and lovely soul, 
"be imaginative and create, but don't forget your goal", 
she'd also give her nutmeg of such abundant variety, 
her best friend was a Faun, so strong and mighty. 
and the Minotaurs build Gretta a lovely home, 
with a mushroom roof and walls build of foam, 
"stay here with us, Gretta, you'd have a great time", 
said the red-hatted elf while singing a rhyme. 
Gretta thought and thought, she came to a decision, 
she decided to stay for sure, she looked forward for her admission, 
and from thereon, life for her was perfected, 
all her dying wishes had suddenly been resurrected.

Copyright © manek kohli

Long poem by Bill Lindsay | Details |

In Response To My First Poem - for contest

'The Journey'


The trains,
the tracks,
the rush, the haste.

The sweeties and toffees,
newspapers and coffees,

Cases and bags, e-cigs and fags,
pasty and tanned, iphone in hand,

The people who come and the people who go
and the Taxis that wait, as you cannot be late -

Spill out men in their ties, College kids in tie-dyes,
end of termers returning to their seat of learning,

The screeching of brakes and the slamming of doors, 
from the ‘barely awakes’ and the ‘ready to go’s -

The good lucks and goodbyes, fears and tears in the eyes, 
and the hugs that don’t end and the texts that they’ll send,

The lovers, the losers, the shakers and movers, 
the gap-year beginners and ‘nothing to prove’rs 

step right into the mouth of the train as it stands, 
hoping this journey syncs with the ticket in hand -

to all points of the compass; South, West, East and North,
the disparate throng fast shuddering forth,

Frozen of face, their personal space.
typical of the human race.

Lost in the crowd, all heads bowed;
silent fears, screaming loud

Break out the ‘Hello’s -
and ban ‘Goodbye’

Journeys end



At the back of a drawer, unloved and unread
sat a crumbling folder, marked ‘Rhyme’
full of thoughts and retorts and scribbles and scrawls
which was added to when I had time.

The spring-cleaning bug hit, so I rolled up my sleeves
and determined to clear out the trash;
If only to fill my recycling bin 
and in no time I had quite a stash.

At this point, my dear wife, always willing to help
when it looks like I’m making a mess; 
offered tacit assistance to ‘clean up my piles’
I politely declined, more or less. 

For, ever methodical, I had arranged
in five or six stacks on the floor,
stuff to file and to shred, to hide under the bed  
or to mark ‘Confidential’ and more.

Soon the sorting was done, all my piles were now gone
and my shredder was giving off heat,
when I noticed my folder of rhymes had now gone
as I heard a voice cry “This is neat!”

Having carefully tiptoed her way through my clutter
a family friend saw my file;
leafing through it she stopped at ‘The Journey’
and her face grew a beautiful smile.

Modesty now prevents me from sharing her thoughts
as she made some attempt to disguise
her true feelings, though clearly touched by my words 
as she stood there with tears in her eyes.

Still sat on the floor, I decided right then
to fulfil my desire to write;
the rest, as they, was history when
I discovered this marvellous site.

With great respect to the incredible poem by WH Auden 'This Is The Night Mail' on which my piece is based.

Copyright © Bill Lindsay

Long Poems