Best Coasters Poems
A SONG THAT WILL ONLY MAKE SENSE
TO EAST COASTERS! (CANADA)
A heritage that we all share, our blood is maritime.
We thrill to see the Bluenose, her picture on a dime.
Emotion for an ocean, gray Atlantic ever by,
Newfoundland, New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, PEI.
We’ve been to L’Anse Meadows, explored the Labrador.
Cruised the Ponds in Gros Morne Park, fished Caplin from the shore.
Raised a glass at Crow’s Nest, saw the sunrise Cape Spear beach.
Sang along with Great Big Sea, kissed the Cod and drank the Screech.
We’ve inner tubed the Nashwaak, fly fished the Miramichi.
Been to Historic Village in the heart of Acadie.
Climbed the Big Bald mountain, walked on Fundy’s floor.
Coasted up Magnetic Hill, scoffed at the Tidal Bore!
A heritage that we all share, our blood is maritime.
We thrill to see the Bluenose, her picture on a dime.
Emotion for an ocean, gray Atlantic ever by,
Newfoundland, New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, PEI.
Sang “Farewell to Nova Scotia|”, drank Rita’s tea as well.
Danced all night at Ceilidhs, been to the Citadel.
Strolled the shore of Baddeck Bay, where the Silver Dart took flight.
Walked the wharf called Fisherman’s, the rocks at Peggy’s Light.
Sang “Bud the Spud!” with Stompin’ Tom, watched splinters fly away.
Ate lobster at church suppers, could hardly walk away.
Picked potatoes for the farmers, back in our childhood years.
Crossed Confederation Bridge, eight miles long me dears!
A heritage that we all share, our blood is maritime.
We thrill to see the Bluenose, her picture on a dime.
Emotion for an ocean, gray Atlantic ever by,
Newfoundland, New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, PEI.
A heritage that we all share, our blood is maritime.
We thrill to see the Bluenose, her picture on a dime.
Emotion for an ocean, gray Atlantic ever by,
Newfoundland, New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, PEI.
Ellis Pringle Craig, 2024.
single malt sanity, sanitized, ionized,
with a little communion salt.
sprinkle replace, sprinkle to taste,
sprinkle with haste to the holy face.
yet still ground balsa wood icons
perfectly semitrical work to preserve
lesser linoleum countertop grains.
Like in winona minnisota where the midwest
vacuum sealed religion remains intact.
renewed morning by morning
by olive shaded stanley thermoses.
Displaced only on occasion by rubber
gripped cellphones and coffee mugs.
winona Minnesota....
where the Mississippi is the only
true dialect.
home to sugarloaf bluff and
the basilica of saint stanislaus.
that lesser known bishop of krakow
who may have been martyred but first
got stoned at fourteen underneath
the sugarloaf.
See him now stacked up and slid down the bar
the bishop of all cardboard regalia.
Holy under a golden pint ring halo of IPA..
The type of place you hear about,
The locals tell you ‘Go check it out.’
The walls trap echos of laughter,
haunting the outdoor heaters long after;
It could be a break up that leads you there,
or the desire for a shot or an ice cold beer;
That’s not all that happens when you find it,
conversations become the addictive habit;
Music fuels the vibe at 2 in the morning;
Come last call? You know you’re not leaving;
People come together, no longer strangers,
turn up the rhythm, we are a force of nature;
A lot like the cars in the parking lot,
packing standing room only at this spot;
You can’t get this press from a promoter,
Just one night; you’ll fall hard for Coasters.
A monster is in town, there he goes, upside down
It's a merry-go-round, but an eerie with a frown.
You yell so loud, but screams all drown.
Your pounding heart, frenzy in fret.
Your mind is dizzy, off you want to get
Your eyes are hazy, tornado or jet ?
What a bumpy ride!! , it's a crazy plummet.
In a complex helix, cascade of floaters.
it's our life...of roller coasters.
The twists and turns of high and low,
The thrill and shrill of joy and sorrow.
Reaching the peaks ,daring the harrow,
Screeching the dips, scaring you thorough.
A spinning stroll of rock and roll,
You ramble and rattle...safe in God's control.
Cups and Coasters
I want cups and coasters from every ship
So into display cabinet, I can start to slip
While I am sitting somewhere or do lay
On my mind, all of them often will play.
Ryndam cup currently drink out of now
Saw profile side of ship from stern to bow
And even imagine actual room we were in
On Holland American want to go again.
Oosterdam is next ship we will go on
With a wonderful dusk from a great dawn
Which appear in a picture perfect scene
Sun shining on water a sparkling green.
Maybe pair of porpose they may pass by
After both of them have caught my eye
And when safely back home I will yearn
On another cruise like this one to return.
James Thomas Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
RiverSea Plantation
Bolivia, NC
Roller coaster rides,
When in dreams, they’ll leave the track;
Flying anywhere and back;
To re-attach to,
Their own track before you wake
Up from the dreamscapes landscapes.
No one can predict
Where they will dare to take you;
At least they’ll never drop and
Break you like real ones.
Dare to ride them in your dreams;
Remember to watch all the
Scenes, you’ll enter in,
The dreams and learn to read their
Messages that guide your life.
Just for a fun ride a
Coaster if, you want to see
The thrills real ones provide.
Roller coaster rides,
When in dreams, they’ll leave the track;
Flying anywhere and back;
To re-attach to,
Their own track before you wake
Up from the dreamscapes scene.
No one can predict
Where they will dare to take you;
At least they’ll never drop and
Break you like real ones.
Dare to ride them in,
Your dreams whenever you can;
Remember to watch all the
Scenes, you’ll enter in,
The dreams and learn to read their
Messages that guide your life.
Just for a fun ride a
Real one if, you want to see
The thrills real ones can provide.
Almost just as similarly with tears,
In need of a certain something
Which can bear all of these smears
Of dark inks, as I am colouring.
I cradle you in both hands—
the cup is hotter than the blood in me.
I sip until my tongue blisters,
as if pain is the only proof
that I can still be filled.
The table is a witness—
its pale skin bruises under you.
You leave your halo of tannin,
a brown eclipse widening,
seeping into the grain like rot that knows my name.
I line the coasters in military rows,
little shields of cork and cloth,
but you slip past their defenses—
a siege of warmth,
an invasion I invite.
Soon the whole table will be dark.
Soon my palms will smell of leaves and ash.
But you seep through everything,
and I wonder if love is not the cup,
nor the hand holding it,
but the stain that stays after.