Best Hulks Poems
Hey there, Muscle Men, please come my way
I’m moving out on Labor Day
Packing’s made me a muscle lady
Biceps are growing on this baby
Incredible Hulks are welcome here
Superman seems to have disappeared
Consider the workout you’ll receive
A hopeful woman wants to believe
That those who can lift barbells so high
Could stack and haul, making this move fly
Speed like The Flash is what I need most
Flex muscles, don’t just stand there and boast
Batman, the cave needs to be cleared out
So bring your friends; give Robin a shout
Trapped in time, Achilles defends Troy
I pray the Lord sends a modern boy
Who wants to help a gal in distress?
The Holy Spirit brings my request
My aching bones would welcome a hand
From one who fancies himself a he-man
On ocean bowride below gentle titans peep
ghost ships of the Pacific hunt and chase -
where great barnacled seafarers of the deep
beneath the waves its blue waters grace.
Old sea tales of killing lance and spear tip
tell of the dying struggle of the flurry -
once more mighty hulks of beast and ship
haunt the dark shadows of the undersea.
Let no harpoon pierce your skin,
no flense cut and slice,
not body or fin.
Let no kill sound its death throes,
and may long
live the shout of “thar she blows!”
Far and yon an old boneyard whaling station
fluking bulls and cows circle the perilled pod,
and breach and dive in fabled echolocation
the bones of Ahab and wreck of the Pequod.
Still ghost ships old hunting grounds scout
that mystic echo whalesong far reaching,
and still cavernous mouths unmade to shout
trap by moon and tide on remote beaching.
Let no harpoon pierce your skin,
no flense cut and slice,
not body or fin.
Let no kill sound its death throes,
and may long
live the shout of “thar she blows!”
Written: July 1992
I still feel that short embrace
Him turning for one last glance
The look on our mother’s face
Her knowing his fate of chance
What is this cruel affair called war
Who could give such credence
To savage acts and laws ignored
Stand by in silent grievance
Where is this place “over there”?
Where the young men have to go
Why do we heed some foreign scare
From a place that we don’t know
Cast to battle as living pawns
Just a number on a metal tag
Hoping to live till a new day dawns
Avoiding the fate of a body bag
No stories come from those who fell
Just from only those who lived
Their memories of that living hell
One sole and fragile life to give
Now we know what’s over there
Much more than there was before
There are gravestones everywhere
Rusted hulks left on their shore
Scars brought back are hidden deep
They last through all their years
Comrades call them from their sleep
To fight the nightmare’s fears
Rest ye soldier someday somewhere
With they that fell and stayed behind
Go back to them we know you care
Find that peace, that peace of mind
The young woman sat astride the young buffalo
Her dress was a flimsy, homemade from the cured skin of a deer.
Two cured boots, quite wide, hiding each a dagger,
Whilst on her back, crisscrossed were two swords.
One large and heavy, the other lithe, small with a green gem.
They came to a murky river, the small buffalo
Treading the depth of the bottom full of weeds.
Suddenly it stopped. Two dark hulks of a man
Were beating a poor and small old man.
It was clear they meant to kill, such was their force.
A dagger appeared from her boot and flew
It was embedded in his chest, right where his heart lay.
The other man tried to escape, but out came the small sword.
A flash hit him between his eyes, blinding him completely.
Then he fell, trembled in his death throes and lay still.
Birds flew away from the scene, and all was quiet.
The buffalo crossed the river and approached the man.
There was no fear in his eyes as he handed back her dagger.
She picked him up, not much of a weight really.
Slowly, they wended their way towards his shack.
A few well-chosen leaves cured his wounds.
And made him rest on his bed made of clothes.
Later, fearlessly, she fed him to regain his rest.
She cleaned her swords and prepared to leave.
The old man hobbled towards her bracelet in his hand.
“Take this. When it turns red, you’ll know.
Danger is not far away. Be prepared.”
THE GREAT BATTLESHIP
Once sailed as the lumbering hulks of the high seas
Fierce winds accompanied most of its expedition
Woozy and exhausted crews grappled the oars and crosstrees
With smoothbore and muzzle-loading guns geared up for a mission
The tall vertical spar supporting aloft the white canvas
Stretched out to catch the invisible strength of the wind
The ship’s keel watching the seabed at its vast
Emerged gradually from the water to meet the enemy lines
Whizzing salvo of the battle began off the island
Ships clashed, and soldiers engaged in a fight
Dead bodies slammed and the injured crossed to near land
Hear leaves without figs crushed to the ground
Ship ahoy! Shouted by villagers as they waited eagerly
Slowly ship emerged with the image of heavy wreckage
Wounded and exhausted crews embraced their family
Another saga of brave men printed on book’s page
The plaintive music now played on air
Tattoo beats called soldiers back to barracks
From bow to stern, ships respite from war
A short-lived fashion from majestic into rugs
For chieftains, captains, and crews laid beneath the ocean
Their remains rested in their sunken ship as their grave
Great battleships are now history and ordain
Shipwrecks underneath the sea were untouched and remained a treasure
Let in children’s cry slowly clear the fogs of war
And hail farewell to brave men who once sailed with the great battleship of all times
Posted also in voicesnet.com Poetry Site on 28 September 2009
Note: Other poetrysite have posted this under another name which is a clear plagiarism.
You may check this site: http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-great-battleship/
and you may search also your poem title there, maybe they have posted also your poem without your consent.
Patience of accusations begin to thin
As they toss complaints at me from now til then
If i could summarize my existence that easily i would
But another question is that if i even should
Raised in a household of hulks
Like angry dragons they bulk
Time after time my mind begins to twist
Turning and winding,
Trying to keep my soul from dying
Trapped in purgatory
I question if im still in hell
Was the 3 days just a metaphor for my time?
Or did it just ring with the bell!
I dont know how i came to be...
Seems i was adopted by spirits,
Ones that preserved me for eternities
Oh God! im not ashamed of your help!
Just let me see clearly!
What am i even looking for?
Something or someone i fear
Thats out of my current reach
Waiting, fighting and dying
So something good can be
Maybe il it can?
But i fear i must first put an end to all my enemies
Such is the prophecy of world war 3
No more in the end...will i here blasphemy
Anger departs for now, until it spews upon there ignorant seas.
More than meets the eye
Trapped in my mortal shel
Until the end of mortal time
Plucked from before the hulks of houses going up
My childhood sea and spot of southern sky
The cornflower eyes northern poets wove into their songs
And eastern poets sang the autumn high
Climbed hills to catch the moon
Timid flower placed inside a Chinese vase
Enamel green the ocean waves
Silvered summit at the rim
Of years carried in this ebbing tide
I had many autumns and many gilded nights
Air crisp, sky long and blue, blue
Cornflower-hue of splendid time
Pressed as scavenged leaves between the pages of old books
Verse the fixing glue when flower lives are but a glimpse
A faded head and sea gone dry, the petals lost
The poets leant from their pavilions to fish the gentle orb
And roam the stars
I roam the concrete paths and pick the crumbs
A snatch of light between the clouds
Last Chance,
I passed through you many times and remember you.
You sit on the Colorado Prairie east of Denver at the intersection of two, two lane highways.
In the 1880's you were a stop along the great Texas Montana Cattle Trail.
You really came into your own as a child of the post war Forty's and Fifty's automobile boom.
The say you once were a lively little town made up of gas stations, motels, cafes, a general store, two churches and several homes.
Word has it, you got your name because you were the last chance for travelers to get gas,
food and lodging on their long treks to Denver and Kansas.
In summer, travelers picked cold Cokes, Pepsis and Grape NeHi's out of your gas stations' iced filled soda chests.
In winter, hot steaming coffee flowed from the silver urns of your cafes.
It was Fords, Plymouths, and Chevrolets that created you,
and it was Interstate Highway 70 that bypassed and doomed you
to whither and slowly die.
A prairie fire in 2012 caused by the sparks of a tire blowout finished you off.
Today you are a ghost town of burnt out hulks, abandoned buildings
and distant memoires.
Oh, Last Chance.
The stories you could tell.
BRIGHT MIRACLE
Snow is my dream-home miracle,
Always called to me, never cold.
Serene, soft, silent,
Soul-scoured, fresh, reposing -
Like the sound and pure spray
Of flowing water over a low weir.
White tabula rasa submerging
Hard sharp corners; edges are softened.
World suddenly transformed, renewed, unspoiled:
Long-sought Eden garden
From the child-dreams I was forbidden to enter
By the guards: the teachers, the church, the grandma,
And other cold dark forces
Choking my green growth.
Dowdy fields, old trees, and dirty walls -
Freshly-baptised converts to pure brightness:
Industrial dumps, rusted hulks,
Row upon row of soulless cellars,
In a mantle white from the fairytale shapes
Of a Dickens scene on a Christmas card.
I feel small again in snow, always did:
Impossible become possible: childhood regained.
6 foot 7 makes self sufficient
Drums pavement clink clanking walking barefoot
On Puddles of thought dried to subsistence
Carelessly focusing on how not to look
Indecisive ones with pure intentions
While restlessly calm fidget sitting still
In comes independence speech invented
Declaring loyalty but not to kneel
16 revoke as 17 revolt
Pure intent screams inside confused in sorrow
What looks as it seems does what is in fault
No cure no hope hearts pump love shown hollow
No need to rise up if we never fall
Then freedom can be freedom without crime
No need to let go if rights don't pause
Then love can cry because feelings have eyes
6 foot 7 inches independent
Hulks over reasoning for one reason
16 rebuke and 17 in division
Independence remembers true freedom...
Herons fragment the mist,
appear and disappear while remaining motionless.
The skiff rocks as a coal barge trundles past.
A dewy sky shivers.
Nowadays he just sits in a boat looking at Ohio.
This morning the sun reached the top of a willow
and got stuck.
He rowed toward the bank thinking to get under the tree,
filled an imaginary pipe full of tangy river smoke,
sucked on the wet air
as he watched the tree struggling with the sun.
For a while it was a tussle, then the willow shook itself
and the sun slipped away like an unmoored ketch.
At first, the sun just hovered like a blanched balloon
then it found a window above the mounded smother
and it rose up like a Choctaw bass
about to mouth a trill of small fry.
He was near to the shore now,
Ohio slanted down to meet him
cattails and reeds scratching the aluminum hull.
A couple of mallards jumped out of nowhere
and flew over his eyes. The clatter of wings
ruffled the chill bank where a dank light had sunk.
His mind followed them for some time
until they settled deep down
amid a wraith-wrapped Kentucky.
A heron slowly rowed the wind
stirring up the vaporous air, Patches of clarity
drifted across sky-high filtering puddles.
Ohio becomes a river town, the huddled houses
have scuttled their roofs upon soggy pathways.
The mossy hulks of an abandoned industry
wallow in a foggy backwash.
Castaway wharfs drip a spatter and smear,
a hand me down script of a yesteryear.
A small blue-collar marina,
beer cans roll on swaying pontoons,
a couple of dry docked rowboats
and canoes.
Truck tires thump harbor chains.
Someone is up early, someone else watches him
gut and clean a large flathead.
On the damp dock cats circle the bones and scales
creep through the miasma
their fur wet and glistening eyes flashing a liquid silver.
The catfish is naked and shorn of the river
a thing to be watched least it return to life
as something beyond the ken of cats and fishermen.
On the ramp he hitches up his straggling life
and drives away from a berth awash
with the haunted cries of Loons and Redtail’s.
Soon he will be back in the patched-up pockets of Ohio
where corn husks snag hoarfrost and rattle
in a fresh rinsing breeze.
The ocean is vast, large ships traverse its waters
seabirds abound, hunting for fish
distance between continents measure in hundreds
All life is at sea
All manner of vessels is found on the blue water
And even below surface they travel
Tankers and liners, container ships and more
All life is at sea
Marine creatures fills the dark and murky depths
Searching the cold brine for food
Rusting hulks litter the seabed, gone for ever
All life is at sea
Man has tried to conquer this life source without success
The ocean can be hard to those who trespass
History can confirm the facts
The sea controls life
A voiceless emoted summer ran amok the muse music's mandolin strummer.
Essence of antiquity wander and sulk...
Arched building's olden archetecture is many awsome massive like hulks.
Gargoyles perch at building eve's set...
Mine eyes have failed to adjust to
strange one's yet met.
Opera houses are filled up to the rafters...
Performed by artist's well talented crafters.
Rained downpours hard on French cities...
Stray alleyed dogs searching for unwary kitty's.
Food scraps are missed by many a moungrel...
Other scraps are found by rats that are half filled with fungul.
Hotels done swamped with bedbugs that bite...
Time to leave this country b'for another wasted spent night.
MIRACLE OF CHILDHOOD REGAINED
Snow - my dream miracle,
To me has always called, never cold.
Serenely reposing, softly refreshing
Like flowing water over a low weir.
Submerging sharp corners; edges are softened.
New world, renewed, unspoiled. Pure tabula rasa.
Long-sought Eden garden emerging
From the child-dreams I was forbidden to enter
By the sentries: teachers, church, ancient granny,
By cold forces choking my green growth -
Dowdy fields, old trees, dirty walls
Now freshly-baptised to pure brightness;
Factory dumps, rusted hulks, rows of soulless cellars,
Now mantled white in fairytale shapes from a Christmas card.
I feel small again in snow, always did:
Impossible become possible: childhood regained.
.............................
Other poems of mine, similar to this, are available at
https://www.fictionmagazines.com/magazines/five/
Villanelle : Don't we all cling to Life tooth and nail guts in groin
Don't we all cling to Life tooth and nail guts in groin
E'en if the insatiable Beast glowers close behind
No matter what nor how long the grind we bear 'n' pine
Merchants of Faith made in mythic images divine
Tell us all their gods have told them what lurks behind
Don't we all cling to Life tooth and nail guts in groin
Each in his own way nailed to some Alien loin
All assured this World's for the best of Mankind
No matter what nor how long the grind we bear 'n' pine
True gods are those Men who behind the scenes combine
Thrust up Leaders who lisp words for Them who us bind
Don't we all cling to Life tooth and nail guts in groin
Children grow up and swear by their words anodine
Believe rot Batman Hulks Wonder Woman's behind
No matter what nor how long the grind we bear 'n' pine
Till that day the bubble bursts the last word on line
Shows neither Nations nor gods mean well for Mankind
Don't we all cling to Life tooth and nail guts in groin
No matter what nor how long the grind we bear 'n' pine
© T. Wignesan - Paris, 2018