Best Portholes Poems
Sisters J E L L O cake madness
Illuminates smiles
Baked golden brown then cooled
Portholes jello jammed
Marshmellow skirting
Lip smacking
Good
Categories:
portholes, education, fantasy, food, health,
Form:
Epulaeryu
Spaceward: genesis, obedience, fathomless: universe.
In Cerulean: lambent, sullen, discernible: Close ignite.
With harmony: hypaethral, skyward, aether: womb hiccups
Whelm time: serenade, stardust, drizzles: diamond dust,
Overall trends: extinguish, slumber, wonder: celestial hymn,
By extolling: Argyle, twinkle, soothing: miraculous rule
Alabaster Gypsum: portholes, peering, ogling: rain glints
Rubicund Jocund: ventral, sheqalim, vivid: lured stars
Exalt air: Blistering, bleeding, molting: Corolla collide
Orotund Moire: Kaleidoscopic, sentient, dusk: carnal life
Grab fistful: Dripping, purple, precipitation: Sunburnt sky
Dodging Venus: Flytrap, ill-wishers, pyramids: Shift astern.
This variation on sonnet XL1 to illustrate what Kuhlmann intended .
kuhlmann is a verse poem of two phrases interspered with three related monosyllabic stem- words(nouns,adjectives )with an integral title.The label and form is derived from the baroque poet Quirinus Kuhlmann's 50 sonnet
form Love-kiss XLI
Poem inspired by the sonnet penned by Brian Stand
Categories:
portholes, analogy, appreciation, sky, stars,
Form:
Sonnet
The year I became seasick
I lived in a bungalow on the edge
of a wilderness moor.
The sky and land
grappled together
for supremacy of my soul,
Inner dogs whined,
my eyes were portholes
where cats watched
the turbulent dance
of garbled mind waves.
I had to leave a wife,
but knew I could not swim,
couldn't drown, nor float.
I stumbled across high wind-woven gorse,
ghosts crying through my hair.
in the end,
the crashing sound of breakers
smashing against cliffs
made me vomit, I staggered
choking still
into a pathless night.
A cloud garden had to
wither and bloom,
toes had to learn to grip
ever shifting sands.
Time whittles,
it sharpens the bones of your throat
until you can consume
the stale and the fresh,
while riding a moon crazed
rocking-horse.
Categories:
portholes, poetry,
Form:
Free verse
GETTING TOO OLD
Her story told by old charts, scattered, water-drenched.
Portholes all broken, shaft and screw missing : a wreck ,
Grounded on concrete platform like an old man sitting on bench,
Battered funnel, broken hawsers, holes in deck.
Tell you stories about the old days when he mattered.
Eyeglasses cracked. Some say he has a screw loose :
Old man on a bench, like a ship in dry dock, rust splattered,
Battered hat, torn trousers, holes in shoes.
Endured war sagas at the siege of Malta,
Braved storms in the Bering Sea - ice cold,
Saw exotic island sunsets in Straits of Malacca,
With cargoes varied, they traveled the world.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Written for Matt Caliri’s Contest “Write A Backwards Poem”
Categories:
portholes, adventure, life, nostalgia, old,
Form:
Quatrain
Violet Jessop, threat ahead
Escaping Poseidon’s death toll’s
“Look after this, will you?” He said
She did, counting down the portholes
First the Olympic’s nurse enrolls
Last, the Britannic’s noon code red
Titanic claimed her shipmate’s souls
Violet Jessop, threat ahead
Miss Unsinkable showed no dread
There as a nurse of many roles
To safety, others she had led
Escaping Poseidon’s death toll’s
The Titanic, tragedy doles
Passed a bundle with tiny head
As he returned to his patrols
“Look after this, will you?” He said
This man was cursed to join the dead
One thing left under her controls
Hold this babe close while others tread
She did, counting down the portholes
Life for her was not grassy knolls
Dreamt of the sea from in her bed
Board the Olympic, heat the coals
The ocean from her veins she bled
Violet Jessop.
March 14, 2023
"Double the Fun" Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Joseph May
Written of Violet Jessop otherwise known as Miss Unsinkable or Queen of Sinking ships. She survived the near sinking of the Olympic, the tragedy of the Titanic and the sinking (after being hit by a torpedo) of the Britannic. Following all of this, she returned to working on ships (including the repaired Olympic) until retirement. One more interesting little tidbit I read, 59 years after the Titanic sunk, she got a phone call from the baby she was handed and saved. I thought she had an interesting story to say the least.
Categories:
portholes, appreciation, memory, sad, voyage,
Form:
Rondeau Redouble
She bowed her head to the ground,
Focused on the grains of dust,
Her skin glistened in the morning sun,
Sparkling like the rarest opal to be found.
Whenever she rarely raised her crown,
I would look straight into the portholes to her soul,
And see a princess who had been locked away,
My gaze confused her, she returned to looking down.
As she carried her load, she would not move slow,
The way a snail does when he carries his home,
In the small busy alleys, she transported like a squirrel,
She seemed rather troubled, I just wanted her face to show.
When she finally stopped I gave her a smile.
A smile to let her know that this time is only for a season,
A smile to let her know that this struggle is for a reason,
A smile to remind her that there is One guiding her every step,
Cradling her heart,
Calming all her fears.
I hugged her as we parted ways,
And as I broke away,
I experienced raw beauty,
Beauty in its original form, its original state
What you would understand to be a gracious smile,
I saw as her soul beaming out through her facial features,
She had been ignited like a mountain cave torch.
It was amazing to see her whole aura reset.
The market girl’s smile, I will never forget.
Categories:
portholes, christian, girl, uplifting, smile,
Form:
Ballad
Silly girl
You sit here and lick away at your enlightened lollypop
Driving him with your silent stares
Open your eyes
Beautiful portholes
Holes to your ever giving soul
A soul that doesn't exist
To you….
Eyes that spill tears that are very real
To you…
The taste, salty
The trail they leave
A temporary reminder of sadness down your cheek
Goodness, look at the time
How long does this sadness intend to last?
Categories:
portholes, introspection, love, passion, sad,
Form:
Free verse
The grand, half-ruined Parthenon,
once a sublime, Doric grace,
Even now, in broken, stone blocks,
always takes my breath away.
The rich, classical detail,
fluted columns without plinths,
to imagine what it once was,
the mind can’t even begin…
That towering Coliseum,
the great masterpiece of Rome,
even half gone it’s staggering,
to be so tall, but made in stone.
Go down to the domed Pantheon,
still so perfect to this day,
these are not just random buildings,
they stand with something to say.
And those long, Gothic cathedrals,
so ornate and yet so light,
stained glass alone is enough
to make these churches a sight!
But all of that fine tracery,
those magnificent cravings,
the rows of flying buttresses,
inspire the soul to sing.
The Byzantines and their tiles,
Tudor masonry and wood,
Romanesque with its arches,
Art Decco looks oh-so-good,
Baroque with all its fussiness,
Victorians with their quirks,
Renaissance sports Italian flare,
Palladian’s subtle pleasures…
And yet in Albany, New York,
there stands the featureless ‘egg,’
That’s its name and its resemblance,
I am not pulling your leg.
No decoration, no windows,
as it stands there in the sun,
people call it ‘modernist,’
I call it ‘concrete abortion.’
Worse is the post-modern trash,
theaters shaped like hunks of cheese,
painted pink, spattered with portholes,
a mad-man’s monstrosity.
That is the product of our skills?
That is how we would inspire?
By building things that look like they
have been melted in a fire?!
They bulldoze down our heritage
to throw up more of these things?
And the big-wigs who approved this,
what the hell are you thinking?!
If these buildings of the future
are to have no beauty or class,
then you can keep ‘modernity,’
I’ll gladly live in the past.
Categories:
portholes, appreciation, art, city, creation,
Form:
Rhyme
If we have to see the fishes closer
and immerse ourselves under the surface of things
I put on the wetsuit
The diver's paraphernalia
And I let myself go to obscure distances
And think no more at the air, which usually
fill my lungs …
I am a ludion suspended in waters
Tickled by shoals of fish that roam
Caressed by jellyfishes, eager for a country ,
One above, which they are not allowed
As I am no longer allowed for sunlight
So low, beneath tons of moving liquid.
That is, across the border turbulent waves,
A reserved area, where the feeling of feet wouldn’t be enough
And that includes me, and swallows me
Like all the certainties of dry floor …
And cuttlefish lend me their naval ink
Writing for the memory of the abyss,
The silent vrombissemnt of orcas passing
The strange lanterns of monkfishes
And the maze of colorful corals and anemones
Dancing with the warm currents
Barely the memory of man
And an oblique wreck, portholes with crimped
Shells and rust, with its scale
Hanging on the railing of useless.
Categories:
portholes, absence, deep, earth, fish,
Form:
Free verse
Into the snow white castle only tepid feet bound
Head mirror of quilted bed reflects a glimmering compound
Satin blanket spreads over each frozen mound
A blinding glare from the silted bed doth rebound
With each heavy step mist arises from fluffed goose down
Arching o'er head a crystalline canopy doth crown
The hooded frames as glowing sentinels ballast ground
The woody rails in their icy coat of arms surround
As tempest blows, crackling arms in groaning chorus resound
From portholes beaming, frozen pellets wayfarers confound
Alighting from pillowy perches, Red-shouldered hawks with wings unwound
Strafe the bystanders; with their prickly dander doth hound
A fibrous parapet of occluded, twining roots shields ground
Each truant sole straying from the beaten path will impound
Buried stumps as pulpy landmines on periphery abound
The errant, plodding heel with shocking pain to redound
Pace must quicken in the late afternoon stound
Dusk's chilling tides o'er snowy copse leaves laggards spellbound
As the last rays of light funnel into
the background
Enchanting visions of woodland nymphs mind's eye doth astound
Categories:
portholes, adventure, courage,
Form:
Rhyme
4-08-2012 The Sweet Disposition
Much higher than than clouds, where possessions are nothing but dead weight,
Where all can walk freely without losses of defeat,repeat,belief,
Open doors that have not been dreamed of before,portholes of the stars,
Please open this man cage,I must drink my thirst of there you are,
The stones at my feet turn to sand,to dust,to the hardened hearts,
No longer I wait,I chase my eyes to follow,my feet up to shallow,
Away from the minds that collect in the deep,where there they remain hidden,
My love is that of the rain that's falling,the trees that are reaching,
The ground that is needing, your heart to be feeding,dreaming,fleeing,
The sweet disposition of the bright light which finds us,
Is not of this world,the last ,or the next.
Categories:
portholes, imagination, sweet, sweet,
Form:
WRECKS
Battered funnel, broken hawsers, holes in deck,
Grounded on concrete platform like an old man sitting on bench,
Portholes all broken, shaft and screw missing : a wreck ,
Her story told by old charts, scattered, water-drenched.
Battered hat, torn trousers, holes in shoes,
Old man on a bench, like a ship in dry dock, rust splattered,
Eyeglasses cracked. Some say he has a screw loose :
Tell you stories about the old days when he mattered.
With cargoes varied, they traveled the world,
Saw exotic island sunsets in Straits of Malacca,
Braved storms in the Bering Sea - ice cold,
And endured war sagas at the siege of Malta.
Categories:
portholes, adventure, nostalgia, peopleold, old,
Form:
Quatrain
Before the eye of god
Soloman bore the thunder of the crashing waves,
Beyond this entrance hung,
While observing not the changing tides
In sight of the eye of god;
For dawn equates no hope, nor faith
When the winds blow evermore,
And light expands in our daybreak fair
Sacrificing the solemn night;
Commit to us all that is good and fair
And forsake an innocent man
Waiting before the eye of god
Breaks slow a fog over this lands end,
When calm the tranquil brine,
Yet in his ship the old captain waits
To see the eye of god,
Oh muscle to muscle to ache with pain
As he lays deaf to his shipmates call,
Though from beneath this portholes outward lights
Came bangs of a rusty spigot;
And all those left to brave the morn
Will seize things moral and just
Before the eye of god
Soloman was transcended by the tick of his old wooden clock,
In the grace of an early morn,
As the quiet sunrise softly rose
High over the eye of god,
For he felt the sorrow of no promised land
When it touched his withered breadth,
And cold it was when waking eyes
Beheld no sacred light;
Yet visions haunt what prophets see
Pursuing their own desires
Before the eye of god
He considers not his own intent
Nor ponders his lost good-by,
But questioned words and fatal deeds
Are unanswered by the word of god,
For here wait the seeds of a moral life
Called out in his final breath;
While he listen’s long the bellows horn
As his life did slip away;
For silent was his dying pledge
In this, our morning light
Bound to the eye of god
Crashes through the waves our justice held
Blowing across this entrance hung,
Where lands and seas are momentary
And wait before the eye of god.
Faith is not for the sake of one
But lay’s for the worth of us all,
Then raises all to a distant call
And leave’s the rest to fate.
Oh boats pass on over waters calm
And sail to a far off shore
To behold the eye of god
By M.Norton
Categories:
portholes, death, old, light, light,
Form:
portholes
round by design
in sides of ships and planes
encircle scenes of sky and sea
plugged snug
Categories:
portholes, travel,
Form:
Cinquain
17
the narrow path took a sudden turn
I pushed the main sail west
where tiny tugs push giant timbers
portside down shivering rivers
to the end of broken islands
and ravens who fall asleep
no more stealing noon day’s sun
havoc on the steel grey highway
I asked where to my friend
listen to the voice I pondered
every thought I overheard
across a midnight madness ocean
do not pay till two thousand five
among the smouldering fires
of rusted vacant castles
beached below a popular tide
of sentimental sediment
a land far away but not forgotten
18
red and white blue brickyard
mason masterpiece in gold
spires bold and towers clapping
to a moon swept melody above
tiny dots in tiny places
windmill arms are waving
watery graves say hello
to friend and stranger wandering
cloudy motives squandering
on orange day parades
the ripped off royal banner
every man’s soiled linen cover
red light sin of the fathers
mothers cry for daughters lost
my home and land of natives
took my childhood away
19
stand up I push some reason
speak the voice of knowledge soon
wisdom cries in pain
for the ears of man are suffering
silence drives his soul insane
paint the gesture gently
or scratch the surface mean
secret streams of unknown lovers
writing dusty letters in the sands
of time worn airborne trials
hastily drawn across a window
to hide the gossip eyes that stare
for want of intelligent care
pollute the shallow pools of laughter
the trough lies naked bare
I am only passing through I beckon
reckon hands might hold my voice
interrupt the bar code worship
tempting endless feast of fools
20
second hand books in second hand stores
recycled commentary on ages past
dead to weary travelers
who need to know what lies ahead
on the sweating stars in their bed
leave the portholes open
winds of doctrine blowing through
cleanse the green paved pastures
prepare a table in the wilderness
spirit river flowing mercy
feet that dance in tidal pools
harvest endless nights of joy
listen carefully to the evening minstrel
a song to carry me through
before I turn back again
to push the main sail east
Categories:
portholes, allegory, inspirational, life, philosophy,
Form:
Epic