Best Steamer Poems
All that time will do
is install you
in comfortable stockings.
The wind howls away the years.
Foxes hunt even while we sleep.
The binding is broken.
The straps are disconnected.
Wind carries away
even massive objects.
It is the tornado of life.
Chunk chunk
Clink clink
The mind keeps puffing
like a steamer.
Even pine trees are inspired
by the wind.
Shadow Rock hides the eyes
of children.
Their eyes grow heavy with sleep,
and they groan.
The bad dream progresses;
a story unfolds.
There can be no talking
during this time of storms,
this time of hiding behind rocks.
There is nothing left
worth stealing.
The captain’s eyes glow ruby red
Atop the steamer’s deck –
A rusted tin can set adrift
By rough Atlantic crests
A crimson emblem sanctions
This whaler’s floating tomb –
A battered vessel bearing
Insignias of doom
Red ember sparks illuminate
The old man’s hickory pipe,
As he begins to scour the sea
For subtle signs of life
The radar soon shines fiery red,
And deckhands race to find
Their harpoons pointed straight ahead
At monsters in mid-dive
'There she blows!' the captain blares,
His face now beating red;
The hunt is on for him again,
And victory’s ahead
But as the scarlet sun moves west,
Black storm clouds open wide,
And though the weary crew protests,
He keeps the men in line
One well aimed shot is all he needs
To stain the ocean red,
But angry winds and beating rain
Show no signs of an end
The crimson hull begins to quake
As waves come crashing down,
And though the crew is mad with fright,
The captain only frowns
Then finally a sound rings sharp
Amid the roaring surf –
The red harpoon has found its mark:
A whale of massive girth
'We got her now!' the captain chimes,
His new prize bleeding red,
But with his words a rogue wave climbs
Ten feet above their heads
As they stare up with fear and awe,
They realize their fate –
Atop the blood-red steamer bow,
They know that it's too late
And though the crew and captain pray
For rescue from the squall,
The phantom wave of burgundy
Descends to drown them all.
As a dreamer, I never once dwelled on schemers,
so, as a believer, I fell for him, a deceiver.
I was never an anger screamer and tear streamer
until romantic panic lay me down as griever.
I believed his story, his strengths and regrets
which had me set to gently drift into his net
where hidden, as yet, were his sharp-hearted threats.
He spoke of love most profuse when he played to seduce.
I revealed all my truths, he used them for abuse
while running hot then cold to steer me towards confused.
Oh, he was charm, lushness and warmth, a manly steamer.
Then he was harm, harshness and cold, a heartless quiver.
Playing the fool to his cruel, is my self-debt,
one my brain did not deduce, nor heart now excuse.
Written: November 11, 2023
___________________________________________
Oh, what strength and valor the heart may be!
As a way of enduring life's various struggles,
Minor flaws are where it typically falls poorly.
Which develops drastically, days troubles
We brace for battle by bearing sturdy gear.
To meet physically with something awful.
Defiantly ignoring the potential to feed fear
And convey your fierce drive to win, lawful.
An anonymous, as feathery as a fluffy cloud,
A thoughtless phrase, a glance, a demeanor
Destroys our smug sense of awe; to be proud
Both stamina and vigor vanished in a steamer.
Despite whether it is stubble-covered or spare,
Losing may as well teach us how life will dare.
Cooks tamales daily.
Using steamer crock.
Stuff wrapper dough.
Can't be for an old Stanley Steamer
With Bernie my car is a screamer
With magnet en route
If you see me please toot
It’s strategically stuck on my bimmer*
*This is the correct spelling for a BMW car or person. Mine is a previously-owned (many times over) 3-series with 259,000 miles that we maintain. Apologies for burning fossil fuel, but at least there is no depreciation to deal with.
Solomon Cook
1820 – 1900
It was a miracle.
I entered this wicked world with
Mother’s umbilical wrapped around my neck like a noose,
Inside a cold cabin made of stone.
My mother,
A beauty of burden,
Chopped the wood
And served chicken neck soup on special occasions.
My father taught me stories from the Bible
And swatted my behind with a strap
If I slept in past 6.
My eight siblings and me
Worked the fields from the rise of Phoebus at dawn
To the fall of the day’s eye at twilight,
And we barely had enough to eat,
Except after the harvest.
I taught myself to read at ten years old
And as a young man
I travelled by steamer as a swabby
To Europe, Asia and Africa
And I took in the local colors like one of Twain’s tramps.
I met many women of questionable reputation
In many exotic ports-of-call.
But my one true love was my wife of 42 years;
My lovely and patient Pearl.
By train and stagecoach
We came to this quiet Quaker town in 1892,
And lived in the white Queen Anne on Olive Street.
Pearl and me walked on many a Sunday morning
To services at First Christian,
Shaped like a cross,
And together we smelled the gardenia blossoms
In Pastor Crain’s eccentric garden.
Why, my Lord, did I have to live so long?
Why did I have to watch my wife and friends die before me?
And why, my Lord, was it a simple cold
That finally stopped my old lived-in heart?
And now I am resting in peace at Clark Cemetery
Under the sprawling sultan-like fronds;
Under the magnificent golden nucleus
Of a single desert palm.
I am scared, and I have never been scared in my life. We lost our radio, radar, and other electronic navigation gear when we came through the Bermuda Triangle. One of the old salts aboard this rusty gray bucket of bolts they call a tramp steamer said, we must have offended King Neptune. It is a known fact that the ship cheated Davy Jones' Locker three times when it was running convoys during WWII.
Where the storm came from, no one knows! Thirty-foot waves of blue-green foamy water are breaking over the bow flooding the main deck and throwing a salty mist spray over the bridge. The off-duty watch are confined to their racks for safety while the ship bobs and rolls like a roller coaster in the trough of the waves. Many lie there and pray as they listen to the moans and groans of the ship-expansion joints as the ship twist from side to side. Some of the sounds, sound human and I'm not so sure that they're not. I felt as if someone was calling me to come and join them in the briny deep.
By: Poet Sonny Roper
lacking gallantry
heave round in Satan's abyss
death clock off duty
By Poet
8/17/2021
Potatoes
I was on old steamer once it was loaded with
Idaho potatoes and bound for Peru it was not much fun
with the potatoes came rats and insects
but we got rid of them, the rats when unloading a Lima
Port, but there was a plague of crabs
that came onboard in Lima, but that was not the blame
of the potatoes.
I had thought the root vegetable potato was discovered
In Peru and brought Europe, I don`t if this was a blessing
seeing so many fat children
filling their faces with Pommes Frites.
When eating out, I make it quite clear I don`t want
any potatoes having seen a thousand rat dancing on top of them
but they still bring me potatoes; I used to give them to my dog
she got fat and had a heart attack
I had one too, but that was caused by smoking.
During the war when the Nazis occupied my country potatoes
boiled with the skin on was the norm, my mother said the vitamins are
under the skin, it could also be she hated peeling
I remember she was throwing up in the sink she blamed the spuds
But she was pregnant, and I didn`t know before
I had a younger brother who was fed mashed potatoes
Brussels sprouts for breakfast, Brussels sprouts for lunch,
Sprouties served with iced champagne to make the perfect brunch!
Boiled and drowned in butter, or juiced to make a punch,
Brussels sprouts the tasty treat that I just love to munch!
Now I love to have a pet around but not a cat or dog,
Don't want no flop-eared bunny, or fat pot bellied hog.
My sprout plant does not need a walk and never gives me fleas,
Just lots of tender Brussels sprouts and I call her Louise!
Sprouties by the bowl full, sprouties by the plate,
I'd like to have a buck for very Brussels sprout I've ate.
When I take my final dirt bath, just so there are no doubts...
Plant me in a steamer trunk well packed in Brussels sprouts.
“The chances against anything manlike on Mars are a million to one,” he said. (Excerpt from the book by H G Wells.)
WATCH OUT, run for your lives ...the Martians are coming!
Well on October 30, 1938
Terrified listeners truly thought the world was ending
When a radio broadcast
Of H G Wells book ‘The War of the Worlds’ was aired
Jeff Wayne turn the book into an epic musical story
Well over 40 years have passed since it was released
Millions have listened to the double album
And seen a Martian monster recreated in the stage show
Though the Martians first invade dry land
The album cover focuses on the war at sea …
Terror stricken sea travellers try to escape
A massive menacing metal monster
With bulging green bug like eyes
Its gleaming silver body perched high upon
Three spindly chop stick like tripod legs
It stalks the steamer like a spider eying its prey
The brave captain tries to steer the ship to safely
but it’s is tossed on stormy seas
like a rag doll thrown by a petulant toddler
Suddenly, the ebon sky is illuminated
By an intense golden beam - a death ray
Which pierces the bow of steamer
with pinpoint accuracy
White smoke billows, fire rages
Countless lives will be lost
Will the Martians conquer the world?
I won’t spoil it for you…
Just listen to the album story to find out
Believe me you won’t regret it!!
THE EMPRESS OF IRELAND
Two mighty workhorses, colliding Titans,
Leviathans of the Saint Lawrence river.
Devastation’s maritime wrecking balls,
Slamming head on, even after the warnings
Sounding, had been given, by Captain Kendall.
Emerging on the starboard side, a distant light
Did shine, from the masthead on high.
The tramper steamer, S.S. Storstad,
Heavily loaded by coals freight,
Didn't hear the captain's hailing.
Lost within an eerie, thickened fog bank,
All hands struggled in full reverse,
But the wheels of fate, had been set,
In motions wake, and it was
Coming straight towards them, at
Rapid speeds full velocity.
Horns rang out, life boats were lowered
Broad side, voices yelled abandon ship,
Captured unaware, shaken from their beds.
Passengers scrabbled to the higher
Decks elevation, as the chilling waters
Slashed through the torn apart,
And breached forward hull.
Death's black ghost ship, lies moored
Near by, ready to take on board, it's
Newest crew members, the grim
Reapers flag, flies at half mast.
Until the full compliments roll call, has
Been filled, by the dead's unwilling
Volunteers.
Clinging to the life raft of spiritualism,
The living pray, for a last reprieves
Salvation, a miracle to save them,
But hell's vessel awaits and it's
Master has no mercy.
Histories stretches a gray shroud,
Across the debris field, as their
Voices grow silent, beneath the
brimey deep.
A lone, cold, monument does stand,
At Rimouski St-Germain cemetery , in Quebec, Canada.
Expressing the details of this misfortune.
But it will never satisfy the sorrows felt,
By the survivors or family members
Whom were lost that early May morning.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
I gently stroll along the shores
of stunning Windermere
twenty swans are gathered round
the old ramshackle pier
ahead the steamer gracefully glides
slight ripples in it's wake
the image of the fells around
reflect upon the lake
the vision trails for many a mile
a picture quite immense
superior panoramic view
stimulating every sense
blues and greens within the mere
glistening rays dancing upon
slight summer breeze to calm the heat
and carry the sweet bird song
The Union Pacific steamer billowed clouds of smoke as down the rails it raced!
Young soldiers aboard the crowded train contemplated the dire fates they faced.
Melancholy thoughts of hearth and home this Christmas Day were hard to bear.
The mournful wail of the engine's whistle added to their loneliness and despair.
The troop train provided very little conveniences for the miserable men.
No showers, a potbellied stove for heat and a tasteless meal now and then.
Little sleep was had since there were no berths or fancy Pullman cars.
Even a nap in their seats was fitful due to the coaches rocking jars!
Ah, but there was good news ahead for these young men on the way to war!
The sergeant announced, "We're stoppin' at North Platte, Nebraska! Ain't very far!
The kind ladies of North Platte is waitin' to greet youse on this Christmas Day!
Now, watch yer language, comb yer hair and shine yer shoes wid'out delay!"
The ladies of North Platte met every train passing through since the war began!
From the bounty of their farms they provided food for each and every man!
Ladies from miles about brought fried chicken, candy, apple pies and cakes,
Even popcorn balls with addresses of girls wrapped therein, for heaven's sakes!
Each train stopped for twenty minutes or so to take on more water and coal,
But those precious moments lifted the morale of the men which was the ladies goal!
They met as many as thirty-two trains a day serving nearly six million guys!
Decades later those men, now old vets, recall North Platte with teary eyes!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
The blue hour takes root ...
There is the dark wing of the steamer,
Which takes the open sea, and carries away its regrets,
Tiny passengers, waving handkerchiefs
And the seagulls passing and passing again.
Heavy rusty chains, in heaps on the edge of the quay,
Puddles where the clouds pass,
In which dead leaves are diluting.
The evening is maritime,
The sun is still clinging to the cranes of the harbor,
Which seem aimless,
And on the summit of the trees.
The freshness already slips on its silver soles,
And it remains a few moments, on the water
The wake of dreams.
It doesn't wait to dilutes itself in oblivion.
The boat came out of my field of vision,
Perhaps a point, hidden behind the buildings of the mole.
The wind knocks at my window.
A bus goes up the avenue, almost empty.
The silver stone of the moon rises from the horizon.
The muses escaped.
The blue hour takes root,
I put a disc
And from the piano, Chopin chords.
These are the "Nocturnes".
They soon overtake the reddish mists:
Ultimate bursts of a day that goes out.
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( translated from french )
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original text:
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L'heure bleue prend racine...
Il y a l'aileron sombre du paquebot,
qui prend le large, et emporte ses regrets,
des passagers minuscules, agitant des mouchoirs
et les mouettes qui passent et repassent .
De lourdes chaînes rouillées, en tas sur le bord du quai,
des flaques où passent les nuages,
dans lesquelles se diluent des feuilles mortes .
Le soir est maritime,
le soleil s'accroche encore sur les grues du port,
qui semblent désoeuvrées,
et sur la cîme des arbres.
La fraîcheur glisse déjà sur ses semelles d'argent,
et il reste quelques instants, sur l'eau
le sillage des songes.
Il ne tarde pas à se diluer dans l'oubli.
Le bateau est sorti de mon champ de vision,
peut-être un point, caché derrière les bâtiments du môle.
Le vent frappe à ma fenêtre.
Un autobus remonte l'avenue, presque vide .
La pierre argentée de la lune monte de l'horizon.
Les muses se sont échappées.
L'heure bleue prend racine,
je mets un disque
et du piano, s'égrènent les accords de Chopin.
Ce sont les « Nocturnes ».
Ils devancent de peu les brumes rousses :
ultimes sursauts d'un jour qui s'éteint.
RC