Best Tanker Poems
That night, in a strange place
I was like a fly
Circling a street light
Reeling…Reeling!
I felt so alone
Fear wrenched my throat
Couldn’t predict
When I would be charred to death
I had heard,
In the cover of dark
Everyone was a robber
Or a masked assassin!
Without a roof over my head
I was like a mole
Smoked out of its hole
And exposed to blaring light
Had it been my own town
Where I knew
Every nook and cranny
Like the lines of my palm
I wouldn’t have minded
Being so helplessly stranded
Or left in the night
At a distance….
I saw the faint silhouette of hills
Like dreadful dinosaurs crouching
Also the outlines of buildings
Reminding one of the medieval haunted castles
Stray dogs, mangy
Were raiding the trash bins.
I don’t know why then
I enjoyed their company
I could hear the falling hooves
Of cattle, led to the slaughterhouse,
And the lash of whips falling on them,
Echoing the shrieking of a banshee!
Saw an auto lying upside down
Fallen unwary in a pothole
A line of tanker lorries
Seen halted by the roadside,
Like the bogies of a goods train
And their drivers went home,
To sleep with their mates
Behind the cover, I saw
Two figures leaning;
A man and a woman
Night owls at a mating serenade!
I closed my eyes,
Covering them with my palm
In that unearthly hour
An eerie fear gripped me.
Tension was building inside,
Like a balloon being bloated with air
And how my mind longed
To slither out of that hole
To curl up in the warmth of my home
Far… far away!
Water / Water
New Hamburg, Ontario Rubkuai village, South Sudan
locals rise locals starve
with the river, heed warnings where once there was a river,
to keep from its banks travel along arid banks
thirty thousand gallons a tanker arrives with a few gallons
of unwanted rain rain is worth all limbs
burdens how burdened the village —
storm drains the drought drains life from fields
this summer, filled sport bottles this summer
will be abandoned near will crust tongues
splash pads, as the dying
where saturated children riot tend to the dead
in mist & spray, soak in inconsolable mothers silently
the never-ending fount riot [eyes too dry to mist
until fingers prune, can still spray bullets
until thirst or thirst for just one more look
sends them skipping as irises prune in the sun]
cars gleam and grass grass is a memory
springs underfoot; & graves spring up underfoot
the bridge is power- like emaciated bridges
washed, as though the downpour nothing stops the downpour
hadn’t flooded of diarrhea — the filth binds
spider’s webs cholera’s web
people shower, run half-filled people kneel for droplets
dishwashers & laundry machines, the desert launders
a kettle screams the jawbone
for someone, of the newest ghost who still
anyone to listen listens, waits, for anyone
This weathering vessel that casts about
A barge adrift in the river of lies.
My crumbling ship, my hopes all cast in doubt
I navigate past cults of crying eyes.
This rusting old tanker betrays my flame
My boy joy driving fervent flaring glare.
I’m no match for terror by any name
Scant my Ali fist-words striking the air.
This floating worn casket my last cradle
I can’t go while hate burns from the sewers.
And Earth seethes and chokes fumes unnatural
But who breathes once guns fire from hate’s snipers?
I cruise this clumsy tub to open sea
And give my dwindling days to speak freely.
22 June 2010
A Breakaway
For mankind has the power to think big
History puts them on the pedestal of their career
Aimless drifting until fatally engaged into a drilling rig
Raised a surface at the heart of the sea to exploit oil on its frontier
Oil wells at the deepest sea-bed formed million years ago
Also, a marine habitat that proliferates at the cold bottom
Rendezvous for waterfowl and aquatic mammals arrived apropos
To add spectacle to the blue water, as accustomed
The freshwater flowing in a cascade of sparks
The sea free access to an ocean while some in landlocked
Life on Earth comes in the seas and we proceed to embark
As ocean currents supply the heat energy round the clock
Many ritually unclean substances are passing into oceans
Adulterating the purity of water in its freshness
Oil spills from off-shore and tanker spread discoloration
Suffocating marine life and ingesting illness
Chronicling the ecological cycle literally affect the food chain
Stripping resistant to their organic structure and suffer
From the toxins of oil spill prevents water replenishment
Coating aquatic surface with stain holding tougher
A closer look at dead birds and aquatic mammals
Leaving a baleful mark on the waterways
Cleaning up the breakdown oil is costly and fatal
That I may see no more escalating sense of bad omen into the ocean’s forays
13th place winner to:
GULF OIL SPILL CONTEST
7/4/2010 Sponsored by Team PoetrySoup
The Flag of the British Merchant Navy
The Battle of the Atlantic
We’ve heard of the famous Mighty Hood that was sunk by a Bismarck shell
We know how many men were lost and the Skippers name as well
We’ve seen the Battleship Barham rolling on her side
before the huge explosion in which so many died
The Repulse and Prince of Wales on rout to the Singapore post
Both lost to the Jap torpedo planes off the Malaya coast
There’s a film about the Kelly sunk in the battle of Crete
And of the famous River Plate where we inflicted defeat
Yet who knows the names of the merchant ships sunk almost every day
Who knew that as these ships went down seamen were put off pay
Shipping Companies all did this to cut down on the cost
They lost one of their freighters, but how many lives were lost
What of the men on the Arctic run ferrying Russian supplies
The ocean full of U-boats and Bombers filling the skies
Sailing a gas filled Tanker some only in their teens
Wondering if they’ll freeze to death or be blown to smithereens
Wallowing along in a rusting tramp to save the Russian Nation
Struggling to make eight knots whilst trying to keep station
Should a seaman stay topside or should he seek his bunk
Knowing if you fall astern your certain to be sunk
Many a merchant ship now lies under the Barents Sea
Lost in a desperate struggle to set the Russians free
The ocean bed is littered with merchant seaman’s bones
Now to lay forever at peace with Davie Jones
As a Nation we are rightly proud of our Navy in World War Two
Likewise of the R.A.F and what we owe to the few
To the men who fought at Arhnem and Monty’s Desert Rats
To those who fought the Japanese to all we raise our hats
From the Home Guard to the S.O.E in it from the start
All of our Armed Services were keen to play their part
Each had lost so many when they counted the final muster
But the greatest loss was those who sailed under the Old Red Duster
I went fishing last week with a banker
On an impressive one hundred foot yacht
But when I joked and called it a tanker
I fathomed my real big fat mouth was caught
I threw out my line, hooked one, and yanked her
But it snapped my feeble rod like a twig
Although what elevated my rancor
Was that the fish got my favorite jig
Therefore, I tried once again to shank her
With that large hook used to lift bales of hay
But in this case that didn’t help bank her
Coz once again the darn thing got away
So I stuck some bait onto the anchor
And then dropped it into the deep blue sea
But that beast pulled the yacht down and sank her
And that’s the last time that he fished with me.
David Fisher October 1, 2015 Trashed #3, sponsor, Broken Wings
6 a.m
It is time to wake-
After being bludgeoned by sleep.
A quick brush
And a quick wash
Off to the bus-stop in a quick rush.
It’s another day
To work for a pay
Loose soap lather-
Sticking senselessly by the tip of the ear
And white Vaseline still to sink in the hair.
This life is a rush
Get late and get fired
No one cares if you are tired
Or couldn’t spare the time for a notch.
Brown suit,
Black trouser
Loosened zipper
Man! You are a walking sleeper.
We all filed-up
Looking like men heading for the concentration camp,
Yawning helplessly from an unfinished sleep.
This city life,
Is just a life of strife.
We hop on the bus,
So eager to seek solace in its confines.
Heads hanging loosely,
Snoring trumpets at its crescendo.
11 p.m
Free from the day’s toil
But held captive by Lagos traffic.
Sweating and panting from heat,
Squeezed like a crumpled note at the back seat.
Dinner on third-mainland Bridge,
A stick of gala and Asala*
With a bottle of water to quench the hunger.
It’s business time for the street urchins
From Iyana-oworo to the bridge that links Alapere,
They disguise as beggars-
Or hide in the shade of dark like scavengers
Watching out for victims to prey on.
The day weans itself away;
Broken down vehicles,
Long tankers stealing the lanes,
Pedestrians ignoring the bridge,
Hawkers shouting their wares,
Tanker horns blaring like hooting train.
Six to Eleven of our lives
Stolen by the struggle to survive.
Office pressure and less leisure,
Street madness and no cure.
Traffic Thieves,
Problematic Passengers,
Howling Hawkers,
And Lazy-ing LASMA**
All add to this insanity.
* A Yoruba dialect for Walnut
** LASMA reference to Traffic Officials of Lagos State
© Ayinla Muyideen Adeleke
We didn't go abroad this year, we had our summer holiday
Here in the UK where it had rained all summer long.
We scuba dived in the sea but it was dead, devoid of all
Life; we walked the coastal path to where the bungalow
Fell in the sea last year, near to the wreck of the oil tanker
That ran aground in a winter storm.
On the only dry day we had we went for a picnic sitting
In a meadow beneath an oak tree but there were no wild
Flowers, and no bees either; even the Holly Blue's didn't show.
Only the soft noise of fracking in a nearby field. Cows that once
Graced that field now stand farting and eating their lives away
In a shed that's part of a factory farm.
On our last day we sat in the cafe eating cod and
Chips, cod caught in the Irish Sea loaded with
Caesium 137 and strontium 90 that had been seeping
Out of Sellafield nuclear power station over the years.
We could have had the Pacific tuna irradiated from the
Fukushima fall-out but preferred the cod.
Note this poem was written some time ago but I was sick and deleted my site. I have been patiently reposting my poems since 9 October 2000.
On November 13, 2002. The Prestige, one of twelve tanks burst during a storm off Galicia, in northwestern Spain. No help was forthcoming and by November 19, the ship split in half. 20 million gallons were spilled into the sea.
Beneath the heavy dark clouds,
the storm broke.
An oil-filled tanker sank
spewing black lakes of murderous slime.
What a giant "Prestige"!
Despite the roar of untamed waves
there was a deadly hush over the ocean.
A low death knell sang a purgatory of pain,
as contaminated birds of gulls, orioles, kestrels
squawked their last dirge:
What a giant "Prestige"!
Too late men stretched their ingenuity,
a desire to save and spare
the livelihood of so many families
that sailed the oil-spilled seas,
where baby dead fish dotted the surface,
sands and rocks tainted with death.
Elsewhere engineers burned their chemical gases
and smoke escaped from the earth's fragile shell.
We all have our "Prestige"!
Written 2016
I am praising God today
Glorifying Him in a mighty way
My faith in Him will not sway
Praising Him each day all the way
My faith in God is my solid anchor
I shall not be moved even by a clanking tanker
Wearing His armor day to day
Praising Him each day all the way
On His rock I shall forever stand
Shining His light throughout the land
My faith in Him is mighty strong
Praising Him each day all the way
© Joseph S. Spence, Sr., (Epulaeryu Master) 4/15/08
All Rights Reserved, Milwaukee, Wisconsin, USA
Senior Advisor, to Founder of Motivational Strips
Ambassador De Literature
Noble Star of Literature 2018
Living Legend of the 21st Century
Pentasiv B World Friendship Poetry Featured Poet 2019
Comments: Pentecostal praise and thanksgiving to God is uplifting to our mind,
body and soul. We see clearer, feel better, and come to know Him in a greater
way. This is dedicated to the saints who are, will, and continue to praise His holy
name.
~~~~~~~
First Place Winner
Pentecostal Praise Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
May 17, 2008
~~~~~~~
ATLANTIS RISES
After 7000 years old Atlantis alluva sudden come up yesterday
Popped up – skinny end first – like a cork
No time ta think o’ displaced water tidal waves all that stuff
Shot up not a periscope o’ warnin’ ner nothin’
Saucer strip in plain sight
Climbed so many miles in the sky a drippin’ like mad
And belly-flopped right where they said it useta be
Scared hell outa 10,000 boy scouts at Disney World
Gotta be one o’ tha best danged things ever happened to the east
coast what with the shows all movin’ ta Californee.
OLD ATLANTIS
THERE SHE FLOATS
THERE SHE BE BOY
THAR SHE BLOWS!
They dispatched a team o’ guys from Wood’s Hole right away
Claimed her right away fer the old U S of A
That Plato he weren’t no dumbbell
He knew
Oughta eerect a statchew right on Poseidon’s front lawn in front o’
the Grand Canal.
I didn’t see all this ya know
Onlyest seen what’s in the mornin’ paper
Front page pitchers o’ them muddy mountains and a tanker use ta
be sittin’ on the ocean floor.
Well golldang! They’re gonna put up a big mewseeum so’s as
folks kin git a good look so’s they kin touch all that crust
stuff.
What with the ice caps a meltin who knows folks may be
movin back to old Atlantis
Wouldn’t ya know it now folks is a talkin’ bout a place called
Mu
I tell ya…………………………………..
We multiply by a bomb
Then we bear another.
We drag our children into passport documents.
We multiply far from the bedroom
And spit on our wedding day -
never paying attention to the tears.
On the TV screen
Baghdad storms us with bridges
Carnage of the Al Hadidi* fell in the Tigris -
It disappeared, taking refuge in the gulf
And I became a refugee on buses and newspapers.
I shake
At the first border check point
And I shake
When I hear the news
And I shake
Is there a lorry big enough for me,
For a passer by,
Who exchanged the capital of Al Rashid with a sea?
We’re farther from the wheels of the Mongols,
The black tea
And the darkness of Baghdad.
But the newsreader
Was still shooting at us with his news
While smiling.
* * * * *
The strangers
Ask me about the war.
No one asked me about the shrapnel that blasted the window,
The wardrobe where my dreams had heaped
Amongst metallic coins.
* * * * *
Baghdad
Is climbing another graveyard,
And I am like a cigarette between two fingers,
Standing far from her walls
Vomiting my dreams on a pavement in Damascus -
The smell old friends.
Friends who’re working in deception with joy
And the papers urinated on others.
Is homeland a terrace on a tanker
that treads on my dreams everyday
On Al Rashid street?
Or is homeland a dynamite freight
That brings joy to the children?
Jebla / Al Latheqiya 2007
* Al Hadidi: is the bridge of Sarrafiya in Baghdad. It was made of metal and was bombed in 2007.
Yellow-John Matthews, he sailed upon the main
A pirate who would prey on them all.
Spanish of British, it was no matter
Before him they all were all bound to fall.
He stood six feet, of medium frame,
Was never seen without his tricorn.
He was crowned with hair, yellow as sun,
As were all the bastards to him born.
For six long years he filled his coffers,
A fortune for ten men plus two.
But he kept on sailing, for he loved the rush
Of combat and running men through.
They one day the crown sent out a ship,
A ship of the line, armed to the teeth.
It caught Yellow-John off old Havana,
And sent his ship down to the reefs.
The pirates they swam, and made it to shore,
And were captured there by the Spanish.
They strung them up high for all to see,
A punishment that the crime did fit.
But Yellow-John never made it to shore,
They all assumed that he drowned.
His death was the talk all the next week
In the taverns of Port Royal town.
Four hundred years later, off Somalia
New pirates sailed to seize ships.
A sudden uptick bought the navy quick,
To blast the damn pirates to bits!
The crisis reached its bloody peak
When a thousand-foot tanker was seized.
That the pirates would go for such a ship
The navy folk just could not believe.
The sent out the SEALs, scaling the sides,
Onto the big ship’s deck they stormed,
Shooting down pirates who dared to fight,
Destroying their foes, as in norm.
One SEAL reached the bridge and saw a man
Who clearly was not a Somali.
Wearing jeans, a shirt, and a tricorn hat,
He looked out of place as could be.
The SEAL raised his gun, and fired a shot,
The slug it went straight but nit none.
The blonde man vanished into the air,
Dispersed clean in the mid-day sun.
The SEAL he came out and said not a word,
For who in the world would believe it?
He scratched his yellow hair, and though back
To a tale his gramma told him when sick.
It had been told of an ancestor bold,
Who had lived his life as a buccaneer.
The SEAL supposed now he’d not got his fill,
And from the grave had rose to privateer…
Note: The following dialogue is between the voice of Mother Nature and the voice of man.
It is dedicated to the countless victims of the earthquake-induced tsunami in Samoa.
My Ring of Fire sets ready to erupt
For I, Mother Nature, have had enough
Of pollutants invading reservoirs
And oil-drilled coastlines, sands coated by tar
How thankful we are for this plentiful earth
Proceeds and profits boast our corporate worth
Our mistakes and errors in destructive ways
Mother Nature will repair in a matter of days
Sea creatures poisoned by hazardous waste
Trash left on beaches by people in haste
Sea oats destroyed as construction proceeds
Turtle hatchlings wandering toward man made beams
The land is aplenty with resources so fine
We can wash away the debris, reap when mined
Mercury, chemical and oils as well
Mother Nature will dilute as we continue to sell
Whales wash up and expire on ocean shores
Battleships litter the deepest sea floors
With thinning ozone, sea temperatures rise
Igniting rage in my volatile eyes
Another tanker runs aground of the Alaska coast
Insurance companies payout, our boards in toast
We can rely on our refineries and oil wells
For Mother Nature will replace and it will all be swell
Earthquakes, tsunamis are my weapons
Earth’s last days may be man’s time to reckon
We will reap the rewards as our conglomerates grow rich
Mother Nature will allow, our industrial snitch
The rising of the seventh moon in an ornamental lampshade is equivalent to a nice round smiley dinner plate that had been recently washed,
Recently washed is neither a rotating wimpy wishing walker and neither is it a raspberry wafer wobbling,
It takes a lot of effort to squeeze a giant igloo through the eye of a needle,
And this is not pleasant for the spectating polar bears whose fish was being fried inside the dwelling holes,
But only a mini strawberry could flex the muscles effectively to cause a jam in a mile of traffic,
That is not good news for the jars who are already late and to be late is said to be as irrational as using a fork to make a morning brew,
A stew is far more intelligent than a gravy as many components equal more experience and more experience means that even a metric metre of labelled combinations could entice a bear from a sleeping hole,
But only when wearing a jacket made from paper,
It is nice and neat and true to form,
But format was often found to be a flame of frog leg on a carpet of mystical swirling frogspawn,
It is wise to offer up a little cup of cat milk to the buds then sit back as the colours loop in and swirl in a sky of answers,
But this can simply not be achieved nor archived when the moon is in the bin and the sailors are racing in the sun ship,
A trade is traditional and traditional trade can be nothing more then a hyper-fluted mini skirt of a skating rabbit on a promenade wearing 60 pairs of headphones,
Metronomes moaning making moronic motionless mixes,
And a nice little pair of glasses on the mantle-piece was swaying in the wind but not swearing for swearing was reserved for those who act out tanker talks,
Themes then?
Yes.
Where there were many now there are few.
But in fuse boxes the conversations are often quite absurd and who would put a floating camel in a tank then send it into a plane to cross the clouds,
Criss cross is a cleaning duty for a mission opinionated cloth wearing layers of clothing,
So what will one bring to the fair?
A mare
A single bud
A sanctified saint cushion with sparkles and satin.
And a heron in a pan of water with 60 fish to eat.
Consummation is the creational consumption cream of cropped chartered chunks. Said the 90 feet of cat by a door.
Z Leptailurus serval Z at 54 lemon sponge cakes laughing at 21 empty flan cases.