Cargo Ships Poems | Examples

Place By the Sea

I once had a special place by the sea;
A quiet get away where I loved to be;
My favorite place for God and me.

A solemn place,  most Devine
And serene, free of people for a season.

The only sounds I heard were occasional fog horns,
the roaring of the sea, and the still small voice of God.

It was delightful living 4 blocks from the sea.
Now I reside 2000 miles from that beloved sea.

At some point in their lives, like me, I wish
that everyone had a place by the sea; a place
where the sea gulls flock by the sea cliffs,
Where the bounties of nature come together.

Those big cargo ships from far eastern
Shores slowly flowing under the Golden
Gate Bridge was always a sight to see.
I sure do miss my special place by the sea.

The Value of Books

The value of books


Late afternoon, the sun has left the terrace and is in the back throwing up dust before reluctantly slinking west and sinking 
into the sea beyond the seas.
The townscape is charming red-roofed dwellings among the many trees that are deep green this time of the year.
Near the sea are two big edifices, One has luxury flats on top for the people called the “jet-set” It is where scrawny women live 
on lettuce a day and Valium.
Next to that house, a white elephant, a skeletal hotel that
was abandoned when the would-be owner went broke.
In the calm bay two small cargo ships of uncertain age riding
the anchorage waiting for the morning, it baffles me how these old ship makes money, two bags of rice here and a barrel of wine there; perhaps they fish and live healthily
but I do hope they have books, if not the lacuna of empty time must be heavy on the mind.
When I was a seaman, I read hundreds of books to pass the time
some rubbed off so the time became useful, like automatic learning.

Quiet

I heard the sea gulls as the sea roared.
A great view of the Golden Gate Bridge,
as I watched the ships flow through the Gate.
After work, on early nights, I had a favorite spot.
Like the fog horns that guided cargo ships from the Far East,
'Quiet' often called out and gently ushered me in.  And
Like a caring mortal, 'Quiet' embraced and cradled me.

Above was sky; below was ocean; within me was 'Quiet'.
She was my sanctuary, my sacred space, my place of prayer.
City traffic halted at the city's edge. Bright city lights, undesired.
My haven of renewal, my 'Quiet' get-away, just above The Pacific.
'Quiet' was special, unforgettable; made holy by God's Presence..

071622PSCtest, A Quiet Place, Mystic Rose Rose

My Boat

My boat


A small boat moving through choppy water.

Prompt from "Grief" by Raymond Carver 


Some sail in yachts
Some relax on cruise ships
Some transport fruit on cargo ships 
Some are fishing in trawlers
Some refugees seek asylum
Some toil with nuclear reactors
Some wear military uniforms
Some honeymoon in new lands.

A few are in Boaty Mcboatface.

My little rowing boat has sprung a leak.

We are not all in the same boat
But we are on same sea.

30 June 2022
Sponsor	Julia Ward
Contest Name	SAILING

The Ocean of Dreams

The ocean of dreams 
  
The old man was still in his bed; someone said, is he dead?
No, not yet he says I dream of seagulls flying over the ocean.
Once I was a dolphin, my sons and daughters live there,
Now they are in the bay of Cascais, waving for me to join them.
They need a father figure.
Years ago, he swam ashore, and kind people gave him a suit. 
Now he walks like Hercules Poirot, small careful steps.
He dreams of the vast ocean he knew so well, swam alongside cargo ships.
It was a fun time but not a place to write poetry.
My dear children, he says, I will join you later when I write the poem.
Of everlasting love.
Is he dead?  Someone whisper, no, he is only dreaming of the sea.
He knew so well.

After a Storm

After a storm


 There was a storm in the bay,
 blue waves crashing ashore
and flooded the coastal road-
Today the bay is calm but look
 at sea, it is grey anger
doesn’t becomes it.
The Haar is coming in a shawl of mist covers
the cargo ships
that moves lazily on a temporary tranquillity.

In Flagrante Delicto

[starboard port]

the ocean—an onyx plate predawn—
somnambulant ships preen with a swag of
warning lights

massive hulls: cargo ships, flotillas, tankers,
passenger liners loll; red lights buss
the somber slate of sky—spangled strings of 
bawdy bulbs on the riggings—pole dance
beside the quay—ridged, behemoth smokestacks
toy with the flames of gold and white

[cabin’s lav—occupied]

waiting, my mind trundles to funeral pyres  
Viking ships, then returns to marvel at 
on-coming airport pot lights which

upstage the walled gasps
[very occupied]

the exodus to Singapore crescendos
we land—manned the plane performs
a ritual slide—ash and steam spew from  
stacks of the other perpendicular 
members 

Touch down. 
[the door opens]



First Published by Shooter Literary Magazine Spring of 2017

Sleeping Machines

The harbor gave a dim illumination,
lampposts vaguely penetrating the dark water.
As waves like shades of wine drowned the jagged shore of stone,
I watched a fibrous complexion of steel shimmer from the water's edge.

Ships sleep, rocking gently on a resting sea,
machines of quiet obedience.
The moon, outlining the clouds above with an electric hue,
watched over the winds as they circulated the vacant wharf like ghosts.

The smell of an approaching storm;
the sharp, distinctive fragrance of ozone as it sailed the satin brine.
The sound of distortion upon the ocean's surface;
precipitation submerged beneath its aquatic magnetism.

I closed my eyes as raindrops kissed my moonlit skin,
tracing the alloy carbon framework of cargo ships and yachts.
Falling down my cheekbones like an aggregation of tears,
the harbor became lost in a nostalgic cloudburst.

When I Met My Father

When I met my Father 
There are many cargo ships in the bay of Cascais this Monday afternoon
and I thought of my father; he too had been a seafarer.
Last time I saw him I was eighteen, sat on a bus going into town, he saw
me but I looked out of the widow pretending I didn´t see him.
When he looked straight ahead again his face was impassive but I saw
tears trickling down his chin. When the bus stopped I hurriedly left,
this old fool I thought, most likely drunk. Rain cooled my flushed face.
During the war years of 1940-45 my father sailed on ship delivering 
war material to Britain and Russia and he had seen ships being hit by
torpedoes and men drown in the cold Arctic sea. When he came home 
He couldn´t settle for a normal life and back then there was no help 
for war damaged seamen, and many of them became drifters and only
slowly died. My father was a drunk I had seen him before sharing 
a bottle of booze with his mates in the park, and I despised him and them.
No, my father never played a role in my upbringing and my childhood 
was needlessly hard because of him. But today, sitting on the terrace
overlooking the blue bay, I remember his tears.

On Mulish Eardrums I Pound This Note

Before morning sun was dressed for the day, 
the white noise came and shook the darkness,
like swells swinging ships on the French Passage, 
cargo ships before the engine was pulled 
from the womb of modernization

Before the day break open the citadel of night, 
leaving weak traces of dark shadows in small crevices, 
the darkness was crowned with gold and diamonds – 
stars gazing on eastern isles
The sand storms came from Arabia 
and we walked with our eyes closed

The Atlantic rocked ships like noisy babies, 
the white surge broke like whips, 
pushing salt in our wounds, 
and we prayed to the God we’ve forgotten, 
but he must allow our curse to come to pass, 
it was written of us 
Souls were thrown in the locker, 
as we were dragged westward 

On rigid eardrums I play this song

The Nobility of Women of Merit

Even precious jewels cannot approach their value,
For the women of merit are priced beyond them.
Their beauty is found in the works of love they do,
And in their smile facing the future that is never dim.
Most arise at dawn when it is still like the night
And wrap round them bands of strength like corsets.
Going out like the cargo ships before daylight,
They conduct their business for handsome profits.

Their beauty is matched by their hearts filled with virtue,
For there is rich wisdom and mercy on her tongue.
Their clothing soft fair linen of purple and blue,
And open are their hands to needy they live among.
Men give them praise and children give them honor,
Since her public reputation is all to her credit.
Eschewing evil for the good at every corner,
They ply their gifts toward works of merit.

Oh to be her partner in labor and pleasure,
For her fire will not go out for the night.
Her company for sure has profit in full measure,
And lifts high the muse of good cheer’s delight.
Faith is her deserved and hard-earned reward,
For her strength and self-respect passes the test.
About her worth there is candid accord,
Among women her title is the very best.

Ruminate On This

She has a proclivity in being jaunty
As she looks down the asphalt way
With stunted growth of apple orchards
That blossom in the spring
They begin; they begin

A carefree end 
To what was swollen, bloated, and rotten
And wickedness emitting the fragrance
Of decaying smells of worthlessness
Across the waters, floating and wet

She catches the why and emulates the peacefulness
On cargo ships at heaven’s gate
And longing for the weight to be lifted,
And longing for the weight to be lifted.

This heavy clumsy mess
This heavy clumsy mess
Ruminate on this 
And ruminate on this

Hong Kong Harbor View

Moving white neon lines,
Trace I.M. Pei’s Bank of China.
Elegant understated rhythm,
Precise and perfect.
Flowing lighted flags of cargo ships,
Behemoths of the world.
Bare bulb strings of pale yellow,
Pulsing to boat engines,
Walla wallas chugg everywhere.
Warship hurricane bows and guns,
Glowing menacingly across,
The surface shimmer from Kowloon.
Coming from a myriad shops.
Checkered patterns from the towers,
On the Hong Kong side.
Rising higher by the day.
Glowing gardens of the rich on old Victoria Peak.
Shining down from splendid views.
And the umbilical for all,
The hardy Hong Kong-Kowloon Ferry,
Plowing foamy paths for 100 years.
Hong Kong Harbor sets the standard,
Just ask anyone.

Decades On the Ocean

My heart is the old Titanic,
That sails on this somber galaxy,
Searching for a port to rest her aging engines,
But it is not the right time to stop the blades yet.
On the dark crimson sea, she travels and travels...
Days come and go like busy cargo ships,
And  nights stroll by, hastily, without resting its wings,
She keeps penetrating deep into the  apex of the Milky way,              
Yearning to see  the peaceful land of the saints.

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