Long Atlantic Poems
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Poet: Ken Jordan
Poem: Goree Island
Edited by: Sparkle Jordan
written: February/2014
I see the blood
of my ancestors
that swell
in the Atlantic ocean
on
Goree Island -
The unmerciful ill winds
that fell
over my people,
in Senegal,
on that
horrific night,
brought the European's,
across the Atlantic,
to our Village -
Everything
in the world
changed forever,
and
will never be forgotten,
when the "unthinkable"
cruel acts
of slavery,
cloaked my people
like
darkness in the night -
White men
dressed in British
formal attire,
brought with them,
bullwhip's, chains, machetes,
and rifles,
to capture us.....
to ENSLAVE us!
We were brutally beaten,
and
taken to
the House of Slaves,
on Goree Island -
The malice intent
of
the British,
intensified our
suffering
at the slave house,
as they
cuffed us to
the walls,
in neck, waist,
and
ankle chains -
Days would pass,
some of us died
from
diseases,
and
starvation,
while waiting
for
the slave ship
to come
from the Americas -
The hideous inhumane
acts
by the British,
sold us
as property,
as we were
auctioned off as
commodity,
to the Americas,
during
the Atlantic Slave Trade
The mournful ness
in our helpless eyes,
spoke of horrendous fear,
as a feeling of distraught,
distress,
and despair,
clothed us
like
death -
We are innocent people
that will never
see our families again
Our homeland again -
It's unfathomable,
to see black souls in chains,
taking those final usurious
steps towards the "Door Of No
Return,"
in the House Of Slaves,
which left its ugly mark,
on the whole global earth -
Once through
the Door Of No Return,
we were sold to the Americas,
and
faced a future of
severe beatings, burnings,
hangings, lynchings,
and
rape -
To this day,
ancient spirits
of
black people,
still scream in rage
on
Goree Island,
where an untold number
of us were
slaughtered,
and
branded
before walking
through the slave door,
of
an uncertain future -
The ominous clouds
of slavery,
will
forever cast
a dark shadow,
over the
House Of Slaves,
the Door Of No Return,
and the world -
Goree Island,
in the Atlantic Ocean,
will forever
cry tears of blood,
from the souls of
black people -
this middle aged rue stirring bummer
haint no stranger to cold,
when dark hen stormy wintry days
eggs hit from Arctic portal en fold
ding Atlantic Seaboard
in a blizzard of bitterly, blindingly, and
brutally sub zero temperatures
from an occasional nor'easter
fiercely gripping hold
the majority years, sans this prolific
recalcitrant scrivener lived
in various and sundry abode
housed within Southeastern
Montgomery County, Pennsylvania
with 19*** zip code,
and during my boyhood recall,
how massive ice sheets did erode
the (then) opened expansive farmland,
in preparation for planting time,
where runnels of frigid water flowed
with childish cheeks exposed to glowed
after hours upon
many a green acre got tilled and hoed
despite feeling energized and refreshed
with arms and legs n'er fro zen
aye didst eagerly await with exuberant yen
kickstarting thy body electric
experiencing hearthstone nook
designed and built by Christopher Wren
after heading indoors counting fingers
and toes to make sure, i still got ten
soon hearing the chorus of fauna,
and floral kaleidoscope of color
aground or taking wing
thus, upon thawing out thoughts
drifted toward approaching spring,
the season revitalizing
dormant natural inhabitants,
whose excite (like mine) didst ping
announcing the debut of fecundity
nsync with screeching from the lizard king.
This Spring Equinox (i.e. man date:
12:15 PM Tuesday,
March twentieth two thousand eighteen)
doth rejuvenate
inviolable hibernating animals
and plants, and me equate
to experience sensation,
whereby entire being does inflate
and (despite marital status),
nonetheless envisions another gal asthma mate
no...no...no...please do not think this chap
mean spirited and under rate
the woman (at present taking a siesta,
and i breathe easy),
who oft times doth henpeck, a trait
inherited many a chic hen
(with tantalizing tail feathers)
now (until she awakens)
proscribing yours truly to wait
for my repast most likely ad hoc
moist ideal for any nerdy kid to knock
senseless, the worst facet of self important jock
consisting of pop slop mock
Hungarian Goulash, a melange
of relics from age old meals
transformed into a petrified sawed little rock.
I wonder if some part of me was running,
while I gathered up my thrills in wanderlust;
scattering them like dust to the fire, that feeds a lazy afterglow.
The Adventure of Wonder. The one I embellish just a little,
because that time away is my big trophy
full of glitter. I can't hardly reach in without distortion.
My portion of that place was different than I expected-
a beauty exceeding the dreams
I'd constructed from photographs, but it was tamed and balanced-out.
Tugged under gray skies like a great god asleep in some hidden cave
beneath a thriving city.
And I made to-do lists daily, as I'd done in college to ease the pressure
(with specially constructed spots for sightseeing)
And some days when I wandered off to little Irish villages,
I looked for better places to stuff the notes
of future plans. (I found them everywhere)
I found them even in the glare of the rocky cliffs that stood naked
to Atlantic winds. And I shoved them in and went off
and saved them inside my tiny travel-friendly lap-top, which I took
even on days that I felt like a god,
because no one I knew would ever walk the same places
I had. I grew up and I grew proud
and then lost it again, when plans
collided with the world that was. And the cycle repeated;
It still does.
And when the day finally came that I descended
hazy-eyed from the journey of dreams, I felt the same
as the day I left. That familiar blend of joy and thrill
and anxiousness, that leaves my chest tight for days.
Weeks passed before I grieved.
A dancer in Leeds once told me:
sometimes all you need is a new pair of eyes
not a destination. I believed her,
and I still do.
And I'm happier too, when I see the faces
of the ones I'd missed; the memory of something lost still fresh.
But then there's that other feeling,
the one I let take me across the Atlantic
like a stranger with welcoming eyes (that somehow seem familiar)
that has me writing everything down, arming against disaster.
Only now the notes die faster.
I wave them off hoping in the future (when that twenty-something year-old
sense of urgency dies, or transcends into realities of peacefull coping)
I can use them as a witness to myself, and they'll tell me nothing's lost
in the breakdown. Everything just comes and goes.
And whether we've never had it, or we have it all,
I think I'll never know. There are those things
we must learn to let go.
Exracted from Gerald Nforche's Epic, The Slave's Tale
-Across the Atlantic, 1793-
We cry out cursing to our very gods
Whilst mokala and plotters lead us in lots.
And slaves we have become, slaves we are groomed
And setting in the milken sky, is the moon.
This is the hell that befalls one’s prism
If he doesn’t open himself to pragmatism.
The ways of mokala are not our ways
And their days are never like our days.
Hope you fall in line with my tune’s knell
As it would guide souls to wisely dwell:
Now permit me continue with my sad tale
Before we are rapidly placed on sale.
For here I stand under an alien sun
Faraway from my own sweet land’s rung
Battered, chained to the queue’s label
As humans are placed on the auction table.
Here I proceed with my tale feeding you
With my pain, pains of brothers on cue
As they are sold off like fresh tobacco
Whips meeting flesh if anyone plays the hero.
***
Rocks! ebesse rocking, shaking like old
The chains cutting into arms, legs to mold
Croaks and groans climaxing to a sadistic rhythm
Beating us to yield forth into realism.
Light strained in through rat nibbled openings
Else we would have left the hold like blind goblins
Vicious to the point of abandonment
Scuffling for blood, mokala’s disbursement.
Aided by the scurrying light, my head worked
East, west, south and north, on shoulders, rocked-
Acquainting itself with the crampy hold
Taking in every detail for any bolt.
In long prodigious rows we humans lay
Meditating, some wide-eyed not to say
Tear tracks dry on their black paling cheeks.
They now submissive despite the reeks.
A cough here, a huff there. A groan here
A croak there. A curse far afield, a stifle near.
A prayer whimpered here, a shiver rippling
There. A horrid sight it was, a grappling.
That pungent stench, from decaying beings:
Men awake whilst parts decayed in rings.
I was nauseated, my eyes reeling, pained
My stomach flaring to throw up content.
And there they ran, hiking on heaving bodies
Playing hide-and seek- on chained enemies.
Tossing about, screeching on their suppers-
Causing a kick here, shrieks there, left-overs.
And my groans joined the choir, a dirge
Loud to fissure walls, and seditious to merge
Vocal forces to kill, kill! Kill! No shy-
And we’d die sober, die! Die! Die!
It is a sun splashed day; the air is silent with the sound of waves
from an ocean moving to the rhythm of crying gulls.
The sand underneath my feet is warm and soothing.
The crashing waters from a wind sculpted waterfall swims
into the arms of its mother sea.
It is a private beach at a spot in the world
were the Caribbean Sea and The Atlantic Ocean hug.
It is a strange sensation of hot then cold, that tease the senses.
The young woman with me is my lover of four years.
The golden rays of light from the bright morning star
lives in the flow of her platinum blond hair.
In her eyes I can see the bright clear blue ocean, warm,
but with a piercing love glare that sends shivers up my spine.
We are young, in love and safe
inside a perfect glossy postcard background.
Her red lips and light drenched skin glows
with the beauty of this perfect Jamaican day.
Without a thought I grab the back of her head,
jerking my lover's whole body towards me
locking her in the strength of my grasp
inviting her to quench my desire.
I bite her lips before engaging in a deep passionate kiss
and remove a barely there bikini from her statuesque figure.
She embraces me as I lift her in my arms
naked for all the Gods to observe.
I set her down under the refreshing flow of the rushing waterfall.
She attempts to pull at me, but I deny her.
I hold back both her arms and use my mouth
to suckle her all the time absorbing the beating waters
that kneads my flesh, like so much dough.
Suddenly I set my angel free. She pounces on me,
like a lioness in heat famished for the taste of flesh.
The world disappears and I find myself willingly trapped in a void.
Nature's voice conducts an orchestra of emotion.
We writhe in the ecstasy of touch.
With the strokes of a divinity fingers paint a portrait of rapture.
We dance now to the precise notes
of an escape into the arms of serenity.
In one fluid movement, our bodies become one.
There is no end to the divine flavors we share.
Cooling waters flame our sins.
We explode like a building
imploding gracefully to the roar of infinite sound.
Until eventually we pass out naked
locked in each others arms.
We find ourselves lying on the warmth
of the fine white sand beach when we awaken,
tattooed in the telling shades of a Jamaican suntan.
My Handicap Beach
As I lay here and look out the window from our hotel at the absolutely amazing view..
It makes me wonder how something so simple creates such beauty and always seems so new..
I feel sadness for those who pass by every day and don’t think another thought about..
The beauty that surrounds them from the beach and the water with the waves washing in and out..
The lighthouse that stands unintentionally stoic and tall and lights the way for those out at sea..
And the sand that finally runs across my toes which has been a dream for so long for me…
This was only possible with the help of a loving person who got me where I needed to go…
And to whom I really hope does realize how much they have helped me in many ways to grow..
And there are always a few people that have to make a spectacle of a girl in a wheelchair..
As they walk by me and say things in a whisper as if they think I can’t hear along with a stare here and there..
If they only knew that It was one of the best days of my life and that I am feeling so relaxed and at ease..
I will take all of their comments and let them go over my head along with the beautiful breeze..
Because this morning I may have been the disabled girl on the beach which was a wonderful thing to me..
And until you learn to see the view from down in a wheelchair every day I don’t care what you think you see...
Because today my view was from the warm sand on a beach towel that was laid down just for me and was the best..
Day I have had in so long because I was no longer that poor gilt in the wheelchair and felt almost like all of the rest..
Of beach goers and comers to the new jersey shore in Atlantic City and right on the pier that is very well known..
For gambling and partying but for me it was just to feel the sand on my toes and feel like I was not handicapped if even for a few moments alone..
Coming home with my stuff in disarray the way it always is along with a few souvenirs because they are from my very first trip away from home..
I loved it so much and want to thank those who took me long on a short but awesome vacation to start me going more which I really hope..
Because it’s nice sometimes to go to places that make you feel different than the usual girl in the wheelchair always needing help from what I call in my head my proverbial rope..
Buffy Sammons
Summer of 1990,
Ill winds had blown all year,
I was feeling kind of battered,
I lived in constant fear,
Mother died, left my cheating wife,
Lost my job, no more value to life...
My last lifeline was my father,
In deepest mourning too,
I knew how bad we were hurting,
I knew what I wished to do...
So that summer I drove him and I,
To Montauk, Long Island, under beautiful sky,
With the world's most beautiful beaches,
Restaurants, historic sights,
120 miles away...
Anticipating a bit more than fun
days and nights....
See, I needed no return ticket,
Planned not to travel back home
I would marry the Atlantic Ocean,
No more in pain to roam....
Walk down the wedding aisle,
into the deepest sea....
My only concern, my father,
How much more sufffering would there be?
But sometimes one's own pain,
Overwhelms reason and heart,
I was prepared to be selfish,
And take my chance to depart...
We had some days of fun,
But on my chosen day,
I brought a beach chair to the beach,
Tape recorder, bottle of scotch...
Sat facing the mighty ocean,
Hoping this I would not botch...
Spent all night, and next morning,
Sitting by, and staring at, the sea...
Scotch seemed ineffective,
Maybe too much on the mind for me....
Of course the music was comforting,
All from the 30's and 40's,
Music my father taught me to love,
My mind was racing nowhere,
There was no insight from above...
Eventually I grew weary,
Returned to my seaside room,
My father relieved to see me,
Somehow that eased my gloom...
See, there's still love for me out there,
And lots for me to do...
How could I hurt this injured warrior,
A man who had my deepest admiration,
Love, and true respect...
I had been foolish to even think it,
And later, when I thought about it,
For one to take one's own options,
Is to disdain God's gift of life,
To spit in his face, even...
Perhaps creating God's strife...
So, I survived, and learned much,
From that fateful day...
When all seems completely hopeless,
Somehow God will find a way.
Epilogue; Driving home, radio played the Eagles, "Hotel California"...a song
which has new meanings to me, and never fails to remind me when I chose,
at the last moment, to step back from death, and seek the magic of hope, faith,
and love.
tom
BOTTLE DANCE
Across my land, abysses gnaw at automobiles,
From the foot of the mountain,
To the shores of the oil fountain.
Certificated youths drinking piss to mellow their brains,
Clutching at wheels, dodging bumps into fog lights.
“Stupid, ing dog” curse survivors of amputation “you bastard”
“Who cares, you swine” retorts I the offender
just before crashing into the next one.
In my shack, counting my yields and sighing,
evading the burning eyes of hungry breeds.
How did I ever get here?
In the ring stood I, surrounded by Foncha, Endeley, Jua and Ntumazah
Um Nyobe sang the UPC song and they danced.
They danced the bottle dance.
Sandwiching in the center, on the slaughter slab, my motherland.
Nigeria to the left, La Republique to the right,
Trampling upon outright independence.
Foncha danced and Endeley danced and Nyobe sang and Britain watched.
The tune was clear, the rhythm was jazzed but the lyrics were blur;
Whence had a nation’s independence,
Been conditioned upon attachment to already independent states?
So how did we ever get here?
A loaf of bread baked in the flames of WWI
And served into the plates of Imperial barons of foreign insanity
Too blind to the tongues of oneness.
Drawing a line far far away in the halls of mirror
That tore grandmother’s breasts apart.
The story of the Ewes of Togoland
Was being whispered in her land while she slept.
A line dragged across the highlands of the Adamawa and drained into the Atlantic,
Sullied the virginity and orthography of kamerun.
Grooming a set of dysfunctional twins through years of alien doctrines,
Only to be reunited in an unholy matrimony called Cameroon or Cameroun.
Testaments of tongues foreign like those on a devil’s Pentecost,
That sowed seeds of immortal division.
So this is how really I got here!
A son deprived of the warmth of a Mother
Drained of her milk,
Tapped and shipped offshore.
Scorned and oppressed by a brother,
His name slowing fading away from the sands of time.
And now, the land of bottle dancers clamour for a new dance:
For I know how we got here and I too want to dance;
Federation to the left, secession to the right,
Trampling upon the pseudo 1972 re-unification.
The blood of the brave pipe the tunes
And rhythms of gunshots meet hallelujah,
Sang in a coffin.
FEEL AFRICA
Silence!
Silence Africa!
One can hardly get Africa to be silent;
Africa habours a pulsating bubble.
Everyone in Africa bounces to rhythm resilient.
Africa, like Zambia, or
Zambia, like Africa;
Dear ones, whichever comes first
Swells with energy in the sun!
You see not the pulse;
You feel every ounce.
Feel it now!
Woo! Woo! Is it fun or funny?
Africa loves to dance.
The continent is one huge drum;
One complete dance!
They work hard too.
Mothers and daughters,
Fathers and sons;
Mothers-in-law and daughters-in-law
Of Africa work hard
They fetch water; they collect wood.
They pound corn; they cook their food.
In all their creation,
People of Africa have one ingredient;
SONG!
You hear them sing while pounding corn.
Phew! Phew! Wow!
At funerals we sing and dance,
At weddings, even more song and dance.
Nothing has ever stopped Africa from dancing;
Yes! Even the tragedies we’ve known;
The genocides and ethnic cleansings,
in the heart of the continent.
Apartheid in the Cape of Good Hope;
Starvation, hunger, war;
Famines, droughts and floods
In the great lakes and the horn of Africa!
We have mourned;
We have questioned!
Mmmh! Courage!
Courage is what kept us alive.
We felt like throwing it away;
Accepting defeatist tendencies;
Choose revenge; and hurt;
Not with Africa.
We have come out reassured.
We have emerged tested in fire;
More finer and stronger than before
We can afford to pray!
We are like lions; the pride of the universe.
Our pride lies in our landscapes; the mountains
And the valleys;
the plateaus and the savannahs.
Free flowing rivers,
Connect us with worlds near and far.
We accommodate strangers as our rivers instruct.
Strangers of the Indian and Atlantic Oceans;
The seas and lakes!
They brought the world to us
as they did bring us to the world;
the Zambezi, the Nile and the Congo.
They have made us larger than we have ever been.
We can join in the songs and dances of others
As they can join ours too.
Come join us; feel at home!
Feel Africa!
One Zambia, my dear one;
The little star of copper.
You shine deep in the heart of the continent;
Warming the cold and frightened neighbours!
The blessing you are is the blessing you offer.
You exemplify unity in multiplicity,
Of languages and ethnicity;
Be not afraid copper star.
Shine as bright as you do;
Only warmer!
All rights reserved.
We actively discussed lots of different books,
We laughed and we have shared intimate intentions.
I told you how in Russia lot of men are crooks.
Now my mind requires medical intervention.
I told you how about life I try to reason,
About the level of the government mistrust.
You turned out to be part of an ugly treason,
However, it caused no significant disgust.
It is certainly not a good thing what you did.
But I did thoroughly understand your reasons.
Meanwhile I opted for my highest ever bid
I miss you and I blankly observe the seasons
Change one another in never ending circle.
We talked of politics, Russia, Putin, welfare,
Canada, songs, US, oil price, Angela Merkel.
Now I compose and every new guy I compare.
You told me not to take it all on my shoulders.
Do what I do, perhaps a little something new.
Want to put your portrait in a picture holder
But I would not tell you 'cause you would look askew.
You love your daughters and not miss having a son.
You even wish that you could have another child.
I still dream of you. I called you my honey bun
In anxious surface shallow sleep. This cold is mild.
You showed me how it's incredibly important
To feel your essence, listen to the voice of self.
Or else you'd turn to mentality of doormat
Although with hundreds of clever books on your shelf.
That's what I unintentionally did with you.
That star night I felt the urge to share I was scared.
You understood, told me you were a little too.
I smiled and offered skinny dipping. How I dared?
Atlantic Ocean gently caressed our bare skin
I swan away from you at some meters distance.
At that point I did not know that we were akin,
I felt solid meaning to my whole existence!
I felt you're open, true, genuinely honest,
I liked you. Someone I can ultimately trust.
There was nothing to each other that we promised.
I'll find this box with memory of us and dust.
One pretty story. One might ask, do I regret?
Oh hell no! I only live once and live to love.
Even though I still do not know how to forget
It. You were definitely indicative of
A total new beginning for me as a soul.
First time I wasn't wrong with initial feeling.
Although for some coming months to come I will crawl,
You left me with sacred talent and pure meaning.