Long Barges Poems
Long Barges Poems. Below are the most popular long Barges by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Barges poems by poem length and keyword.
Anxiety doesn’t whisper
It hammers
It barges in uninvited
Tracking mud across the floor of your mind
It says something’s wrong
You missed something
You’re forgetting something important
Everyone noticed
You’re not safe
You’re not enough
You’re about to lose everything
It repeats these things
Until repetition becomes ritual
Until ritual becomes reality
Until reality feels like a trap you built
Without remembering the blueprint
It turns every silence into suspicion
Every pause into a threat
Every routine moment into a test
You’re certain you’ve failed
It’s the constant checking of…
Doors
Locks
Words you said
Judgmental expressions
Your own heartbeat
It’s the feeling that if you stop monitoring
Something terrible will slip through the cracks
It’s the mental static that never shuts off
The reel of worst-case scenarios
Looping like a broken projector
Burning images into the inside of your skull
It’s exhaustion that feels like guilt
Fear that feels like responsibility
Thoughts that feel like commands
Even when you know
These thoughts are distortions
They still feel like truth
Anxiety doesn’t argue with logic
It argues with your survival instinct
It knows exactly which buttons to press
This is the part people don’t talk about
The relentlessness
The way it crowds your mind
Until there’s barely room for you
***The origin of anxiety isn’t always explainable, at least in the moment. Don’t hold it in. Find a productive outlet, such as a hobby, spending time with loved ones, etc. One of my biggest outlets is writing. I win this battle more often than not now but some days can still be brutal. I hope this reaches anyone who needs to read it. Talk, write or reach out to someone. Mental health is real and without effort and a productive outlet, it can impact your physical health. Love yourself and be proud of the whole person you are.***
Winter Sonata 11-29-23
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Winter Sonata
In grave allegro solo grey gathers,
Strings of winter fantasias
Brewing staccatos of frozen fall remnants,
Downbeats for the first movement
As shivering sleet wipes away bucolic barcarolles
Rocking on sapphire barges,
Harbingers of hoarfrost and hibernation,
When leafless boughs conduct the opening motif
To summon deepening darkness
From restrained shadows of turbulence
To beat warnings on frosted windows
Of snug dens – sheltered hallows.
Sweet solstice flutes sing adagio
Then scatter crystalline mists across snow packed paths
In the movement pathetique when sunglow
Glides between aspen,
Ankle deep in fleecy billows,
Sugar flakes flutter in Heaven’s perfect pitch
Rhythmic silent rests hypnotize crisp midnights
When fluttering flakes of dreamy andantes
Ride on melodic cantabile whispers
In flurries of fleecy decrescendos
Spells of codas, enthralled by idle snowfall,
Glitter in lyric tinsel of sparkling crystal beads on twigs.
Movement presto crescendos in frenzied storms
Snowfall pizzicatos fall in descending measures
When rondos of wind song ensembles
Ascend in frigid notes of icy scales
That pirouette in pulsing beats with resonate strings
Plucked by boreas in thundersnows percussions,
Vivace mistrals whirl in powdery ghosts
That spin in tremolo trills of icicles,
And in whiteout scherzos of blizzard sonatas,
Dizzy with solstice frosty fevers
As winter’s thundering cadence modulates
Into vernal sighs of resolution.
Venice, Italy, is a crazy shamozzle of new and old
Where junk, graffiti, decay, stunning beauty,
history and culture poverty and opulence, all reside side by side, bobbing.
Water dominates the landscape, canals and waterways replace all the roads
Everything is carried by boat, food, people, garbage, produce, industrial supplies.
Ambulances, fire engines, delivery trucks and police cars are all replaced by boats.
The disorderly rusty ferries ply the waterways, jostling along with gondolas, magnificent polished wooden water taxis,
Occasionally the historic scene is ruined by modern fiber glass runabouts
with huge outboard motors completely out of place.
Next comes barges with cranes, garbage collecting boats, delivery and construction supply boats, and the many service vehicles.
Grab a table beside the canals and watch the parade of boats old and new jostle and bobble on by.
Walk through the tiny crowded streets and enjoy the kaleidoscope of people of many cultures enjoying themselves.
There are many surprises. Tiny shops with feet in large glass tanks being cleaner by fish.
Everywhere there are places to explore and things to enjoy.
Looming off in the distance you may see huge cruise liners dwarfing the buildings,
These vessels are seemingly populated by ants, as the ships are so big.
The ancient church bells in Venice chime as the ships depart arrive and depart, in homage to the new god of tourism.
The Palace art is simply overwhelming, overloading your senses.
Ancient art is everywhere and often ignored.
Venice is beautiful, but one gets the impression that all the photographs taken in Venice
are gradually sucking out the life force out of the structures, hastening their decay.
There are so many dimensions and experiences, places to explore that you never get tired of Venice.
The more times you visit the better you will like it and the more you will find to do and see.
You have to laugh and ignore the hassles, the jostling crowds, the regimented crowded ferry system,
the pushing and shoving of the crowds in the tiny streets,
simply laugh and have fun.
Venice is crazy, nice, with diverse multi-faceted attractions and lots of things to do.
You will love it!
Venice Trice is Nice.
River Findings
The Ohio winds around hills
and streams down the hollows
passes steel mills, brick yards and scrap yards.
It carries tug boats, pushes barges, and hauls
black coal stripped from the mountainsides.
The Ohio’s littered banks
are home to train yards
filled with graffiti-covered box cars
rusting relics of the Southern Pacific
and the Norfolk and Southern railroads.
Erector set bridges span
the murky river and link Ohio
to “Wild, Wonderful, West Virginia,”
the Weirton Mill,
and Homer Laughlin China Company.
In towns called Powhaton Point,
Shadyside, Bellaire, and East Liverpool,
houses are stacked on hillsides
with an array of slate,
tin and asbestos shingled roofs.
Ball fields and corn fields,
concrete parking lots and shopping malls
are full of busy people
who fail to appreciate
the river’s charity.
There are roads with cryptic names like Goose Run,
Pinch Run, Riddles Run, and Rush Run.
There are towns named Brilliant,
Costonia and Calcutta,
each with their own secrets.
North on Route 7 bars advertise Karaoke
and all you can eat fish fries.
A plethora of car lots and gift shops,
bait stores and gun supplies
dot the countryside with
a never-ending display
of marketing profanity,
but the river rolls on
never compromising her dignity
never surrendering her boundaries.
White-steepled churches
stand like beacons of redemption,
while billboards promote“Hell Fire Fireworks,”
“Gentlemen’s” clubs, sleazy motels
and the “Forbidden Zone Exit.”
Still the river moves along
around the hills and down the hollows
proud and powerful
chanting and rippling with satisfaction
a stalwart testament to her tenacity…
That Goldilocks, a miss or a misfit,
How did she spin a classic charming theme?
Breaks and enters, she gets away with it -
Runaway teen in home invasion scheme!
Her arrogance exceeds all social norms,
Her conscience strikes unprecedented deal:
Not only unaware bears’ home she storms,
She barges in and settles for a meal!
But not until she vandalizes by,
Breaks a few chairs, bends spoons, too cool to care.
Guess what catches her burglar’s savvy eye?!
Sweet sentimental stuff of baby bear!
And then she acts as if she owns the place -
She’s heading for a snooze, all fed and chill.
Guess what she chooses as her resting base?! Innocent baby’s beddy, better still!
Now you tell me how classic is the tale,
Why is this blonde protagonist indeed?
She should be held in custody, no bail,
Goldie’s Breaking Bad story banned to read.
Red Riding Hood, another drifting child,
Chatting up wolves - likelihood to turn wild.
The Chesapeake Flotilla consisted of 18 small vessels,
fGunboat No. 137 and Gunboat No. 138
Several of the small ships recovered from
St. Leonard's Creek were part of
Commodore Joshua Barney's Chesapeake Flotilla
during the War of 1812.
While many were gunboats and barges
these had no formal names
identified only by there hull numbers
n addition to the gunboats, the flagship of
he flotilla, the USS Scorpion, was located
buried in the sediment of the nearby Patuxent River.
Written by;
Mort Rainey
Researcher for
Ernst Bettler University in Swisserland
Gill-Men's Navy
Book and Movie
The ghost Peppers were grown in winter
by the Siberain Aqua Farmer
A filmmaker wanted to film a movie
his dimented mind
came up with an idea
Use the Creature of ledend to eat
the scum from the street and save on cost
and produce the film fast and cheap
and make alot of money.
It was a hsush, hush affair
and involved very few.
Until Capt. Ymaly an alien
who transported here to find a creature
of space orgin
The great expanse of the Mississippi
just outside a sleepy little ledge-locked
town in western Wisconsin called Maiden Rock,
is where we like to picnic in October.
Above the north/south railroad tracks at a spot
overlooking the river is our favorite picnic table.
A century old working well with an ancient iron, creeky
sledge-handle provides fresh water.
Freight trains constantly rumble past in both both
directions, frantically racing against the coming winter.
The river, 3-miles wide at this stretch, surges a steady
dominoes of whitecaps down the river.
White Pelicans, with their striking long yellow bills,
huddle in vast rafts of white, just off the current, resting
and feeding on small fish, their migration only
beginning.
Barges, heavy-laden, plow south, pushed by stout
baroque tugs. Behind us, straight-up, limestone
bare bluffs tower, Bald Eagles circling lazily
alongside.
Mom likes the local handmade cheddar-brats, grilled;
on sprouted 9-grain buns with ice-cold spring
water!
the brats are spittin' sizzlin' cheddar!
time to go!
10/25/14
The moon shone on the water
Dyed ochre by the iron mines.
Centuries of men have toiled
In trenches and in chines.
Carving through the sheer rock face
To tunnel under hills
Canals to link the land of wealth
To the cities of the mills.
Airless channels deep below
While all above is calm
And death could be a breath away
Placed in the way of harm.
Pick and shovel toiled away
Through millstone grit and stone
Canals for coal to fuel the kilns
Firing plates for every home.
And now two hundred years or more
Have passed and times have altered
For Instead of barges lain with coke
Are cruisers strewn with boaters.
The working boats have been replaced
By holidaymakers vessels
And the tunnel stands as testament
To the stone masons true mettle.
Of Civilization and Disenchantment
by Michael R. Burch
Suddenly uncomfortable
to stay at my grandfather's house ?
actually his third new wife's,
in her daughter's bedroom
? one interminable summer
with nothing to do,
all the meals served cold,
even beans and peas...
Lacking the words to describe
ah! , those pearl-luminous estuaries ?
strange omens, incoherent nights.
Seeing the flares of the river barges
illuminating Memphis,
city of bluffs and dying splendors.
Drifting toward Alexandria,
Pharos, Rhakotis, Djoser's fertile delta,
lands at the beginning of a new time and "civilization."
Leaving behind sixty miles of unbroken cemetery,
Alexander's corpse floating seaward,
bobbing, milkwhite, in a jar of honey.
Memphis shall be waste and desolate,
without an inhabitant.
Or so the people dreamed, in chains.
Published by The Centrifugal Eye and The Centrifugal Eye Fifth Anniversary Anthology. Keywords/Tags: Memphis, barges, bluffs, Alexandria, Pharos, Rhakotis, Djoser, Alexander, waste, desolate, river, boat, city, bible, boy, childhood, grandfather
He comes visiting when least expected
In all places at any time or clime.
No rich nor poor ever can shun his calls,
Not the youths or those who are past their prime.
When he arrives, you cannot close your door;
He makes his entrance though you say, “No more.”
He frequents battle fields and hospitals;
He drops by on anyone, weak or strong.
His visits, though unwelcome, fall on all--
Man, woman, child, alone or in a throng.
When he appears you cannot say, “Next door,”
He barges in for what he’s looking for.
Though mute who utters not a word nor sound,
Oft he announces himself with a “Bang!”
Sometimes he bides before entering a home,
Sometimes he’s as quick as a boomerang.
At times he leaves a clean job, at others gore,
His visits are an event to deplore.
There are few who invite this visitor
And would embrace him if he could be touched.
But most fear and detest this unseen guest
That distinguishes not who’d be dispatched.
He crawls or slides or floats, or he may soar--
And comes for you before you can implore.
March 30, 2023