Long Bight Poems
Long Bight Poems. Below are the most popular long Bight by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bight poems by poem length and keyword.
Staff rod in hand, and on my feet a pair of good hardy leather shoes
Set off onto the bight coastal track to a view of many colourful hues
In four score plus nine of my years; not a day to me ceases to amaze
Scattered along the ridge line, sheep idle away their days, they graze
As marram grass sways anchoring the sand brought by the sea wind
I listen to the deafening sounds of the seagulls their shrills ingrained
This land, my land as one of my forefather’s son’s, my claim of proof
As far as my eye can see and as far as the cattle can roam their hoof
A legacy given to me by God and by my hands my toil it shall remain
No false deceiver shall walk her, come proclaiming a lie shall he feign
Each animal upon her lives its life in freedom until their time is called
Before slaughtered with respect, and placed upon the table sprawled
With thanks and praises given to the bellies it is now given to nourish
Bones grounded down, and returned to this earth, in which to flourish
In turn the animals eat the greener grass its wealth to them unknown
This is the cycle of life, it by my forefather’s father to son been shown
A seal pup on the shore cries ardently for its mother it wants to be fed
Scottish folklore that seal Selkies as fill the shore fears folk with dread
Shep the sheep dog though not original in name scurries the dry grass
Upsetting the grouse and long tailed pheasants as they limber on pass
Pleasant is this land given in its wonderment and awe, its beauty score
As musical notes of each animal and creature in tune across this shore
This balance of nature cannot in anyway be understated, or be ignored
This certitude between heaven and earth, and its ever eternal life cord
Rests upon my shoulders, its weight, is more as embedded in my heart
As I idle the bight pathway of this coast, until it’s time for me to depart
My dried and cracked salted spray leather shoes shall be left then to lie
My staff left standing in the hallway and with my dog resting I shall die
I was in a bar in Texas,
in the eastern back-country,
with three beers already inside
and another draining quickly.
It was a perfect redneck bar,
the kind of place I love,
with sawdust on the floors below
and taxidermy up above.
A man drank in a corner,
wearing a battered hat.
he said nothing to no one,
and I was thankful for that.
For in the center of the bar,
a loudmouth proudly raged,
boasting of his magnificence,
impervious to pain.
He mocked folks obnoxiously,
as drunks are wont to do.
His three friends only laughed,
three sheets to the wind too.
The braggart faced the corner,
said,”Hey, it’s the yodeler guy!
I saw him last Oktoberfest,
his voice is womanly high!
“Come on now yodeler,
show this bar what you’ve got.”
The yodeler said,”If you don’t mind,
right now I’d rather not.”
But the drunkard only fumed,
and slammed his hands on down
on the yodeler’s lonely table,
sending his beer to the ground.
Yodeler got up very slowly.
“That’s better now, my bro,”
said the drunk as he got up,
“Give the good people a show!”
Yodeler broke into a song,
bight and clear and full of grace,
then he shot a tree-trunk jab,
right into the drunkard’s face!
The drunkard fell, his friends charged,
Yodeler threw out his elbows,
knocked two down and the other
he grabbed by the throat.
Quick jabs rained upon the man,
until he could not see.
He fell to the ground hearing a
“Yodel-eh-hee-hee!”
Yodeler stomped one who rose,
and another then ran away,
But the drunk had come around,
and glowed red, flush with rage.
But Yodeler kept yodeling,
and waived the braggart in.
Braggart charged, Yodeler swung,
catching him on the chin.
Three men lay on the floor,
the yodeler stepped over them.
That night I learned never to cross
a true yodeling champion.
Not a lesson with much use,
that I readily will admit,
Much like the time I learned clog-dancers
don’t take kindly to bullspit…
In the world, many a fool's theory
Listening to them, I look weary
Replying them, I feel dreary
With silence, I make merry
Their eyes they close at dawn and doubt
In the morning, they are out and doubt
We doubt HIS existence! They shout
Sadly, little do they know about
For each day we see HIS wisdom and might
Their brains? Sadly fastened with 'a bight'
Thinking right? Apparently a lost insight
Retrieving? Out! They tell the light
Like dogs their gods bark but not can bite
Like a rooster they fly but not a kite
See the stars and the moonlight
See the rays of the sunlight
The sweet songs of the canary we enjoy
In our daily lives, the water we employ
For our breath, the air we deploy
Let the wise shout for joy
End with the pink,
Not in the stink,
I am talking about a pack of Starbursts candy,
And NOT having to get your last bight from a nasty red colored one,
That would be the same color as a stop sign,
Or taste like bloody diarrhea if it got hard,
Just thinking about disbarring your tastebuds from enjoying a Mars bar,
If that was still around or being talked about,
Only those people who used to have yellow finger,
Or say that real men wear pink would know what I could be talking about,
Yet, now that Donald Trump has been a president in this world,
Beating up a red head becomes more of a crime than it was,
Just between you, me, and the fuzz,
I would cuss at the mother er quicker,
If I did not get the burst of stars that could easily keep me happy even if I was behind bars,
Such as the pink one,
That always comes behind the missing link,
But is still NOT the color Scarlet...
Those eating Starburst I do NOT wish the worst but hope that you have NOT yet sharded,
I usually am NOT that guarded, try NOT to be a harlot, no longer get carded, and have NOT gotten barred yet, from placing the bet that the lighter the red, no matter if it is white and red, in a painting set, would ease someone’s head from turning racism of a canned candy material, into something that could become a serial trend, into making new friends keeping the pink in front of the stink, unless someone has or had to much to drink and said that the red is better in bed, when at that point I would say you do not have to put the pink before the stink because apparently at that point the red would have me dead because I am not wasted but can taste it when the blood becomes a flood, and although I know what should go down, I no longer go down on that type of hood for good, not because of what could be misunderstood, but because of someone’s ed up attitude when they are rude, come unglued, or get in a mood and I cannot go along with it because I am NOT ruled by my emotions but only what is true dude. Thought you knew.
Kelso has a boat
smeared to the gunnels,
with cawk and greasy weeds.
Kelso is old enough
to be free of care,
his dog don't care neither.
At the prow of dawn
he hauls dripping lobsters
in their pots
up the scummy steps
of the silty stone harbor,
pushing a barrow
into the dickering markets
cobbled narrows.
Kelso barters claws and tails
to barkeeps, crab-mongers,
to fish wives and their
saucy daughters.
Gummy smiles he shares
with the crones;
their thin cranky bones
thrill to his beard-wagging ways.
At close of day he seesaws,
half-cut and tottering
to the bight, the bitty harbor,
to eat a kippered mackerel
from a spray-seasoned skillet.
Tomorrow he will do the same
if the lobsters appear
in his pulled-up smeary pots,
if not
he will sup upon a dark brew
and make a meatless stew
of beetroot and hot
fried
pickles.
Kelso lays back
with his reeky brown dog
(as he always does),
to smoke a care-free plug
into a fumy fog.
He listens to the dimming sky
piddle over the wallowing town,
hears the night rolling in
over the seas lap and swell
tucked up and swaddled is he
in his oily cot, and swaying low;
he most pleased to be,
yours consistently -
just old Kelso.
Shinning in the light so bight.
The sun turns into night.
The winter cold breeze.
The touch of spring.
The summer breeze.
And the colorful leafs in the fall.
Each season has there own
speical meaning to them.
Spring:Is when the flowers bloom,
and when the animals come out to
play.
And easter of course..
Summer:Its hot,Thats when all the
beaches open up.
Fall:The changing of the leafs and the
weather change.We give thanks in fall..
For thanksgiving.
Winter:Snow,snow,snow..Its finally here.
and wait is over.
christmas is here,and we could never
forget new years..
But thats the seasons for me.
Daedalus And Icarus
E'er thee an apparatus means to fly,
Ye equaling a part of chambered lofts,
Bestow upon thee that preoccupy,
Serendipitous thou challenges softs.
Ye, Crete's labyrinth denotes completion,
I shalt ere thee pleasure my dream to be,
Near its end, I urged sage words to my son,
Abandon naught for the gods watch o'er thee.
Ne'er neareth sea lest moisture heft thee down,
Go naught neareth Sun whilst thee is in flight,
Ere the wax in thy wings melt and ye drown,
Heed naught, heat melted, he sank in the bight.
Daedalus wept the loss of Icarus,
Goddess Nemesis said due to hubris.
2020 February 27
Howmanysyllables;
14 lines x 10 syllables per = 140 syllables total
Be there the bight of a November drain
turned off tattered ruffles blotted feign
a ledged I removed and tender earlobes
waif yonder spectral possession probes
cracked nut overture eighteenth twelve
emptied shells retiring indicative delve
drain feign earlobes probes twelve delve
the hour,
Penchant dragged scrape innard depth
souring blindly binds ruse lids breadth
spar sun astir, causation its wandering
scar bites of frost attend a clouded ring
constant errs my inner chambers abide
pivotal piques tricked darkening inside
depth breadth spar scar abide inside
the hour,
A vast plague of vulture flights accrues
a lowly sill contempt its stay construes
awake dreamt feverishly reposed body
quake aloof save I some valued nobody
unsorted escort disembodied but feats
wonder maroon beheld tethering beats
accrues construes awake quake feats beats
the hour,
Therefore I'd wallowed jousting to free
of peals of laughter trifle trailing spree
feeble villagers thoughtless each share
of riddled backside amidst tabled stare
and counters gossip whispers consume
be their claim graphic God they assume
free spree share stare consume assume
the hour,
Remains of a last supper disrobed hang
amidst bunker migrating seasons pang
yond trained reflect stories trail facials
a negging crowded calls milds a rituals
saved I a memoir cloistered singularity
paved upon silken weaves a familiarity
hang pang facials rituals saved paved
the hour,
Bewitched canons riddled yon the altar
stacking of hymnals liberates Gibraltar
of liquefied gift cascading gratification
love stain pigments of my imagination
hues meld a silencing orchestrate suite
enhance the loyal thunder ne'er retreat
altar Gibraltar of love suite retreat
the hour.
Studio light burn bright
But my heart's in the dark
Mic in hand voice shaking
What's the point of this art
They say I don't belong here
Rap's not for girls like me
They judge my words before I
speak
Misunderstood constantly
Treated badly day by day
Comments cut like a knife
They talk behind my back
Saying i'm not worth the mic
Angry at the world that won't see
me
Confused why they can't just let
me be
Doubtful if I'll ever find my way
Hopeless like the studio's gone
dark
Sad like my voice is just a spark
But deep inside a warm light still
glows
I'll keep rapping even if nobody
knows
They say my flow is too soft
My lyrics aren't hard enough
But they don't see the pain I hide
The struggles that make me
tough
In this studio I pour my soul
But they just see a girl
Who doesn't fit their narrow mind
In their hiphop world
Angry at the world that won't see
me
Confused why they can't just let
me be
Disappointed in the ones who
turned away
Doubtful if I'll ever find my way
Hopeless like the studio's gone
dark
Sad like my voice is just a spark
But deep inside a warm light still
glows
I'll keep rapping even if nobody
knows
Maybe one day they"ll
understand
That rap's not about gender or
the band
It's about the truth the fire inside
The words that comes from the
heart and mind
I'm not giving up I'm standing
strong
In this studio where I belong
Warmth in my chest pushing me
on
M?y voice will be heard before too
long
Studio lights still burning bight
Now my heart's staring to ignite
Mic in hand voice steady
This is my time to be ready.
The Journey
by Robert J (Bob) Moore ©2020
We used to live in Manchester, in England, the UK
till one day our dad said, we’re going to move away
Australia’s where were going to, a land of sand and sun
with lots of jobs, and lots of space, a life there will be fun
I didn’t really want to go, at 18 my life was here
but dad had made his mind up, he made that very clear
it’s all or none he said to me, we go together or, we stay
so we agreed we all would go, and I’d return home one day
We caught a train to London, and as we crossed the Pennine Chain
little did I think, that I would not see them again
I’d hiked and camped all over them, since I was just a lad
Glossop, Hayfield, Kinder Scout, and all the fun we’d had
The train got to St Pancras, in the early morning light
time to have some breakfast, look around and see the sights
I had never been to London, this was my first trip,
we saw Nelsons Column, but that was about it
We had to go to Tilbury, a ship was waiting for us there
to take us half way round the world, to a land dad said was fair
it needed population, to help it build and grow
and people came from many lands to try and make it so
so we sailed, down the Thames, hoping things would be alright
out into the Channel, and past Dovers cliffs of white
across the Bay of Biscay, through the Med and Suez too
then over the Indian Ocean, until Australia came into view
We called at Port Fremantle, then crossed the Australian Bight
just a stop at Melbourne, then on to Sydney through the night
at eight thirty in the morning, I went up on to deck A
we passed under the Harbour Bridge, England 12000 miles away
I would never again see England, or walk the Pennine Hills
never again see Manchester, the winter fogs, and chills
my friends from when I was a lad, are just memory
but living in Australia, has been a good life for me.