Long Breakwater Poems
Long Breakwater Poems. Below are the most popular long Breakwater by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Breakwater poems by poem length and keyword.
Technically, not a sea at all,
Lake Superior churns up its share of sea storms.
There is not a lot to do in Marquette, Michigan:
Except for high school drivers to "buzz the gut",
Or cruise past a courthouse where "Anatomy" was filmed.
You could smoke dope or drink underage
Under a disused, fourteen story ore pocket dock.
Rusted off shards of flat black paint
Fall on the gently sloshing waves.
There is a breakwater of dumped cement blocks
That has a chain-linked fence and sign that says,
DANGER! NO TRESPASSING!
But of course, the young ones do.
And better yet if a sea storm comes.
Maritime law forbids including those who drown
As sailors lost at sea.
At the end of the breakwater
I stand between two extremes.
On one side, the bay's agitations
and hurl of water smashing
against boulders, on the other,
the calm lick of waves
barely rising above a ripple.
Such division throws the mind
out of balance as if it seeks
an equilibrium, a point where
opposites are reconciled in a bland
soup of sameness. A hurried
scramble to find the predictable
in the messy tangles of chance.
The world is not like this.
Creation is born
out of the spewing throats
of volcanoes, earth upheavals
and flooding rains then given
time in a pause to rest and put
together its masterpiece.
For us, storms, earthquakes,
raging fires are seen as arrows
of misfortune flung by nature
or vengeful gods. For creation
they are tools wielded out
of a primary need, something
beyond the grasp of mere earthly
calibration. Praise be
for chaos and calm,
the hammer and polish
of creation.
—A certain weather forecast—
for he has no home to return
a pierrot painted with snow-white make-up
walks under the moonlight up and down restlessly
under the sky, the pierrot
sleeps all curled up because of the nightly chilling air,
now stands with both arms stretched out to the air;
the moonlight streams in through the openings between
the pierrot’s spread fingers dyes his face to pale blue
a leaf that was blown off by the passing wind is
being shoved and tumbled all about the lakeside
like the pierrot on the stage,
now returns to the tree where the leaf was conceived
and clings on the tip of a broken branch, and asks
tomorrow’s weather condition for his bygone days
were the series of miseries
on tomorrow,
the rain that is heavier than the moonlight
comes through pierrot’s spread fingers
may fall and hit his face pitilessly
on tomorrow,
the rain that is colder than the spray of a breaker
hits the lakeside breakwater
may bring a wild wind
to push the poor pierrot’s back
and shove around here and there cold-heartedly
B,
As I lay still in the darkness
before dawn shakes off her sleep,
my fingers excitingly caress
the beauty of your cheeks
it's morning that lies and listens
as I kiss you another good day
each passage yet to be written
in a sweet impassioned way
touches burning deeply
on worthiness they do graze
awaiting undue attention
in this Labyrinth of a maze
beheld my chest to wander
and wonder what it may
cutting through the cinders
where hearts have come to stay
the fires in the distance
and those held fast inside
burning brightly with surveillance
with the secrets I shall confide
whispers of the damning
mysteries lighting up our sky
your hand homing for protection
naked our babes no longer cry
through the wetness that fills the breakwater
comfort resides in simplistic tones
no pretension in the parables
the beats felt all the way to Rome
I see the eclipse in the shadow of your moon
The orange sky
In this Atlante-an world
A sight to see
Much better than words
Breakwater so crafted
As it holds back the sea
In this harbour of Atlantis
All sailors should see
Ships so elegant
Never seen before
As they sail the waves
So far from offshore
A design so unique
Craftsmanship so pure
Crews in tandem
I've seen nothing truer
Fishermen unloading
This mornings catches
They catch what they need
As Utopia attaches
As we slowly climb
These harbour steps
The view of this city
Immaculate
White marbled buildings
Of construction bliss
Pavemented roads
In a world like this
The charm and delight
As we wander around
Street markets and sellers
Contentment in sound
We sit on some steps
My crew and i
As we marvel the views
Of the Atlante-an skies
This Harbour of Atlantis
And it's Azorean race
Makes this Utopian world
A place to embrace
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/atlantis.php
On one night,
is it because of a bewitched full moon?
while driving my rusty shaking junk car
I became Don Quixote de la Mancha
mounted on Rozinante holding a lance under the arm aslant,
and with a full gallop, dashing into the battle field, through the street where
the full moon was hanging thirty degree above the sky between forests eastward.
The trees standing both sides on the street
dyed by reddish-yellowish gray moonbeam in silhouette
were the windmill sails whirling their gigantic arms in air to assail me.
The red and green one-eyed giants
often met on the way eastward were the fat and ugly
demon-possessed skins of red wine that must have slain.
Flourishing lance to the right and left
while giving spurs to Rozinante again and again
to advance rapidly, I found myself in the middle
of enemy territory before becoming aware of it,
detouring annoying barricades, I was running through
the path between ramparts while ducking a shower of arrows,
came to the endless water front where disabled Rozinante fell.
When raging waves come and hit the breakwater
for the water cannot advance any further or is able to return,
the waves break up the hundreds and thousands of beads and
return to the bottomless water while flushing its silvery blue scales.
And when sprays of water that dived into the deepest sea
gush out from its bottom belching fire, it rises to the sky
and becomes a gigantic dragon and swallows the moon.
In the darkness where the dragon gathering dark clouds
after swallowing the moon the rain falls, the torrential rain
hits Mambrino’s helmet mercilessly.
Then, Don Quixote kneels to make the sign of the cross
while patting a breathless Rozinante lying on this desolated waterfront.
The cross he made falls on the sands,
the cross he made mourns while washing away in the water.
[Someday,
some may sing Don Quixote with the finest lute in hand.
Praise the gentleman Don Quixote de la Mancha
with silvery voice in one accord, with unforgettably kind remarks:
the one who lived true life of knight is
Don Quixote de la Mancha
the knight of knights, the hero of heroes.]
NOTE: The Golf Road runs from east to west on north suburb of Chicago, and east (ends or starts) at Lake Michigan.
When you are watching the surging water
rushing to a breakwater by Lake Michigan
under the dusk gathering reddened sky,
and the water flies in the air for a moment
to form the spray and hits the lake’s surface,
it returns to the depth of the water where it came from
then, the passing time that is drifting on the water
pushed by the heartless surges turns its back to see
the trails left behind, the life somewhat lacking something,
and as time swells to yearn for its past
the oncoming time draws nearer to swallow the past
with the waves of oblivion
and when past time sinks into the water
you’ll hear the singing dirge followed by
a procession of wordless spirits and the blindfolded future
carried on a funeral bier.
While watching the sunset glow
I was thinking with a thousand thoughts crowded in my mind
and to my surprise, with my waning shadow
I can still recognize myself through my eyes.
Although I was always victimized because I am
such an insignificant being to others’ eyes. How should
I accept the fact that I am still allowed to face the days.
she had put a band on her wrist
in case she got lost on the journey
‘missing me but don’t return to sender’
no name or address just a simple message
a foresworn identity label of lost track
her abandoned reality checked out
dumped but not stranded she vacated
the shell of a wreck that left her misplaced
had surrendered to storms high and dry
she would have to relinquish misgivings
abjure past convictions and trespass
into the wilderness of broken repair
disavow compass needle and star chart
drift from transgressions into unknowable
recovery of courage in a wide open sea
with no emergency flares she capitulated to
forces beyond her control and shredded
the life buoy of sunken dreams and despair
flood gates were open as she shed one last tear
a carcass bobbing in wild water and white rapids
drift wood cutting deep inside her final remains
she was scared as everyone had left her side
‘too much chaos and dysfunction’ they said
‘she’ll destroy you while spiraling down’
a fool’s ship in quarantine flying a yellow flag
of black death and purulent contamination
a hobgoblin’s delight but perilous and vile
she felt disowned and homeless cast aside
rejected and discarded with no one to blame
other than her own miserable deception
after years of rip tides and dangerous currents
she crashed on breakwater emotions and pain
overcame the sea wall and held on to the shore
a disused fisherman’ cottage offered her shelter
the fireplace warmed her bones and contempt
thawed her mind and rekindled a weary soul
a glance in the mirror of hope showed her mercy
and revealed what an epic path she had taken
blissful abandon and a band on scarred joint
14th June 2020
The trees lining the streets are filled with cherry blossoms
Mother Nature is letting us know that spring arrival is going to be awesome
Enjoying a walk along the breakwater bustling with people enjoying the new day's sun
After a long winter, it is wonderful to be able to get out and have some fun
Flowers will soon bring a wide variety of colours as they spring up from the ground
A tour of our dressers for shorts and tee shirts that need to be found
Lawnmowers are about to rise from their winter hibernation
Hair cuts for our lawns are soon to be our new form of recreation
Even our timepieces will be busy springing ahead
Let's get off our social devices and spend more of our day outdoors instead
Gather up the family and go enjoy some ice cream
Bid farewell to winter and go blow off some steam
Large boulders piled high
stretch out into the bay
and form a breakwater
that shields the beach
from high waves
and heavy swells rolling in
from southerly gales.
I have stood there
at the end when the sea
was hurling its rage
and all fury exploded
like bomb bursts of watery
shrapnel into the air.
I have seen such power
subside and tamed
to compliant licks
around the feet of rocks.
More than forty years ago
on a deep breath
I snorkeled down its ledges
into the rock strewn and weedy
world that lay at its base,
places where stingrays slept
and where fish glided
effortlessly along crevices
and over sponge
covered outcrops.
I cradled a fragile seahorse
in my trembling hands.
I no longer have
the confidence to rock hop
its length to the end
but stand where it butts
the land, commanding memory
to whip up a wind
and set wave upon wave
to awaken a soul
from its sleep
and make it feel
the sting of a southerly gale,
wet, cold and wonderful,
once again.