Long Cannon ball Poems
Long Cannon ball Poems. Below are the most popular long Cannon ball by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cannon ball poems by poem length and keyword.
Will the president be in truce?
Shahid Qadri
No. Not the chair, table , the sofa set , the shelves, these do not belong to me
The tree, pond, flowing water only these
Hair, chin, curvature, knees, these are not mine
The yarning of the lover duo, sketched through the manifested silhouettes , gradually
Will the president be in truce of my propositions?
With the graceful poem, the subject , with a poetic hue, will this be an influence on its own
To have a motive, toward the end?
Neither the march past, the cannon ball, nor the military intervention
Only the flower beds
The prime minister, cabinet minister, international helping committee
Only the vowels to rhyme - with or without, belong to mine.
They sea me without.
I carry a raven upon my shoulder,
A sundial on my back.
The hat I wear is made of ash;
Sunlight is what I lack.
I drag my feet behind me on sandy beaches.
The ball and chain my ankle bracelet bling.
‘If only…’ is a wish, a fantasy; it’s incomplete.
I never made it big.
There is a line of memories behind me in the sand;
It shows the places I have seen.
It is my reason;
The reason I understand;
The reason I understand why you do not understand me.
It curves around, beyond the boulders
And on through rows of palm trees.
This dream I have, I have always carried;
It has always been with me.
I leave my burdens at the door,
But desire is a flame that still burns eternal.
It lights up my face, when I see her face,
But inside I remain forever nocturnal.
I walk in foreign footsteps,
No guide or friend in tow.
I cross the sea of peace, love and empathy forever,
Alone in my sinking boat.
I carry only what I need to make it to the end of the sea.
The cannon ball attached to my feet,
Is expanding more than I would like it to be.
It grows with each passing full moon,
The only time I can be seen.
I hide behind a smile sometimes,
Before it rows away from me.
I have a conversation, with a man who sells only ale;
His face is full of redness and joy!
My face is always pale.
I take a sip of this rotgut and begin to waste away from the inside.
I sometimes hear a hearty tune and sing!
While all the time,
Inside, I die…
The noise is intoxicating;
The words they speak are so enchanting.
Sooner or later it becomes closing time
And I am left walking away from the dancing.
The maiden’s flutter their eyes,
I haven’t shaved in several weeks.
My life is worn away by the sun, my clothes torn asunder.
They flirt and kiss me on the cheek
But there is no more thunder.
They ask if I would like to join them,
On their midnight adventure.
I have no words, I promise to return,
But they never get a real answer.
They cannot readily see the hole in my soul;
Oh what a charmed life I live.
I try to laugh, so tip my hat…
…a pirate’s life for me.
(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Trepidation explodes into volcanic fear
Takes off like wild fire burnt alive
Rolls molten lava down the mountain
Butters the melted soul to silence
Over run by soldiers out of control
The covered dead fill in the valley
Infantries spread to an infinity of hills
A vacated image of a soldier in a mirror
Once a spy or simply a humble man
An ego reflected in repose in melancholy
The war grows with the dead
Executed by the military code
Antagonisms exaggerated calm
Line up the men one by one
Place a cannon ball square right there ready
Aim steady through the eyes between the ears
Give a cigarette if they desire
Fire!
The field is given a name.
Battles are about where they disappear,
the ones that walk away
don't know where the hell they are.
There’s a cannon ball under that Yew tree,
there’s a skull under that Ash.
There’s a hank of dried up hair
over there, woven into stone and moss.
After the blood, peace continues destroying barns,
insignia and belt buckles fished out and sold.
Excavated jawbones order and counter-order.
The officers that staggered away
go quietly mad, or marry well.
Surviving hell takes
a lot of stump-footed foraging.
The maimed tell their jerrybuilt tales,
cracked rockers creek along
the slipways of generations.
Hounds bayed at coons.
in the hot afternoons;
that was before the earth gaped open,
before the gore seeped sideways
into the earths wounds.
Good Generals and bad
have had their deadly play,
this scattering and salvage
of the blue and grey that day.
I know
Even if I have no evidence to prove it
I know
That I was never meant to be in this world!
I find not my place here
I like it not here
I am not comfortable here
I am not at ease here
I am, like a fish out of water
I am, like an angel fallen on Earth
I am, like a plantation of watercress in the desert
I am, like a stone having been given a heart!
The very fact that I took birth here
Broke my heart
The very fact that I fell from the divine abode
Shattered me to pieces
So much that I strive still to re-assemble my broken pieces
And walk, even if I drag my feet
Trying to motivate myself
To find joy and pleasure
In a world so aimless and confusing!
A world, where living is ruled by the cruel hands of Death!
But then, I thought I found love, once
I thought I would make of love my strength
I would hold its hand
Smile
And instead of walking
I would now enjoy the ride!
For, love would be a carriage
A carriage driven by my beloved
A carriage which would allow me to sit
And enjoy the passing sceneries of the paths I had to go through!
But love was made of ego
Of vice and selfishness
Love, instead of being a strength
Love, broke my heart again!
Why, love was just like a cannon ball
Which kept striking my most sensitive spot
Love, bid me to hate my life
And yearn for the skies once more!
Pray, I have learnt the lesson
I am to be, in this world, devoid of love
For I am not to be attached to anything here
I am, to get back to where I came from
I am to climb up the celestial stairs
And reach my home, my forsaken home!
Why, the power which forced me here
Is as broken hearted without me
As I am without it!
Pray, is love not beautiful
Is love not magical
When forgiveness and submission
Plays in its arena?
Pray, the skies unveiled themselves once
And bid me to an awakening
Since then, I have come to learn of myself
And of my temporary stay here
I have to understand
Why is it that I find not my place here
Pray, I may be broken hearted
But I am in the process of being healed
And the time shall come
When the gates of the skies will open
And immerse in me
Joy, of an eternal nature!
9th February 2017
For contest: You broke my heart
Edward Kenway was a pirate
He sailed the Spanish Main
He plundered British merchant ships
And the Galleons of Spain
Once he was a farmer
He walked behind the plough
But now he ploughed the oceans deep
He was a pirate now
He started as a deckhand
Till his bravery won through
Then he became a captain bold
And ruled a pirate crew
He sailed into Nassau
And he took that town
It was then the British Government
Ruled they must take him down
One bright sunny morning
The fleet sailed into the bay
They were British Men of War
They were going to make him pay
But captain Kenway had a plan
He knew what they must do
He slowly drained his pint of ale
The stood to face his crew
Come on lads we'll to the fort
Make them taste the cannon ball
If we surrender now me boys
They'll surely hang us all
Kenway occupied the fort
Behind its strong stone walls
He knew he had the greatest chance
To make the British fall
He had a dozen cannons
Set toward the sea
He swore an oath upon his sword
That he'd keep Nassau free
The oath that he made to them
Did his men inspire
They all swore to do the same
As the British opened fire
They felt the ramparts shudder
As the heavy metal balls
Flew through the air and thudded
Into the fortress walls
But Kenway stood before his men
And this speech he made
Fire your cannons at them boys
Lets make them afraid
We will make them shake with fear
They'll turn and run and then
They will always rue the day
They messed with Kenway's men
The pirates fired the cannons
Two British ships went down
But one hundred troops stormed the beach
They were trying to take the town
But Kenway had prepared right well
He had men upon that shore
Hidden under canvas sails
Ready for the war
The troops were taken by surprise
The pirates did attack
The were outnumbered three to one
But they sent them running back
Kenway's cannons fired again
And four more ships did sink
All the pirates roared huzzah
As they sank into the drink
Fourteen British men of war
Limped out of the bay
Their sails were torn their hulls were holed
As they sailed away
Through the years many tales were told
The legend slowly grew
Of how the British Navy
Were crushed by Kenway's crew
Spoke to a cloud today –
the usual conversation
about shape and size,
lows and highs...whether
my need to tote a handy, spring
loaded umbrella...or a better chance
to go without pants, dance
on the beach ~ showing off
thighs, widening sockets
of older generational eyes – he
told me of clouds who gather and
threaten, causing ships to leap into
salty lather, sailors beware!
take battened-down care! – schools
of fishes diving to ocean depths
they share, with ancient vessels (and sewage),
a seafloor covered with sandy
coinage – a diver's delight; when
stormed into sight –
more subjects of our chatter
and debates, were those of tides
and tectonic plates; also of bony-splatter:
living shrapnel, from a well aimed cannon-ball
against a wooden hull, or artillery shell,
man's modern perpetuation, of that never
settling, always heartening seafarer's knell –
I went on to ask, if in all his travels, had
he ever seen anything truly divine?
Like an angel passing...or a saucer
flying...perhaps some mythical dragon
soaring, trying to lasso down a tasty
moon ~ bring him brightly closer,
doing some dragon flips, salivating
for cheesie fondue lips....
Jock stumbled - pals called him a wus
(No injury was obvious)
But Jock bruised his willy
And now he feels silly
With todger strapped up in a truss
WRITTEN BY JAN ALLISON
Old Jock had injured and bruised his man thing
His doc said "Jock, you'll need a tartan sling"
He's now looking quite built
Bulging under his kilt
Lassies swoon when he does the Highland fling.
After a week his thing turned black and blue
Jock said "hoots mon, what am I ganna do"
But he'd left it too late
Doc had to amputate
And now poor Jock has to sit on the loo.
WRITTEN BY TOM CUNNINGHAM
He washed his new jock, it was new
So it tightly embraced both its crew
But after the race
Oh what a disgrace
His now aching partners were blue
WRITTEN BY JOHN LAWLESS
Jock stumbled and he landed face down
Injuring the jewel in his crown
His bruised pride and joy swelled
By awe it was beheld
Jock's tackle became talk of the town.
The doctor said I know just the thing
To give support to your ding-a-ling
Doc got Jock's bits strapped up
Jock swore and he cussed
For doc said it could be longstanding.
Jock's dilemma can be seen by all
He's going nuts because of the fall
He's craving free willy
To swing willy-nilly
And longs to unstrap his cannon ball.
WRITTEN BY BELLE BELLEVUE
Now Jock knew about liquid nitrogen
But sprayed on far more than he might have done
So just when it mattered
One tap and it shattered
And Jock said Hoots mon, me old fright’ner’s gone
He said Doc, I need a new caber
My wife has never gone through labour
The Doc held his gaze
Grabbed three treble A’s
And sewed on on a three foot light sabre
WRITTEN BY TERRY FLOOD
Jock managed to get his willy banged up,
He cried loud like a little newborn pup,
Stayed in bed a week,
It hurt to take a leak,
All because he slipped on his sippy cup
WRITTEN BY ALEXIS Y
IF ANYONE WISHES TO ADD POEMS PLEASE SOUPMAIL THEM TO ME
Feeling very trapped
Dungeon canary getting ready to be zapped
Proceed down a level
Only giving a quotable shovel
Building a winning case
In a better place
Riding in a vehicle to transfer
Something in the air had a stir
“Face the gunners mate
Tonight is the date
Do not worry about the sky points
You will not lose em in the Emirates joint”
As for the new castle that was united
Confident acting armored and knighted
Plan to invade the gold sands
Metal detectors in the hand
Mr. Bourne shouted from the mouth
“Why are you heading south?
To pick our bloody cherries
In order to pour your chalices and be merry”
A royal not in a hurry
Answered, “No we want to know what you have buried “
Before the match
Mr. Bourne wondered about the catch
Wanting to fry the whole batch
“A royal meal
Sounds like a good deal”
Stepping off the bus
Convicted canary had no fuss
Ready to take the arsenal aim
Realizing it is just high profile fame
Feeling very calm
Taking the threat made by the cannon ball bomb
Puttering on the beach
Deciding on a lesson to teach
Magpies treasure uncovered a tasteful test
Carrying all the ingredients that were in the chest
Claiming their pies are the best
Mr. Bourne watched in content
Reaching his one goal that he meant
In the flavor went
Deceptive dessert destined to be sent
Baked by mag the pie
Well decorated and that was no lie
Placed in a box
Addressed “Thackray now having Goldie locks”
Arriving home seeing the gift
This gave the west ham and nice lift
Reading the attached letter
That stated you will play better
Table saw a movement that counted three
Jumping over the buzzing bees
Hornets now behind
Closer to relegation time
After eating the treat
Ever so sweet
With a accompanied wine
Temptation that was divine
Not able to decline
In the end Thackray shirt turned color Claret
Due to the after dinner drink that was a perfect pair it
Thackray thought this was good and fun
Before a thought came to her when she was done
Appointment book said Sunday meeting at St James
Playing a game
Letting out a gigantic gastric bubble
Saying “Uh oh I am a west ham in big trouble”
First a quick word on Robert the Devil,
whose turbulent life turned out quite a revel.
He fathered a child on a poor tanner's daughter
then dashed to repent in Jerusalem's quarter,
but on his return, sad to say, he died,
yet he set up his son, his only pride.
Though being dubbed "bastard" earned him rebuke
Son William became a very tough duke,
as shown by the fact he became England's king
on Christmas Day when the church bells did ring.
Poor England he ruled with a grim iron rod.
He harried the North like a merciless god.
To gauge England's wealth great pains he took,
which to prove I name the Doomsday Book.
Once his horse took fright in a fiery melee
and part of his saddle punctured his belly.
After this mishap he did not live long.
When his belly burst, oh what a pong!
The monks in Rouen cut his funeral short,
when incense galore no remedy brought.
Then his son William Rufus ascended the throne.
To wild fits and frenzy this redhead was prone.
He found city life somewhat too narrow.
Out riding one day, he was struck by an arrow.
Many hard battles King Billy fought
ere he fell from his horse at Hampton Court.
No enemy's musket laid him low,
no cannon ball , no swordsman's blow.
A hoof of his horse got caught in a hole,
the work of a lowly burrowing mole.
On the Emerald Isle some raise a toast
to this notable victory of the least o'er the most
William the Fourth died in his bed,
which somehow fitted the life he had led.
He had multiple children but not with his wife.
Exemplary no way was King William's life.
When in time a new William mounts Britain’s throne
may he shun the errors to which others were prone,
avoiding pitfalls and fierce martial strife,
and every enticement to stray from his wife.