Long Cannonballs Poems
Long Cannonballs Poems. Below are the most popular long Cannonballs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cannonballs poems by poem length and keyword.
for some reason
around your fortress
you’ve built
insurmountable blockades
and from their safety
you thrive on lashing out
catapulting showers
of fireballs
and cannonballs
it took a while for me
to realize we were at war
I simply didn’t know
in hindsight it’s been going on for years
but I really truly didn’t know
I knew enough to keep my distance
and stay out of the firing range
you’ve always had me
walking on eggshells
why? I haven’t got a clue
after all these years
to tell the truth
somewhere along the way
I simply finally lost interest
so keep doing what you’ve got to do
and I’ll continue
liking you the way you are
the last of eggshell crumbs
have turned to lovely sand
and your fireballs
now look to me
like nothing less
than fireworks display
AP: Honorable Mention 2022, Honorable Mention 2021
Submitted on June 16, 2021 for contest ALL YOURS (JUN 17) sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - 1ST PLACE
A girl in the crowd takes a selfie.
Her tam o’shanter sparkles
because of the fireworks going off
in the background.
At the gates of Moscow
Tchaikovsky runs away
hands over his ears.
The girl with the cell
is as pretty as her friend beside her,
but her friend outshines the tam o’shanter
as if it were just an ordinary beret.
She has sapphires in her eyebrows.
Kids in earshot of adults
‘wow’ or mouth age-appropriate obscenities.
The limp body of a teenage messiah
is elbowed and pushed around by his disciples.
Several rows back, a woman is laughing
as she cranes her neck skyward.
From the chin up, she looks like Greta Garbo,
only she is short and fat.
Rockets fly like fan-dancing ostriches.
The truncated 1812 Overture burps to a close.
My lens can’t capture the woman
or the girl, or her friend
who now shines like a diamond.
I can’t fit all of this into 12 mega pixels.
The night stops throwing cannonballs
at 1 a.m.
In days of old when knights were bold and dungeons were dug deep
Widely renowned back then was found, a race of hero sheep
These sheep were strong, these sheep were tough,
these sheep were eight feet tallAnd lots of very useful stuff was knitted from their wool
The wool was strong, and woven long to any length was able
To out perform the tensile strength of any modern cable
While nimble hands, pulled finer strands from out that noble flock
Which taut, sufficed to cleanly slice deep through the toughest rock
Those sheep were prized, and many wise men kept their woolly kind
Twas said the bleating of those sheep would stimulate the mind
The wonders that those sheepies wrought, would fill a hundred lists
And fueled a boom for work by loom and wool technologists
They found that wool, if tightly bound would not only float
But closely weaved and interleaved, could make a woolly boat
While natural grease, gleaned from that fleece, if applied just right
Succeeded to fulfil the need to make it watertight.
So woolly fleets sailed ancient seas, to ply the trade in wool
Till pirates knitted cannons, to fire woollen cannonballs
And so, therefore, a woolly war broke out throughout the world
The war was short, but keenly fought where woollen sails unfurled
The brief wool war had one deep flaw, though everyone was willing
For woolly blades, however made, are little use for killing.
This one defect completely wrecked the wool age upward trend
And so the golden age of wool came to a sudden end.
The pain of remembering
Sunlight filtered through the high oak leaves, where summer stretched out long and bright, we scrambled up the mossy bark and reached until we touched the light. Hand over hand, my sister led, no branch too tall, no sky too wide, with scraped-up knees and breathless laughs, and all the universe inside.
Down in the yard, the cool blue pool waited to catch our cannonballs, a splash that sent the morning free beyond the wooden garden walls. We raced across the surface tension, underwater, eyes open wide, a pod of dolphins bound together by the pull of the shifting tide.
When shadows grew across the grass, the yard became a battleground, for hide-and-seek and Tag you're it, and every secret spot we found. We ran until our lungs were fire, until the porch light flickered on, collecting moments in our hands before the golden day was gone.
Now time moves fast and miles stretch out, but locked inside the heart remains the echo of those summer shouts, the quiet after summer rains. A tangled web of laughing voices, a fortress built of grass and sun— the gentle weight of growing up together, bound as more than one.
We are not that young anymore.
Seaweed, fragmented shell as cannonballs
in maelstrom hurled upon the shore.
The bellowing wind cast all asunder
as Summer’s shoots from shifting sand were torn.
Such was Autumn’s storm.
The sleet was blown in horizontal sheets
as figures double-bent fought step by step
to make but little progress, homeward bound.
The sky was lost in billowing grey, forlorn.
Such was Winter’s storm.
Relentlessly the wind swept off the ocean
with yet more rain to swell the sodden peat.
A daily deluge on embattled land,
with hope yet stirring seeds of life newborn.
Such was Springtime’s storm.
The grey skies shift to blue, and now a breeze
is heralding a longed-for transformation.
With rainbow colours Mother Earth is blessed
and all the islands of the west caressed, reborn.
Sweet Summer knows no storm.
as pure as imagination is
(apropos grooving to the word)
imagine this:
drumming words
to 88 keys
rainbow
ending
into each other
mellowing out
like trane
waters
streaming tears
flowing
sidewalk raise banks
to drains
cascading monk falls
following birds to sea
to be free—
the real macoy
how time flies—
wingless
as it is
leaving grooves
with unseen notes
screaming
night and day melodies
exploding
like cannonballs
sliding out and up
bursting
a staccato rife
pounding
drifting away
to return
when words wish
to play again
an up tempo write
as pure
as imagination
is—boo du
de boo de boo
Henry Morgan is my name
Being a pirate is my fame
A landlubber wasn't for me
Fortunes were made at sea
From port and starboard cannons roar
Through Spanish ships cannonballs tore
Strike your colors or face our scorn
Cutlass and pikes will make you regret being born
Merchant ships we looted, plundered and sank
Prisoners were ransomed or walked the plank
Raiding West Indies settlements was fun
Loved the pieces of eight, wenches, and rum
The Governor shivered at night in bed
His King put a price on my head
Buccaneers way were over or face harm
Keep on and you will swing from the yardarm
Poetry Contest: A storm on the Spanish Main
Sponsored by: Joe Maverick
Sir Henry Morgan,
Nickname "Barbadosed"
born 1635,
died 25 August 1688 (age 53)
The Pirate Who Invaaded Panama in 1671
Buccaneer and pirate, admiral and general, country gentleman and planter, custos and judge of the court of Vice-Admiralty, governor and knight ¬ all are titles he held
Silver blades in deathmatch, sound of thunder, lightning cuts flesh in half.
Robotic feet march, shaking redwood trees, frightening bird wings.
Bobbing heads in claustrophobic helmets, decomposing.
Cannonballs block out the sunny skies — fate’s abysm.*
Fat furry rats scurry, from trench to trench that reeks,
With dead men’s bones and meat, like drowning flotsam.
Tears like a raging hurricane scream out,
For their mother’s arms to hold them tight.
How is it, the sun’s glow appears?
The nightmare’s invisible.
You tuck your son in bed
Then kiss his sweet head
And shake with fear.
Will war grab
His soul?
NO!
3/19/2018
Line Gauthier’s A Melting Snowball Contest
*syllable counter counted abysm as two syllables but dictionary has 3
Way back then when I was two,
I couldn't even tie my shoe.
But I could stand up on a chair
to retrieve my teddy bear.
Way back then when I was four,
I'd sneak out the doggie door,
cause the door latch was too high
for such a little guy.
Way back then when I was six,
I could really do some tricks.
I would climb way up in trees
and hang there from my knees.
Way back then when I was eight,
I sure loved to roller skate.
It was always quite a thrill
to go flying down a hill.
Way back then when I was ten,
I for swimming had a yen.
From a cliff beside the falls
I did lots of cannonballs.
When I think of stuff I did
when I was just a kid,
I'm stumped how one so bold
could end up getting old.
January 23, 2016