Long Canoes Poems
Long Canoes Poems. Below are the most popular long Canoes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Canoes poems by poem length and keyword.
All of a sudden
The stars have stopped shining
Blimming sadness in Heaven
Too many babies are maimed and hurt
Too many infants are starving and suffering
Too many women are crying and mourning
And too many men are being sought
For summary executions
Where countless elders of the sad nations
Have disappeared without a trace
The pain is excruciating. What a disgrace!
All of a sudden
The sky has become extremely dark
Bloody chaos in Heaven
The cemetery is in the park
The buildings are bombed and bulldozed
For heaven’s sake, too many soldiers are overdosed
Where ships, vessels, yachts, boats and canoes are sunk
Somewhere is buried a dead skunk
Where everything is comatose and decomposed
No one can honestly envision a bright future
Where nobody can dry the tears of Mother Nature.
The stars have stopped shining
The moon is visibly absent
The sun is on strike and fasting
And the weather is eerily aberrant.
Copyright © June 2025 Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
The canoe turned upside down
Leaning on the bracket type attachment
Held air born unused
Casting a cresent shadow againt the barn
Discarded window boxes lying in path
Window boxes unused for awhile
The evidence that the canoe has been air borne
Dying from misuse and neglect_____
Canoes are made for water
Elegant are they rightfully used
Graceful floating paddled along
Just don't clumsily stand onesided
When will the opportunity arise
For the canoe to float again
Soon will be great, sooner even better
Freedom and destiny on cool clear water
(Jotted down when waiting for
Cody to see about his dad.)
I'm a sinister shell,
lost in bygone
deepwaters of
gravity-less
cerulean tears,
that saturate
molten sundrops,
falling from
zinc-plated skies,
as heliophilic snow,
melts frosted
memories in
white-washed waves,
and the moon-
kissed paint of
chamomile dusk
seeps in
cataclysmic bruises of
cloudburst refrains.
Perhaps, phosphenes
perfumed with
blueth poppies,
splashing neon drops
upon midnight shores
of crystallized
coastal lashes,
left pearlescent
ice-drop stains
of fervent lies
and cupid's lampshade.
I was never a
flamboyant fleur flower,
for my rufescent roots
were induced with
evil effervescence
of elusive lambent love.
Dormant heavens
of cursed fairies,
are now bleeding
mahonia mist of
cocooned truths
and deserted dreams
in periwinkle
poetic estuaries,
where doomed
driftwoods float
as ash grey
carnival-canoes.
In werifesteria of
alchemist's
expensive jewels,
amidst soiled seagrass,
this heart slumbers
in silicon rain,
that drips from
lime-scented
starfish-shaped leaves,
when pain escalates
to tangled treetops,
blooming ~
scarlet sun-shells,
infused with
my smoldering
sinister soul.
The river smells like damp cotton this morning,
the weather has been so complimentary to our exertions
frost invades the nights nicely and soft sunshine comforts our faces in daytime,
we have been averaging 26 miles per day for more than a week
which gives us fat optimism that we'll reach the he Mandan villages before November,
our sense of serenity and ease is abruptly shaken by a suspicious sight,
from the boats we notice , not far inland
a settlement abandoned to arid earth and the whispers of sullen fate,
with a detachment of 12 men
this broken place in paradise is searched
with the circumspection of armed archaeologists,
from wood and rock totems
we have surmised that this village belonged to the Arikaras,
evidently, they systematically left here, or were decimated by some terrible force,
a gutteral roar rips into my ears
as I see the most monstrous beast of my life,
it is the great grizzly bear, wicked in temper and simply petrifying in stature,
about 40 yards away Sheilds stumbles out of an Arikara sod lodge
as the grizzly emerges from it's liar, standing upright like a tower of terror
fangs in the air and claws ready to thrash
Sheilds buries a slug right into it's chest from 10 feet away
sounding like a large stone plunging deep into water
white panic stretches his face while the beast stammers for a moment,
there is no time for him to reload
and he starts running to the canoe faster than a fuse
several of us take aim and unleash a crossfire of lead
pegging the bear every which way halting it's chase
and with the speed of a two horse wagon it's running to the brush,
we forgo the hunt and evacuate to the canoes,
enough has been seen here,
J.A.B.
The suburban pressure cooker expelled its multiethnic horde north. Laden with implements of leisure, bicycles, kayaks, canoes and camping gear; world weary travelers of urban and suburban bent surged north ever, north. Bucking, they wrenched in unison at road repairs, shunted into single lanes by flaming orange cones of warning like so many track horses at the gate. Tail bitten, truck locked windows up; the denizens drove forth cocooned in metal steeds seeking the clean air and open expanses, north.
Few, freer souls dare the unfiltered air of the artery, north on motorcycles or in convertibles, hoods down, or windows down, blaring an enlivening mantra of sixties rock as they shimmied forward in the in the endless conga line of commerce, past urban blight. The trip north became a Chaucerian Pilgrimage from Nutmeg State to the Green Mountain State of Vermont.
The border crossed, the sky opens wide-eyed, ridge rimmed dolphin gray clouds swim in a cerulean scene. Roadside picnic tables fill. Monarch butterflies flit in the breezes between majestic rows of pungent pines. The whoosh of traffic dulls and the robin’s call emerges over the roiling hills and gurgling brooks. Silence falls, complete; upon the entrance to the first gravel road. Heaven is immersed in the scent of fresh hay and sweet purple clover.
Oh fairy isle, beauteous isle thee!
Green delight in a blue jewell sea.
Lovely limestone cliffs rise high,
To kiss those soft blue sky-
Feeling my heart with glee.
From somber Lovers Leap to Arch Rock,
Grand Sugar Loaf to Devil's Kitchen and
Chimney Rock.
Such natural beauty, unreserved,
On a fairy isle so perfectly preserved,
My heart is longing for thee.
To wander along her paths for a while,
Makes my heart sing and my soul smile.
It is the land of my ancestors, long before,
Who first landed in birch canoes along her
shore.
Leaving little bits of history.
Oh fairy isle, beloved fairy isle.
A string of scows
lift on a late flux.
Sunset spreading itself
along the crests of far hills.
The Ohio plunges into cooling shadows,
then a shimmering pause
as the water opens its body.
Ripples fall away from the light,
shape-shift into Shawnee canoes.
There are natives
under the tipped-up boats
still leisurely paddling into
the grass skirts of Kentucky
A late breeze sighs
rattling tall reeds.
Evening slips under her clothes.
For a moment,
the river shines for the moon
while it climbs over darkening trees.
I get up from my camp-chair
stretching.
Ten years, I remember.
Ten years of emptying out.
I look at my open hands,
feeling easy, as a fresh
rain-washed creek.
. for public domain
Wind has long formed ripples,
pebbles too, upon a shallow river bed,
a hand agrasp a wooden oar,
fingers dangling in play,
skipping rounded stones,
a gentle breath exhaled,
a sound so soft and brief,
a water bug lept off a fallen leaf,
rumbling hooves upon the ground,
an earthquake miles away,
a sonic boom high in the sky,
a blast of thunder from a storm,
a raindrop, a teardrop, a dewdrop,
a letter torn to pieces tossed upon the waves,
a sealed bottle with hope in a message,
a piece of litter thrown thoughtlessly,
bows of gliding canoes and great ships,
muscular arms chopping in competition,
cannon balls and falling masts in war,
sailors who stepped off the plank,
melted ores from raging craters,
and kites and balloons with broken string.
In every ripple a partial record of a history,
some great, some small,
much forgotten, but not all. That's all. That's all.
For us who can see but cannot feel
And sometimes feel away to the distant lands
No need to reason why,
Not that greenery is always innocent,
Or tuxedos are mannequins of masquerade,
Behind the scenes and behind the satin,
Are tales of love and tails of betrayal,
But even then, it is wanted..
Is knowledge of all is all?
Or mountains scaled are relinquished,
For deeper seas of hollow intrigue?
Confused are us,
Who do not reason why,
The lice in life
Do not migrate to the velvet jackets,
Or virtuosity in diamonds
Are better than cheese under the banyan tree..
The want of a Canoe,
And to become another of the same kind,
Are fulfilled as I have mine,
Impatient I am,
How do I reason why,
When the heart wants crystal sunshine,
And green that is only grass,
Rainy rummage in the time of woe,
And love during Forever...
The Songs of Nature:
Music is my only refuge
Expresses the soul of Nature
The mellifluous journey between notes
Lingers in my heart, the silken veil
Drives away the melancholy, music cradles
Soul to Soul, I sing away Nature’s notes
There are too few words
Adequate or meaningful
To describe you right.
But a hundred, thousand songs
Describe you just perfectly.
So many colors on nature’s palette
There are many moods and emotions
Picturesque gallery of many paintings
Forever framed in the travelers mind
Masterpieces cannot be recreated
If we only hold onto black and white
Immerse the soul in nature’s color
Many shades will color the spirit
The songs we sing
Composed in nature’s tune
Don’t ruin it!
Butterflies fluttering around
Canoes moving slowly across the subtle waves
Kids laughing and gawking
Bugs flying
Ducks fighting
Families grilling
Couples holding hands
This is relaxation
This is nature
Humans forget that
Nature is their home too
When they chop it down
We all have to keep believing in love for humanity.
because If we don't have love ,friendship and peace feelings for eachother,
than what do we really have?
The beauty of patience is in letting the sun
rise when it rises and shutting our eyes
when the dusk dawns believing the secrets
of life will come in the wake amidst the
crowing of the roosters.
By Aliza Kashamala Kiran