Long Cargo Poems
Long Cargo Poems. Below are the most popular long Cargo by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cargo poems by poem length and keyword.
I’d set upon a long, uncertain voyage.
Twas one to test the pilot’s skeely art
Of navigating perils yet uncharted
While facing fears to daunt the stoutest heart.
I’d drop the lead to sound the straight and narrow,
Then trim the sail to cross the deep and wide.
I tacked between those vices best avoided
And inconvenient virtues cast aside.
With heavy swells my fortunes shifted likewise;
Grim hazards port and starboard lay abeam,
The heavens raining curses on intentions,
The bilges churning nightmares out of dreams.
I reckoned what the profit be, all told,
With contraband sole cargo in the hold.
The winds demanded clarity of purpose.
The waves enforced agility of stance.
Such times as I did lack a moral compass,
I’d trust my lucky star to lead the dance.
I’d journeyed far and found a sheltered harbor.
Dropped anchor and saw everything secured.
I took up pen to document my actions,
Then signed the log attesting to my word.
The voyage may have satisfied investors
Who only had in mind a single goal.
But was the profit garnered in the questing
Worth the price of forfeiting one’s soul?
A businessman may draft a bill of sale;
A captain guides his treasure through the gale.
OCEANS AWAIT
Away from the dockside and into the bay
Heading out to sea in this steel hulled ship
Powered by team, yet with masts and sail
A fast and safe journey is as the Holy Grail
Carrying passengers, cargo and some mail
Into deep ocean waves we will rise and dip
The dark grey skies suggest a difficult day
Driving rain signals our Southern prospect
A morning of growing passenger disquiet
Noon watch sounded by a tolling of the bell
The North Atlantic has some secrets to tell
Building up its strength in its powerful swell
Several weeks of an increasingly limited diet
The ocean presenting its unforgiving aspect
Equatorial waters offer a welcoming respite
Finally, some warm and gentle winds at last
Yet still the storms can make an appearance
Even when predictions suggest it’s clearance
Never a firm favourite of sunshine adherents
A good time to ensure all cargo is made fast
And experience how the day turns into night
The South Atlantic is an unpredictable ocean
Way down past Africa’s challenging long coast
Rounding the Cape and another leg to the East
Perhaps taking one more week or two at least
But the deep churning swells have now ceased
Approaching Perth early, the Captain will boast
But arrival is met with much relief and emotion
Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts. Rachel Carson
Earth shows off it's evergreen trees,
a home to the yellow bumble bees.
In the winter there can be a deep freeze,
with a cold breeze.
The birds are sitting as close as fleas,
saying warm up please.
Warmer weather is on it's way,
it will be here any day.
Little ones want to go out and play,
watch out for the big blue Jay.
Today we have clouds of gray,
blue skies will be here for May.
Earth the beauty you show,
you wear a magical glow.
From the evergreen trees that grow,
to the rivers that flow.
You are priceless cargo,
even to the old black crow.
"Got your fluff again"
(for purpose of this poem
pronounce last word uh gain).
The missus uttered
aforementioned phrase
as she pulled a clump of my hair
from out the clogged shower drain
for no rhyme nor reason lemme explain
how so many globs of these strands
linkedin to scalp courtesy hair follicle,
which hair follicle essentially
a tube-like structure (pore)
that surrounds the root
and strand of a hair.
Hair follicles exist
in the top two layers of skin.
The average individual
born with over five million hair follicles
in their body and over
one million hair follicles
on his/her head, and as I aged
about that many seem to
get loosed when washing then rinsing hair,
nevertheless more hair continues
to grow out of hair follicles
smaller in size than sand grain.
I surmise that if laid end to end
each hapless hair that got plucked
out me noggin since birth
would fill many a railroad car,
(extending from Schwenksville,
Pennsylvania to Ukraine)
railcar (American and Canadian English),
railway wagon, railway carriage,
railway truck, railwagon, rail carriage
or railtruck (British English and UIC),
also called a train car, train wagon,
train carriage or train truck;
a vehicle used for the carrying
of cargo or passengers on a rail transport.
Said locomotive boxcars full to the brim
with globs of hair (mine)
after lathering locks
(each filament evincing
fifty shades of gray fibrous)
composed of 95% keratin,
a fibrous and helical protein
(in the shape of a helix),
which also comprises
composition of the skin
and of all the phanera (hair, nails, etc.).
Synthesized by keratinocytes,
keratin insoluble in water,
thus ensuring waterproofing
and protection for hair.
victorian canal life - the reality (a true tale from from my maternal heritage )
We left our abode
in old Cowfair
haggled a price
for an old shire mare
Onto the
landlord's canal boat
lock stock and barrel
for a life afloat
farewell to our
Buckingham birthplace &
its meagre living
from old point lace
dawdled slow
up to Cosgrove
taking our meals
. . around a blackened stove
our moveable house
painted castle& rose
not a life
we would have chose
Eighteen fifties harsh
&
mean
coal cargo
so nothing stays clean
doff your cap touch your forelock
every two mile
at
the gatekeeper's lock
Fresh food scarce
except for fish
perch & roach
a staple dish
clothes dry
on a washing line strung
out for a timeout
the toddlers young their
number so soon increased & grew
places to sleep
all too few
family life impossibly hard
so back to a tied cottage
in
Aylesbury's Anchorage yard
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2007
The pasture smiled and gave its blessing nearby the sacred gentle river
Solemn sun sent tender rays through the moisture of dispersing clouds
Shadows of dawn had turned into a clement plethora of infinite shades
A bristlecone pine oozed sap and nourished bundles of evergreen need
Moss kindled seeds of adventure as it reflected surreptitious secrets
The spring was far away in the passing of time place and direction
Clandestine water was calm as it carried its cargo back to the Source
Dew paid due respect as it cradled condensation into prism of thought
‘You cannot jump into the same watercourse twice’ Jordan pondered
How to cross to the other side with no imminent island no stepping stone
Bridging the gap between memories anticipation and untold conclusion
‘Retreat to the interlude of passage but do not suspend the journey'
Only a fool waits for the cascades of being to abate before travelling
By now the full moon cast ivory spells to harvest crops of uncertain salvation
A coyote howled in the distance but Jordan proceeded sheltered by Earth
He left the glimmering camp fire garnered momentum and passion
Plied caution into courage forged resilience and audacious determination
Asked for lunar guidance put faith into dreams let go of the past and floated
06th March 2019
They wrote laws
with cold ink
and dried blood in the margins.
They called it
the Black Code
the way one names a prison
with clean words
so as not to hear the screams.
In the harbors
the powdered gentlemen
counted bodies
the way one counts coins
barrels
harvests
sacks of coffee
livestock promised to the fields.
And man became
movable property.
Yes
movable property
like a chair
like a table
like a broken tool
replaced without a prayer.
The triangular trade
drew its salty routes
between oceans
and even the storms were sometimes ashamed
to carry those ships.
In the holds
a human cargo
breathed on its knees
inside the caulking of darkness
children pressed against silent mothers
old men chained together
men turned into captives
before being buried alive.
The shipowner calculated profits
without looking the sea in the eyes.
The slave trade
had accountants
shareholders
Sunday prayers
and well-dressed murderers.
They called it civilization.
Then the whip spoke
in a language of leather
a language that opened backs
the way one opens a field for plowing.
And the masters laughed.
There was servitude
from dawn until the stars
hunger tied to ankles
bodies sold
names erased
the slow dehumanization
that turned human beings
into obedient shadows
into numbers
into sweat.
And then the rape
always lurking behind a door
inside a room without a sky
where even the night itself
no longer dared to enter.
There was the hanging
raised like an evil tree
to teach fear
to those who still dreamed of freedom.
Enslavement
was not only a chain
it was a gigantic machine
an imperial mechanism
that devoured peoples
and spat out sugar
cotton
and silence.
But listen carefully.
Beneath the scars
something was still resisting.
A song.
A drum hidden inside the chest.
A memory stronger than iron.
For no Black Code
no whip
no hanging
no merchant of men
has ever truly managed
to completely kill
human dignity.
To A Mule
The feats of Tim and what he was able to accomplish were remarkable.
The site of heavy cotton sacks, stacked high upon his back, is memorable.
He did his job splendidly, and no one registered a complaint against him.
He was teachable, reliable, and strong, as long as you fed and watered Tim.
There were no cargo fees or tolls to pay; and all one had to say to him was, “Ho, or Go!”
If you cared for him properly and duly respected him, he would never say, “No!”
Who would not want to care for someone who lifted burdens and carried heavy loads?
Tim seemed always happy when ever I saw him being ridden by Bubba along the roads.
Bubba and Louis were the workers who used Tim to ploy or carry heavy cotton sacks.
As a boy, daddy taught me to cultivate with a single ploy attached to Tim’s strong back.
The likes of Tim and his fore parents had been used on farms for many generations.
Their use declined when tractors took over with changing farm worker populations.
07132016 PS Contest, “To A….” by David Lindsay
At Cape Canaveral
Working for CNN
Carolyn Devonshire
With a news bulletin
In less than three days
The second comet will hit home
All the worlds governments are working
To halt it's destructive roam
Here at NASA
They are preparing a shuttle
To carry a weapon
Deadly but subtle
Scientists from Russia
China and Japan
Are working together
To save our lands
Inside these hangers
A mission is planned
To arm a shuttle
Electronically manned
Aboard it will carry
A weapon of power
Once it strikes home
We await the meteorite shower
In the NASA control room
The count down begins
Our world as we know it
Under three days from its end
The engines roar
As the rocket zests
Inside the shuttle
Is a cargo that's blessed
As it hits Mach 23
It disappears from our view
Beyond our world
A mission so true
With the comet in sight
The shuttles doors now agape
Releasing a small craft
With flags of the world, proudly draped
The shuttle that's followed
This comet of death
Captures the moment
Man left it reft
A craft coloured gold
Approaches at speed
Reaches the comet
Blessed by all creeds
A blinding light
As bright as the sun
Destroys the comet
As the meteorites run
The second shuttle
Is peppered like earth
But she makes it home
Her witness, well worth
On CNN
Footage is shown
The death of a comet
In obliteration blown
How many more
Are lurking out there
As we await their entrance
We stand together, and beware
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/fantasy-8.php
All round the ring of Kerry’s highways, people point and cry
It’s 4 o’clock on the very dot and Mick’s rig is passing by,
It has glistening sheens of yellow, with cinnabar spots in red
Rich lozenges of orange complete the livery, as this butterfly forges ahead!
She’s kissing those dew damp breezes, on a morn like an Irish dream
As the sun’s rays like golden spokes
Steal silently; through oaks of emerald green.
lighting up a meadow’s buttercups, that border a hillside stream.
She hauls her load of butter, fresh from the herds of ‘Kerry’s spreads’
To sweeten the taste of a million slices, of European bread!
She’s making good time this morning in passing the various towns,
By 9 am she makes Letterkenny, to lay her cargo down.
Mick checks his trusty wristwatch
He needs to be back in Clonakilty; to make a special call
For by, begosh and begorrah ‘tis Father’s Day ‘n all. and
His sweet Molly will be waiting there, by an ancient rock built wall!
So he spins the painted lady round, to take the south west route,
Tooting to folks he recognises; as along that road he shoots.
At 1 o’clock he’s made it back, and parks the painted lady up
He wanders up the dusty track; just a Dad in working gear
Straightening an aching back, now his destination’s near
He searches the milling kids all around, many colours their faces show
And then he picks out his Molly. as those raven curls she throws!
She runs to greet him at his call, raising her face to be kissed
And she had chosen a painted lady, sure.. He felt how he had been missed!
He swings Molly up on high and they head back to the farm
She showers him with sweet butterfly kisses
As rabbles of the creatures unravel, in clouds and colours of charm!
NB the Painted Lady is an Irish species of Butterfly