Long Chinook Poems
Long Chinook Poems. Below are the most popular long Chinook by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Chinook poems by poem length and keyword.
Little lady bug by my window how pretty you look
with your fragile wings and sweet tiny polka dots
Fate brought you to me like a great chinook
you landed on my heart, like a Cupid shot !
Ladybug of luck, bring me happiness if you may
If I place you on my finger, may I make a wish
will you grant me a gift before the end of day
will you grant me true love, on a silver dish
Lady fly of beauty where did you come from today
did you stop at every port or only by my house
lady beetle, messenger and harbinger of play
dance upon my palm a little longer while I douse
I've seen you around before but never at my door,
please send me a man that I surely can, adore ?
January 18, 2022
Sponsor Angela Tune
Contest Name Insects
The old red barn seems to grow up through the dust and brown
Along the vague dirt road that mars the sage.....
The rhythm played by rain for wait of seeds, still echoes here
Erect and proud, it stands somber as the purple shadows that surround the hills
A faint whistling song is heard within these derelict arms
A song of faith....a song of sweat...a song of contentment and tears
Someone fitted the beams, and squared window panes, ....and built a life
Hope and pride filled to the rafters, as it overlooked rolling fields plowed, tilled and furrowed
Now weathered gray, it creaks and groans under dark prairie skies
It leans inches more with each Chinook wind that sweeps and sways the grain
Where now only wind whistles through the eves, and stiff grasses grow
And bats and mice find a place to live, and white stars shine down on loneliness
Abandoned and forsaken, while gaunt hills stand silently by
Day after day, under the prairie sky, this monument that is left alone to die
As part of planning this trip—-for one night we were set to reside
in a tiny house in Alberta, Canada…that came with a teepee on the side.
This tiny house had all the amenities we needed…much to our delight
while the teepee had the bed…where we’d sleep under the stars at night.
That was the plan at least….
until we received a text when we reached our Spokane destination
It was from the owner of the tiny house alerting us to a…’situation’.
Apparently Alberta where the tiny house sits, (this is something we didn’t know)
is subject to the strong Chinook winds which across this part of Canada blow.
The situation was…we learned that fateful day
the teepee which was to be our bedroom…in the night had blown away.
Which meant a last minute change of plans…
so to the internet and through the listing on Air B & B I plowed
and luckily found this little cabin on the prairie outside of Fort Macleod.
So we left the mountains behind us…stopping every now and then
to enjoy the country where the land, the hills, the valley together seemed to be flow
ending at this beautiful cabin on the prairie…where the Chinook winds still blow.
Protected in this beautiful little cabin…so comfortable and pleasing to the eye…
and it was here we watched the sunset on the prairie…and the stars light up the sky.
It turned out to be just what we needed…and we thoroughly enjoyed our stay…
making a memory we would never have made…
if our teepee hadn’t blown away.
A Little Boy’s gun with a barometric trigger,
showed a Fat Man how to
blot out an Empire’s rising sun.
Proliferation’s need pushed
Sellafield and Kyshtym to trip chasing Manhattan.
Twenty two years later and just
three miles south of Middleton,
failed safe assurances lied again and signed
Pripyat’s some thousands years lease that left
eighteen billion rubles around one elephant’s foot.
Fukushima’s seven year menses – Pacific stained –
west coast tide pool colors an invasive green
as Chinook escapements fill five year graves.
Intractable cesium hangovers bleed MOX cocktails
Nostrils blowing bubbles over damned lips
fused to the tit of a beast we can’t tame.
-----------------------------------------------------
Contest: Remembering What You Want to Forget
Sponsor: Kim Rodrigues
Date: 09.04.18
fo'c·'sle /'fohksel/ noun deriv: forecastle
1. the forward part of a ship below the deck, traditionally used as the crew's living quarters.
2. historical: a raised deck at the front of a ship.
With the equinox illuminating a fortnight of recovery
On pelts spread like Ionian jars left askew,
My flame-keep sparked alight against the doldrums of
Greed. Stagnant and fetid.
My bark beats out a call stretched
Skin-tight over the sea’s virgin core
And sets trust aflame.
Ashes collected into the collated casks and
Corked with animus, Moon Girl pounded on.
Drumming a dirge on the tanner's own flesh.
Pounding the seed of echoing hope.
Pounding the corpus beat of life anew.
Those echoed my own harmony and emptied my ears.
My tunes would now be true and crisp.
My struggle to syncopate the middle eight
Was like on the saltchuck the time before.
Before we crossed the bar,
Breakers chasing, pounding aft of stern.
Now in the glow of the coal oil lamp
Sat The Dane who came to trade.
He mumbled a Chinookian curse and winced.
He sensed my mariner's cred, how I lit my smoke;
Muscle memory and addiction married in my subconscious.
But His eyes would never sense the venomous flow
Of the seabreak distant,
Like hounds baying to the highway of stars
And up to the dunes ran with phosphorescent faces
Fermenting the blackness.
Hell-hounds bounding.
Lungs pounding.
Driving on.
River may lick Disappointment’s shanks
But Drake’s gold remains unfound.
The cavities carved along the capes
Echo an emptied ethos and sapped spirit
Which salal and sage cannot clense.
Walk with me now Sister Ilchee.
Beat your dirge
Along the pock-marked ports of plunder
Laid before the flattened corpse of
Ebbing freedom found.
thunder rumbles
constantly
off in a distance
even more thunder
thunder
gets closer
intensified
howling tempest
lightning flashes
thunderclaps
clap again
house shakes upon its foundation
gust's speed picks up
constant lightning flashes
bringing nitrogen to earth
i feel it turning plants green
wind chimes dance
jingle
play their tunes
independently
in the mist of the bluster
God's presence is real
i know He's here
in this chinook
i know my Protector lives
He cares
He's real
my humanness still is afraid
each shake
each flash
each intense billow scares
His presence keeps me
from falling apart
running scared
or panicking
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1R8nJSe8Jb0
Dreams are made of fairy dust and gold my mom once said
as she tucked me in real tight and kissed my sleepy head
you will see stars of bright and little angels baking bread
there upon a cloud, a Pegasus with wings of finest thread
Dreams are made for human bodies full of goodness, light
you can get there if you try and wish with all your might
you'll see blueberry moons with eyes that wink so bright
magic swords with pixie dust, that never fear the night
Fairies will rock you in their cradles by their garden nook
while you sleep five winks and create with just one look
up here you can be a butterfly lost in the winds of chinook
reveal most anything, be transparent as an open book
Dreams are made of fairy dust and gold my mom once said
as she tucked me in I fell asleep, with angels in my head.
Fort Clatsop is up and true,
50 feet square, with a smokehouse, pallisades, barracks and two gateways
furnished from the aromatic and reliable wood of the great Fir trees,
we keep busy by scraping elk hides for clothes, making moccasins, hunting
and boiling sea water in kettles to manufacture a nutritious salt,
the Clatsop Indians are not the onery thieves that the Chinook are,
in fact, they are merry hustlers with fine things to trade,
the Clatsop chief, Coboway was in fort today, smoking and learning how we leather stitch
when I began negotiating for his sea otter robe,
a fur of extraordinary waterproof warmth and deep colored beauty
several layers ringed, overlapping one another like roof tiles
with a thin elk hide underneath
the length of a knee cloak with the incandescence of morning mountains
snowy whites, granite greys and cool browns,
I believe that is why Clark and I are contending for it,
that rare robe reminds us of the Rockies, the rugged majesty,
Coboway isn't being simple though, actually he's being a prick about it,
refusing all sorts of neat and valuable things
and then Sacagawea comes into the room shakin her meaty hips around
and the chief comes to life and says he'll trade for her beaded belt,
Clark looks at me like hey, not fair
because he knows I can get Janey, Sacagawea's American name,
to give it up for my blue velvet coat that she just purrs for,
J.A.B.
The trip was a riot of color,
It brings a myriad of queries,
Fantastic tales of utter darkness,
Views' visible roots were explored.
Mainsail surges,
pungent froth carried wave tips while,
blast swings moaning openly.
superb mountains,
Convey streams into streaming rivers,
Down slants shrouded in woods.
And the majesty of the stars,
Is confronted every morning,
Under soft white clouds,
is with each foot I set down.
I relish the quiet of the sound,
how each slant embraces,
the still raw bay.
Home to unglaciated cervids,
Gnawing animals and polar bears,
Willow grouse, deer,
Also, the renowned Chinook Salmon.
More genuine than the Arctic flow,
Afar-off state refuted,
In both word and deed,
Anyhow of these ever tender wishes.
Atop mottled strands,
I let my emotions air dry,
Orange tulips were selected,
I regained faith; I can fly.
5Th Place Contest Winner
Written: June 18, 2022
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 3 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mark Toney
There’s many a tale that spreads across the night
when the sun o’er the plains yields to campfire light.
Tales about cowboys, who once roamed the plains,
scratching a living using their rope and reins
A few were happy when it came time to tell,
but many of them were just sadder than hell
Cause most of them ended with some poor old soul
lying all alone in a forgotten hole
There's a story I recall about a man,
that made his way north from the wide Rio Grande
Arlie he was called by those that new him best
folks round the Rockin Bar J just called him Tex
When the punchin’ all played out Tex left his home
in search of somewhere with enough space to roam
He found Montana where mountains scraped the sky
with enough space where he could live right or die
Tex knew a few summers and could feel his age
whenever Montana snows covered the sage
He felt time too quickly closing in on him
his hearing was fading, and his sight was dim
Round the bunks they told of a stallion named Ghost
catchin’ him would give a man the right to boast
They said that horse can’t be caught by any man
so all through the winter Tex worked on a plan
Tex had studied that hoss and knew he was smart
the cunning of a fox with want in his heart
There wasn’t a horse that could match his pace
Tex knew he won't beat him in a flat out race
Summer had run long, this one hotter than most
Tex laid his plan to get that horse they called Ghost
With hellfire in his eyes and his nostrils flared
Ghost come down from the mountain lookin’ for mares
Now Old Tex was ready to play out his plan
he’d strung out three horses across the grassland
Twenty miles apart those geldings stood ready
for an eighty mile stretch Tex could ride steady
Tex spotted Ghost silhouetted 'gainst the sun
that horse stomped and glared then took off in a run
Ghost was in the lead and Tex brought up the back
but Tex’d studied his foe and knew where he'd track
Towards Rattlesnake Butte that stallion did run
was heading straight into that bright morning sun
'cross dried grass and sage Ghost never skipped a beat
Fast as a Chinook through that Montana heat
Ghost was fast and Tex saw him pulling ahead
but they’d reached the exchange and Tex mounted Red
Red was sure footed and as fast as the breeze
and he started closing up that gap with ease