Long Coasts Poems
Long Coasts Poems. Below are the most popular long Coasts by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Coasts poems by poem length and keyword.
At the 5:00 whistle
When the sunset in late November
Is less light and more molten
Like a blast-furnace window
Glowing above the highway home
Goo spilling from its sparkling ladle
Bent
At the off-ramp’s arthritic elbow
The city smolders
Under
The backs and braces of its groaning bridges
Like a half smoked cigarette
Crushed under the heel of a boot
An entire city is snuffed out.
The Man, my father, comes to this setting sun
As a welder
Flipping down his black mask
For his last day at work
With stars still tracing cross his eyes
And his factory-floor poems loose in his head
Like nuts and bolts rattling in his toolbox.
His visiting grandchildren
Sent from the Coasts for Thanksgiving
Clung like empty holsters to his massive thighs
May someday think Grandpa, what did you do with your life?
He wants to kill them
Kill them all
Lick his pink slip like a Christmas card envelope
And hang himself
With a drill
Still
Plugged into his whining hand
But on his last day home
With smokestacks steaming like gray volcanoes
The sunset remains wondrous to him
The Makar the Creator
He envisions a flower molded from bronze
Bloomed and shaped from his callused hands.
Shadows amid the waves
bird-eye targets,
besties gather for
a fine dining experience;
aqua splits to pierce
of bill.
Fueling up the old pouch,
a winging pelican riding sea breeze
to sustenance;
all hook-billed and needing no bait.
Just a hop, skip-skim
across to side-dish;
let’s have a herring and mullet casserole!
Throat-sack wiggles, jiggles,
down the hatch,
then it’s back to the nest for
cocktails and a snooze.
Gregarious, the lot of us,
quite a personable group;
flashey-fish’in, eight-foot
wingspan, spots another appetizer;
bank left, wings fold in
a dive-bomb spin...dessert!
We’re aerial acrobats of the coasts;
hop a ship and we’ll perform
for you; no charge.
“Sea wants me to return to
conch shell from whence I was born
Here comforted I can curl away from boisterous hurls..” Poet, from poem : Sea Wants Me
~~~~~~ Diaries
dreaming waves soothing spuming whales
holy grail beyond blue BLUE
no language voice your reflective transformations
from ripples to tortuous tsunamis
brushing coasts >> Asia’s edge, Madagascar’s spine
Africa, Australia, Antarctic
paddles settling into breath of dusk
Ocean of personas holographic oiled, gassed !
you croon about awakened ports, ship l a n e s
along turquoise tongues of poets
as we refuge take in your sleepless depths
drifting without compass towards
unknown horizons blue Blue BLUE~~~~~***
becoming liquid caverns, fragranced coral reefs
ocean chasms sprout dolphin verses for India,
China, Indonesia, tube sea urchins chant Beloved ! Anchor Anchor >>>>B E L oVed
Beloved ! slack tectonic plates consider their next yawn ___? Or groan
shells rumbling
storms, tidal depths, oysters whisper antidotes
not to dismiss, peering into Poseidon's mist
wizardry seafloor volcanoes
rhyme surrender or diving away fetid fears
with ancient angling coelacanths dear near
blue you suffer toxicities as we extract nourishing bounties with vile human hash !
wilderness of WONDER selflessness we cannot
negate, swimming echoed
eternal Truth
SEISMIC MOTHER INDIAN
O C E A N …O C E A N …..~~~~~....{}{}
we gurgle……()[][]~~~ as resonated vibrations
Varunani rises teal stillness untrophied
You AWE us hiding Neptune's bugle ~~~~~~~~
The definitive nice guy and so friendly;
Slow to burn, he coasts life easily.
A true gentleman of the first order;
And free as bluebirds on the Spanish border!
He's my brother; I have no other;
First sunbeam of my mother.
A natural born comedian to be exact,
Though not many are aware of that fact.
Long ago, as Superman, he held me spellbound;
Flew out the window and hit the ground.
Luckily he fell from the first floor;
But Mama ran panicked out the door.
Sunny days with cousins and off to the show;
The early, early days-how late did they go?
The St. Louis days, with Mary Jean and Ardell;
And the ringing of our old school bell?
Steve's a hard worker, and calm as peace.
Wildflowers radiate life and increase;
After harsh winter comes a regeneration;
Steve was the first of our generation.
A poem lacing the ideas of feeling someone's life would be better without you, while still seeking your purpose and direction even if it takes you away from them.
Your sun will shine again tomorrow
The day is born for you
And these many leagues now separate
The part of me we knew
With wind billowing in these sails
The fading of the shore
May your thoughts turn to your life
And seek me out no more
For where I go your heart can't follow
The storms they are of risk
The war we wage for king and country
Will not be short or brisk
May you know my heart will wander
The coasts of your happiness
And I will pray that life surrenders you
Not but the greatest bliss
So I ask, fear no longer for my safety
I chose to face these wars
And I am bound for honor and glory
Wherever this ship moors
The light will grace you when you wake
I ask you show no sorrow
As I hope to be the distant memory
Lost to your tomorrow
That first non-rhythmical matter,
Floated on the new dust of light,
To whet the eleventh spark clatter,
Such that its dividend split tight;
A web, a sea of ringed atmosphere,
Then a cob of meteoric compression,
Hurling towards a black collapse here,
To dent the shock supernovas intervention;
With planets duetting their sweeps in silence,
The night is not black and suffers a blow,
Identified deductively but with great nuance,
The waves glinting the bounce and the flow.
God became a man, human to the core,
Not an apple, lamp, priest or Ferrari,
Even though Genesis incepts with lore,
Given god as a construct, apple’s Atari;
Christianity grabs god indeed as a man,
Possibly to concede that a human coasts,
Crucially opening herbs and aromatics fan,
To the differential and to the weaker posts.
Life without a momentum blackadders,
Would not summate to conviviality,
Rejuvenation oscillations sprite the adders,
Ionotrophic energy comes up from banality.
Rhoda Monihan
The faces of the tom-toms were sallow,
So was the face of the sun, dark-visaged,
Red, and starved through a pogrom
That assaulted the peace of the beasts.
Darkness spelt the names of diseases,
Each pronounced through stiffened tongues,
Whited by the scourge of hate – a common
Figure, cadaverous and laconic, but incestuous.
Grieving rivers sought ways to be rechristened
Or rebaptized by holy rills with less fetor, as
Long as riparian languages were still spoken on
Breaths of brooks, broken, but gathered in bits
By hands that leaned on fermented soot only.
And darkness persisted, perspiring from hostile
Beats of hollow drums when fire reaches them
From tormented skies.
One truth loomed: the truth of a disvirgined
Destiny, clothed in serrated raiment of grief.
On its crown, shredded petals of holocausts
Form toothless thorns shaped like lightning.
Death was prominent, dispirited, and hung loose
On strings smelted on anvils raging from heinous
Rape of a blooded land. Shores wept with humour
When our frightened coasts sneezed with mirth.
I speak of Biafra where the land still bleeds
I recall that vision, of a crowded city,
Where signs were hung in heaven,
Where voices were muted by the colour of bold words.
Flee the scene
before the dawn
frames the escape.
Treat with plenty of faith
& you can suspend belief,
like the irony
in how it takes a cynic
to persuade.
Poetic contracts speak
for a Man,
and a lord,
between a grave;
wonders death doesn’t come
when you’re aware of some strings,
even when waves roll back,
they tend to more often break
solely to come back again
and continue to take.
A power
to turn entire coasts
into the oceans deep.
A power
of breaking chains,
and setting free
the wings of angels
and their screams,
by tossing their guarded
and posts
into the tides
of the seas.
You’re not fleeing the scene
you’re redirecting,
and setting a stage.
Think again…
or, for once
and breathe.
Remember
of the unintended shadows
fallen in between
the ideas,
the words,
and the worlds of things.
You’re only claiming
of what you can’t see
of what we can’t know.
Anything can rise out.
Anything can become again.
That’s the curse of hope
that can never leave.
Let it go
And let it be.
What a sham,
I’m still fleeing the scene.
I have learned
to say more with less:
not that my works are noticeably
shorter—though, Lord knows
I try! But when creative juices
are flowing, my pen lifted by
currents, swept away, leaving
no rivers their banks unmarked, nor seas
their coasts without edit, writing is
a trans-formative force….
I think all artistic expression has
this in common: a torrent of sky;
a funnel of air elevating each new work
in defiance of gravity—redefining
our long held beliefs of structure
and stability; and for a blissful moment
seeming to mend that ancient rift
between God and His earthen man….
Great art should be like this...unforgettable
as one’s first love, or one’s first epiphany
of Christ….
I spoke to the sea,
a calm breath
though a gale raged
inside of me – both my
sails shredded, I begged
for mercy:
“Thou art the greatest world current,
what brag would be a wretched notch
like me!? Devourer of coasts!
Reshaper of vast continents! Bane
of man’s mightiest fleets! Countless
formidable have foolishly challenged thee, and now
lie silent in your crushing depths...were I
added to such esteem numbers,
a bald-headed, gray bearded, toothless
old dote, it would be a disgrace~
better toss me high into the
air, toward that island over there, for
unlike you, Great Wet Majesty, crocodiles
and lizards have no pride; then there
not be shame of yours to hide –
promise, never will I return….”
and this, dear children, is why
grandpa cannot take you fishing --