Long Crusoe Poems
Long Crusoe Poems. Below are the most popular long Crusoe by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Crusoe poems by poem length and keyword.
Power of Journeys
New horizons speak in hope and pull me to Pablo Neruda’s country
‘Twenty poems of love’ inspired by Santiago Robinson Crusoe Island
Serene landscapes volcanoes Andean mountains are outspokenly funky
I seek the space vibes vastness Chilean seduction loudly and silent
Few books opened my voice more than ‘The Gulag Archipelago’ scripted
by Alesandr Solzhenitsyn and thus my eyes have to explore the Siberian Plain
Despite all that ice a melting pot of souls minds and cultures encrypted
I need to welcome silence once more and Lake Baikal into my inner terrain
‘The Paradise of the Blind’ with heart blooded ink by Duong Thu Huong
wants exploration quiet reflection uncontaminated comprehension
Nature wrapped in philosophy the Mekong Delta is where I belong
Peace solitude reclusion at times require my full travelling attention
On this voyage Pinochet Stalin and Ho Chi Min can stay in their grave
Blending and mixing with beauty wise words Mother Earth is what I crave
For, ages past, I finally peeled out my illusory shell,
Roaming about naked on the surface, where my mind was covered with cloth made of rust,
Thus, regurgitate all my words swallowed, spit it back at me, for, it's rusty dust,
Use your shovel to dig off my steps, as my theories have finally fell.
The night stars abound, reminds me of glittery gold, strive to vain
A hearten statue sitting all day long on the city centre, lift the mess caused to rare fame,
O! Material like moss, I gathered the same,
Homage to no image, but their seeds I struggled to feign.
Coldly, boldly, I sent acquaintance running farther from my adventure,
For, my new tongue blabbers of no race's language,
Will I adapt to this life?, as I console my tears of unknown future,
Will the past vapourized? Never to surface in my newly age.
This I ponder, as I wander like Crusoe in an empty field,
Sorry to my past, because it what life yield.
She sailed on her tidal madness
waiting on time to unravel her
depths of insanity
while the wave of turbulence
coursed through her veins
She is lost in her own odyssey
pillaged by Fate
she lost all
leaving her in a Robinson Crusoe
hungry skies with reddish eyes
& rumbling stomach , rained tears
lashed with anger
calling for emergency
Warning signs, ringing loud
salient voices conversing with the wind
shadows laughing
mocking her caricature
crucified on a pike
who will bear her cross to Golgotha?
who will roll away the stone?
her loft disappeared into oblivion
waiting to be seen in her nothingness
looping back and forth
To be crowned Chaos Queen
I am a student in Paris, a med-school freshman, one of the crowd.
This week is all introductions, orientation functions and instructions.
“Settle in, get your books, parking passes and find your classes.”
I got my ID - I’m a Vip in the bourgeoisie - does that look like me?
Freshmen join a ‘buddy program’ so things seem less hostile
I met my buddy last week, she’s the consummate boss - effortlessly busy.
She’s got my folder (oh my), full of check-lists. I’ve yet to see her smile.
She’s a third year, from Chamonix, a town in the jagged Alps, near Italy.
If you want me, right after classes, I’ll be at Les Deux Parisiens,
a shaded coffee shop across from school that feels like a garden.
They have everything - from coffee to pizza - it’s awesome
for 17€ : try the ‘La Campione,’ pizza with beef and chorizo (sausage)
I am a student in the misty rain, stepping carefully on cobblestones
- they pool water geometrically - I’m heading home (6 Av.) walking alone.
Nothing’s still, classes end at noon - it’s the city, sidewalk’s are full, Ubers
uber, mopeds mope, bikes bike, people scatter, umbrellaless commuters.
I haven’t made any new friends yet - I’m not worried - I’m just beginning.
.
.
Songs for this:
Day Tripper by MonaLisa Twins
Café Europa by Quadro Nuevo
Count Contessa by Azealia Banks & Lone [E]
Robinson Crusoe by Art of Noise
.
.
6 Av. = what I’ll call Grandmère’s hôtel particulier
(A lone voice whispers)
In The Midnight Garden
In-between worlds
When the world sleeps
In a strange place, I now know as Magadorne
I see you
Walking
Dressed in expensive white lace
With such grace
Surrounded by celestial white butterflies
Serenaded and summoned by the sound
Of a lone mesmerising golden horn
In an endless garden
Of twinkling flowers
Reborn
As my soul pines
For the smell of your so-familiar perfume
A glimpse of our wedding ring
Your hair
Across your beautiful face
Willing you to look
My way
So I can taste your lips
And run my hard fingertips
Across your soft hips
But you never look
Never see me
As you and your heavenly entourage and butterflies
Follow the twinkling flowers
Down to the river
Then to disappear
Out of sight
This happens to me
Every night
In surreal dreams
When the world sleeps
As I find myself
Stranded
Like a new
Robinson Crusoe
In The Midnight Gardens
Of Magadorne
Where Grief lives
In human form
And Mr. Desire
Stands and proudly blows
It's diamond-studded golden
Horn
To summon
The celestial butterflies
So watching spirits
In the Ether
Beyond time and space
Can gather
With popcorn
To watch me
Walk my walk
With my incarnated form of painful
Memories
In their special interdimensional place
Watching ghosts of the past
Pass by
With no expressions
Or emotional energy
For they are the only fragments of my past
I treasure
A beloved memory of you
I remember
Whenever I wake
I had the pleasure
To share
Yesterday
In The Midnight Gardens
Of Magadorne
Where Grief lives
In human form
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
i took her riding
this time my venue, not hers
she loves horses, i am no equestrian
i am beyond saddle sore now
trail rides where every bird is identified
a short illumination of the species
mine are in this little park
where we would steal away
paddle boats thru the geese and ducks
she would always pack up bread
i always gave her enough notice
so she could buy the better bread
the day-old the bakery dumps cheap
it is healthier she will tell you
i always considered myself educated
until i found her lips
Robison Crusoe washed ashore
an island of magical moments
an oeuvre in my captivated heart
my magic is in the carousel
horses that go round and round
back in line to do it again
holding onto the bar i lean in
to steal a kiss, keep her in laughter
as the music and horses dance in a wonderland
the Wurlitzer organ fills the air with a bewitchment
we join parents and children in the magic
later we retire upon a bench
from her bag appears our humble offerings
every morsel approved by the minister of health
every grain is explained by lips i so adore
the ducks and geese beg at our feet
she delights in each morsel she throws
the happiness she wears on her face
i see Mother Goose in the crowd approving
drakes and hens galore with ducklings
the beauty of joy fills her eyes
to love her is to share her
caged birds are a sad lot
such a small price to pay
ride the carousel hand in hand
the alchemy in whirling horses and music
from an age long gone now
my treasure, a moment all to myself with her
to dwell in the magic of sharing loaves
those adoring eyes watching her
are a chorus i share
the bird of paradise has no price
master of her every dream
that is the labor of love
surrounding those dreams
with the magic life holds
3/2/19 Lufkin
Above a great big sea of blue,
I saw a dragon, and he flew
while breathing fire into the air.
He saw our ship, and this I swear:
with claws he broke our ship in two.
How sharp those claws! How mean was he!
My shipmates fell into the sea.
How awful were their frightful screams.
I hear them still inside bad dreams
and see them drowning in debris.
From Hell I think that monster came.
I watched our sinking ship – aflame.
But luckily I never drowned.
I drifted till a beach I found.
The lone survivor I became.
Like Robinson Crusoe was I.
To stay alive I aimed to try.
For days, for weeks, then months and years
till I had used up all my tears,
I truly thought alone I’d die.
But oh, my goodness, one sweet day
a friendly dolphin came my way.
Upon his back he let me ride.
Dear friends, the good Lord DOES provide
though five long years I’d had to stay!
I’d prayed and prayed, and now I’m well,
back home and with this tale to tell.
Although I’m saved and so relieved,
my tale by no one is believed.
I hope that dragon’s back in Hell!
July 3, 2022
For Tall Tales 3: Quintilla Fantasy Fiction Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Jeff Kyser
A true good sort of our beloved sport held court...name in hall of fame has its place but nought plaudits sought humility taught to face the rash race to slapdash and onslaught of all out pace which Kane fought and was slain again with a swish of his lions mane and lashings of panache & lacy grace..
His oeuvre could hang in the Louvre so arcane
Heavenly humility hums on simply higher plane
Angelic ability strums his rhapsody of restrain
Classy never brassy this balletic lullaby refrain
Symphony epiphanies aesthetic of his reign
Poetic ebb & flow kinetic that third man lane
Stoic almost prophetic that cricketing brain
Heroic skipper of champagne WTC campaign
Ascetic in the nets again insane how he’d train
So fond of his willow wand traditions to maintain
Never frenetic play to the conditions he’d explain
Textbook renditions history of Test tapestry retain
Weird mystery Robinson Crusoe beard did sustain
Stranded on isle of guile & wile is Kane’s domain
Martin Crowe did know such style you can’t feign
Never vain or inane with lacy grace did entertain
Didn't complain final mission got lost in the rain
Good sort of our sport from limelight did abstain
No disdain this knight's records forever remain
Memories of mastery & artistry will never wane
Last post gong is a love song feel the Kiwi pain
Goodbye Kane we will never see your like again
On my island of fantasy
with me I'd bring,
my birthday suit.
To swin in.
I would have plants
from my garden
to reset in soil
rich in minerals.
Like the film Piano
with mother and child.
I would have mine
to play on.
Speaking of children,
I would bring my girls.
To keep me company.
Share my paradise.
Would I need a man Friday?
Like Robinson Crusoe?
I don't think so.
Unless he cooks.
Oh yes....books.
All the ones I've been
meaning to read.
But never did.
Who needs water
when one has wine?
Best bring along
my favourite vine.
Last but not least.
Music for my soul.
Once I have all these.
Never miss home.
Six wives - three Catherines, two Annes and a Jane
were married to Henry in the course of his reign.
An Anne and a Catherine met their end by the axe.
Anne Boleyn was too haughty, Catherine Howard too lax.
Henry's very first wife was Catherine of Aragon,
both pious and faithful, a virtuous paragon.
Producing no sons, she incurred a divorce.
Anne of Cleves followed a similar course.
Her face was spotty; she had bad teeth and bad breath.
Don’t trust a portrait, the wise man saith..
Jane Seymore very sadly died as she gave birth.
Henry's last wife, Catherine Parr, was a woman of worth.
More a nurse than a playmate, she bathed Hal with affection
and did a good job to relieve his dejection.
Envoi
So that's the close of this ditty,
which I think is rather a pity.
No, I'm not the Poet Laureate,
as the Royal Court never saw to it.
If I were paid to do so,
I'd keep writing like Robinson Crusoe.