Long Dikes Poems
Long Dikes Poems. Below are the most popular long Dikes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dikes poems by poem length and keyword.
Although it may not be enjoyable.
An it seemed unimportant to many.
Beginning a chore which it's objective
seems far-fetched and greedy.
Inspired by the events
on some distant shore.
Something most would categorize
as useless and would rather ignore
these saw an ends to a means
m and end :a marketing friend
seeking consumers as they make need
for the product one wishes to consume
the kneads of candida genus
Book by Chef Vassa Dillsirr
the Sea "He" F
oods to mealthyme.
or ( Mill Thyme)
Born when it Snows
the desert snows of summer
a testament to differentiation
of conditions in diverse climates
Creeks , sills and dikes
of anceint floodings
power: work and elapes time.
The French Broad River 1916
French Broad River 2024
Floods of the Cenery Events
Oak Island may have connections with
Orcacoke and the Queen Annes Revenge
The Envision of Elabrate Establishments
construction of solid imfrastructure
built on the rocks of trued soils
" The Sora's of Margret Ann Neve who
was bprn in in 1793( to 1903)
mentioned Blackbeard was from Phildelphia.
He was a slave merchant and owned slaves
on his ship the Queens Anne Revenge
which was a Pirate ship siezed by his crew.
The ship was formly a slave ship
named "La Concorde" was captured early morning
in Virgina by
Spotswood and Maynard
in 1718.
The boys sat on the bridge, dangled legs above the water,
a tractor crossing that lifts and rattles, loosely laid with sleepers,
rut tracks between the marshy fields as rough wheels slowly pass,
crossed with bankside bullrushed dikes and scattered lonely sheep,
dagged bottoms up, all black heads down,white teeth to wetted grass.
Fifty’s cotton printed frock skirts mother’s seated lap.
Her hair is tightly bunched and tied in cotton farm scarf wrap.
Her arms enfold and hold me there, as I am quietly sat.
The boys are pulling tiddlers, quick flashing in the sun.
Excited shrieks and sudden shouts drift down the weedy dike.
I see their makeshift rods and lines pull fish up one by one.
I hold my cane with cotton thread and watch my bobbing cork,
and wonder why the boys have fish, and why this boy has none.
Uncle made the fishing gear, made safe for one so young.
Uncle made the fishing gear and thought it would be fun,
so hook and bait were missing, for safety, there was none.
XIAO LING
I wish I knew you well ?, I wish I knew what is in your heart ?
I stepped out of my bleak, four cornered room on Sunday.
I stepped out from my sterile four walled prison to day,
walked with the sun on my face, warming the hours,
as I walked with the Ghost of you in my arm,
you, leaning into me like you used to do.
Visions of your beauty, your lovely face
graced the blue skies before me,
taking me to heavenly places
I once knew,
with you.
I saw the essence in you, dancing upon the face of
Mother Nature, Mother Earth with such joy
as your Ghost and I walked hand in hand
along the dikes (both sides) of the River
Pitt with thoughts of you and I and all
we once shared, carrying me through
the pain, the tears I shed like falling
rain drenching the earth beneath my feet.
Soggy, thoughts that we might meet once again
this time, you could feel for me, as I feel for you.
I watched the sun gaze passed the cloud cover,
wash away the ugliness, expose the whiteness,
turn the grey snow, caped mountain tops
into a clean blanket, gleaming white
and I began to wonder ?, if I will
know, no more grey skies.
Will white snow fill my eyes ?,
as I walk with the Beautiful Ghost of you,
in my arm, leaning against me like you used to do .
B. J. "A" 2
March 24th 2011
You know Xiao Ling, there is so much I would have loved to have done with and for you. I guess?, now that you have others to do for you, I will never again, know the pleasures of giving to you all that I was capable of, all that you would allow me. It saddens me Xiao Ling, to think that I will never again get to do even the little things for you .
Gone are the the oppertunities !,?, like the sun, behind the storm clouds ( your anger, your disappointments ) that have been hovering above my head like bombers waiting to drop their load on me, to watch them explode on me .
I am so very SORRY Xiao LIng, for every mistake, for every discouraging, disparaging remark / word that came from out of my mouth, for every act ( kissing, hugging, caressing, touching, etc., etc. )that upset you so .
I hope that one day you can find it in your heart to forgive me .
You have a great life !
LOVE
BILL .
Many times the ocean
has saved Nippon, pearl of the sea,
an oceanic symbiosis a speck in a fecund see.
The dikes of man such miniscule plans to hold back the tide.
The throngs, each and all crawl across the thin skin of volcanic soil
or rise with in the hump-backed alps of remnant cones.
Yet, the sea rises to reclaim its own
scour the pallet of man, refine, burnish melt, reform.
With pen and sword kanji drawn, samurai born
with knife and bone entrails torn, honor tested
tested by the hand of He,
tested and found worthy.
The children of the Divine Wind
rise above the tsunami, as one, unbowed.
Massil with Carn Mor Dearg
you rear up in massive bulk
Devonia volcano with collapsed dome
proud you stand against darkening skies
Many to your summit climb
wary of your cloud chambers
us mortals tremble at your storms
forked lightening flashing deadly bolts
Venomous mountain your Gaelic name
at your summit a series of ring dikes
your slope longest and steepest in this Isle
wide open your vast plateau, nay shelter here
Dropping to Glen Bennis Nibheis as you descend
be sure to visit the Glen's distillery for a dram
savour Usige Beatha" a taste of heaven for sure
Look up and wonder at the beauty of Beinn Nibheis
originally written 03/09/2013
As most of you will know Beinn Nibheis is Ben Nevis which in Gaelic meaning venomous
or malicious mountain, in a 5 year period responsible for 13 deaths. Usige Beatha means
water of life in Gaelic Massil means twinned with
There's gonna be a Freaker's Ball,
tonight at the Freaker's Hall.
Everyone's invited one and all,
so come on ladies grease your lips
grab your hats and swing your hips
and don't forget to bring your whips.
I'll take you to the Freaker's Ball.
Blow your whistle, bang your gong,
roll up something to take along.
It feels so good it must be wrong.
Freaking at the Freaker's Ball.
All the fags and the dikes are boogying together.
Leather freaks are dressed in all kinds of leather.
The greatest of the sadists and the masochists too
screaming "Please hit me and I'll hit you!"
The FBI is dancing with the junkies
and all of the straights are swinging with the funkies
across the dance floor and bouncing off the walls.
We're all freaking at the Freaker's Ball.
Hard hats and long hairs are kissing each other,
mother with daughter, son with mother.
Smear my body up with butter
and take me to the Freaker's Ball.
Pass that roach and pour the wine.
I'll kiss yours if you'll kiss mine.
I'm a gonna boogie till I go blind
freaking at the Freaker's Ball.
There was a field behind our grandparents' house in the province.
A wide one, green and glimmering, where the rice stalks swayed and the dragonflies danced.
Back then, we were just kids—barefoot, loud, and always in trouble for staying out too long.
My cousins and I would chase dragonflies until our legs were scratched from the grass.
We’d run along the muddy dikes,
pretend we were explorers or heroes or just anything we wanted to be.
Our grandparents were always waiting.
Our grandma would cook lunch and wake us up in the mornings with the smell of garlic rice.
Our grandpa would sit by the window, pretending not to smile when we ran past.
The whole neighborhood was filled with voices—
kids shouting from nearby houses,
aunts gossiping by the water pump,
grandparents calling us in before the sun disappeared.
But everything is quieter now.
We’re older, scattered in cities with work to do and alarms instead of birds.
No more cousins running around barefoot.
No more children laughing in the fields.
The trees still stand, but no one climbs them anymore.
The dragonflies are gone.
Still, when I come back and walk through that old field,
I see us.
Running, chasing, shouting, laughing.
Worrying only about how to sneak out again after lunch,
and what game we’d play next.
And sometimes I wonder—
maybe if we had just let the dragonflies fly freely,
just watched them instead of trying to catch them,
they might still be here.
Maybe they’d still come back,
like we did.