Long Drift Poems
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Enrolling as a pirate is much harder than it seems,
You’ll need to speak in present tense and chase your wildest dreams.
Well, once you’ve trained a parrot and been measured for your hook,
You have to plough through pages of the health and safety book.
The pointed end’s the bow, whilst your rudder’s near the aft,
Our crow’s nest has no greenery - that struck me as pretty daft.
We share the seas with submarines, with shipwrecks and blue whales
An’ there be umpteen ropes and pulleys with which to hoist our sails.
If we earn a jug of rum, we treat that as a gift.
The winds are strong and variable, I hopes you get my drift,
You’ll need to bring some cutlery and a deep enamel dish
If you want to get your ration of vegetables and fish.
You’ll have to learn to tolerate some rough-and-ready chaps,
Forget those childhood stories about chests and treasure maps,
You need to wield a cutlass to acquire the upper-hand,
So there ain’t much time for paddling, or playin’ on the sand.
You have to act as look-out when you’re sailing through the mist
But once you’re down the gangplank there are lassies to be kissed,
So be somewhat suspicious when they tries to hold your hand
They might be agents for The Revenue and want your contraband.
We hate the swarthy merchantmen, the Spaniards and the Danes,
We hate them water companies spillin’ sewage from their drains,
The noise of heavy cannon-fire plays havoc with our ears,
But that’s a strong tradition amongst us buccaneers.
Every job has downsides - it’s always been that way
But we get to see the sun go down almost every day,
And when you leave your hammock you may catch the sun a-rising
So sign-on as a pirate and your life will be surprising!
I am The Gift
What do you do with a Gift
What do.you do with a present
You look at it
Examine it
You find it unique
You open it carefully
Making it complete
Its something
About whats inside
It was given to you
Dont hide
You dont have to worry
About the What Ifs
The Lord gave it to you
Your Gift
Its yours
He instilled
Your Gift
It is real
We all have a gift
Dont let yours drift
(Repear 1x)
We all have a chance
To give it all we can
What makes any of us different
Why the hatred all the resentment
Clap hands around of applause
Lift up your brothers and sisters
Be there when they call
Gifts can be given
They can be taken
Dont get it mistaken
Be humble , be grateful
Know that God is still able
Its yours
He instilled
Your Gift
It is real
We all have a gift
Dont let yours drift
(Repear 1x)
Bridge :
Look at yourself
You are it
God gave you the Gift
Don't quit
(Repeat 1x)
Its yours
He instilled
Your Gift
It is real
We all have a gift
Dont let yours drift
(Repear until chorus fades )
Written by Concetta Hardnett
07/20/2026
The window opens again onto a darkness alive, breathing like a lung,
and our dead are alive, wearing burial shrouds of old rags and amber bones.
Each one hides a snake in their chest, at the great silent confrontation of shadows,
opportune for eternity, like guests who never leave the doorway.
For their commemoration in a den with walls of ancient prayer,
for their last and white confession, like snow that burns without fire,
for the technical use of contemplation, a ritual without priest or word —
(and we will all be earth and rot, but a rot that still dreams).
They would deserve a title of nobility in these hard and obscure times,
of the silent return toward twilight, toward the burning edge of evening,
and let them lead us, silent as blind priests, toward eternity,
carrying us on their shoulders like unborn infants still made of light.
When the eagle begins its retreat toward the stars, in the memorable second
when the sun and moon reunite in their liquid, silver form,
they continue their subtle drift toward a terrain of heresy, in the middle of the spiral,
the unrivaled lunar flow, with its pleasant earthly grounding of salt and dew.
Only hands can still pass over the rainbow like blind birds,
and roots grow upon our tongues, thin and bitter as an unspoken secret,
their nourishment is water and fire, the two mouths of the same evening,
and let them lead us, silent, onward, toward eternity without a name.
For a while each day I drift away to a place inside my head
The sun shines down on a sea so blue
For my darling I am there with you
And as we stroll along the sand
two lovers forever hand in hand
You and I neath azure blue sky
Waves gently dancing ~ White horses prancing
As slowly on her crests she takes us
to the legendary, mystical Isle of Atlantis
To where our spirits are ~ both you and I in Shangri-La...
Written 28th March 2020
Contest A Cheerful Rhyme
Sponsor Line Gauthier
N/A
Contest Strand Pick 3
Sponsor Brian Strand
1st Place
Contest Who Am I
Sponsor Unseeking Seeker
Its skeletal bones bare
Eyes still stare
All that remains is the soul
A drift as a shadow lingers there
A bare bulb blares
sways absently silently
in the chilled sliver nights air
Hollow eyes watch from this home
of ruined deeds
something struggles
Somewhere it roams
In the garden
In the weeds
It grows there
bare deep dark deeds
All that remains is a skeletal something
Feel the drifting breeze
Lightning strikes here and there
Blinding bright burning out the sight
In the aftermath only images remain
The door sways gently
The writing on the wall declares it all
Wallpaper tears,
Portraits stare darkly
I brace for the coming fury
A private holocaust
All that remains is a skeletal something
As a figure stands there
mornings very cool but by noon are like June hot,
such a delight, a bright jewel of a summer day;
heat so sweet, or so I thought . . .
but, the trees and breeze are confused so much,
bemused, I wish to keep the pond fish that glide and sway;
I fear that Fall will miss nature's call and golden touch . . .
those dancing and prancing leaves that drift up to soar,
I love watching them creep, leap and shift so gay;
oh, sweet heartbeat of two seasons . . . I adore !
I was working out on the elliptical machine in the gym, feeling good and watching
the "Calories Burnt" number climb higher and higher.
Then, I noticed a rather shapely and attractive woman step off of the machine two
rows in front of me. As she turns and faces me, I cannot help but notice that the
nipples on her rather large breasts are erect and pressing against her sweat
soaked, tight t-shirt.
When working out, and at other times as well, I suppose, I sometimes drift off and
just stare into space not really cognizant of what I am looking at while lost in
thought.
I must have been doing this as this young woman started walking towards me on
her way to the drinking fountain.
She stops abruptly in front of me and says, rather curtly, "Why don't you take a
picture?"
Snapping out of my temporary coma, I respond, "I'm sorry - what?"
"You seem to be staring at my breasts," she rudely insinuates.
Now, at times like this, in a confrontational moment, I like to try to immediately get
on the attack and, sometimes, in my panic to do so, I can say the stupidest things.
In this case, I come back with, "Are your nipples pointing at me!?"
"What!?"
"Your nipples. They seem to be pointing at me!"
"I assure you, I cannot control what my nipples do."
"And I," I smugly reply, "Cannot control what my eyes do."
"You could look away," she challenges.
"And you could wear a thicker sports bra or sweatshirt", I respond.
At this she just glares at me with hate in her eyes and steam emitting from her ears.
I stare back with my smug grin, alternating my look between her eyes and her
breast.
So, of course, you know, we made wild passionate love in the equipment room at
the back of the gym.
And, just before we climaxed in a frenzied, naked and sweaty embrace, ...
... I woke up from my nap on the couch.
This is when I got up, changed into my sweatpants and went to the gym for a
workout.
See the thick rain falling from the invisible clouds,
lose yourself in its rhythmical and pelting sounds:
open wide your palms: its a gift from Heaven...
that gift you never asked since you were born!
Hear it beating hard on your window as you sleep,
hug a soft pillow and dream of a rainbow to come;
by bright morning, each rose awakening will weep:
pick any color you think it's beautiful and awesome!
Lonely dreamer, drift on currents of scented breeze going past
wild meadows and daffodils fields yellower than spring sunshine...
while hills below greener than grass, wave like willows in a tempest;
rain slowly tampers off, showing patches of blue : its finally sunrise!
She’d dwelt within a palace, and outside
it, geese and brilliant peacocks used to strut
inside a fragrant garden. As a bride,
she’d said her vows beside the roses, but
today no scent of blooms perfumes the air.
The terrace sculptures, rubble now, are strewn
across the floor. She gazes eastward where
the mangos’ branches danced beneath the moon
when zephyrs softly blew. Like poison, now
a vapor comes, beginning to enwreathe
her husband’s realm. There is a smell so foul
her heart wells up with dread; she cannot breathe.
As ashes drift around, she hangs her head
with certainty her one beloved is dead.
Written by Andrea Dietrich Oct. 11, 2014
for the Top Gun Poetry - Structured forms - Iambic verse III of Giorgio A. V.
Form: Iambic Pentameter in an English Sonnet
In the twilight of thought, where shadows of logic dance,
Lies a meadow of dreams, untamed by the chains of reason.
The stars, like whispers of forgotten realms, beckon us—
Beyond the rigid paths of structured minds,
Into the vast expanse where imagination reigns,
Unfettered by the cold grasp of rationality.
Here, the moon weaves tales of ancient sorrows,
Of souls adrift in the ocean of time,
Seeking the shores of unspoken truths,
Where every wave is a metaphor,
And every breeze, a sigh of forgotten memories.
The habit of logical thinking, they say, is a cage,
A gilded prison that stifles the wild heart of dreams,
Where man, in his quest for truth,
Builds walls of equations and formulas,
Fearing the chaos beyond their sterile embrace.
Yet, in the heart of this chaos lies a melody,
A symphony of colors and sensations,
Where the ultimate questions of existence,
Are not answered but felt,
In the silent communion of stars and souls.
As we drift further from the shores of logic,
The currents of error and absurdity grow stronger,
But in their embrace, there is a strange comfort,
A reminder that in the grand tapestry of the cosmos,
Our errors are but threads of a larger design,
Woven by the hands of the infinite.
Let us then, surrender to this flow,
Embrace the beauty of our flawed perceptions,
And in the dance of shadows and light,
Find the magic in melancholy,
The poetry in the paradox,
And the truth in the heart of the illogical.