Long Ferries Poems
Long Ferries Poems. Below are the most popular long Ferries by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ferries poems by poem length and keyword.
The smiling loch gives a welcome
Along with the vigorous pine,
Time to recharge the soul
And smell the coffee on the Isle of Skye.
Misty mountains of mystery
Are a drug with a natural high,
And offer more to discover
Sipping coffee on the Isle of Skye.
The landscape changes each minute
As clouds give way to the shine,
As the sun whispers the invite
Smell the coffee on the Isle of Skye.
White washed homes contrast colour
Of illuminous mountain sides,
That greet the Cali ferries,
And bring life to the Isle of Skye.
You can almost touch the mountains
As you're touched by the Western Isles,
Three dimensions experienced, while
Sipping coffee on the Isle of Skye.
But the likeness of God in nature
Stirs the fourth dimension inside,
Marries the natural and spiritual, while
Smelling the coffee on the Isle of Skye.
Chaos theory must answer
To the Western Island design,
A place too wonderful for me
While smelling coffee on the Isle of Skye.
The Gaelic heart of Scotland
Melts into the core of mine,
As the wide-eyed little boy
Smells the coffee on the Isle of Sky.
In Hades, flows the chthonic Styx, a river
of woe and pain (a channel thoroughfare;
where Charon ferries the dead, who despair)
which unnerves our damned souls till we quiver.
The Styx! It's like cirrhosis which kills the liver,
metastasizing there; but does not care;
and tortures us beyond what we can bear!
Because we are thrice-damned, we now shiver
with the peals of the Stygian death-knell;
while Heaven appears like a hope long dead
(as if we’re ten-thousand feet deep in hell!),
here, where the redeemed dare not walk or tread,
we are but ghosts, like shades without a shell:
yet, hell can we brave; but, the Styx we dread.
This Aphrodite rose
slowly unfurls
pink ombre balms
of sun-kissed
springfalls,
as the luminous
lake of tears
cascade in
exotic wreaths
of honey-soaked
velvety sepals,
there succulent seeds
of zestful dawns adorned
our silken sheets
across luscious meadows
sprinkled with
glistening cosmic dust.
Yet neon streaks
of longing unveiled;
romanticized rainbows
engrossed within
fire opal clouds,
awaiting to drizzle
pleasing odes,
amalgamated with
drops of opium
meant to reveal
skeletons and secrets,
sculptured as
sultry souvenirs
of seasonal streams.
But ripples of reminiscences
reflect how
you and I
weathered howling winds
through unseelie storms
of oppressed lovers,
gliding in sync
to the echoes
of midnight screams,
rising from
sumptuous seas.
So, tonight, as curtains
fall in
hues of dusky dews,
cover me in sunrise
when the bleeding heart,
of blue-laced estuaries,
rhymes with
sangria vesper time,
where tomorrow’s
ocean ferries
purge prose
that never denies.
Let fervent
pearls pulverize
my colossal tarp
as the morning glows;
I ponder,
do mourning petals show,
the folly of
moonlit melancholy?
For you’ve devoured
the alluring depths
of campfire stories,
burning
untouched edges
within our twin souls,
whilst
cosmos
trembled
and sighed
in poetic ecstasy ~
we seized our
unsung melody…
For this
remains
as an
untold version
of our
dangerous glory~
etched on cupid’s
amethyst arrow.
I hear the honking of geese overhead:
there is a chill lingering in the air.
And I see scarlet and crimson flames spread
across canopies of green, everywhere.
Night keeps getting longer as daylight shrinks:
a warning that Autumn is on Her way.
And She's starting to spread colorful inks;
inviting the ferries to come and play.
The songbirds are beginning to migrate:
although a few are still hanging around.
And the bucks are in rut, looking to mate,
while falling leaves add a crunch to the ground.
And squirrels are stashing nuts to prepare
for Winter, when the trees will be stripped bare.
No ships are mooring at this bay
No ferries dragging to and fro
The visitors that come to stay
The next day pack their bags and go
No planes are landing at this airport
The timetable display is dark
We won’t be welcomed to the board
To be ascended like that lark
The sea’s in sprawling stains of oil
A smell of burning fills the air
The birds lay dead on poisoned soil
Stay home, it’s dangerous out there
Is it the phase of evolution?
Some side effects from climate change?
Authorities have no solution
Stuck in an intermediate stage
There’s no escape, no destination
But nonetheless, I’m thinking of
A better time in reservation
When I evolve in you, my love.
IT’S A SULLY DAY
Packed in like tuna, full cigarette pack, times square on Christmas day.
This, though, was the last man standing - dollar theater, showing
"Sully", "Girl On The Train" and the "Secret Life of Pets". Squeezed next
to a woman with a strong New "Yawk" accent. One gets to be friends in
a tangled web of after-holiday cheer. Not FB friends, but definitely
spotlight friends. Perhaps to be rekindled up in heaven one day. Oh,
yeah, we’ll say, I remember Long Island. No names were presented,
but she gifted us a spot ahead of her in line so we wouldn’t miss our
movie. And the movie flies high on our list. Yup, you guessed it –
Sully – a twist of truth and familiarity – near my hometown – along
the Hudson. Spoiler alert – no one perishes! God figured 911 dished
out way too many deaths. A perfect landing, albeit drowned cat wet
and titanic cold. But those ferries and helicopters quick to action.
Sully upon shoulders, three cheers, no dented buildings. All souls saved!
The Wind howls in solitude,
unstoppable, in Her might.
And brushing the scenery,
She dusts off the stars at night.
Her sensual, tactile touch;
offering pleasure and death.
She whistles through the treetops;
fluttering leaves with Her breath.
Invisible: She ferries
dandelion tufts aloft.
And reacts to Nature's whim;
with a storm, or gentle waft.
She is the weaver of clouds
yet scatters them all astray.
She's a formidable force;
with considerable sway.
A salty sailor's mistress
and the godmother of kites.
She is like a playful friend:
who tickles, and sometimes, bites.
With blinking eyes, and a new moon aglow
Family footsteps skip so glad and sleek
Come giddy days of Yuletide, we all flow.
Thrill of circus spins with rides to and fro
As Snowman pops with a giggly shriek
With blinking eyes, and a new moon aglow.
Ferries wheels churn tummies, we overflow
When orange bulbs parade their fine mystique,
Come giddy days of Yuletide, we all flow.
Hot dogs, candy canes wipe lips; trinkets in tow
While fair’s confetti kisses Mom’s pink cheek
Come giddy days of Yuletide, we all flow.
Dad wins a bike, grandest prize of the show
As laughter rises with clowns’ hide-and-seek,
Come giddy days of Yuletide, we all flow.
This joyride of nights caresses to grow
While we await fete’s magic week to week
With blinking eyes ,and a new moon aglow
Come giddy days of Yuletide, we all flow!
'''''''''''''''''''''''
Carol Eastman's Children's Christmas or Holiday Tale
by nette onclaud
11/28/2014
April is the month Persephone comes back
from Tartarus, crossing the river of death, Styx,
with her stillborn child in her breast. The river she crosses with
her child though flows while carrying the empty souls, it does not move.
The river she crosses for the sake of her child though ferries the dead on the boat, it shows no emotion.
April is the month Persephone comes back
to this side of the pool of memory holding dead child in her breast.
For the curse of seven unripe pomegranate seeds became Hades’ chain, Persephone, who spent long and shivering cold winter months
in the bosom of an unloved husband at Tartarus, comes back turning her relieved, yet deep anxious face, away from the bright sunlight shining on the other side of black poplars forest.
April is the month Persephone, the childless mother,
comes back as a rancorous sad lullaby, while soothing
her swollen breasts with sighs, holding her stillborn child
closely on her tight breast to let the child suck her teat.
April is the month Persephone mourning in the black chiton
comes back as a well of tears. Each time she advances,
she cries because it is so pitiful for her to realize
that the child in her arms is breathless.
Each time she steps forward, she cries because it is so woeful
for her to acknowledge that the child in her arms is soulless.
April is the month the barren woman, Persephone,
who lived in the netherworld to experience such a miserable life
during the dark and long shivering winter months, comes back
with the stillborn child wrapped in the quilt, woven with yarns
spun from the threads of sighs as she warp of resentment,
and yarns spun from the threads of tears as the woof of grudge,
in her feeble weary arms.
Regarding yours truly
he experienced setback
amplified by Luddite propensity
nostalgic longing for simpler age
bring back horse and buggy
better yet find me a mancave
and/or apprise me
ideally via email
Flintstone web page modality
allowing, enabling, and providing
excellent linkedin access
whereby augmented
and/or augmented reality
telecommunication simulation
delivers, exports, and ferries lame poetaster
to small town America
a place that time forgot and
the decades cannot improve
within which dwell
strong women, good-looking men
and above average children
Wobegon place name
preserving lifestyle
exhibiting voluntary simplicity
though aforementioned fictitious locale
fires up imagination as does
a place called Willoughby
flourishing along outer limits
of twilight zone
buzzfeeding outlier zee
crème de la crème confabulist
this side of Schwenksville
hankering towards... nebulous
body, mind and spirit synchronicity
courtesy sweat of mine brow equity
acquiring alliance, cognizance, existence,
guidance, intelligence...
think Dick Proenneke
alone in the wilderness survivalist
jack of all trades
I would live free,
yet nevertheless die
ill equipped to captcha victuals
and/or drink
to stave off hunger
and/or thirst respectively
one twenty first century beastie boy
heavily dependent upon
urbanization, mechanization,
industrialization, civilization
to savor creature comforts
climate controlled environment(s)
courtesy finite fossil fuel extraction
*****sapiens scourge upon planet Earth
me metaphorically on par
one more human parasite
zapping nonrenewable resources
thus desirous (yet helpless)
to forsake consumerist lifestyle
yet lack ways and means
to toil physically
to wrest good n plenti
juicy fruits of labor,
which initial premise
as iterated with poem title
dramatically off tangent, yes?