Long Ferry Poems
Long Ferry Poems. Below are the most popular long Ferry by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ferry poems by poem length and keyword.
The day was turning to evening,
Dusk primed to play a short inning,
Worried, the sun was wondering…
Darkness shall ere long shroud the Earth,
Fains should this be my empty mirth,
Who’d ferry forth my duty’s worth?
Cautious, a clay lamp comes forward,
This may sound big mouth, vain a word
To light up all of the vast world,
But I feel sure, do my small worth
And perk up a patch upon Earth--
What I’ve done ever since my birth.
….
And watching all this I felt small:
My light within-- as oft I call,
What have I done with, if at all?
I love light but scarce keen to burn
And give light, gratefulness to earn,
Keen, away from duty to run.
______________________
Musings | 24.10.2025 | lamp, light, tercet
Note: The festival of light is being celebrated in India. But the traditional clay lamps of oil are increasingly getting forgotten and gaudily flashing eye-irritating electric lights take their place, and my thoughts reach out to clay lamps which have been doing a great job ever since early civilization.
Bees flying free
being merry
though in hurry .
Bees groan to fly
under blue sky
soaring up high.
Buds smile to bloom,
make cosy room !
juice in bosom.
Bees suck at ease.
Pollen in breeze
sticking to bees.
Bees to carry
to bloom's ovary.
A smart ferry.
Ovulation -
Seed -formation :
germination.
They dock at the old ferry landing,
drip fern-water and quartz dust,
pull shapes from a memory
nobody can name.
The news calls them pioneers.
The city calls for volunteers:
one hundred credits a shift,
hazard pay if you stay after dark.
We line the streets in plastic ponchos,
swing buckets of bleach
at whatever falls from them—
glass teeth, velvet skins,
the small, sad faces they wear like necklaces.
The mayor cuts a ribbon made of hair,
offers a key to the city
that dissolves in the taker's hand.
Still, the parade lurches on:
a hollowed calf that leaks birds from its eyes,
a choir of mouths stitched into a winter coat,
a gloved hand, walking on its fingertips,
asking directions in sign language.
We clap.
We wave flags.
We rinse the sidewalk behind them, smiling.
We stay because the escape pod is too expensive.
There was never room for us anyway.
The loudspeakers keep saying:
Welcome home. Welcome home. Welcome home.
The poems I never wrote,
are like sprawled autumn leaves…
They fall..and fall…
gold
maroon
crimson
scarlet
red!
whisper their tales to the waltzing breeze!
They ferry the stories of my life..
untold,
unexpected,
unexpressed
forgotten,
painful
tiptoe back to me from the past!
Love which turned into a mirage,
Elation which remained subdued,
Hope which blinded my vision,
Longing which left me heartbroken!
Poems I never wrote..painted the horizon with
colours of my heart!
October 9, 2022
"The Poems I Never Wrote" Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
Who says that I should read Dante
To summon up visions of Hell?
The charnel houses of the Holocaust
Are but distant memories of a race
Pinning their memories on a distant Star!
I need not go to an abattoir
To get a stink of Death,
Or to the city morgue
To see mangled corpses of men!
Do I have to envision Hades
As described by Virgil (or Homer?)
Does the gore and gristle of a Gothic
Compare with what’s next door?
Charon waits on my doorstep
The Grim Reaper is too busy to come.
You need not be dead to take passage
On Thanatos’ ferry, for sure!
The winding streets of my world
Are tributaries to the Stygian river –
Lost souls abound in the bye-lanes
Longing for a Paradise called Death!
With excitement, and hearts beating with anticipation
Five of us held hands...as if declaring, "We're in this together!"...
We sped upwards,..into the clouds,...or so it seemed....
Enclosed in a silver capsule...like amateur astronauts, ...
A steel and concrete world of modern, miraculous, and amazing engineering!
Nervously, we looked at one another with the same wide eyed expressions.
"We are such country bumpkins!...."Do we look it?" I laughingly asked my husband....
"Hey, kids ! We're almost there...can you believe it??"
"We're almost to the top!!"
A soft spoken gentleman, wearing a bushy, yet neatly trimmed, mustache,
smiled and said to us...."Your first time, I can see?"..
He wore a uniform, (our host, a guide, I supposed)....he had the kindest smile.
"If you like,....I can point out places of interest for your children?"...he offered kindly.
Our three children nodded in delight.
Doors opened at last, and we stepped into a large room
We made our way through the milling crowd, and found a spot for observation.
Our mustached gentleman, chuckled when we gasped for air
As we looked for the first time at the breathtaking views
It was if we were looking down from the heavens...
City lights had just turned on, and we knew what it was like to look upon the stars...
Only, this time, they were below us...!
A magnificent city spread out before our eyes...
stunned, and speechless, we were breathless...
Our new friend pointed out Ellis Island, the bridges, Statue of Liberty...
"Oh yes", ....he said,...."over there, ....you can see almost into New Jersey"
"And there,...that is Staten Island. "Do you see the ferry?"
He charmed our young daughter, and impressed our sons with his knowledge..
Here we stood...on top of the world...inside this magnificent twin marvel....
Oh, dear God.....our innocence....who could know...?
Oh, dear God....the significance ....
one brief moment in time....
spent in the company of one kind gentleman who wore a friendly mustache
We will never forget that day................or him................. Oh, dear God....
~
Dedicated to a kind stranger....
____________________________
In honor of New York City at Dusk
Surrounded by the Bay of Conception
Bell Island anchored for miles perception
Deep deep under the mine that was drudged
Remnants of rail blind horses that tugged
Not the mainland but off Canada's shore
The iron ore mines that are no more
Deep in the ground of old Newfoundland
To far the ore that made it grand
No longer the mine that prosperity gave
But a wondrous long mysterious cave
The pumps are off the water it fills
Divers around go diving for thrills
With caution it's done for there is a list
Many dead miners it does exist
Even though the mine is gone
I've heard some divers have move on
Now some would say there is a ghost
It might be fearful scary to most
Maybe some spirit or even a fairy
This one could be an old Canterbury
None the less men will explore
That is how we got the ore
So once again you go down under
Miles of caves and all its wonder
Fulfill your quest a bucket list
Check it off and dive the mist
Follow the rope and stay the course
Find the shoe of the old black horse
Search you will with flipper and light
To plunder a relic you'll feel the smite
Of an old ghost miner with pick and shovel
He'll take it back that item you smuggle
So resist the urge to pillage and plunder
We can't get out from so far under
Take our tools you'll leave us bare
So put them down or else beware
Of the old ghost miners protecting this place
We once lived and ran life's race
We are no more to cross the Bay
Make the ferry at the end of the day
My Celtic Grandfather bred Irish Wolf Hounds.
He was a stern man, as inflexible as stone,
a hard Ulsterman
wed to a soft Erin woman.
“Never let yourself be alone with the hounds,”
he warned.
Yet I went;
I stole into the garden on an evening
when the sun was falling asleep.
The giant hounds gathered round me
Growling,
then they hunkered down
and discussed among themselves
what to do with me.
The largest of the dogs
told me about the blood wars
and all the ‘troubles’ of this sad land.
I did not understand much of it
but felt the fierceness of his heart.
They found me curled
with the great shaggy beasts
and the only one they would let retrieve me
was my disgraced mother.
Later that day we took the ferry to Liverpool,
then the train to London
where the dogs did not talk,
but where humans often whispered:
“unwanted.”
~~~~
Sometimes, as a guy, he just gets out of control
And at the most inopportune time, he stands up like a pole.
Like when the teacher calls on us to the chalk board at our school,
Right when we are daydreaming about the cheerleader who is kind of cool.
Or when our bus reaches our stop while we are watching that girl so cute
And we have to get up and off the bus when he’s standing in full salute.
Books in front can sometimes help when we have a pants pup tent,
Or quickly we try to think of something else to make our guy relent.
But believe me girls when I say sometimes it’s out of our control,
When our minds are clean and free but the blood just starts to flow.
I am fifty-two, way past puberty, and don’t mean this as a brag
But even still, sometimes in public, I need the old boy to sag.
I sometimes sleep on an airplane or on the ferry boat;
When my consciousness I regain, I need to strategically adjust my coat.
So I ask you girls, please understand and when in this position us you catch,
Just subtly please turn away as opposed to pointing and starting to laugh.
As embarrassing as this situation can be there is a condition we hate even more;
When we are with a willing partner and we can’t get our guy to roar.
I’d planned the vacation of my life to see the world rolling on ice, but the summer heat was so extreme that it almost sinks my summer dream. The path was clear but I could not find a suitable place to stay over there.
There were too many places with too many happy faces, and Vladimir and estrogen were sitting on the throne smiling. Godot was not there but they had so much to share. With decoration on their cheeks and courage beneath their feet they got the audience to rise to their feet. They brought the house down when Vladimir roll the ball on his nose and estrogen catapult it to the back of the net with a head roll; that’s the way of clowns when no other strategy is found.
The temperature suddenly rises and we had to cool down our bodies with a block of ice, and moments before the summer begins, I could hear the bells ring. It reminded that summer is here and there is nothing to fear.
We have waited for this as if it was a promise or a premonition from the deity that everything will turn out right and we will end the bull fight, and send the bulls back unto the pen and keep the surface wet, they will never get out to chase the people about for the next fight will be in four years’ time when the temperature is right.
Summer is slipping through my finger, and I have so much to deliver; I have a meeting to attend, a court order to upend and a vacation to spend. When all of this is over, and we have crossed over, we will rise to the occasion once more and spread everything out on the floor. Summer is slipping through my finger, and I have a meeting with my employee and a dinner with them and a message to send. The table is already sent but the company is struggling with enormous debt.
When everyone bonds together and sign the document, miracles will fall from heaven. You don't have to scramble for food anymore and you don’t have to wipe people’s floor; you will have all the finance you need to keep the doors open and to satisfy your greed.
Come with me to the shores we will take the ferry next door; it’s about time we get on the ship and crosses over to begin the trip. Summer almost slipped through my finger, and I am glad that you are here to help me cross over.