Long Fleets Poems
Long Fleets Poems. Below are the most popular long Fleets by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fleets poems by poem length and keyword.
The Box
I lept out from the box
then promptly thereafter,
I sensed the bearing of iron,
flick flit arrested eyes to study,
imagined it be journey's end,
'twas a lit past to ponder
an encrypted life lived.
~0~
A stained-glass existence,
purposed distractions drafted into
some colorful repose upon a natural light
of prominent finery crafty guise while the setting
laced by topics of truth that cast a shade
like its lonesome hue that borders
it as an unembellished sin.
~0~
My instructors of contempt,
homework that imbued through ink
also, gratuitous blood, now seeps and fleets
in pulsative actions of the veinuous tracked memory,
via recalls unlike inanimate vehicles of value
but, a faint twist of wishing it dead,
matured soul am I--learned.
~0~
True love's,
known by passion,
and death.
~0~
Hence, I am confidently tethered
to the box, open to stray anew experiences
that enthusiastically entertains in future's promises,
as society embraces harmony in measured sweet spoonfuls,
naught to indulge, but be indebted to fine attributes
that lives exemplary for an aged somebody
naught sit but rise above the box.
~0~
In times end
my soul depart
earth to return
inside a box.
2020 October 27
*1st Place*
COMPLETELY YOUR CHOICE(38) any theme any form
~~Brian Strand
*7th Place*
Inward Reflections
~~Chantelle Anne Cooke
*Image of Hellboy II: The Golden Army by Wallpaper Flare.
AUDIO: Tip; Right-click on volume then click on Loop of the drop-down menu for continuous play.
The Gret of Regret, Soliloquy
I remember, but naught too well, the first time of Hellboy, an earthy creature, a-must-be, heaven would naught have created a being such as he, and after all, he's naught an "it", oh no, for he thinks -- methinks, much too straight-forwardly and on his feet to boot. Move before they do and always get to the upper hand of things, seems to be his John Madden playbook of the '70s. Why bother with logic and reason when Hellboy is dealing with fragile minds bent on world conquest.
The Golden Army, the Hellboy movie I've seen some years ago when my kids, were kids -- and I being the eldest. Vagueness plagues me to no end, but the inkling gist was a brother and sister duo, but sadly, naught so much so, for sister played her own brother and teamed with Hellboy instead. The telltale sign envisioned in the frat's eyes, being the wherewithal, their Ides of March to be -- in arrears, of betrayal. To be undone by the one, by the very one.
Life can be fleeting but we came to know that honor fleets faster. Though the appearance of its angle for the perspective of the movie was considered simply as a sidetrack sorta thing, yet in and of itself, became the films main attraction, piquing interest within the audiences already situated in full enjoyment of the twist, and how it will all play out in that, edge-of-the-seat moment. Alas, ambiguity wins at the end, for death did occur, but whose? Naught Hellboy, I'm certain of that!
2022 January 28
*2nd Place*
Mignolaverse
~~Robert James Liguori: Judged 2022 January 31
All over the news
Rage stews
Seems a war does rage
People are afraid to turn the page
Mankind is entering a new stage
Leaders fight without heart
War of the world seem about to start
Finely disguised school of hate
Openly guiding our fate
Degrees they are earning
But what are they learning
Words of hate flow
How much of it is for show
Pointing attention towards some certain deed
See how the people are in need
Each side saying they are right
Humanity seems brewing for a fight.
Uncertainty is playing a role
Giving into hate takes its toll
Cannot see beyond today
Humanity, we are who pay
Riots in the streets
Building new fleets
A Golden dome
To protect us at home
Words silenced by hate
Trying to change their fate
I hope it's not too late
Life seems to be leaning this way
In a country I will never see
Hearing of the horrors that be
Bet they wish to be free
Poor soul crying
Kneeling by his child dying
The angels must be crying
I fear the path we now take
The repercussions in its wake
There's nothing we can say
It is humanities way
Ride the tide
Or run and hide
On the verge of tomorrow we now ride
Hope for the best
Faiths final test
Be strong
Because I could be wrong
To find out won't take long
Each passing day
Along our way
Takes us closer to this unknown
But I see Hate is now full grown
Sad to see
There lies the land of the free
In days of old when knights were bold and dungeons were dug deep
Widely renowned back then was found, a race of hero sheep
These sheep were strong, these sheep were tough,
these sheep were eight feet tallAnd lots of very useful stuff was knitted from their wool
The wool was strong, and woven long to any length was able
To out perform the tensile strength of any modern cable
While nimble hands, pulled finer strands from out that noble flock
Which taut, sufficed to cleanly slice deep through the toughest rock
Those sheep were prized, and many wise men kept their woolly kind
Twas said the bleating of those sheep would stimulate the mind
The wonders that those sheepies wrought, would fill a hundred lists
And fueled a boom for work by loom and wool technologists
They found that wool, if tightly bound would not only float
But closely weaved and interleaved, could make a woolly boat
While natural grease, gleaned from that fleece, if applied just right
Succeeded to fulfil the need to make it watertight.
So woolly fleets sailed ancient seas, to ply the trade in wool
Till pirates knitted cannons, to fire woollen cannonballs
And so, therefore, a woolly war broke out throughout the world
The war was short, but keenly fought where woollen sails unfurled
The brief wool war had one deep flaw, though everyone was willing
For woolly blades, however made, are little use for killing.
This one defect completely wrecked the wool age upward trend
And so the golden age of wool came to a sudden end.
The Man is lying naked.
This filthy pavement is his abode.
The Man is emaciated and famishing.
And he never begs for alms,
Proud and conceited.
The road is busier than ever.
No one takes interest in him.
No one catches a glimpse at him.
And a few feign not having seen him at all.
The time fleets on, the cars move on,
The Man is lying naked.
At the first blush, far from being a beggar
Is the Man.
He is well-complexioned with big glamorous eyes.
His face is sleek and his hair shines against
The lustrous sunbeams.
His eyes are gleeful, but mournful is his heart.
Penniless though, his craving for gold is sheer.
He ogles at the gold brought by the people around.
But he never begs for alms,
Proud and conceited.
Then someone nears him and asks who he is.
After much vacillation, he dismisses his taciturnity.
“Mankind is my name”, he replies.
The time fleets on, the cars move on,
The Man is lying naked.
Below earth, streams release the arteries
of the undersea teeming with precious
abalone, granite and shells,
as a roulette of lotus defies gravity
soaking on the chlorine of a wind
only piles of sand can bestow…
and gentle the wavelets murmuring
hymns of serenity , somewhat delicate
as ocean mouth is to fish lips in the moist pulse
of swelling spaces for wooden fleets
to beckon the blue.
Like so, guardian of water observes the cruise
of a ship rustling a masthead…
intrusive vessels are aliens
to the underworld: greedy eyes, black hands
that rake mothers of pearl and babes of dolphins.
Fierce dugongs roll along, shaking the basement
of hunters’ boats on inlets
to pound doors of Neptune’s bed,
reflecting mirrors of an island scented
with coconut and tresses of women
bathing along coasts of such innocent gulfs.
Below earth, a divide between friends and foes
is honored; that beyond words,
a sea keeper rises to acknowledge
the kindness of strangers,
if they are kind enough to respect the gift of privacy.
10/2/2015
Chase Trevi's Contest:
Open Sea - Sailing, Creatures, Treasures
Time the tree, seasons its branches,
Subtle buds shoot up in no time, green leaves,
Rainbow of colorful florals , birds chirping is
spring,
Butterflies dance, bees' delight is nectar,
Year after year, for decades and centuries,
Memories flourish!
Morning rises to noon, so do our temptations,
aversions and greeds flood in nick of time,
Sunshine soothens, then goes harsh and pricks,
Peak Summer ticks gentle spring like a crab,
Takes the pulse of, heyday of human life,
Memories wingless clouds!
A blindman's holiday, has to be autumn,
Lost in time storm , life fleets and cheats,
Languished heads, roses wither on stalks,
Flurring raindrops drift on the window glass,
Dew on tip of pine needles tickles and on grass,
Memories a graveyard shift !
Like a heavy snowfall in a dark cave,
Between dog and wolf we always stay,
Branches bent heavy of fruits or of snow,
Light consumed by darkness, days by months,
months by years, time moves as an arrow,
Memories at zero hour !!
On The Lighthouse Watch
From the ocean floor rocks grew over time
Reached the surface, gray black boulders on the day peeked through
Open air exposed them as they spiraled up in jagged angles
They came to inspire lighthouse, beams of light and dreams
Blasting across the skies and seas, across the universe immortalized
Across the bows of ships and fleets of war with scores to settle
Inevitably, eventually, to retreat into the sea
Restoring, reassuring nature’s paths of life and light on ocean top
Solid as the foundation’s rocks that hold it steady in the storm
A warning beacon kept by a castle keeps old man
Who tends his lights like shepherds mind their sheep
Reaching out forever, rolling on the mist of tranquility
Holding sky and unencumbered seas immobilized within its boundaries
Keeper on the walls keeps watch for gradual movements of gravitation
Their names evolve as ingredients for a storm
The forces here named as follows; wave and wind
When woken from the sea they wake as fierce and dangerous
Their elements congregate to raw obedience as time and tide repeat
Watchers of the definable lighthouse hold unflappable
Bashing waves withdrawal like flooding tears
Streaming down the cheeks of etched out rocks
The one bright flashing eye of light, does not cry
It penetrates the darkest nights and wildest storm
And holds back imposing waves once more
Off the workplace and throng the streets
Flooding the city with our presence and fleets
We must make the most of this weekly stint
Waiting not for conviction but acting on a hint
For the will to live the living we will
Is but a wish expressed in a window of thrill
Trying to squeeze in things we could relish
Throwing in many a sin and fetish
Living only once one too many times
Guilty of sin but innocent of crimes
And herein is the cradle of many descends
In the anatomy of the weekend
The onslaught on money and dabbling with debt
On pleasure, on a bet, on a toy, on a pet
Trying to show those who don’t care to see
Trying to act what we dream to be
But who can see if we all want to be seen
Everybody out in their lustre, style and sheen
Things of which to speak throughout the week
A talk not for the humble and meek
And it is sad to say of today’s breed
Their word and deed have no creed to heed
Whatever goes, they blend in with the trend
It is the anatomy of the weekend
It seems you’ll get the most out of town
If you just a little let your guard down
And far and wide cast your nets
Magnifying today’s pleasure, diminishing tomorrow’s regrets
And this way we have far too long faired
Desperately needing to be repaired
For we were whole gifts with a topped up token
But we broke, broke the whole and the broken
Yet we blame it for being a cold world
For not a vile world haven’t you hurled
For it’s pleasure you seek than to find a friend
In the anatomy of the weekend
K. Muitherero
Relaxing at Ye Olde White Horse Inn in quaint St. George's Towne,
I enjoy another rum swizzle as I watch the crimson sun go down!
Its rays cast a blush of red on fleets of sails cruising St. George's Harbour.
The soothing hiss of waves salve my soul as they roll t'ward the shore.
A magnificent display of varicoloured clouds tint the restless sea.
I sense that the Master Artist has painted this scene exclusively for me!
The rhythmic strains of calypso music wafts across the smooth lagoon.
Soon this paradise will be caressed by the mellow rays of the moon!
I amble up Shinbone Alley to the top of Fort Victoria Hill for to see,
A final glimpse of that ancient orb as it slowly sinks beneath the sea!
I meander back down Olde Maid's Lane to the Carriage Shoppe for tea,
At a quayside table to savor my beautiful Bermuda sunset reverie!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
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