Long Flipper Poems
Long Flipper Poems. Below are the most popular long Flipper by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Flipper poems by poem length and keyword.
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
The highlight of my Alaskan vacation was a singular
unexpected breach of a humpback whale.
— by Poet
MY DREAM VACATION - ALASKAN WHALE TOUR
What’s a routine blubberflip, is a marvel to humans -
a breathtaking splash of epic proportions, a whirlwind
propensity to pail - empty salt-sea into the sun-blue air.
The striated humpback, in blubberbreach, sates
in eye appeal, strums in rhythmic entrainment, and
a solid gold breath erupts through the human blowhole.
Mood lighting of the sea and sky, the heavens riding
the wave of creation’s emotion - God’s largesse smiling.
Gratitude of the cruisers from this unexpected explosion
through the give way sea, the crop yielding a hundredfold.
The humpback’s beauty is in his creativity of timing, sublime
in oceanic movement, his fin-finish finer than a diver’s.
Furthermore, the cleansing of his blubberhide - ridding
himself of lice and barnacles — morass that when it lingers
annoys but triggers the acceleration to release his form
to exaltation - he swims the blessed air for a few seconds,
with flipper wings, angel kisses and applause. Neither
proud nor humble, as he pressures through the deep.
What’s a routine of man - to exercise his sea legs,
to gorge on the monsters of the sea, to breathe in
all that life can be — tremulous, terrifying, out of sight.*
3/8/2022
Sponsor: L. Milton Hankins
*out of sight - extremely good, excellent
Despairing seafaring..can be
Lore of days of yore
Glories or gory
Bold stories told
Foreshore folklore
Hemingway’s…Old
Man and the Sea
Smiles..feeling chipper
Like a wee nipper
Reeling in a ripper
Serious delirious skipper
No not a wee kipper
More like stealing Flipper (ah remember Flipper)
Sort of caught
Trials snort beguiles
Rather overwrought
Wiles & guile..fraught
Palaver..how they fought
All went iffy in a jiffy
This grouper.. a storm trooper
All came a cropper
Squiffy party pooper
Proper show stopper
The line snipped…then ripped
Pip gripped but it slipped
Flipper well flipped
Hadn't read the script
Skipped...Pip pipped
Tripped then quipped
Simply ill equipped
Despite his devotion
No delish fish
Dish wish delight
In the commotion..swish..
Dipped back into
The ocean it sipped
Ought to remember what
We’ve been taught
Unless it’s been bought
Down at the port
This is a sort of sport
Where nought could be caught
That’s why fishing
Isn’t just dispatching
Santa’s sea grotto
Matching motto hatching
“It ain’t called bloody Catching!”
Dawn, a bed comes ashore,
dripping and fog laden.
Tuna sandwiches float
on foaming waves of nausea,
aqueous globs of salty oils,
surface. Punctured sea-dreams
float; flabby and flatulent.
The day paddles around aimlessly,
tides, rather than wait,
slosh about spongy ankles.
A rubber flipper mislaid
off the Normandy coast,
slipstreams through time,
one lost sand-encrusted flip-flop
bobs on by.
May have to snorkel longer
if there is any hope of seeing
the sun sink.
Eventually aquatic ghosts
depart for a younger past.
Back on the swaying deck
of a queasy reality
a fresh wind dries sheets.
Footprints in the sand
are spied through a fisheye lens.
A shipwrecked yesterday
is waving,
glad to be finally rescued.
Fascinated by the dark waters—what lies beneath the harried waves? Cold clings with liquid silk and seaweed; her tail impresses, her flippant lips drown sailors. They smile for the camera, teeth white as their sails. It’s more of a scream—they thought the red-haired beast was a dream. They should not have let her flop onto the deck, nor have admired her ample chest. Their curiosity was hers for the taking. …and she took them, one by one, for a ride. They forgot what that saying meant. It was a ride no one comes back from. Sometimes the crimson terror would throw a few corpses onto a ship to heighten the terror. Her flipper sounded like a glass heel tapping on the planks—the thunderous point of stilettos, slicing like glass through the sailor’s veins. Bloodlust of the sea, sensuous; murderous; cacophonous.
What their eyes saw, their hands could not touch. Their souls at the bottom of Davy Jones Locker; their flesh, fodder of a frenzy of unfriendly fish with vainglorious locks, deeply-defined curves and thrashing tails. Dead men tell no tales, though legends give fair warning.
Someone escaped or heard the dreadful sound from afar; perhaps saw something they imagined to be far-fetched; and as a ghost ship was found with the unholy stench of an unwashed Delilah, the foghorn of shipmates passed on their deeply disturbing stories.
Just an innocent Ariel at play in his sea-blue eyes. Oh yes, she lost her voice…a voice that could not carry a carrion-tune. A caricature with no compass - men lose their way when they prattle fairy tales.
4/10/2023
Contest: Writing Challenge - 'S' Words
Sponsor:Constance LaFrance
(lesson taught during the foggy night
of December 29th, 2018)
Right there on the driver side
front seat of locked car
(2009 Hyundai Sonata
if that adds mar
soup pea el uber lyft, heft,
distraction, et cetera),
but may as well
bajillion miles afar
happened to mocking me
braking means to
mosey along tar
nation (albeit via four wheels),
plus access to apartment impeded,
yes which plight found
yours truly ajar
to concern lest a kick
starter prowler burglar,
and ransack maybe even hotwire
sole mode of locomotion lowering bar
on being a lunkhead,
dunderhead, bonehead,
et cetera, where mind
went AWOL earning par
tickle yule early cat us strophic
topic for poem - ah betcha yar
laughing (similar to the missus)
at my expense, asper war
re: ring how to resolve dilemma
as if a mouse caught by Gar
field with mere seconds to spar
(okay a bit of exaggeration),
but then Char
Lee horse made
an unexpected appearance,
thus incommodious, I hobbled
slow as a caterpillar
part way in the dark
til finally reaching familiar
windows of unit b44
thankfully unlocked,
thus plucked courage, and
grabbed reachable bedpost insofar
as to hoist my (nada so lightweight
former youthful body),
where every intercellular
muscle creaked, groaned,
and protested forced to
stretch to unfamiliar
height, length, width, et cetera
nonetheless, the porpoise
accomplished, matter I felt like
a dolphin with missing flipper,
though once dramatic egress complete,
an influx of radar
love bombarded this cerebral
noggin, sans global surveillance drone
broadcast akin to shofar,
whereat this mild mannered man
suddenly found himself semi popular.
D'ya know what flips my flipper?
yup! you guessed, a bevy of beauties
hanging on to my body parts
uh, massaging my cheeks (oops, sorry)
uh, massaging my extension (oops, again)
look I'm trying... did I just hear you say
“yes, VERY trying”
just a normal male stud with
an overactive out-of-control masculine libido
we're all the same eh, and you thought
“no, this guy is more refined!!!”
ha! fooled ya... I'm just the same over-sexed
divine specimen of a male stud
that you've read about in that dime-store
novel you read while sitting on the throne
okay okay I see some wee ones present
what I meant to say,
“I'm just the same over-vexed
divine specimen who just needs a nudge”
(you know, like my hoo-ha, that is)
okay, my flipper is flopping again
hang on while I try to calm it down!
uh... my mind... have you seen it lately
it's around here somewhere!
oh my... what the hell am I trying to say!!!
oh, oh, they're here to take me back again!
I fell in love with a dolphin long ago,
we met in Bermuda at The Blue Grotto
(my dad was posted there, I stayed for a week).
He swam up to me all silver and sleek,
checking me out as much as I did he.
We stayed transfixed gazing earnestly,
for a good long while before the show did start.
Then I was called upon TWICE to play a part!
I got to meet Patrick and shake his flipper,
he pulled me in a boat, me as his skipper!
Of all the kids there I was the only one picked;
his tainer no doubt noticed how we two had cliqued.
For a souvenir I bought an inflatable plastic
great big blue dolphin, and named him Patrick.
I was eleven then. Some years later I came accross an article entitled
"The Day The Dolphins Died", about the cull of dolphins to protect fish
stocks. The author wrote at the end something to the effect that he
"couldn't understand how someone could kill a dolphin after looking into
it's eyes and seeing it looking back."
I wept. I still weep.
17.12.19
Composed for Julie Leigh Rodeheaver's
Dolphins
4th Place
All the world a stage
Our love not left on a shelf
Waters edge, in spades
Written in stone, ring
Waddle waddle kind of swing
Will you marry me
As we take the plunge
Into the depths out of blue
Our ceremony
Is a slow walk, true
Is a path already paved
So walk with me slow
God smiling on us
Giving our Union, blessing
Rehearsal, dressed, no?
Our friends will be there
Will live with us, be funny
At our same address
We'll make days of it
Nights at pool, entertaining
Make a clan, of it
We'll all just commune
Come and go, always here and there
In and out, ya know
Like the melting snow
Running into the pot
A melting pot, a roast, err
We could use for fish
Fish in that great big setting
The one that crashes
Gives gift at wedding
Gets drunk then disappears
Faster than lightning
Take a bow and bring
Flipper, for those who don't sing
Nor dance, sit and spin!
As we do our thing
It's reflected in the stars
Surrounded by ours
Setting in stone ring
All in black and white
Written pebabbles
Have tuxedo, will
Travel, In tandem in a
Cold World, poetry
She's called "The Quirky Flipper"
Her countenance serene.
Vibrant, free and full of life,
Purple, blue and green.
She exhibits her flare from sea to sea
Entertaining all life marine.
She has a speckled underbelly
Stipes of black and white.
You will get a glimpse of it
If you time it right.
But only if she back flips
In the sun or moon light.
She is super friendly.
Her talent is second to none.
She swirls and dances every day
And this is just for fun.
She brings joy to the glum fish
And softens the scary ones.
Her difference is her super power
Unique, one of a kind.
You can search the oceans many times
None like her you'll find.
She wants to share a message
For us each to bear in mind.
You don't have to fit in to matter.
Your difference can be your beauty.
Make your quirkiness your strength
And the results will amaze you - you'll see.
Be content with you as you
This will set your spirit free.