Long Fore and aft Poems
Long Fore and aft Poems. Below are the most popular long Fore and aft by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fore and aft poems by poem length and keyword.
The Captain had a penny whistle
Which he wore around his neck
And he played it every morning
As the crew danced on the deck.
Sometimes it was a Hornpipe
Sometimes a Palais Glide
As the crew danced fore and aft
And from Port to Starboard side.
Prompt every morning
When the Bosun rang a bell,
And if he was feeling frisky
The Captain danced as well.
Sometimes on sunny mornings
The crew would stand at ease
While the Captain and a subby
Mimed a decorous strip tease.
Rain storm hail or shine
Until twenty minutes passed
When on a given signal
The crew would climb the mast
To set the sails and rigging
And get the ship under way
And so it continued
Every single day.
Two or three times a year
All the ships would meet
And the Captain and his crea
Would dance for the fleet.
It was on the good ship Venus
Which had been a ship of shame
Until the Dancing Captain'
Gave it a better name.
He became the only Admiral to wear
A penny whistle around his neck
And even in his dotage
Would dance around the deck.
Ship shape and Bristol fashion
When she was away at sea.
Oh on the good ship Venus
Such a happy place to be
This day is not like any other day;
It has never been, nor ever will be
Again.
Though pregnant with eternal yesterdays
Touching all its tomorrows
It is all we ever have to hold and make our own
- Those others fore and aft are ghosts,
To which legions this as well shall add itself -
Each new day defines us as we are, complete,
On some special one
That will not announce itself
Nor look like any other,
We shall walk with it to where there are days no more,
Into that Undiscovered Country.
- So spurn no day as inconsequent.
It brought its gifts or griefs to you,
Subtle or profound, to carry or reject.
Seize each day, they are the Prayer beads
On the rosary of your life;
Walk close with them
Into each one's sacred sunset.
Met some friends in Central Park,
A meeting overdue.
How wonderful to see them
And catch up on all that’s new!
We strolled around the reservoir
Then found a place to sit –
A shady bench with bushes,
Fore and aft, for just a bit.
As we conversed, a little mouse
Did scurry from the brush
To underneath our bench in quite
A mouse-like frenzied rush.
My friends were quite blasé.
One said, “Just raise your feet a bit.”
The other said, “It’s just a chipmunk.”
(She was full of ****.)
That mouse (or else its cousins)
Scampered back and forth all day,
At least for the entire time
Of our reunion stay.
Still, I must thank my lucky stars
We got to meet and that
The mouse that we encountered
Wasn’t actually a rat!
Who am I today?
Husband, Father, Son or Brother
A noble thought that gives itself away,
Or some distant, self-obsessed Other?
What shape I don tomorrow
Who can say
If I shall move across my stage
Enacting joy or sorrow?
What tides shall bear me
To what familiar or what stranger port
Whose ears shall hear, whose eyes shall see
Old things or new, of unfamiliar sort
Come crowding 'round my senses,
Who may know
What meanings they may bring,
Or how assault
My incomplete defenses?
For I am, at base, like every man
A shambling, shapeless Legion
Who strives for sense as best he can
Within the compass of his crowded reason,
Bounded fore and aft by birth and death,
Seeking for some middle way
Amidst the crowd he is;
To speak some sense with his last breath.
Airship
How far I’ve flown I neither know nor care.
Much as this open deck my plans are bare.
Of star or compass I have nary need,
But follow as these downy cloud tops lead.
The chilly breezes toying through my hair
Cascade across my skin and jacket flare
While on the bottoms of my booted feet
The engine taps an unrelenting beat.
I acquiesce to gentle bob and sway
Beneath balloon and rigging bloated shape.
Awaiting now the nearly risen sun
I scan the vast expanse and see no one.
And yet, I hear a rumbling of some sort
Then luminescing clouds off to my port
Combusting deep with ever brighter tones
Now booming louder, louder, nearer, NO!
Bombastic airship, cannons bursting now,
Ejected straight at me from out its shroud.
A maniac, that pilot, heaving hard
Just missing our collision by one yard
His tortured face, the horror in those eyes,
For near destroying me, so I surmised,
Until I saw his passing stern ablaze.
Then mammoth winged beast in brutal chase
Erupting, fierce and howling, scales agleam.
The hot concussion of its down-spent wing
That final moment as it thrust away
Forced ship and I and all the world to sway.
Then came the screams, the pounding and a moan
As crew and cargo floundered down below
Caught in the violent swinging disarray.
The flaming ship and dragon sped away
To disappear in yet another cloud.
Our vessel’s motion finally calmed down.
Those lightly injured put the ship aright.
And unspilled rum was quickly spent that night.
Now star and compass were of urgent need.
This damaged vessel and the injuries
Required that we find a ready port
Equipped to lend us aid of every sort.
I searched in haste upending fore and aft
For sextant, compass, and the proper map,
Then finally we found the guiding star
And made for help that wasn’t very far.
By dawn I bid the floating docks goodbye
With only half a crew and resupply
But, now where'er I travel through the sky
I keep the navigation tools nearby.
Ragazze o Pagliacci?
The lavish lips, exaggerated eyes
are painted on an hour before we meet you.
The art lies in our impact, when we greet you.
You see emotion, but it’s enterprise:
The punter gets the treatment while he buys,
but not for long. The trick is to repeat you:
to suck your proteins out, and then excrete you.
There’s nothing real about us – colour, size,
emotions. All prosthetics, patches, dyes.
Before we pull you down, we overheat you:
distraction is our tactic to defeat you.
You’d blame chameleons for their disguise?
Go rail at Nature. We’re designed to cheat you.
The static smile, laconic laugh, are lies.
A Functioning Drunk
Let no-one doubt that Canio’s in control!
A true-born leader, that’s how he’s perceived,
relaxed-but-ready, square-jawed, rolled-up-sleeved.
Protagonist his predetermined role,
in pole position (emphasis on pole!),
the sort who, should he feel himself aggrieved,
turns vicious. Preternaturally peeved,
not unacquainted with libation bowl
(or arma bianca, so the clown alleges),
as blunt as basalt, brittle as obsidian,
he might at last have passed his high meridian.
Look closely, and he’s frayed around the edges.
His pack, who’ve started driving in the wedges,
will turn to Baal-Berith on the death of Gideon.
Wanting the Shaft On
I think I’ll name your thingy “Solomon”:
the Queen of Sheba really liked his wood.
I love it when I get your column “on” –
it’s all to do with stimulus and blood.
I serve you in two offices, like Taft.
The other? No, he’s never understood.
Good skippers keep a watch-out, fore and aft:
I know he’d like to, not so sure he could!
I’m built for seamen. Such a nimble craft,
impressive hold for such a shallow draft,
and very steerable at either end
(one thing that he will never comprehend).
You want to move me? Make me feel the waft
of wanton winds, and see my sails extend!
It was no ordinary cloud,
Seeming wrongly to move
Opposite direction of all the
Other –
No cooperative morning, in general;
Sun seeming less inclined to dawn --
Lighting for him appearing not worth
His bother.
Got to thinking, perhaps nature has a mind
All its own, independent of my outing
Need? – should have replayed her all knowing
Tape on past proven feminine intuitive lead --
Fore-and-aft my nervous glances,
Masculine optimism beginning to fail --
Wind now developing a serious gale
(The main mast tearing a sail)
She surveyed me coldly and pale:
Though in your new Walmart cap, you
Look quite the sailor’ dashing, if you value
Your life, don’t ever again wake me early
To go fishing!
In a corner of my room, where shadows dance so shy,
Lived a tiny little fly, beneath the crescent moon's eye.
Not a creature of grandeur or a beast of fright,
But a simple being, basking in the twilight.
His wings were like thin sheets of rain,
Glistening under the window pane,
And with every beat, a silent whisper in the air,
A ballet of dreams without a single care.
His world was small, yet vast in wonder,
Filled with raindrops and occasional thunder.
A kingdom of crumbs, a feast for a day,
A speck of dust, a stage for play.
One morning, as the sun did rise,
Our fly awoke to find a surprise.
A drop of jam, oh so sweet,
Lay before him, a marvelous treat.
With eager wings, he took to flight,
Circling round, in sheer delight.
But little did our friend foresee,
The peril that would come to be.
For lurking near, with watchful eyes,
A spider sat, disguised in guise.
With patience born from timeless craft,
It waited silent, fore and aft.
Our fly, consumed by joy and haste,
Did not see the web, so finely laced.
Into the trap, he flew with glee,
Unaware of his impending plea.
The spider approached, with steps so light,
Eyes gleaming with a hunter's delight.
But in this moment, fate would sway,
For the fly found strength to break away.
With wings torn, yet spirit whole,
He flew from the web, a narrow escape from the knoll.
A lesson learned, in heart and mind,
The value of caution, and to be kind.
For in his flight, he saw the plight
Of other flies, trapped in their fight.
And from that day, he vowed to guide
His fellow kin, away from the tide.
Watching people in the morning
Always makes me wonder,
Will their days be sunshine-kissed
Or thwacked with hail or thunder?
Sometimes faces might reveal
A look of such frustration
You know their day’s first hours
Have been filled with aggravation.
Yet others wear a glowing smile,
Their confidence so striking
That anyone observing may feel
Their own self-doubt spiking.
Of course, the day may then unfold
In ways we can’t envision,
Resulting in an unexpected
‘Fore and aft collision.
The early hours, though, provide
A glimpse of the beginning
Of the time stretched out before us,
As our world is slowly spinning.
© 2010 (Jim Sularz)
Heave Ho! Aweigh, the ship’s anchor,
Lads, climb-up, the tall ship’s masts!
Unfurl the sails white billowed,
all pray, the stiff trade winds blast!
Men briny from white-capped oceans,
Terra firma’s, a distant quest.
Feel the salt spray, stinging the faces,
of the ship’s crew, tossed fore and aft.
We’re compelled to sail the oceans an’ seas,
with a plumb compass an’ a ration’s tack.
Tattoos an’ a gypsy squeeze-box melody,
the gale blows on our ruddy backs.
All hands scramble, to assemble on deck,
for the Captain rings-hard a muster.
Churning waves in our rudder’s wake,
luminous, with a strange glowing luster.
Land Ho! A calm, deep harbor,
a smoke filled pub an’ a bonny lass.
But the sea’s, our only steadfast lover,
an’ she beckons, to call us back.
We stand proud to call ourselves - mariners,
Men without fear, we tame the high seas.
Bright stars as our comforting beacons,
fair weather with God’s given speed.
By moon beams an’ dawn’s faint daylight,
we’ll turn our ship’s namesake back.
Heave Ho! Aweigh, the ship’s anchor,
Lads, climb-up, the tall ship’s masts!