Long Freighter Poems
Long Freighter Poems. Below are the most popular long Freighter by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Freighter poems by poem length and keyword.
Replication, O photon.
Atmosphere. Molecules.
Phase, like seasons. Here, then gone.
Tools, tremors, toadstools.
Occipital ridge, troll, bridge.
Billy goat, thy horn.
Pestilence, thy name is midge.
Freighter, fain, forlorn.
Lightning bolt, fruit of the gods.
Eat one and become.
Mycelial, goldenrod?
Mushroom, just stay mum.
Sign of salvation, sea-bass?
Shark, set eyes on same.
Liquid legend, O my lass?
Sure. I'm glad you came.
Tympani, crush. Firefly, flee.
Knock thrice, then flit, thrush.
O behemoth, swim thy sea?
Death, you've had a brush.
Enormous or gigantic?
Titan, which to choose?
Oil on surface, stiff or slick?
Flickering fate, fast fuse.
Race, a trace of turkey wild.
In the corn, my child.
Charnel house floor, stains a-tiled?
Ululate, red riled.
Racket, informed packet?
Data, grow in trees.
Weather, wail. Jail, jacket.
Pain, poisonous to please.
I was more of a stepping stone than a stepson.
A tiny stone leading to the heart of my father.
You played the game well... though
squeezing a ring from the coal of his lonely heart.
So, there I was minced by little boy blue grief.
Then tossed into your beehive whirlwind.
You wisely hid your wicked side...young bride...
Many times, playing hopscotch on my hide.
The lessons to make me into a man.
Started around six, I recollect.
Scrubbing those greasy plastic dishes
until they were no longer slick.
You knew that it was an impossible task
for six-year-old hands.
So over and over and over again.
You'd plop that greasy plastic back into the suds...
until well past dusk...
(Now, even as a man, it's always well past dusk.}
I became more like your whetstone.
Something to sharpen your barbs upon.
I'm still waiting for karma to change the color of your hide.
Make you scrub a freighter filled with your greasy plastic dishes.
When the well-rested rooster woke up at noon, he found himself in the lap
of a gorgeous boy and he was telling his mom with urgency,
"I want this rooster, he can keep the lonely and moody parrot company!"
And staring at him," It's a rooster, not a pet!" she exclaimed.
Mothers always try to please their kids, and sometimes they really spoil them,
not according to their customs and beliefs, controversially fathers are stricter than them;
"I'll take care of him and soon he'll be living in our ranch home" he promised...
and continuing,"From now on, his name will be Harbor: the lovely place where I found him!"
The gentle boy kept his promise and Harbor became part of the family,
and the talkative parrot taught him to say the exact words he said;
and months went by, but nobody knew that he could speak so humanly,
and how did they find out that Harbor was smarter than an ordinary bird?
They overheard him in a challenging conversation about finding a perfect mate,
in the shortest time and the shrewd parrot thought he surely would have been the winner,
but to his surprise, Harbor used his accumulated wisdom and searched the nearby farm,
where chicks were bred and then put in perforated carboard crates on a freighter.
Harbor looked around and didn't really like any of the chicks he saw,
and was he about to give up on his search? Suddenly not! He trotted past the noisy farm,
and to his bewilderment, he spotted a young chicken on the grass below...
and gallantly approached her, and with a chat started a romantic affair by keeping her warm.
Harbor and the young chick clicked and they quickly were talking about marriage,
lots of baby chicks to feed: the ultimate dream of two domesticated birds;
at first, the upset boy wasn't too happy about their agreement, and exploded in rage,
but realizing what was best for Harbor, he finally gave him his blessings.
On the same farm the newly-wed live, and have big plans for a large family;
one more thing, if curious folks decide to visit them anytime soon, they need a reservation.
They will show them around with their fowl hospitality, but rule out temptation;
none of them will end up on their plates for the next Holidays or any other special festivity!
On the cliff at the Worm’s Head
High above the horns of the bay
I see the surfers ride great waves
With horses’ manes
That ever fail, but never end
In the strong Atlantic surge
In the estuary at Dartmouth
Where the oyster boats dredge
Turning and drifting in slow shadow dance
Great nets of shells are hauled up
And poured out on to the decks
As I plunge upriver
Tacking along the wending Dart
With bent-puzzle oaks on either side
I hear a sudden hush descend
Upon a lonely river hythe
As time and air, smooth and still
Forever glide, like Mayflies
On cold, clear water
In the seaway by the port
With its unmistakable algal aroma
Of the British seashore
I hear the heavy horn of a freighter
That plies its path
And never sinks, yet ever diminishes
Beyond the waves
And far from the pier of the seaside town
Where sandpipers probe
In spiral casts
I hear the penthal call of the curlew
Like silver flourishes on a black cloud
That never moves, but holds dominion
In the cold morning air.
Cause the world keeps turning, burning
flipping upside down, my feet can walk fast forward
And I built a bridge too far!
I'm an angelic being without a reason or host
On wheels or wings, my engine thrums
I'm a born freighter a bringer of fire and light
I'm a man cast in shadows of blight,
I'm a real destructive disaster born again holocaust
'Cause the world keeps turning burning flipping upside down,
my feet can walk fast forward
And I built a bridge too far! Too fast to last!
And my feet can walk fast forward in tracks of fire
And I'm a bridge too far gone to support its own weight
I'm an angelic being without a reason or host
On wheels or wings, my engine thrums, hell in my frost…
Gone in the last world, in the middle of the border
towns born of madness as holocaustic ashes….
Gone into the end of the worlds, into the blue vast.
Blazing in the morning sun cooling in the setting moon.
Clutching ashes…
Waking up with bleary eyes
to a chicken ovum as it fries,
I brushed aside ten thousand lies,
my memory to jog -
a vision of the backward walking dog.
Had my brain been so badly mangled
it could not be disentangled.
Yes! Before me, the image dangled.
I could see it through a fog
(of pea soup) - the backward walking dog.
Could it be the devil's nature,
an omen or fate's nomenclature?
The body from a westbound freighter
thrown into a bog -
it was the backward walking dog.
Perhaps in this rancid rubbage heap,
philosophy or something deep
could make me return to sleep,
knowing, I am but a cog,
and forget the backward walking dog.
A visage or a psychic scourge,
no act of man or God will ever purge,
and there is no truth to yet emerge -
just crawling from that hollow log -
the backward walking dog.
Took a cruise down a river of booze.
Pissed my pants and filled my shoes.
Now it's time to clean it up.
Take a shower and drink a cup.
The fever caused my nerves to shake.
I had to leave her, it just didn't take.
That restless feeling wouldn't rest.
So now I hope it's for the best.
The wheels are rolling slow and steady.
I turned left and then saw Betty.
Drove a ways and heard this plinking.
Turn signal stuck and still was blinking.
I took the hint and headed south.
Now I look down in the mouth.
Jumped a freighter for the coast.
Sent my regards back in the post.
Now I'm sittin' on the pier.
Wonderin' where to go from here.
Borrowed a boat without the keys.
It's dangerous doing what you please.
Gas ran out and I hit a reef.
Sprung a leak, nothing but grief.
I bailed out as it was sinking.
That's the way it goes with mindless thinking.
Hieronymus Bisch, a swamp-dwelling fish,
musician extraordinaire carved out his niche,
by gathering the garbage humans tossed away
cleaning and sawing, was determined to play
his compositions for the entire neighborhood
and I must tell you, he is very good.
Old horns and clangers, bells and whistles
his mammal friends gathered up many missiles,
hurling them into his swamp with glee and
knowing that soon, great music would be.
Root-i-toot pipes and cogwheels galore
old lanterns, clocks, even a door.
A train caboose from an old broken toy
an umbrella, diving helmet and a highboy;
parts from dilapidated old elevators
and crankshaft from a sunken freighter.
The snakes collected dried out vines
and a tree branch from a gnarly old pine.
Hieronymus scrubbed, polished and welded;
old gears and cranks were properly belted
with drive belts gathered by alligators,
from junkyards full of dead generators.
Pieces of old wiring he managed to splice
to light up those lamps, ever so nice.
Once his Mono-magnifical, Root-i-toot Cranker
was built and ever so very well anchored;
One flip of a switch such music did play
those swamp critters had one fantastic day;
laughing, dancing and singing with glee
they even were joined by a screaming banshee.
Oh what a delightful party they had,
that Magnifical Cranker didn’t play bad;
not one note of his composition was missed;
world fame is the destiny of Heironymus Bisch.
Awoken at 3:30 a.m.
On Mackinac Island at the Grand Hotel
By a freighter blowing its foghorn
Like a calf half separated
From its mother
Bellowing out there somewhere
Lost and meandering
In the thick fog
Stunned by the freezing May water.
Up from bed
Out to the balcony
I felt for the iron side of the passing freighter
Only to find
The sticky wool of lamb
Clutched to the fist of my hand.
Every father has this instinct.
Every mother becomes helpless.
The baying fades away over 45 minutes
Its cry shrinking through the shroud of cloud
Over the Great Lakes
Under the Mighty Mac
On to Wisconsin perhaps
The story like all stories always unfinished…
I go back to bed and lie wide awake.