Long Hauls Poems
Long Hauls Poems. Below are the most popular long Hauls by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hauls poems by poem length and keyword.
Falling into a shaft during an evil strike.
Aspiring to scream, you lose your voice.
when darkness and abhorrence spike.
When adverse facts sway your choice,
Aspiring to scream, you lose your voice.
A halt to all hopes for life and renewal
When adverse facts sway your choice
As you fight acutely but your shot is futile.
A halt to all hopes for life and renewal
There is no pledge to attempt to survive.
As you fight acutely, but your shot is futile.
And you will be the first to escape alive.
There is no pledge to attempt to survive.
You bear it shut your eyes, set for death.
And you will be the first to escape, alive.
A swift jolt hauls you to rivers of Lethe.
You bear it shut your eyes, set for death.
When darkness and abhorrence spike.
A swift jolt hauls you to rivers of Lethe.
Falling into a shaft during an evil strike.
Written: November 10, 2022
The Locomotive
The mighty Locomotive,
Was the muscle of its day.
Moving freight and passengers,
Down a steel highway.
It’s beauty and it’s romance,
Made headlines near and far.
Train robberies and train wrecks,
It had become a star.
The Locomotive was thought to be,
Man's answer to the world.
Until new and better innovations,
Soon would be unfurled.
As all things do there come a time,
It certainly looked for sure.
That the mighty Locomotives day,
Was going to be no more.
It had all but died away,
Till it was born again.
The Diesel took the place of Steam,
New life it had regained.
It still hauls freight as always,
That will never end
And passengers get more scenic rides
Across this majestic land.
The mighty Locomotive,
May not be the star these days.
But it will be a long-time coming,
Before it fades away.
Unprecedented and unannounced
The sound out-hauls the band
The beat of corruption much allowed
Now in dual they posses the land
Who should the finger now highlight
The finger itself is bent and bet
White in the day but black at night
The unlucky hens now incur the rent
Hope appears to be mirage
The eyes of lake that much discharge
Who then can we behold
The more we shout the bold it grows
Prices are at high liaising with the sky
Suffering and cross but cozy for them
They think of vintage and never to die
Believing that good thirst will always be firm
Will the villain ever remain on top
And for how long will the poor ever remain a rung
The druse and lump are yet to slump
And the bliss of men is yet a song
How much more the afloating suppression
The tongue yet bridled
The voices silenced with cohesion
And When would impartiality ever be rekindled
The country is at quake
But the top is never at stake
Always rewarded for nothing but hooting
And never remanded for logging and looting
The world is round
And the earth is ground
What will the generation say
And who will the repercussion spare
Corruption
Or recession
In whom can we locate solution
To safeguard our dear generation
You have your own role
I have my own role
Endeavour to play your own part
In order to make an impact.
©Izunna Okafor 2017
Writer; poet, essayist, novelist, publicist, columnist, journalist and Igbo Language Activist.
08163938812
Kelso has a boat
smeared to the gunnels,
with cawk and greasy weeds.
Kelso is old enough
to be free of care,
his dog don't care neither.
At the prow of dawn
he hauls dripping lobsters
in their pots
up the scummy steps
of the silty stone harbor,
pushing a barrow
into the dickering markets
cobbled narrows.
Kelso barters claws and tails
to barkeeps, crab-mongers,
to fish wives and their
saucy daughters.
Gummy smiles he shares
with the crones;
their thin cranky bones
thrill to his beard-wagging ways.
At close of day he seesaws,
half-cut and tottering
to the bight, the bitty harbor,
to eat a kippered mackerel
from a spray-seasoned skillet.
Tomorrow he will do the same
if the lobsters appear
in his pulled-up smeary pots,
if not
he will sup upon a dark brew
and make a meatless stew
of beetroot and hot
fried
pickles.
Kelso lays back
with his reeky brown dog
(as he always does),
to smoke a care-free plug
into a fumy fog.
He listens to the dimming sky
piddle over the wallowing town,
hears the night rolling in
over the seas lap and swell
tucked up and swaddled is he
in his oily cot, and swaying low;
he most pleased to be,
yours consistently -
just old Kelso.
This late morning's high noon scaling, steeply-ascending, ragged herald
Hauls himself upwards into the roaring expanse of the dizzying sky
To chance upon this, might though his very soul should be imperiled,
When lording over which is constrained within a dispassionate, encompassing eye.
From the feathered throat abruptly pours such Mellifluous harmony
As, lifting higher and higher, he negotiates a ledge inside a wisp of
broken cloud;
Those rich, dulcet notes, more decidedly sweeter than any liquid honey,
Irresistibly flowing Earthwards... a continuous symphony of unparalleled sound.
His alone the rushing glory! His alone this almost unattainable niche!
For up here, rarified and raw, the air is breathless and sparse where thins.
Then the song fully enveloping the shrunken patchwork of fields beneath...
Whereon, delivering forth from bursting lungs, that final triumphant salvo
he heroically flings.
"Pipeline: Hawaii's North Shore where Championship Surfing Meets are held, remains the deadliest since records began in the 60s."
Golden shores surfed duo gift essence new threshold,
History made two by sea,
Footprint holds their granule sunk traces, queues the bold,
Long woods wee came two by sea,
Boarders store their sea tools drift faces, cue behold,
Fantasy dreams two by sea,
Reckon calls pair home schools feet races fuel's the sold,
Handily swims two by sea,
Loop unfolds those who rules hunk intense corkscrew rolled,
Gone absentees are two by sea,
Fathom pulls remain cool surfaces, two consoled,
Breathing-free crawls two by sea,
Jettisons beached dual shift places cruise controlled,
Rest at ease lays two by sea,
Ponder hauls twain unspool whiffed graces schooled withhold,
Bended knees pray two by sea,
Covered boards bros no fools--but in case, 'Win the Gold',
*Pipeline be? Two if's by sea?
*HMS; Anapestic tetrameter.
Access to the mind is not a herculean task,
Nothing obstructs her passage,
She doesn’t need to request the key,
Through the mind, she can go back in time,
She can unravel webbed mysteries.
Lifting objects is a feathered task,
They come to her at will,
She hauls them with ease,
Nothing stands in her way,
She pushes them away.
She possesses cosmic energy,
A fiery and indomitable force,
When unleashed it heightens her power,
If not controlled and curtailed,
Her dark side takes over.
So many voices occupy her mind,
Permuting them takes skill and effort,
Filtering them takes guidance,
Her teacher promised to help her
To channel her powers for the good of all.
September 19, 2022.
Glancing down from breathless heights,
Amidst climey sighs,
The looming colossus awakens from slumber
And stretches across Thelwalls linear skies.
The hot engines hissing steam -
Recalled from fond memories long back -
Tumbling like huffing little rain clouds
Down from the lofty metal track;
Wherein brightly painted carriages:
The publicans daughter, the verger,
The magistrate, the chief executive -
Seated first class, all habitually sat.
Swift grandiose arches, a celebration
Trumpeting the artful masons cunning devise,
Boast loudly of the great towers
Parallelogram of terrific forces:
Crossing over in giant leaping strides.
Here below, like Hercules reclining,
The stoic gates of Latchfords black fortress locks
Lift to brace against the immense swell
Far and beyond the chimming remarks
Of Greenhalls absolute, mechanically proven,
Georgian bell;
When, ensconced within a purpose-built,
Purple brick tower:
Strikes the centuries old brewery clock
On the twelfth
Of every God given hour.
A rich bankers cantilever
Pushes doggedly against opposing, sheer,
Red Sandstone walls;
Again the mauve and azure rock pigeon claps...
And then...coo, coo, cooingly calls.
Dry buzzing heat blurs over
The hum of a high noons imcumbent midday;
The coup-de-gras scimitar wing stoops -
To fasten onto its slower-witted prey!
Steeped sides slipping amidst tumbling yellow
Gorse and sporadic flowers
Balk at the foreboding waters edge,
Where, over the denizens swirling bowers,
The resolute little rusting lugger,
Puffing and chugging,
relentlessly dredges and scours;
Churning the murky Eastham silts
That drab Manchester draw:
Into the vast hollowing quays
On beachless, concrete Salfords industrialized,
High-rise dockland shore.
Through the deepest part of the black
Channel
A salt grimed hulk smoothly slips...
Attached by a twisted hemp to the tugboat
That hauls the great ships.
Stirred by the bow waves
Flowing and ebbing like currents in time:
From the trough to the peak
The jettison and flotsam climbs -
Before succumbing to powerful undercurrents
Of irresistible designs!
Frayed border prints paste illusion,
worn-out inks swirling bleeds,
The hauls, stareways, persuasion,
privileged balconies.
Antiquities of read reviews,
claims of a rustic quill,
to scribbled marks a light verse muse,
and forever bestill.
I hear the silence of the slams,
satirical critics,
synthetic irony exams,
stardoms paralytics.
It dominates its point to rise,
where life did emanate,
afeared facade recital trice,
timeless collaborate.
A reenactment of Bo Peep,
tough be a ruminant.
My first part, blossom -- was a sheep,
I was magnificent.
His slow beating heart marches into her mind,
Grips onto her thoughts and dreams,
Drags her out into the open,
Exposing everything she believes,
And there's nought she can do against his dark love,
No matter where she wants to stay,
Like waves in the ocean he pulls her from shore,
And carries her through every day,
Then days become weeks become months become years,
Each morning she shuts her eyes tight,
As he hauls her out into the world,
Now her thoughts and her dreams have been wiped,
His slow beating heart are hands on a clock,
With monotony every day he still sings,
Songs of war and fear and fright,
Songs of the hell that she lives.