Long Hulls Poems
Long Hulls Poems. Below are the most popular long Hulls by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hulls poems by poem length and keyword.
A thunderstorm passed over,
gun turrets flash.
gray hulls rumble and roll
above tumultuous clouds.
Evening commences to weep -
an aftermath,
a damp emotive capsizing
that barely touches upturned faces
yet it splashes fright onto brows.
As seafaring battles go
it was a skirmish,
flotillas of cruisers awash from
near misses.
They sailed away
leaving this whittling rain,
a backwash of electric jism,
the distant sound
of sailors shouting for rum.
Behind our eyes
deaf fish mouth deaf bubbles.
Ozone spumes against inner ears.
The wake of the storm
sponges, damps down,
slowly drips
into a salty bucket
of silence.
The football is good, sir keir is in.' The sun is out
Maybe some cheer is needed? So that tells
Me the clouds might stay unseeded? Soon the euro
Luvvies will be waxing, their hulls to sail the sea and
Show us the gulls'
There'll be promise and rhetoric and commonality.' Sounds
Rather like 'common-wealth?' Yet in market parlance.' Thats
( The hook ) you're not to see.! Around.) It'll be all about care
Of many people see!! While wars are raging and plauges
Are sleeping..' Kept in test tubes awaiting injection.? Creeping.!.On
In some form? Once they get direction 'they'll be good'
For your gout..And aching back improve libido.?
Oh such invention.' Are
You all still upon track.? You come out at six to make great noise.!!
With pots and sticks' chase those evil spirits away..Like good girls and boys.' You' ll all be such bricks. (May it all sink in!)
See, forty bucks in cold, hard cash
can fill your trailer with gin trash.
And for growing fine tomatoes,
forty's pretty small potatoes.
The big box products like Black Cow
will truly set you back, and how!
The cotton hulls and seeds and stems
ejected from the cotton gin,
stored a year in a giant pile,
makes the heart leap and brings a smile.
Earthy, loamy, a little sour,
magical black growing power.
By the barrow, then tilled under,
it's a veggie growing wonder.
Its Round-up contents raise concerns;
the pile's so hot, it nearly burns.
Big veggies are the things it grows,
but I'll look out for extra toes.
He walked up from the lake
Throwing open the door of the glorious day
Like a smiling OB-GYN snapping off his gloves
With a toolbox in hand
Delivered to my dad the good news.
“I’m certain this new ignition will take care of it
This time.”
My old dad said to the boat guy
I hope we can still get a few more years
Out of her.
The boat had become mainly show for us
Suspended in its hand-cranked metal cradle
Propeller crying
Like a pinwheel held in a hand of gale
Boat broke down summer after summer
Amongst the new Lear jets
Parked up and down the lake in solar-powered hoists
All the way to Sandy Pointe
We pretend it doesn’t matter
Swimming here
Is better than at the Sandbar or Cove
I swim deep
A shadow sprawled
Along the sun-refracted sandy bottom
Spearing this kaleidoscope of doubloons
While silver bubbles shimmer from my nose
A silver necklace
Drawn up to the blue universe
Past the gray of my temples
As it should be
Let them fillet the water with their young magic hulls
To enjoy a sunset beer at the Dockside
Like we used to in the Four Winns
Indeed, it is wonderful
Centuries ago
The Ojibwa canoed this lake Was-wa-gon-ong at night
With birch torches roaring
Hunting Whitefish until they were all gone
As well.
Fish flesh ceiling marinades evening in mandarin
Paprika streaks Alaskan sky, an exploded pumpkin
Garish stretch marks bruise tumid buttocks
Jack-o'-lantern flicker silhouettes summits
Door open draught steers me over masts, a compass
North chill Turmeric tingle bitterness burns sun jus
Snuffs frail wick candle into cavern skull sockets
Frigid fuselage discarded from flamboyant firey rocket
Hulls doubled on calm harbour curl fetal forget me not
Petal precious postcard sends rocking sleep to yachts
Resistant pristine peaks poke holes blood gush painful
Ski slid accident on apex restores pale flesh to angel
Pressed panes mist to witness her wings in awe, glory!
Nest of pick up sticks prickle, due dusk warns me
Crept shadows of chalets' thatched porches protect
Navy as battle ships torn apart, needle inks inject
I stroll through the small resort town
at the southern end of Lake George,
William Henry rises above,
the famous colonial fort.
From the French & Indian days,
the original stood right here,
it didn’t last half a decade,
this one has stood seventy years.
Makes me wonder which of the forts
we’d call the ‘real’ William Henry,
the one that’s stood the text of time?
Or the one lost to history?
Not far off is the Bloody Pond,
where they say the water ran read
during the Battle of Lake George,
when ambush left so many dead.
It seems to be just a marsh now,
the cattails waving in the wind,
my mind digs up a ghoulish thought,
did all the bodies fill it in?
Nearby is the town’s paved bike path,
once the old colonial road,
where troops and supplies once flowed through,
now joggers and kids come and go.
Across the way imported sand
arcs around in a massive beach,
do they know bateaux landed there
delivering guns for the siege?
That some of their hulls still remain
rotting in the lake-bottom muck?
I’m sure some like the past like me,
but I can’t imagine it’s much.
The girls in tight bikinis
don’t think of the hell that once reigned
on the spot where they drink up sun,
and excited young children play.
The shops where they buy souvenirs,
once trenches zig-zagging the earth,
dug under fire by Frenchmen
trying to get guns to the works.
The central road where they drove in,
where the massacre did go down…
Do we drive over a mass grave
every time we come into town?
It’s not only these grim events
I see when I’m walking about,
a grand hotel once stood right here,
the old kind that really stood out.
Built in the nineteenth century,
lavish Victorian style,
broad porches looking on the lake
where folks could relax a while.
Now a modern hotel stands there,
lifeless square block, concrete and steel,
the first one destroyed the fire,
the kind of loss a town still feels…
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
Along the upper estuary,
boats laid beached on mud
like whales you see
on news clips stranded
helpless in the drained shallows
of a low tide. These boats
too were out of their natural world
of water and easy float,
their freedom was the distance
swung on the arc of a rope.
We would clamber up their listing
hulls and into the ribbed
bellies of the bigger boats,
huddle in the dank,
fish foul air of cabins
and turn wheels hard to port.
They were the holds loaded
with the cargoes of our childhood.
Later, there was a sad absence
occupying the helm, neglect
peeling the paint and seeding
rot into weathered timber.
They stunk of decay.
Most boats were abandoned,
fastened for years
to the monotony of tides,
sentenced for life
to lift and fall on the same spot
or sink and be broken up.
And yet they remain anchor points
to what is real, positioned
as it were in a world where things
can be felt, have substance
and assume a shape
mirrored in your mind.
They float secure
on a sea of nothingness whose
sterile depths beckon and beguile
and would claim poetry
to feed the ethereal swans
of Stephane Mallarme.
Here is where a poem
has a smell as well
as make you feel and think
without recourse to meaning,
becoming mere magic.
It's said a rising tide will lift all ships
And from what I have seen I've found that true
But also comes the wind that blows and whips
And sometimes sinks only a ship or two
For ships are made to float atop the sea
Yet storms determine whether hulls are sound
And even sturdy ships with rudders free
Can suddenly find themselves run aground.
Alas, my friend, that's where we've come to lie
On land where neither tides nor wind can sway
I hope once more we'll sail under the sky
But fear that on the land that hope will stay
I wonder even now what might have been
If diff'rent choices had been chosen then
6.16.19
For Choices poetry contest sponsored by Sara Kendrick
Picture #1 (What might have been)
I arrived a stranger
to a set of little wooden cabins by the sea.
Pretty they were, with weathered straw roofs
and fences curved like hulls,
the sea whispering at my feet.
The skipper who brought me here was a jolly man,
eternally smiling his toothless grin,
his eyes gentle in the lantern light
as he coaxed the boat through the tight waterways
like a surgeon with a scalpel.
Dawn.
Perhaps the night had blinded me
for with the first blush of the sun,
I saw for the first time (properly),
the world in which they habited.
Tattered wooden walkways, supported by little more
than some planks, nets and rubber tyres
propped up a grid of ramshackle tents
and oddly skewed cabins.
Nearby, motorboats, row upon row, bobbed upon the tide,
their engines rusted and sluggish,
unworthy of the sailors that piloted them.
I saw a woman, maybe 40,
wash her face sparingly with water
and subconsciously touched my still damp hair,
ashamed of the luxury of my long shower.
The cabin offered a variety of "fun" activities,
like fishing and ground traps
but watching the other holidayers pouring over the nets
I couldn't help but feel melancholy;
these things that we treated as games
were the fishermen's entire livelihoods.
When I departed, a young girl,
school bag fastened tightly to her chest,
clambered aboard our boat.
I thought of my waiting flight
and wondered if she could
rise above the waves.
Submerged in the depth of the abyss
Motionless nor missed
Submissive to fathom's organisms
Time had lost all realism
Amidst quiet grave her heart pulsates
Within the labyrinth iron hull
“Current, bring me the horizon”
The ship starts to breathe
Tremendous echoing sounds,
Creaking,
Snapping,
Sloshing
As the water draws back
Washing over the deck
Slowly ascends through freezing brine
Bow cutting through seawater surface
Waves lapping against the dressed floral coral hulls
A slave adrift at the mercy of the sea
Shadowy image upon its deck
Feeling the cool caress of bliss
Salty tears flowing down her cheek
10/31/2016