Long Krill Poems
Long Krill Poems. Below are the most popular long Krill by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Krill poems by poem length and keyword.
Imagine if all the krill
Beneath the ice shelves were dead.
Millions plus millions of krill
Fodder for ocean’s creatures:
Penguins, walrus, whales.
In the end all will die and the ocean
Will be a poorer place for all.
Imagine if all the trees
Would lose all their leaves for ever.
No Autumn splendour,
No fruit, no place where to hide.
Would we not be living
In pure disaster?
Imagine if there would not be any wind.
No music to inspire,
No words to adorn the arias,
No emotion on men’s faces.
We thrive on emotion.
And what is emotion if not poetry?
We simply cannot live without it.
20 January 2021
Placed 2
Can You Imagine - Any form Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Arctic ice packs are essential to the polar
Bear, providing them with a platform to hunt seals.
Climate change is impacting their environment:
Disrupting their ability to feed themselves.
Ecologically, they're facing extinction,
For their Arctic waters will soon be ice-free.
Global warming is devastating the planet.
Heavy rains are flooding crops and threatening
Islands on the verge of slipping underwater.
Jungles are morphing into deserts, and the
Krill are fast disappearing from the Antarctic seas.
Little can be done to stop these catastrophes,
Man is not immune to Nature's destructive force.
No matter what skeptics want us to believe:
Our scientists assure us that change is inevitable.
People who deny climate change,
Question science, opting for alternative facts.
Rivers are drying out, and forests are burning while
Severe storms are increasing in ferocity.
The waters are rapidly rising, as the oceans heat:
Unless we act now, our coastal cities will be flooded.
Virtually every aspect of our lives will change,
When carbon emissions pollute the atmosphere.
Xerox copies of past extinctions should concern us:
Yet, we cling to the hope that the dying coral reefs and
Zooplankton will eventually recover.
Miles past the nightstand
over the plastic water bottle.
the Ambien pill dispenser
and the soul-bruised eye shades,
an arrhythmic clock
ticks like a bombed-out tank.
Of course there is the lampshade
(that lighthouse for the luminescent krill
of submerged consciousness)
that seems attached to my skin
whenever body parts want to cut ties
with a mattresses concave reality.
Secreted like a drugged shark
in the shallow recesses of a snaring drawer
a snubby barrel with six mad prayers
snugs up against a snoring bible.
The raven iridescence
of night-cats prowl a life leaking bed;
occasionally they look up
their eyes shining
as they search for an alien presence.
On its four arthritic legs the nightstand
watches;
its tour of duty still patrolling a far off
conflict of doubt and faith.
Time to turn over the hull of being,
upright any surface
with a legibly printed label,
then haul that address back in
from the far side of an arm’s reach.
Time to shuck whatever shell
still rolls unopened in the surf
of the tossed and blanketed.
quiet waves out at sea
deeply breathing in
sweeping out to shore
a frigate bird swells
a red neck sack hoping
to attract
a young buck
ruts and rattles
antlers with a tree
the earth shakes
a slight quake making
mounds ripple as if flesh
a slug barely seen
moving leaving
a slime trail behind
away from the pack
a wolf pees on a rock
marking his spot
a natural spring trickles
into a stream into
a brook that babbles
deep underneath steam
creates pressure for
a geyser anytime to blow
the seagulls swarm knowing
krill will surface as
my humpedback whale swallows
as the swallows and swifts
dart and dash to catch
an insect kiss
the snapping turtle's tongue
enlarges enticing to eat
the it beyond lips
now the ground grinds
in time and rhythm
giving in to the given
harvest of the ripening
the time of
mowing and moaning
needing be alone but us two
pants at our knees panting
barefoot stomping grapes
our toes turned purple circle
circulating gemini sixty nine
never having our fill we'll
turn our wheel
for ad infinitum
never spilling a drop
yet undulating waves
each ever passing to
create the one that washes
all
this
away
Silently shrill
a silent chill
seems to have run down the spine
of our blue planet windmill
So many deceased
Too many ill
mounting and surmounting
the hospital bill
Breathing for many
is like climbing uphill
or like panting on
your home treadmill
And it's frightening when
there is nil a pill.
A minute invisible
virus doth kill .
Pray to God for mercy
bow and kneel!
Many are dying
without a will
It's safer to stay home
by the window sill
The world seems to have come
to a standstill
You now have time to sharpen
your poetic quill
In lockdown pray
and ink still spill
You may hone
your poetic skill
Until the virus
has had its fill.
Corona they say feels like drowning
like a fish without a gill
for we can't breathe
like the eel or krill.
In mouths hot water
flush and swill
Exterminate this virus?
only God can and will.
He’s heard before he enters:
you all know the drill.
He lurks in Shopping Centres,
as purposeful as krill.
Socially successful?
Like a waltz named ‘Emmet Till’.
His outcomes, too, are stressful
(see Wordsworth’s Harry Gill).
The death-knell at your dinner
with his punchline overkill,
a Jeanine Pirro ‘winner’:
each day a No True Bill.
His laugh’s as loud as mowers
or dad’s electric drill,
or over-taxed leaf blowers,
or an angry whippoorwill.
Denizen of the diner,
you know, for good or ill,
he’ll use his new one-liner:
audience feedback? Nil.
Why repeat the spasm?
Get up each morning, still?
He’s conscious of that chasm,
that hole he’s got to fill.
Salmon Run
A flurry of reds emerges distorted from the river
As the sockeye salmon return from the ocean,
Following the scent of their home stream water
And swimming upstream to the place of their birth;
In this, their final act is to propagate the species.
During this migration, the sockeyes consume no food
But depend on their stored body fat reserves.
The salmon flesh is red due to the krill they eat,
and this pigment moves to the skin where they absorb their scales
as the flesh turns white, which is an indication of their health.
They endure the struggle over falls, up rapids,
And past man-made structures and predators
To reach the spawning grounds of their creation.
The name originates from the Pacific Indigenous peoples’
Salish languages,
Who called them “suk-kegh,” meaning “red fish,” after their colour.
For centuries, the coastal tribes’ ancestral heritage
fished the salmon for sustenance
And traditions and believed that all living things were once people.
To them, the sockeye salmon symbolizes determination,
renewal, and prosperity.
Frantically, grotesque-looking fish splash furiously.
The females in a frenzy sweep their tails to make beds,
While males await excitedly, defending their mates,
Ready to move in between them and the nest
To fertilize the eggs that are about to be laid.
They didn’t always look this way, with the upper portion
of the snout
Elongated, protruding over the bottom as if hook-jawed
With long fanged teeth and greenish-hued heads,
And red-pigmented bodies with thick leathery skin,
With a hump on their backs that makes them appear freakish.
The juveniles remain in the freshwater until mature.
Then, they swim out into the ocean for two to three years
before returning to repeat the cycle.
Steely silver-blue tinted colour with white bellies
And heads of natural proportions to the rest of their sleek,
transparent-scaled, torpedo-shaped bodies;
Magnificently gorgeous for a fish.
Doctor narcotic slinging jellybeans and placebo
with one twitch of the wrist, one life goes on the tilt
distorting the dream and wrecking the rainbow.
His red-nosed ribbon circling twice around the block
most are panning for happy and coming up with salt
poppers become sniffers become lifeless rocks.
His minions slowly slipping one darkened soul at a time
shiny new nuggets recruited- thrashing in the krill
the black scythe taps another name into the shrine.
Doctor narcotic watches a thousand funerals pass by
through the black tunnel of his desperation mill
hardly a tear in his green jellybean eyes.
With mighty wings I rise
Looking down through darkened skies
Searching for food today to feed
Hungry fledgling on the isle she leaves
With her mate who danced in synch
To prove he had all the instincts
That's needed to rear this little bird
To carry on species, to one day be heard
Feeding on squid, fish, and krill
On the oceans they search for kill
Taking turns to fly and dive
Much work just to stay alive
It can take up to 280 days
This little fledgling to protect from prey
Seeing to all his basic needs
So that he will live to breed
Carrying on another year
For species to live on this sphere
With mighty wings they rise
Looking down through darkened skies
(This is about the species of birds Albatross. The material is factual.)
black and white landscape
a colony of penguins ~
standing and waddling
in the oceans depth
lives a black and white giant~
orca killer whale
seal on an ice flow
oblivious to danger ~
head butting whale strikes
egg laid by female
emperor penguin stands guard~
female goes hunting
not in Africa
elephant and leopard seals~
sea is their jungle
hourglass dolphins
smaller than a bottlenose~
keen bow wave riders
home is in the air
the wandering albatross~
a ten foot wingspan
in the frozen south
a species of royal bird~
the emperor penguin
the antarctic terns
fly over a silver dish~
krill is on the menu
thick and warm white coat
a camouflaged artic fox~
unseen in the snow
top of the food chain
carnivorous white giant~
fearsome polar bear