Long Moored Poems
Long Moored Poems. Below are the most popular long Moored by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Moored poems by poem length and keyword.
THE LOBSTERMAN
Hushed silence as the dawn begins unveil
Faded ribbons of beauty appear ever so pale
Morphing in depth and passionate splendor
Eternal, inspirational gifting of nature
The density of darkness vaporizes to light
As all that was shadowed comes into sight
Casts upon the harbor the soft glow of morn
Life’s daily symphony begins to perform
The dawn draws to life each and every thing
With the rising orb new life does it bring
The soft glow of light, the harbor awakes
Lobstermen appear as the new day breaks
This endless ritual begins always the same
Moonrise and sunrise in eternal refrain
And this day, as in days of decades before
He stands in his row boat and raises his oar
Hunched from the weight of years of hard work
Family and responsibilities never to shirk
He nods as he paddles without saying a word
Brothers in a bond that doesn’t need to be heard
The ache in his body is worse on some days
He goes about his work in a reverent haze
This is all he can do - all that he knows
Lifetimes ago ... twas the life that he chose.
Or maybe to say the life that chose him
To sink or to swim is the lobsterman’s hymn
He was raised on a boat, always in boots
He bleeds it from his pores – it’s inbred in his roots
Leaving the harbor barely breaking a wake
He steers his old vessel into the daybreak
Irrelevant is the cold, the heat or a storm
His performance perpetuates each new day born
His story but a drop in an ocean we don’t see
His dedication and ethic simply humble me
Haunted by hunched image in silhouette as he oars
To his life in the harbor whence it is moored.
October 13, 2017
Demolished by love
Demolished by love
My doors have been rattled
My cage has been rocked
The vessels are no longer
Moored to the dock
Thank you, love
My streets are abandoned
My town hall is closed
If you know any people,
Maybe go consult those
Not demolished by love
Demolished by love
Even in times of forgiveness
And relative peace and light rain
There's a part of me wants to consider
The debt that I hold and the strain
My brick buildings are toothpicks
My trees, vaporized
I once had an ego --
It's torn down to size
Demolished by love
That old baseball diamond
The old ice cream stand
Everything blown-up
According to plan --
If you have insurance
And ties to this world,
Get down in your storm cellar
Away from that girl
Or be demolished by love
We had expectations
Ideologies, even
Now watch as your every last
Earthly cause is beaten
And demolished by love
We got an old basket
A ball of strong twine
And one or two things
Of yours and mine
We found an old blanket
And very very soon
We were flying up high
In our homemade balloon
Mr Skylark interrupted
His wonderful song
To wish Bon Voyage
As we sailed along
I doffed my hat
To the astounded crow
We very soon left
A few miles below
We moored for a time
To the edge of a cloud
And we looked around
Both feeling so proud
I filled your glass
With sparkling wine
That I’d hidden
In a pocket of mine
We raised a glass
And drank a toast
To old Father Sky
Our wonderful host
Then we decided
After a roam
It was time really
We set off for home
Where you washed your hair
And I shook my head
Before putting my blanket
Back on my bed
After a cup
Of Camomile tea
You set off home
And I climbed a tree
I waved to the lark
The crow and the sky
Then I went to sleep
With both of my eyes
Waves pummeled her bow, causing the schooner to rock
as a tempest wind heaved its feral breath into her sails.
The crewmen were steadfast, but had the right to balk
at warring against the strength of wild Nor'easter gales.
If I had seen warnings, we'd be safely moored at a dock.
Thunder unleashed his temper with a vicious tongue.
"Brace for another wave," I yelled to each brave mate!
Some were swept overboard; in the sea they were flung.
Three sailors tossed into the deep by an onerous spate,
when the boom cracked and split, around it had swung.
The furious storm was hellbent on gifting us to Neptune,
but against its rage, we fought with courage and heart.
When sea and sky calmed, I saw by light of a pale moon,
we were lost somewhere in the world, not on any chart.
Weatherworn ship and castaways, stranded on a dune.
10/14/2022 ~ Contest sponsored by L Milton Hankins
Three Stanzas in Quintain (Scillian) Form
As I lay on mounds of a shoreline,
weightless in eyes' astounded spirit
blending with angels, dirt, and crosses;
my soul bears this emptiness
in writhing streams omnipresent for day
and twilight's heavy float-- hours change
beyond primitive instincts--a landscape
of bittersweet cycles appear, and below it,
the fluidity from incandescent waters lap
on mouths of frozen stars requesting patience.
Here am i sprouting below, above and under
their flesh; fulfilling my need for deliverance
out of some needled pinch :
awash by whimper of rain , all senses
moored and fashioned so lamely
on brittle soil of life unlived ,
seeking a depth of quiet within myself
time rippling upon this decayed shell undersea...
yet nothing came except a leaf falling.
In Land of Oz a thousand feet below
was the morn on New Year’s Day,
and ‘neath a shining weightless wing
the steep sea cliffs of Botany Bay.
We taxied through old Sydney Town
with all wild expectation to come -
and when in Rome did as Romans do
and made way for the colosseum.
There it was, that grand noble edifice -
mortals did her sidewalks pound,
through those gates the arena roared
inside the Sydney Cricket Ground!
And later that balmy night wandered
after a cruel last ball Windies loss,
but ever closer drew those neon lights
in the noisy heart of King’s Cross.
Among the pushers, whores and vice
the city underbelly we did follow -
bordellos, dives, strip joints and bars
led Skeet ‘n Rich to take in a show.
At sunup the heights of Centrepoint
with its sky towering crow’s nest -
the sun and sands of Bondi to the east
and Blue Mountains in the west.
Behold Sydney Cove in Port Jackson
where soldiers and mariners sailed,
the tall ships that her garrison moored
carried convicts from Blighty jailed.
And upon pink granite cathedral walls
a new age do new virtues espouse -
its topaz curtain glass and white sails
shining on that grand Opera House
Next destination the Capital Territory
and a disappearing lake rivermouth,
over hinterland plains and gorges deep
and Snowy Mountains to the south.
Yon Canberra to the Queensland border
at the wheel of our V6 Commodore,
over “The Bridge” up the Pacific Highway
on seawatch north to Maroochydore.
To Byron Bay, Coolangatta, Surfers rode
the onya adventures of Skeet 'n Rich,
and after a thousand miles at our backs
it was a true blue hot son-of-a-bit*h!
And at journey's end up in Cotton Tree
on Aussie time we did celebrate -
struth, with a tinny and sambuca shots
we got fair dinkum pissed, mate!
Written: April 1996
Off Season in Gallipoli
April’s bus from Lecce unloads
at the fabled fish market. It’s closed.
The only hint of June’s full fare
is one slight stall. No one lunching there.
The streets are open; we stroll at will
by a weathered or a white-washed wall.
Look at the moored boats. The slips are full.
No one paints or mends a sail.
Not one child with shovel and pail
works the beach. One man and his bull
dog play a game of pitch and fetch.
Cameras out; this is the daily catch!
The mercato. Shop? No dice!
but its facilities have no line,
leaving time to lick Italian ice
or to enjoy the local wine
and for the uncluttered spell to weave
until it’s time to leave.
I also feel blasé today February 19th, 2024
Linkedin to being lax,
and shirking house cleaning tasks,
which negligence cost us
(yours truly and the missus)
a golden opportunity
to relocate to Hillcrest Village
in Boyertown, Pennsylvania
another HUD subsidized property
under the aegis of Grosse and Quade,
one of the larger residential
property management firms
in the Delaware Valley.
Physical unwellness
(insync with racing heart) arose
because Kathleen Bergen
the new property manager
here at 2 Highland Manor
voiced absolute zero positive feedback,
upon taking lock, stock, and barrel
of appalling living conditions,
her blistering vocalization
(from wuthering heights)
translated as a foregone conclusion
against our hopes
pinned on moving into
two bedroom apartment
referenced above topmost lines.
Said plummeted disappointment
(courtesy blunt admission
out the mouth of
(humpty dumpty sat on a wall)
frumpty recent hire
identified in a previous poem
as new warden)
verbosely predicated upon
gross appearance of living space
immediately dashed cautious optimism
citing unkempt state
within no crater than
moonwalking unit b44,
whereby we wished to skadaddle
far away from obligation
to be mindful of rules and regulations
codified within a binding lease.
Unlikely home ownership
will ever come to pass,
nor the lesser prospect
to rent more spacious domicile
larger than a one bedroom apartment,
no bigger than a bread box
den me and the missus,
(a hen pecking spouse)
might befriend Bugs Bunny,
who might guarantee
adequate sized rabbit hole
constituting large enough wonderland
receiving stamp of approval
courtesy Alice in Chains
subsidized lodging money back
plus additional warren tee
granted by Mister Michael Fox,
who took me back to the future,
when the pace of life
plodded along at leisurely rhythm.
Only within outer limits
realm of twilight zone,
where dark shadows
inch along edge of night
(while two thumbs and index finger
belonging to separate good sports
grab hold the furcula
(or wishbone) structure
formed by the ventral fusion
of the right and left clavicles
and the median interclavicle
silently mouth invocation)
holds at bay, the inexplicable phenomena
moored, harbored, and docked
awaiting lucky recipient,
whose merrythought bestowed
upon he/she, they/them.
Written: July 26, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
***********
When anger swirls and trust cheats,
When hearts rupture and hope is heavy.
Our brave backs fight, and our loud teams meet.
With sounds that spin and a wonderful levy.
A reaper walks by the schoolyard gate,
Where apathy switched in the weight.
Neglect takes away everything neat,
If angels lack air, im deaden noisy street.
Not tracing bright lines, they walk in twilight,
But bask in bold acts that banish the night—
A hand that helps, a spirit so slight,
But wants honesty and does what's right.
Born under obligations, if wealth bleeds.
Florists must cope with the gnarly weeds.
They scatter lesser sympathy seeds,
And provide them with generous deeds.
In each enchanting echo of the moored,
In actions overlooked, obscured.
They sculpt rocks to form what should—
A wondrous world of whimsy, not just of could.
So when we bow below the boastful storm,
And wrath would well, a wild waveform.
These tender tutors, though not the norm,
Rekindle reminders that romance transforms.
One soul could shed that armored pride,
And wear peace pulsing deep inside.
Let humble hands reach children’s flame,
To rise beyond the hate and blame.
An ordered massif of concrete
in the green Adirondack range,
crumbling Greek amphitheater,
it’s presence strikes the mind as strange.
The chips and cracks throughout the tiers,
the weather worn orchestra shell,
a dry fountain before the stage
where grand tales performers did tell…
Atop is a projector house,
clad in lichen, needle of pine,
for movies from a golden age,
now half-lost to ruin and time.
On shifting paths of pavement cracked,
up an old sidewalk to the hill,
saplings grow where the lodge once stood,
its rooms with New Yorkers filled.
They fled here from limpid summers,
when the heat was too much to take,
well before airplanes and A.C.,
they came to this place on the lake.
Scaron Manor, once so sprawling,
now it stands fallow, gone to scale,
the nine holes, at least, still are clear,
bushy meadows where critters wail.
To the water I stroll leisurely,
the beach of old still is in use,
motorboats moored ten yards off shore,
on the fine sands are scampering youths.
I smile and walk past the fun,
to the big cement walls I do go,
craved right into the lake’s shoreline,
once home to old-school wooden boats.
I stare into this square lagoon,
it’s now all frogs and lillipads,
a child sits near with fishing pole,
has far less nibbles than his dad.
They say it’ll be a campground soon,
with bathrooms put up by the state,
showers and power for RVs,
and I’m not saying that isn’t great.
They’ll even preserve the ruins
so others can look back in time,
but I still wish the lodge was here,
to see what it was in its prime…