Long Nets Poems
Long Nets Poems. Below are the most popular long Nets by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Nets poems by poem length and keyword.
Village by the Sea
In Bonanamo's haven, where echoes of the sea,
White sandy beaches, a cradle for dreams to be.
Glorious sunsets, a canvas painted bold,
A symphony of colors, a tale to be told.
Fishermen set sails with the first light's kiss,
Their hopes are woven in nets, a daily bliss.
Returning with catches when the winds decree,
In Bonanamo, the sea feeds a family.
Living by the shore, where the wind plays games,
Blowing sand gently, whispering sea-named names.
Under coconut palms, where shade finds its grace,
Mothers watch as children explore the saltwater's embrace.
Sunbeams dance on waters, a radiant ballet,
As kids take a dip in the cool of the day.
Market Square is alive with buai and smoke,
Gathered tales and laughter, a communal yoke.
In Bonanamo's heart, where stories intertwine,
The village thrives on a timeless design.
With each tide's rhythm and sunlit laughter,
Bonanamo lives on, a seaside chapter.
You hunted me in the sea
You knew just where I would be
I would come up for air
With harpoons you were right there.
You slaughtered ones like me
In every ocean , every sea
not caring if young or old
Only the tales of being bold
You would chase me for miles
Shooting harpoons all the while
In most cases it was for fun
You did not care, I was on the run
You threw out your nets and floats
Knowing full well that they could choke
It could take me way down
So I could not breathe and drown
You would hang ones like me
On your boats for all to see
You did not care that I could see
My kind hanging before me
You hunted us , we are just a few
So little of us left, if you only knew
Extinction crept up so fast
Banning has got to last
Our numbers have so declined
Your race cannot be so blind
We once roamed the oceans and sea
now please just let us whales be.
Death has released your soul upon this sad eve,
and there is nothing that I can do but grieve.
As a dying sun sets.
A trickle of tears has morphed into a flood,
and my heart shrivels, as though drained of its blood.
As painful as it gets.
And the fabric of my life starts to unweave,
confronting a truth I don't want to believe.
As chills turn into sweats.
I have not come to grips with the pain I feel,
clinging to the belief your death isn't real.
Life has no safety nets.
Slipping into dreams that you frequently haunt,
I can cuddle with you as long as I want.
My dreams hold no regrets.
Without you, a scarlet sunset seems mundane,
Nature's spectacle has been reduced to plain.
Brokenhearted sunsets.
Le Cirque Bleu
The spotlight is aglow through the gloam
The light an indigo ink modifying color
She swings her body with agility thrusting backwards
upside down, with unseen wings,
an acrobat aerials amid the roar
She looks pretty with her fan in one hand,
long tresses flowing loosely
A circus horse made of jade below
makes eye contact and an interconnection
Without movement they are in an eternal trance,
In the deep dark yonder the golden helio appears
Fiddle and banjo play for the opening adagios act La Nouba
Her leotard tightly invokes, red with flower imprints
Statuesque, still in time showing off her physique
and impressing spectators from below the fliers' pedestal
From above the nets, with ease, she imagines a
world where gravity defies, and animals and objects fly
Flights of fancy within the flying trapeze
flights of fancy an indigo trapeze ~ from above jade nets, an ease
A black bear climbed a tree.
The tree
was not in a suburb,
more an un-walled hiking space.
A concerned cell phone monitor
caught the bear up a tree
while it was being a bear up a tree.
This cannot stand.
A bear up a tree,
almost near to us,
we who jog, walk, or off-road
near the very same kind of tree!
The press are alerted.
News trucks race to see
a bear up a tree.
Pundits posit humane euthanasia,
some favor dope-filled blow guns,
poles and nets.
The bear cannot hear the news,
for it is up a tree.
An outraged dawn breaks.
The bear is no longer up a tree,
it has been spotted
as definitely not up a tree!
For days no black bear is seen
climbing a tree,
or even a nearby tree.
News trucks race to be
somewhere else.
the right place at the right time
God direct my steps
protect my mind from evil
be my strength in the midst of beasts
be the judge of my part
in this dying world
God lead my ways
cos their is evil everywhere
we are devalued by each day
yet we don't see what drag
us down even when is clear
so protect me God
for my feet shakes in your fear
never forsake me oh God
for in the nets of man made
destruction
we all are bond in illusion
so let your light brighten up
the hearts of men
protect our weakness from
manipulation and let us be always at
the right place at the right time
butterflies hover
because they can't crawl ~ but one
was trying to crawl
but it did not let it crawl
not let a butterfly crawl
what monstrosity
to let a fragile wee thing
not to crawl
we'll call animal control
and see what they have to say
they'll probably ask
to have 'um locked and put
away for sometime
but strike of the final blow
was the coup de grace~it's dead
a death for a death
but sir, it's just an insect
not a real person
where's the compassion I heard
all murderers in my book
so he'll get away
with the crime he committed
no body no crime
that's the way cookies crumble
I'll take you to the body
of a butterfly
it's not animal control
but men with the nets
but those guys they euthanize
not lock up that murderer
its a pussy cat
if you want to put a name
on that killer's face
it's Jeffrey Dahlmer or the
Zodiac killer so there
Vast, powerful motion of all time,
How many do you facilitate sublime?
To discover, protect and to ably fight,
By wood, to keep our territory right.
To race, enjoying the sea air of such waft,
And to fish for delicious bites from our nets cast;
Enjoying the freedoms of the Common Fisheries Policy,
Having livelihoods protected through areas of advocacy.
One of carbon and two of oxygen, water,
And of course with salt which does the liquid alter;
Also with sodium, magnesium, calcium and sulphate too,
Plus the ions potassium and chlorine which do.
You can't really drink it apart from a sip,
But seawater and its fish can be boiled for your lip;
Cod’s coming back as no more overfished,
So pollock does not anymore need to be wished.
Our first travels were made on the ocean wave,
Its captains gave respect and sensibly did behave;
We journeyed from England to America to make,
A life for ourselves which nobody was to brake.
It moves with power, and sometimes takes a life,
And hides oil that's dug through much toil and strife;
The global community needs to channel its energy,
For renewable sources to be designed with synergy.
Cuba, my country, my love.
Morning arrives carrying the scent of salt, strong coffee, and wet fishing nets spread across the sand. An old boat waits for the tide the way a man waits for one more chance.
The palm trees do not speak.
They do not need to.
The light says enough.
I have seen harbors in many places, but none has ever held the sun the way this island does. None has made failure into a form of dignity, nor hope into the work of every single day.
Cuba, my country, my love.
If I must ever leave, may the wind remember my name only long enough to carry me home again in thought.
For there are lands one visits, and there are lands that never leave the heart.
The sea will go on breathing.
The fish will go on fleeing. Men will continue casting their lines.
And as long as the horizon exists, this love will exist also—steady as the dawn, as deep as the water.
Cuba, my country, my love.
I've wandered many islands,
Seen countless shades of blue.
But none compare, my friends, to where
The glass and lace ring true.
Let me paint you a picture,
Of Murano's fiery art,
And Burano's rainbow houses,
That set these isles apart.
Murano's furnaces blazing,
Glass maestros at their craft.
Molten sand transformed into beauty,
With every skilful draft.
The clink of cooling crystals,
A melody so clear.
Chandeliers and figurines,
Fragile art appears.
In Burano, colours dancing,
On every house and street.
A painter's palette comes to life,
Where sky and water meet.
Lacemakers' fingers flying,
Creating intricate dreams.
Their needles flash like lightning,
Stitching stories at the seams.
The canals reflect the hues,
Of houses standing tall.
A kaleidoscope of wonder,
Enchanting one and all.
Fishermen's boats bob gently,
In waters calm and still.
Their nets full of the day's catch,
The air with salt air fills.
The church tower leans so slightly,
A guardian of time.
Watching over coloured houses,
In this land so sublime.
Tourists wander, cameras clicking,
To capture every sight.
In this magical lagoon world,
Bathed in Venetian light.
As day fades into twilight,
The islands slowly sleep.
But their beauty keeps on glowing,
A memory to keep.
So when you're seeking wonder,
And your heart yearns to roam,
Remember Murano and Burano,
Where art and colour call home.
In glass and lace and painted walls,
These isles have cast their spell.
A testament to human craft,
And nature's beauty as well.
So let the world keep turning,
But pause here for a while,
Where Murano's glass keeps burning,
And Burano's colours smile.