Long Onboard Poems
Long Onboard Poems. Below are the most popular long Onboard by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Onboard poems by poem length and keyword.
She was an Indian Barbie, long curly lash
And brown complexion. The hair was
Perfect, shiny black and she had on a small
Pink gown to cover her 36-24-36 body.
Last seen, she still had on her high heeled shoes.
Oh how my daughter cried, “Dolly, Dolly,
Where are you?” when she found out she left,
It on the basketball court’s grounds. She took
It along, against her mom’s frequent reminders,
When grandpa brought her with him for a walk.
She cried horribly, my wife mailed me. Tears
Rolling down her cheeks even as her mother
Scolds, tears not for the accusatory words
But for her Dolly who is gone. Gone away,
Lost and probably in another child’s hands.
My wife, with a guilt ridden grandpa’s idea,
Told her Dolly wasn’t lost after all. In fact
She was on her dolly way to dad now who
Works onboard a ship, sailing far, far away
So he can buy milk and nappies for small kids.
“Punta sya dun kasi lungkot si Daddy di ba?”
(She went there because Dad is lonely right?)
She asks in between sobs of her mom, who
Can only nod and kiss her on the forehead
And whisper a “Yes,” the whitest of white
Lies meant to comfort a grieving, sad child.
Fast forward to the time I talked to my child
On a long distance call, from a very public booth.
She asked me if Dolly was with me, forewarned,
I can only sigh a cheerful aye. “Talaga? tignan ko nga!”
(Oh yeah? Let me see her then!)
Of course she must have meant to talk to her.
I didn’t hesitate, all so suddenly I knew what to do,
Then and there I belted a falsetto, uncaring
Of the Island people around me, for in that one
Sparkling moment, I was talking to my child not as
A father but as a long lost friend who misses her.
“HAH! Helloooo Dolly, andyan ka sa barko ni Daddy?”
(Hello Dolly, are you there on Daddy’s ship?)
She asks me after my high pitched hello, asking
with such gasped longing, with such breathless relief,
with such childlike delight and innocence. Even as
Eavesdroppers wonder what harm befell my balls!
The rest of that dreamy conversation is lost to me now.
The wonder of her tone, her concern, her yearning for
Her doll is all that remains, of the father and daughter
Transcending bounds of love, blasting colors and
Rainbows to a gray span of reality, even for a while.
---Part 2 on my poem list please read too long to post
I see so many wrapped up in rage,
it consumes them all despite their age,
anger not caused by crimes they’ve suffered,
but by ideas that some have proffered,
brought about by those malicious lies
that a person must ‘identify,’
then rant and cry as if there victims,
and some how absolved of any sin.
Brought about by scorning tradition,
and making choices supremely dumb,
not finding solace in family,
but believing they’ll ‘change history.’
The crux of it, of their angry fate,
is the need of humans to feel great,
we all feel it, but how it’s fulfilled
leads them to talking a bitter pill.
Rather then having kids of their own,
to take pride in when they are grown,
rather than build their abilities
and achieve greatness that all can see,
they instead proclaim that they’re ‘heroes,’
off fighting the power, don’t you know,
and when all the world seems ‘villainy’
it’s required that you be angry.
When something can make you feel that way
you’ll do anything to make it stay,
like a junkie seeking the first high…
the things you will do to feel alive…
Say man is woman, and women men,
take a whole sex and disparage them,
say one skin is fine, all others jerks,
pillory those folks who dare to work,
cling to ideas that killed millions,
wish your own culture to be undone,
ignore all the truths you plainly see,
to feel righteous from being angry.
This is what makes them feel good in life,
loosing that cuts worse than any knife,
they’ll proclaim you should lose all your speech,
then they’ll tell you what to think and preach,
what you should eat, and do for a job,
and dictate to you your thoughts on God,
convinced they’re elite, they’ve got it right,
that utopia is within sight,
making politics substitute faith,
so all not onboard ‘deserve’ their hate…
and their lies the great hypocrisy,
their anger is warmed up tyranny.
Their false righteousness won’t turn the page,
you can’t go backwards to a ‘better’ age,
leaving them stuck in an endless loop,
making them angry and lifelong dupes,
with little chance of finding some peace,
their addiction offers no release,
they’ll scream ‘anti-fascist,’ roam the street,
looking for random people to beat,
they’ll double down and will never find
that they are trapped in childish minds,
it must suck hard to be so PC,
forced to forever be so angry.
Energy found its way through the rigorous
rigamarole of trial and error of those persistent
like the Wright Brothers, the Curies, or Thomas
Edison, and others. The close failures were consistent.
At the time, based on their hypothesis
that it will benefit all living-kind existent.
Yet they were all clueless to the vigorous
negativity that their inventions will be hell-bent.
The electric chair, countless deaths by accidental
electrocution, then the military plane that dropped
the atomic bombs, first on Hiroshima's citadel
by using devices onboard for their best opt
to maximize deaths. Also, Nagasaki being critical.
The Atomic bombs were both propped
with radioactive properties that were essential.
Ergo, good and bad are clarified when mopped.
Since the beginning of human history,
entropy played a significant part
that affected borderlines, racial sophistry
another open flesh wound of the heart
as fanatism occupied and warped the symmetry
of religion and segregates, faiths impart
brained the clueless first via chemistry
until Tsar Bomba took the chart.
The atmospheric conditions are codependent
with temperature. Barometric condition affects
weather and health that are both consistent
as one trails a single value that projects
air quality being as effective and existent
ergo, temperature gauges the fall and rise as subjects
and cannot separate themselves as self-dependents
so they're not polarized, but affectionate objects.
A preposterous venture to entertain as the last phase
of the Three Laws. The First and Second Laws were
easily fathomed, yet the Third, like dots in a maze
became blank when they didn't link keeping the stir
as the only constant having left my mind in a haze
being kerfuffle and not stifled, the informed concur
casting doubts as temperature measures my mind strays
returns a better me. I deduced 'twas by an amateur.
First Law: Energy cannot be created or destroyed, only transformed or transferred (conservation of energy).
Second Law: Entropy, a measure of disorder, always increases in a closed system.
Third Law: As the temperature of a system approaches absolute zero, the entropy of the system approaches a constant minimum.
I chose "NFC", Not For Contest, due to my drawn conclusion, sadly truth became the judge.
Winds of change
are fanning the flames
are fanned by the deranged.
The flames of misdirection,
the winds giving chase
(orchestrated by instruments to enrage.
Horned cheering section.)
Drones of the BlackRock, riders in holdings
park their game pieces in place,
holding and withholding payment Ace.
Get out of jail free blowhards,
influencerned by the currency,
jeering and cheering till blue in the face,
screaming Climate
Emergent Divergent Hunger Games Emergency.
Media trumpet producing endearings,
(lipstick on a Pig) for their Rat King,
(as on a White Horse)
as we grow too Sheepish to speak out, too pale
and timid to spell out their obvious course,
to vomit our rejection as diseased
as we are enslaved
under cells and convections and
tales intertwined, sanctioned throughout,
Stormgate's, leak, its Codex toothed, overreaching security breach.
Never again will we be as we were,
neVer to take flight,
or steer our own course again in our own
atmosphere.
The Mandate is clear, the Score
is reported by message board monitors
of the process, onboard,
onboarding for the Beast System processors,
riding People, herding, coral carolling
to Lucifer, sacrificial Sheeple in a transitional
Rat Race, vermen looking through peepholes.
The Piper's progress is polaroided in twain,
kodachrome rolls back the esteem, smiles of the insane, back of the head, peace sign.
Shut wide eyes rolling white for dead retina scan mouth foamed enrapture
Signature erasure brain panned for fools gold,
sold out, captured souls,(devout).
Recorders in tow, changing how the wikiwind blows,
how counts voted by Moderator,
gestapo teams, Bon Appetit, Virtual Travel, Vogue, Akinator, Mad Magazine.
(Needle in the Aperture bobbin tattoo
BuckarooBonzai glass saddles and shoes.)
Laser id suture chip sewn in diodes
of TripleBeam Barley, Wheat, Triplesec, meat...
Meta threads to breadcrumb gumshoe private dick heads, treads of
sleuth your every thought and intent, move.
Passenger monitoring, the acceptable temperature, moderate beautiful soup lukewarm chum
to taste an ode to the pasts vernacular
naked lunch humble pie shoots
in the face gruel,
heckler
of riding the storm out without Jesus, fools-Spectacular.
Mine dad in the 1940’s was an organ grinder huh!, in the high seas in the Navy. In the 1940’s
Lo, the clanging, bopping, banging of prepare containers foods. Large coppers pans and pots.
Put together meals by combining and heating the ingredients in various ways. Prepared bake fix knock up grub rustle up food meshing and mashing,
a preparing organ grinder hun!
See he tampered with seasonings and sauces interfere with manipulate forging, fiddling embossing be happening as to planned Navel foods.
Was an organ grinder
Most food was boiled in the and liquid was run out via taps sort of an Entertainer of meals
Clanging, clinging, metal spoons, forks, plates, pots and pans
Happen go on in the galley. Like he was a one who played a barrel organ in the streets. kinging and clanging pots and pans sounds.
An unimportant person who does what he is told to do would cook so the seamen could eat...
chef in the Navy
my dad was galley organ
grinder Navy Chef
Keeping the craft alive twas a Navy Chef Barrel organist.
Comes and gets it a handful of cooks wheel-turners are keeping the craft alive.
There was an open fire at the back for spit-roasting and seamen
So could apply to use it if they caught a fish three-legged pots were stood in the embers.
Navy dinner time be on sail onboard personnel three main meals per day
.Breakfast: *0600–0700 lunch: 1100– 1230; dinner: *1600–1800
Chef organ grinder played the galley
The galley food is cooked and prepared
It can also refer to a land-based kitchen on a naval base,
Point of view, gourmet to beef stew to a straight design of the kitchen layout.
(CS) with ranks
culinary Specialist
organ grinder chef
“Fair winds and following seas”, food prep and served seamen for those in the United States Navy. Where they have to say farewell to mommy’s and grands meals. In 1940’s World War 2 tolls. To those retiring or leaving for deployment to cut, munch, and eat now from the galley. Of the chefs in the Navy organ grinder manning. Said the galley a method of saluting rendering honors works in galleys the seaman Chef food prep.
My dad Galley organ grinder
11/01/23
The Last Organ Grinder Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
I would have to pause in trying to remember certain things that I would have experienced or events that happened 20 years ago. On the other hand, there is one major world situation that gradually unfolded 19 years ago with which I have no trouble. For 1999, I do not remember wars, quakes, hurricanes, etc. But I do remember Y2K.
It was as if we thought the sky would fall, or something near that. It was as if someone walked out of the big house, leaving the gas on and realizing that anyone with the slightest spark would cause a blast that would cause a chain reaction setting everything in sight on fire and create the greatest worldwide catastrophy that mankind had ever known.
Why, it was as if every airplane throughout the earth would cease to fly and drop from the sky, and the late model cars and vehicles with onboard computers would not start or would refuse to run any longer leaving us all stranded in our tracks.
I tell you, the internet was a child without Facebook or Google at the time, and we now seem to be so far removed from there that I wonder if anyone even knows what I am talking about. Why, I can't remember if I even owned a computer back then or if one was in my 1992 Honda Accord. It was as if everyone had a world of questions and no one but had any answers. I suppose in this fiber optic age, that would be like the dark ages, or like having a switch and wondering what would happen when we turned on the light.
At the time, if Walter Cronkite had still been anchoring the evening news, we would have heard him say, "That's the way it is on December 31, 1999". I tell you, as I remember it, there was a bit of uncertainty and mystery about what was going to happen just past midnight as we anticipated the year 2000. That's just the way it was back then in 1999. It was as if................
12262018PoSoup.
Lucinda Brown was only seventeen
when you youth came to a dreadful end,
that was the night her home was invaded
by three vicious and horny young men.
When her father tried to confront them
they shot the poor man right in the spine,
found Lucinda and her scared mother,
it was obvious what they had in mind.
Lucinda won’t talk about what happened,
it’s hard enough having it in her head,
she and he mother woke up the next day,
they were battered, and bruised…and naked.
The police came and did what they had to,
took statements and samples of DNA,
but it matched no one in the system
so the bastard rapists got away.
Both Lucinda and her mom were shattered,
she wouldn’t leave her room for near a month,
started to think how defenseless she’d been,
started thinking of buying a gun.
Her mother took a much different approach,
she went around lecturing about ‘hate,’
became a hero amongst certain crowds
for saying,”We must teach men not to rape!”
Now this didn’t make much sense to Lucy,
everyone knew that rape was a crime,
this wasn’t a question of ignorance,
was a question of sick and twisted minds.
Fighting the wrong problem did no damn good,
it was an effort entirely in vain,
and what sense to did it make spending every day
reliving the greatest of your pains?
Three months later, upon a rare day
when he mother had come home for diner,
Lucinda mentioned a concealed carry class,
told her mom there was still a slot for her.
Lucinda had thought she would be onboard,
to take command and protect their own lives,
instead her mother got red in the face,
screamed,”Have you learned nothing from that night?
“Did you not see what guns did to you dad?
What those guns let them do to us both?
You’d sink to their level, pick up their tools,
I cannot say which though offends me most:
“That my daughter would be so simple-minded,
or that my little girl thinks she should kill.”
Said Lucy,”If it means I won’t be raped,
then I’m telling you right now, I will.”
The next three months until graduation
were difficult, their relationship cold,
when Lucy moved out, the first thing she did
was buy a thirty caliber pistol...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
The loud fastest growing
non-thinking hand-it-over
flowers are abrasive
to some who feel they are truly weeds,
just messing up us real flowers
Their gnarly appearance is
off putting because they
are not the approved people, they are clover.
They look different, they dress
different, they advocate giving
away stuff to so-called poorer flowers.
They are way too giving with our flower seeds.
This is our seed; we made it.
You cannot take it away from us.
Our gardners purchased it online or in stores.
it is ours until we throw it in the garbage.
We do not like the
abrasive irritating selfish
non-thinking hand-it-over
flower weeds who
are screaming for our seed,
who want our well-earned pollen.
Sit in the sun yourself, you poison ivy leaves!
These give-it-all-to-us weeds sometimes become
abrasive in our gardens. They are overbearing,
disrespectful, trotting over us flowers in a mean
and arrogant way.
We are so irritated with them,
they are covering us up quickly and thickly, loud and proud.
We stick up our noses and try to push through their
hard-headed, do-it-our-way-and-give-us-everything ranks.
Then when we are mortally wounded, and we see
little hope, when we lose our fight, and become weeds
ourselves, our perspective changes. We become the
arrogant and rude take-over types, tromping over each
little marigold and lavender slice, silencing them.
We are now the desperate, take-over weeds,
screaming for our due. We become the bullies.
I have no idea how to rectify the approved
flowers with us weeds, but we weeds soon
get our own way, we become
incensed, and crafty, and our dendrites kick in.
Some of us dandelions have developed magical powers.
We figured out how to look and sound less weed-like.
Some of us are running for political office,
telling the loveliest most naïve flowers what they need
to hear to get onboard and give us their seeds.
Knowing they will soon be joining the world of
weeds, and loving the knowledge we have done
it with little bloodshed, only craftiness and stealth.
Oh, it is fun to be on the bad side.
On the news today
The headline storyline was presented
and reported as follows
In Liverpool today some local right wing
protestors who's arms are up in flame's
replacing pitchforks for placards
Which was later retracted in place
of rabble of lawless youths one as
young as just age 15
Causing and terminating in a riot
and remonstrating outside a 4 Star
Hotel
Currently turned into a hostel or facility
to accommodate Asylum seekers
Because and due to according to official
press releases and reports
Misinformation being posted on social
media platforms
Which left the male only residents inside
traumatized and fearing for their own
safety and lives
So much so they do no longer wish to
stay as are now so fearful to even
contemplate leaving the confinement
of the building let alone venturing outside
Now it all depends on what and which
you as individual choose to be believe
As everything unless you were actually
there to witness it with your own eye's
and for yourself
You have no choice unless you know
someone who was actually there
But to take onboard the way it is
reported by the news media believing
they are holy trustworthy
Like in the aftermath the very next day
a reporter is stood outside interviewing
One of the Asylum seekers describing
exactly how bad it actually was and the
general mood and feeling amongst
those inside
With not a scowl but rather a broad
smile seemingly more than willing
actually happy to be interviewed
With what appeared to look like or
be a backpack as if he was just off
out for a morning strole to the shops
for the maybe daily milk or bread
Not someone in fear all dressed up
well prepared in expectations of an
impending fight
And granted that I did not see the
contents of hidden inside his bag
I'll have to rest my case
Otherwise I am in fear of falling into
the same category of what the media
do ever so well
Like insinuating presuming and making
things up as I go
And never letting the truth get in the
way when trying to embellish and
over egg a story
~Internal Rhyme~
I longed to explore the seven seas, sails filled with tropical breeze.
My sturdy craft, Hope Anew, would carry me upon the oceans blue.
I was captain and crew of my ship, a bit of rum from cask to sip.
Appeared an island not on my chart, mutiny came from my heart.
On love's course we then flew, in dangerous waters I never knew.
Captain Heart sailed through a reef, to a bay off the Isle of Grief.
Filled with many a dorsal fin, what a mess my heart had me in.
Island reef was shark infested. If love awaited, it would be tested.
I heard a call from the beach. A man held out his hand to reach.
Capt. Heart yelled, "To shore! I want him and nothing more!"
I, no pirate seeking treasure, but Heart demanded her pleasure.
Dinghy loaded with my gear, I felt more than a twinge of fear.
Upon Heart's harsh command, I accept the man's offered hand.
His touch I soon came to know, I felt love take hold and grow.
Bur before long it all changed; my life altered and rearranged.
The isle earned its name when love chose to play a cruel game.
I left the bed where we slept, down to the beach where I wept.
I sat upon moonlit sand, against Heart I had to take a stand.
Hope Anew rose on a wave. "Come", she creaked, "I can save."
I looked back, tears in my eyes, treasure lost but he was no prize.
Into the sea I started to swim, knowing I had to leave him.
Ever closer to Hope Anew, I heard him calling me, "Lady Blue."
He stood looking out to me, I turned away and swam out to sea.
I felt a salty tear sting my eye, as I cried farewell and goodbye.
Onboard my ship I felt rancor, but managed to pull up anchor.
At the prow I faced the breeze until pain took me to my knees.
Isle of Grief took its toll upon my heart and wrecked my soul.
I escaped emotional death. I'll swear it to my very last breath.
I cast my memories into the sea and from pangs of love I am free.
I painted over Hope Anew, she now wears the name of Lady Blue.
My tears have all dried and I've restored my life, and my pride.
Captain Heart is bound to the mast, for treachery I've tied her fast.