Long Pacific Poems
Long Pacific Poems. Below are the most popular long Pacific by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pacific poems by poem length and keyword.
I Cannot Be Any Moar Pacific!
A welcome reprieve
against blistering hazy,
hot and humid
meteorological suffocating air
found me voluntarily
hermetically sealing myself
within a climate controlled
one bedroom apartment
this Schwenksville, Pennsylvania
(actually originally Lake
Woebegone) transplant
getting acclimated to the
summer weather in Zaire,
this country determined, sans
while "blindfolded," directed,
and guided while seated
in my state of the art bedchair,
hence such chance decision,
where yours truly,
would spend the following year
gunslinging, fellow
shipping, and engaging
with bountiful mutineers
while piloting corsair
outlandishly ludicrous, incredibly
flimsy, and carelessly
held together by wirehair
with an equally
ratty motley crue
forcing yours truly
to "FAKE" being debonair,
this (Baritone Horn playing)
privateer did veer
really did mark hood
lee did quickly
twain tubby chief engineer
accomplishing (as
resident poetic web stir)
re: alias Muddy
Waters ("Roger") unclear
breathing sigh of relief,
I did not go over with
my trademark mind boggling flair
to sow confusion
within the mindscape
of one or more readers
will cause him/
her to go thermonuclear
ready to choke, gas, or throttle me
as he/she doth glare
intimidating such prediction analogously
like Moby Dick reacting violently
when Cap'n Ahab thrust a spear!
My wife was in the hospital with a condition rather severe,
Her mother came to care for our son so I could visit her there.
After several days and a few long nights I suddenly needed a break
And headed home late one night for a dip in the hot tub to take.
We live in the Pacific Northwest so you know it was rainy and wet,
But with the hot tub being outside it hasn’t stopped me yet.
I didn’t want the towel to get soaked so I hung it over the chair,
And tiptoed across the deck completely and utterly bare.
Now, our back door locks with a bolt or by the handle on the door;
My wife and I only use the bolt and never used the handle before.
I forgot there was a stranger in the house who didn’t know our usual ways,
So I guess telling you I was locked outside is something I don't need to say.
The guest room is in front and she didn’t hear me from the back;
Around the house I had to trek so on her window I could tap.
Our backyard is very private so skinny dipping is our usual norm
The front of the house, not so much, a bathrobe I wished I had worn.
My mother-in-law got quite the sight when she opened the door
I don’t think we have to worry about her visiting us any more
My wife is now fine and back at home recovering oh so well
And about three thousand times a day this story she likes to tell.
True story that just happened about 2 months ago.
San Francisco Jazz Afternoons
Carries me back to those special Sunday afternoons with you.
The striped awning Jazz cafe, our very unique,ibeloved rendezvous.
The smell of the glorious, scents of the Pacific Ocean,
Those brown flirtatious huge eyes,lashes, my West Coast sensation!
My diamond engagement ring glittered like rainbow butterfly wings.
Memories of Coltrane, Davis, music that made you my heart laugh and sing.
San Francisco, always the beguiling, mystical jewel of my heart.
Everyday people who loved peace,jazz music, discourse, finest coffee and art.
You later, bought a fresh, intoxicating gardenia for my ebony bobbed hair.
Do you recall later, Union Street in The City’s, moist, foggy, sensuous air?
The spiritual City, was indeed our forever souls', sparking, galaxy prime,
We were both as daystars, walking its winding streets, so totally divine!
4/13/2023
In Busan, the sea was quiet.
But inside the glass hall, storms gathered.
Two men met —
Trump and Xi.
East and West.
Fire and silk.
Between them, a long table.
Gold plates.
Cold eyes.
False peace.
Trump leaned forward —
“Great man, Xi,” he said.
His smile, a rehearsed illusion.
The man who built walls
now spoke of bridges.
Xi returned the favor —
“You seek peace,” he whispered.
Yet his gaze was steel.
He knew the game.
Weapons still sailed to Israel and Ukraine.
Blood financed by diplomacy.
I watched them,
like two actors in a theatre of nations.
Every gesture calculated.
Every word, a weapon.
The crowd outside believed —
because they wanted to.
Trump’s laughter echoed.
It carried arrogance.
It carried fear.
He changed colors like a storm over the Pacific.
One moment the sun,
the next, the hurricane.
And Xi,
ancient calm behind modern glass,
played the long game.
Patience — the deadliest art of all.
Around them,
the world shifted silently.
Empires fading.
New powers rising.
Truth suffocated beneath applause.
I thought —
if politics is acting,
then humanity is the audience,
blindfolded and cheering.
As long as men pretend to rule,
and lies wear crowns,
the world will spin in deception.
Peace will remain a myth,
and truth —
the only exile left.
Is this the beginning
of our future
or the beginning
of our end
This conversation
that seems to flow
so easily.
With no endings
no new beginnings
can there there be
In amongst the fishes
all the fishes
in the seas
you have found me.
In your eyes
I see something
of me
a glimmer of
that part of me
my most
favorite part
I see you in me.
This wonderful
conversation
with sentences that
comfortably and
interestingly seem
to have no start
nor end.
Thoughts that come
from nowhere
to finish
each others thoughts
mirrored thoughts
from across the
many miles.
The Pacific
lies to your side
oceans of grain
lie in between us
The deepest of
snows surround
my cold heart now.
I wait to see
your smile
I wait to hear
your laughter
I wait to talk to you
as if you were
a part of me.
For now
I will have to
wait and see
if this is our beginning
or if it is the end
of the two of us
We'll have to wait and see.
(February 1, 2011 Wausau, Wisconsin)
(c) Copyright 2011 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved
Women don’t interest me, or give me a thrill,
especially after one almost turned me into road kill.
I just avoided a scene that would have not been pretty,
while crossing the street in Atlantic City.
It seems like you gamble even after the light turns green.
To a woman in a car, her red light was unseen.
She just missed hitting me on Pacific Avenue.
For a split second, I thought my life was through.
This broad knew she was guilty, and couldn’t look me in the eye.
That was a frightening experience I cannot deny.
I never saw her again after she drove away.
I am thankful I can tell you this story today.
I live on an island in the Pacific region
The largest body of water is the OCEAN
Like, can we be more Pacific?
I think Christopher Columbus got lost
Because the directions were not pacific
Oh, excuse me, the Pacific Ocean
Where you will find the small islands (micronesia)
Where you will find the black islands (melanesia),
Where you will find the many islands (polynesia)
Generally, the islanders are like coconuts
So hard on the outside
But succulent on the inside
Yet they always end up wanting Samoa
Get this,
An assault by an Islander
is called a Hawaiian Punch
At times, these islands need a therapist when they are in a tropical depression
Some islands have sunk
Oh no do not laugh
That is not funny atoll
Sea yourself out
Therefore, I live on an island
A small island
I am a MICRO
I mean, how can I get more pacific than that?
At 10,911 meters beneath the Pacific veil,
where no submarine dares dream,
I descended into the throat of Earth—
into the trench men call Mariana,
but spirits call Theotokos.
There, the water was not water—
it was glass that hummed.
The ocean floor rose like a palace,
built of crystal bones and music stones—
a cathedral of sound and secrets.
They called it the House of Fire Music.
Inside, stood the immortalized—
Beyoncé, her aura a flicker of gold.
Jay-Z, carved from thunder and code.
Janet Jackson, wrapped in the rhythm of moons.
Dolly Parton, humming in divine frequencies.
Elvis shimmered at the corner, whispering hymns
of forgotten chords.
And then, the Beings arrived—
not gods, not angels—
but the composers behind the composers.
They stood clad in scarlet and amethyst,
eyes like suns behind veils of silk.
“We are the architects of your sound,” they said.
“Every chart hit, every sold-out stage,
begins not in your world, but here.”
A ritual began.
Each musician was summoned
to offer a letter of the alphabet.
Beyoncé stepped forward. Her voice—clear, defiant:
“I give you the letter S.”
The beings replied:
“Then we give you Single Ladies.
Take it. Sing it. The world will move.”
And so it was.
Kanye West knelt, offering P.
They gave him Power.
Lady Gaga whispered B,
and was handed Born This Way.
Freddie Mercury had once been here—
and took Bohemian Rhapsody
from their marble hands.
No song is random.
No beat is blind.
Everything—
from release dates to Grammy speeches—
is scripted by ancient rhythm codes
within the citadel of Theotokos.
They are taught the law of vibration,
the diet of frequency:
“No meat that bleeds.
No sex before sound.
No fame without silence.”
Their lives are not theirs.
Their voices are borrowed.
This world we know—
the charts, the scandals, the glam—
is just a shadow on the surface.
The music industry?
A temple built on crystal lies.
And when I rose back to the surface,
gasping, reborn—
I heard the radio play a new track,
and I knew—
It came from beneath.
(When the true toxicity of Agent Orange
was finally comprehended, the Johnson
Administration could think of nothing
better to do than simply dump the
chemical on a chain of Pacific islands,
where it sits today. Ironically, the
place is named "Johnson's Reef".)
Johnson's Reef
This nasty gunge
is worse than nukes.
It's carcinogenic.
(Ask the gooks!)
Let's put it some place
idyllic, scenic,
far away in outer space.
Stick it on some island chain
where, if it starts to leak and stain,
we're buffered by
the wide Pacific.
Careful with that rotting crate.
Gently does it. Way to go.
Just leave it on the beach.
Where could it reach?
Who knows? Let's blow.
Which way's The States?
Our destination is an island out there
In an ocean of blue with sands so fair
It has everything you would want on a paradise isle
Scenery so beautiful you can't help but smile
We set of from the pier in the Florida Keys
Journeying down south going with the breeze
Down to Panama via it's amazing canal
Sailing into the moonlight me and my gal
From ocean to ocean, Atlantic to the Pacific
Through this engineering gem, just incredible, terrific
The expanse we desire is within our sights
Out past the horizon will be many our night
With the waves we sailed to our yonder blue
Amidst colouring skies of beautiful hue
Whilst shapes from the deep shadow our course
Through the waters they ease with effortless force
Ahead in the distance we hear a thunderous crash
Breakers of white in foamy strewn splash
Sea birds aplenty in torpedo dive
Their feeding frenzy for survival strive
We anchor offshore in a lagoon so calm
As we row to the shore viewing delightful palms
Swaying in the breeze like a chorus of arms
On this paradise island showing one of it's charms
We settle into the evening in our new island home
Sleeping into tomorrow around it's shores we will roam
Living life to the full in this blissful surround
Happiness in tranquillity around us abounds
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/life-11.php