Long Ports Poems
Long Ports Poems. Below are the most popular long Ports by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ports poems by poem length and keyword.
Missing that Shinning Sea
Often starring at ocean waves,
just blocks from its sea gulls and sandy shores.
Daily visits never grew old; the water was always cold.
And the gulls fly low, enjoying their favorite spots.
Arrested with fascination of seals resting on solid rocks,
campers and outdoorsmen alike, parked by the sea side
Residing in the sunset district and sleeping by the sound of ocean tides,
A young family was often captured, viewing beauty from bay windows.
They engulfed the cool breezes and observed the rolling fog;
walking along its windy shores, building castles in the sand
Neither rooster crows nor cricket sounds, or even lightning bugs;
sweet sleep danced to the music of fog horns, as they sounded out faithfully;
Ships from Far East ports, passing slowly through the golden gate;
delivering huge containers of merchandize, made mostly in China
Just a short walk from the Pacific is that great and gorgeous park.
Strolling along beaten paths, or laughing and flying kites,
a father and his two kids played with sheer delight;
and embraced the breezes, mostly calm and cool
06082016 cj PS
Rejection Slips 4
Editor's Notes
by Michael R. Burch
Eat, drink and be merry
(tomorrow, be contrary).
( and complain
in bad refrain,
but please, not till I'm on the plane!)
Write no poem before its time
(in your case, this means never).
Linger over every word
(by which, I mean forever).
By all means, read your verse aloud.
I'm sure you'll be a star
(and just as distant, when I'm gone);
your poems are beauteous (afar).
Less Heroic Couplets: Rejection Slip
by Michael R. Burch
pour Melissa Balmain
Whenever my writing gets rejected,
I always wonder how the rejecter got elected.
Are we exchanging at the same Bourse?
(Excepting present company, of course!)
I consider the term “rejection slip” to be a double entendre. When editors reject my poems, did I slip up, or did they? Is their slip showing, or is mine?
Ode to Postmodernism, or, Bury Me at St. Edmonds!
by Michael R. Burch
"Bury St. Edmonds—Amid the squirrels, pigeons, flowers and manicured lawns of Abbey Gardens, one can plug a modem into a park bench and check e-mail, files or surf the Web, absolutely free."—Tennessean News Service. (The bench was erected free of charge by the British division of MSN, after a local bureaucrat wrote a contest-winning ode of sorts to MSN.)
Our post-modernist-equipped park bench will let
you browse the World Wide Web, the Internet,
commune with nature, interact with hackers,
design a virus, feed brown bitterns crackers.
Discretely-wired phone lines lead to plugs—
four ports we swept last night for nasty bugs,
so your privacy's assured (a threesome's fine)
while invited friends can scan the party line:
for Internet alerts on new positions,
the randier exploits of politicians,
exotic birds on web cams (DO NOT FEED!) .
The cybersex is great, it's guaranteed
to leave you breathless—flushed, free of disease
and malware viruses. Enjoy the trees,
the birds, the bench—this product of Our pen.
We won in with an ode to MSN.
Keywords/Tags: rejection, rejection slips, write, writing, poet, poets, poems, poetry, internet, social media, society, culture, virus, viruses, viral, coronavirus, malware, world wide web
I've traveled from the farm in Indiana, the place of my humble birth,
To places I never dreamed of seeing all around this earth!
On ships, trains and airplanes visiting fascinating ports of call,
And dining in hoity-toity eateries, more than I can ever recall!
I've dined on such exotic dishes as Beef Eterhazy and Athenian Moussaka,
Nasi Goreng, Halibut Cheeks, Paht Thai and Linguine Bugatta;
Linguine Primavera, Mahi Mahi, Lobster Thermidor and Cordon Blue,
Canard a L'Orange, Chateaubriand and savory Fillet of Wahoo!
I enjoyed those epicurean delights, but they'll never compare,
To the simple, wholesome dining on good old country fare!
I salivate thinking about a heaping plate of cornbread and beans,
With a salad on the side of fresh garden picked lettuce greens!
I drool just thinking about a hearty meal of meat and taters,
With stuff fresh from the garden like sweet peas and 'maters,
Home-made oven baked biscuits and heaps of fried chicken.
Ah, the very thought makes my old ticker begin to quicken!
Just to contemplate a repast of Bermuda onions and fried liver,
Gets my mouth watering and sets my old bones aquiver!
May you enjoy your Pate de Fois Gras at the country club;
I'll settle anytime for good old nourishing country grub!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
It is said that the dance of soul all there is,
sustaining all ecstasies by image certainties.
Vapors from galaxies atmospheres for sure,
expressions of divinities by light of pure.
Souls changing bodies in time,
as animals, plants and crystals to refine.
The dance by rhythm of the divine beloved,
frequencies in gestalt gently gloved.
Manifestations through mysteries observed,
rising the surface of living light preserved.
The joy by tears in depth of life perfection,
to know the dance of soul protection.
Loving Spirit under all heavens remains,
unfolding natures bliss by heart domains.
The Sufis dance in spirals trance,
waves in the ocean of eternities romance.
Voyages from ports of spheres towards pearly stars,
genius talents follow those spiral memoirs.
Melodies from the wandering Moon, what are they?
enchanted dancing souls with no decay.
Old savannah, how old are you really
The moss hanging from the tree tells it all
Big oak and hickory that speaks and whispers
Old savannahs, how old are you really
Old street car rails still in place
If those street cars could talk
It would tell you an awesome story of its travels
Old savannah, how old are you really
With old statues of the folks that lived, fought and die here
Museums that tells your story
Old boats that travels up and down the river
To see historic heritage
Slave ships that docked at the ports
Showing signs of savannah’s events
Old savannahs how old are you really
On ocean's journey the wee lad set sail
slight frame a-tremble and gaunt face so pale
His fortune and fame for to seek
The grand ship had been christened the 'Lodestar'
Rugged build for adventure's repertoire
This voyage not one for the meek
To ports far from home, to islands unknown
A typhoon sprang up, the poor lad did groan
His future looked bleak
African pirates cursed and swash-buckled
Hyenas unleashed their high-pitched chuckles
Overcome, the lad couldn't speak
Ship's captain gave the order, 'Walk the plank.'
The wee lad woke just in time to give thanks
To his bedroom door for its creak
Ships sail from ports of every distant land,
to enter the deep waters of the sea or ocean;
and my ship will battle another storm before dawn,
when the waves batter on the front deck...
I'm a modern day navigator,
and unlikely Vasco da Gama or Columbus,
who used an ancient compass
to direct their long course;
I use advanced technology, having more
time to admire a starry sky so celestial...
relying on their accuracy so incredible
and steering skills for a safe arrival.
And more beautiful serenity seems to the adventurous eye
when sunrise sets this bold one aglow,
and with a chiseled face, so attentive and ruddy, I deem
something real and inevitable by looking above;
will nebulous skies and misty horizons...
prevent me from discovering new places?
And will my diminishing courage outlast any tempest,
which approaches with loud gusts to disrupt my rest?
I grapple the certainty of a possible surprise,
but I despair not...until with scrutinizing eyes,
I spot the gleaming light-house coming into view;
and I'll be staring in the nocturnal navy blue:
while my ship is anchored at the nearest port,
to make all hear the elation of my worth...
The days just seem to be whizzing by
In a month I'll be seventy-eight
Seems like just a few years have passed
Since going on my very first date
Exciting days of discovering new things
The world was shiny and new
A little bit scary but an absolute blast
Disappointments I've had just a few
All in all it's been a fabulous journey
Stopping at many great ports
Wouldn't change a thing even if I could
But the journey was way too short
Maybe I'll return as a piece of sculpture
Observing your every move
Perhaps a treasured Stradivarius violin
Serenading visitors at the Louvre
Even come back as a well worn seat
In a popular Hollywood restaurant
Rubbing bums with some famous people
What more could a simple guy want
The days just seem to be whizzing by
In a month I'll be seventy-eight
© Jack Ellison 2013
fo'c·'sle /'fohksel/ noun deriv: forecastle
1. the forward part of a ship below the deck, traditionally used as the crew's living quarters.
2. historical: a raised deck at the front of a ship.
With the equinox illuminating a fortnight of recovery
On pelts spread like Ionian jars left askew,
My flame-keep sparked alight against the doldrums of
Greed. Stagnant and fetid.
My bark beats out a call stretched
Skin-tight over the sea’s virgin core
And sets trust aflame.
Ashes collected into the collated casks and
Corked with animus, Moon Girl pounded on.
Drumming a dirge on the tanner's own flesh.
Pounding the seed of echoing hope.
Pounding the corpus beat of life anew.
Those echoed my own harmony and emptied my ears.
My tunes would now be true and crisp.
My struggle to syncopate the middle eight
Was like on the saltchuck the time before.
Before we crossed the bar,
Breakers chasing, pounding aft of stern.
Now in the glow of the coal oil lamp
Sat The Dane who came to trade.
He mumbled a Chinookian curse and winced.
He sensed my mariner's cred, how I lit my smoke;
Muscle memory and addiction married in my subconscious.
But His eyes would never sense the venomous flow
Of the seabreak distant,
Like hounds baying to the highway of stars
And up to the dunes ran with phosphorescent faces
Fermenting the blackness.
Hell-hounds bounding.
Lungs pounding.
Driving on.
River may lick Disappointment’s shanks
But Drake’s gold remains unfound.
The cavities carved along the capes
Echo an emptied ethos and sapped spirit
Which salal and sage cannot clense.
Walk with me now Sister Ilchee.
Beat your dirge
Along the pock-marked ports of plunder
Laid before the flattened corpse of
Ebbing freedom found.
THE RIVER OF TAR
The River Of Tar
By
Kevin L Fairbrother
The river of tar… an artery
A means to access the highways
Branching through capillaries of roads
Penetrating the Australian landscape
...
The river of tar weaves and wanders
Through cities, towns and villages
Along the coast, in the mountains
To the dessert land of the outback
…
The river of tar, provides the means
For a diverse population to live
A life blood for so many
Scattered through-out the land
…
The river of tar melds with the gravel
Reaching small towns away from the cities
Unites with the red dirt roads that access
Outback stations and dessert communities
…
The river of tar makes it possible, to
Grow and harvest the food we need
To mine and export the minerals
The fruit and vegetables that grow abundantly
…
The river of tar provides an access
To the ports to harvest the sea
For the tourists to experience
Our great Australian diversity
…
The river of tar a grey nomads dream
Living a life of adventure before dementure
Experiencing the pioneering spirit
Keeping so many small towns alive
…
The river of tar we owe our for-bares
The explorers, the pioneers, now long gone
Blazed the many roads we see today
Enabling everyone to see our great land