Long Rhone Poems
Long Rhone Poems. Below are the most popular long Rhone by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rhone poems by poem length and keyword.
Good listener, please lend your ear
To share my history
Before I take the poison drink,
I’ll tell you my story.
They’re coming even now to take
The city that we love
And hope is often lost and so
My tale i’ll tell you of.
When Carthage took upon itself
To find by light of day
A general? Well your in luck!
Great Hannibal did say.
He planned to cross the mountains great
Twas thought the only way,
But first to cross the river Rhone,
Great Hannibal did pray
The river Rhone rose up and warned
Don’t cross my waters grey!
No way to cross? Then all was lost
Great Hannibal did say
Then at once stood Hannibal
We’ll cross by th’end of day!? Take down those trees to make a raft
Great Hannibal did say
Over the water blue they went
Lined up in an array
And now to Rome and battle great!
Good Hannibal did say.
Due north he found an obstacle
That willed him to give way,
The northern tribes with battle cries
Great Hannibal did slay.
The biggest problem now was here
Across the mountains stray
“Great danger now we face, my men,”
Great Hannibal did say.
Across the mountains none did think
That they would last a day
Just one more hill or mountain top,
Great Hannibal would say
The crew were weary lost and torn
That made them curse the day
“But we are almost there, you see?”
Great Hannibal did say.
And soon enough the walls of Rome
Rose up as if to say
Who ventures here with war in mind?
Come greet us at our gates!
But in the Roman city there
Scipio here to stay
“No one can beat us, no one can,”
Great Hannibal did say.
At Rome’s great gates for 15 years
He waited patiently
We can’t stay here, for food is dear,
Great Hannibal did say.
So he turned back to Carthage’s gates
But met along the way
Scipio and his army great
Hannibal could not slay
When all was done his quest was lost,
And Rome would live too great,
A treaty signed so punishing
That Carthage lost its gate.
And Hannibal the general
That lost the city too
Was forced to go to lands beyond
And help as best he could.
A UK Royal Mail Ship was RMS Rhone
A sail-steamer and a two-masted brig, she shone
Rhone had an iron hull and was 310 feet long
Her compound steam engine made her fast and quite strong
An innovative ship with a bronze propeller
To save water, she had a surface condenser
The first ship so equipped to visit Brazil port
Pedro II, the king, came to see her engine fort
Left Southampton on 9th Oct., 1865
On her maiden voyage; despite troubles, she thrived
Her next five voyages were also to Brazil
Then transferred to Caribbean route, she was thrilled
Rhone proved her worth by weathering several storms
But who can escape when Mother Nature performs?
On 19th Oct.’67, Rhone and Conway
Bunkered in Great Harbour, where they stayed for few days
San Narciso Hurricane, last of the season,
Worried both captains - ferocity, the reason
Passengers from Conway were transferred to the Rhone
Conway was too soon foundered by the storm full-blown
Rhone struggled to get free, her anchor was caught fast
It was cut loose as Captain Woolley thought it best
To escape to open sea was the Captain’s plan
Sailing ‘tween two islands, avoiding Blonde Rock’s span
When Rhone was less than 250 yards from safety
The winds threw her into Black Rock Point directly
The lurching crash sent Captain Woolley overboard
The ship broke in two, causing engines to explode
The bow in 80 feet, the stern in 30 feet,
Rhone sank swiftly, the “unsinkable”, now dead meat
123 killed, were buried on Salt Island
On 29th Oct., Rhone met her sad end, unplanned
The wreck of the Rhone is now a famous dive site
Turned into a National Park , she’s a rare sight
Today, it’s visited by hundreds of tourists
And in a way, the historic Rhone still exists.
11.05.2021
12 syllables per line
For Robert James Liguori's "A Noteworthy Ship" contest
ART Vincent Van Gogh
An Afinity of Yellow
The moon is slowly engaging the afternoon sun
and the crows fly randomly o’er the fields
where wheatfields bloom with hues
of radiant energy and bright patches
of yellow imitating the sun
and Vincent, the Artist applies on the canvas
a black stroke here and a black stroke there
before the crows disperse and disappear
his Wheatfields with Crows he would create
he steps back to observe but his mind
is uneasy his affinity for the bright color yellow
is enhancing his depressed manic state
and he must strife for completion
before it’s too late for his mind and his soul
will be lost to his inevitable fate
but the Van Gogh legend must carry on
that he must fall and rise again
to seek out the night and to paint the stars
by the river Rhone
then repose himself at the Night Cafe
an absinthe to create a sensation
of a light burning bright in his brain
to paint on the morrow and borrow
what goodness will come his way
but the days grow short he can only hope
for a promising sign that he can cope
Celebration of Art Contest
Sponsored by Kim Rodrigues
April 28, 2017
The Beautiful Wind
I’ve journeyed far across the plain
I’ve searched around the world in vain.
I’ve seen sails billow o’er the sea
and yet you always hide from me.
I think upon that mistral chill
as I stood looking down the hill
reflecting o’er the mighty Rhone
how close, and yet so far, we’d grown.
I’ve chased you in your wanderlust
I followed the eluvium dust
and heard your howling cries at night
yet never held you in my sight.
When I draw near, away you hurry
and once or twice I’ve felt your fury
but how I love your gentle side…
so many times my tears you’ve dried.
I won’t accept that I am wrong
as I watch clouds dance to your song
and hear grass swaying to the tune
just love me back, you big buffoon.
It drives me mad, that much is true
that I can’t lay my eyes on you.
O blower, blower of the vane
Think not that I have gone insane.
I’ll chase you ‘til my final breath
and then perhaps we’ll meet in death
where in the heavens I shall find
you are ugly...ummm
...never mind.
08/29/15
Fierce Arctic blasts were but things of my past
Once I found romance in the south of France.
How could she entrance with one simple glance?
My lonely love fast was over at last.
No longer alone with wine of the Rhone
We shared fresh claret at the Blue Parrot,
Love, I declared it, for her hair carrot
With its golden tone banded with opal stone.
We traveled to Nice to visit my niece
At the Eden Roc and enjoyed sweet talk;
The sand shore we’d walk and watch sailors caulk.
Our joy had to cease when came the police.
I'd made my exit, a jailbird Brexit,
From a Finnish cell much too cold to tell.
It was love’s death knell as law tracked me well.
To be explicit, Finns caught this nitwit.
It is Arctic cold where I will grow old
My crimes to atone ‘til I’m skin and bone.
My heart lives alone with dreams of the Rhone
Where claret is sold; and your hand I hold.
1/30/2019
Beside the placid waters of the Rhone
A classical village rises to meet the sky,
The magnificent steeple an inverted cone
Hoists a Saint Anthony’s cross to passersby.
The placid waters of the Rhone reflect
Tightly crowded flats along the banks
While gondola-like barges quietly bisect,
Creep behind a steamer in solemn ranks.
Beyond the placid waters of the Rhone
Behind where the hamlet cannot expand
Where artist has never dimensionally gone
Are meadows and fertile stretches of land.
Above the placid waters of the Rhone
And the village so central to this scene
A cerulean sky lends a peaceful overtone
With wispy clouds, a sight not often seen.
Published in PS: It's Poetry
Anthology of Poetry Soup
Arczis Web Technologies, Inc., 2020
Chosen as a FIRST PAGE PICK
All Poetry Website
July 25, 2021
Feats of courage and the heroic death
For the cause country or the desert zones
Peeping voices low under old stony buildings
In wake of the retreating armies of the Rhone.
On the hill an impregnable fortress
On the ground a mound of hay and mud
The battering of bats against the windows
In ruins destroyed by the war of mammon.
Give us a change of seasons
A little pause of breath after the sunrise
Two and two along bundled hay stacks
An undamaged barn along the ground.
Looking across the high window there is
A landscape stretching across the fields
But the internal bonds of prison keep tying
The gaze inwards towards the shields
Facing the demigods of death and destruction
Muzzled up rifles wolf dogs punitive camps
In the verse a demolition a smouldering ash
To counteract the poisons of the times.
Searching in the night for the springs of Rhone
the asphalt embraces the stone like a snake.
"It is the only way"
said to me William Tell
at the gas station of Saint Alpine.
And when mountains stood up all around,
when we were surrounded by dark forests
and the dawn seemed to be totally lost,
you showed me your body under the starlight.
Fire and sweat gushed
from the springs of desire.
Signals of oblivion
from the wells of fear.
Love is a disease of the mind.
It gives a touch to illusions.
It makes bodies shiver.
It makes dreams bleed.
And loneliness to creak the stairs at midnight
and terrorise us.
Pledge your eyes to the lake of Geneva,
your laughter to the fireworks.
When your nights become endless
you will have me to remember.
Her tractor beam eyes draw me near,
Eyes with the ability, allowing men to leer;
A lowered bridge, allowing people to cross,
Across the wood and the moss;
Seeing her again, to me what matters most,
Where ever she may be, inland or by the coast;
Feelings for her, within me I own,
Sipping wine, along the river Rhone;
Drawing on my experience to further understand the likes of you,
Leaves me not knowing about the complexities you do;
Which clearly explains you're far too deep to understand,
Even when our time is very well planned;
When the time has come and I can no longer solicit,
Not even one morsel, not even one bit;
When things begin to go awry,
The only thing left for me to do is die.
6-3-13
Would not I carry my rugged pride
When element to element will mingle and reside
In perfumed consummation of interstellar space
In a new planet cast out of Brahama’s rage
For ever wishing my nibbled pen could trace
A line of haughty verse to silence the deadly state
The world’s affairs And all its cloud clapped might
But ends in poor surrender shorn of man’s pride
Shorn of all honour when our tattered rags do show
The imprints of tempters all their dishonest row
Then we hate to touch our mortgaged flesh and bone
When souls are slaughtered in church yards of rhone
It might have been better to explore salient venues
The spirit of dark waters or some sealed avenues.