Long Rime Poems
Long Rime Poems. Below are the most popular long Rime by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rime poems by poem length and keyword.
(note: The site restrictions don't allow long epic poems, so I have split this into 6 segments, each should run straight on from the previous one.)
THE EYE OF THE SEA
Or
The Rime of the Ancient Kubla Kahn on the Road to Mandalay
There washed ashore a devil’s whore
Who claimed he’d never been paid,
Near dead from Sin, or weatherin’
Yet feared to loose his blade.
We did our best to ease his rest,
But our experts all were vexed:
The Old Wives College exhausted their knowledge;
The doctors cursed their texts.
Wracked with pain his life had waned
His eyes were growing dim,
His final words were barely heard:
Everything looked grim.
With chicken pills we cured his chills,
For strength we gave him broth,
His brow was mopped, his temperature watched,
We swaddled him in sailcloth.
Then from afar with strengthened heart
As if ‘twere heaven’s game
His mien changed, he had regained
The pilot to his flame.
In heartened mood we gave him food,
And bade his tale be told;
And so he spoke for the price of a toke
And a butcher’s bag of gold.
“ ‘Twas in the port of Herringford,
Where all the cows lie down,
A skipper talked, he claimed he sought
A crew of great renown.
The wind was high in a sunless sky,
The waves were barreling in,
And word got round of men to be found
That night at The Mortal’s inn.
At eight o’clock the bolts were shot
And all were locked within,
With muttered words of rumours heard
And lubricant of Gin.
The Captain coughed and glanced around
For conversations shed,
With laser gaze and aged malaise,
In a darkened voice he said:
‘Into the storm at the crack of dawn
We sail on the morning tide,
Let no man here betray his fear,
His passion or his pride!’
The aim of the endeavour was legend’ry treasure,
The fabled crystal ship of the Prince,
Lost years before off the Straits of Nepal,
And famously quested for since.
Our boat, ‘The Eye,’ was a Barquentine,
Just a quarter league in length,
She sailed as sweet as a sackful of eight,
With grace and speed and strength.
Twelve good men without pretence
Agreed to the journey ahead,
But the cheery tales of places sailed
Belied their inner dread.
The crew we got were a hardy lot,
Experienced one and all,
But none were fools and caution ruled
When it came to signing aboard.
Continued on The Eye of the Sea part 2
" Ship of Doom "
Ship of doom so sailed to sea ~
Dark her course... 'twas meant to be ~
Into seas this great ship sped ~
Her past... her history... of naught but dread ~
O'er those waves her bows did'st cleave ~
Her memories... but silken webs to weave ~
Thunder on her decks was heard ~
Yet sailors aboard spake no word ~
For ship such as she was doomed thus so~
Gone north into winds then fierce a'blow ~
Down her bows crept steadily then ~
None to know which verse thus then ~
For rime was abound on her decks those days ~
Yet aloft was fire seen from her stays ~
Off afar from crow's nest was hailed ~
As below in her belly that crew did bail ~
For her planks ridden with dark worm & rot ~
Such ship did'st sail from whence known not ~
Far corner o'globe she ran from ever ~
Home her port seen oft yet never ~
Equator her line of happenchance ~
Capricorn her thought yet not her stance ~
Now she sails a spars a'glisten ~
A'deck her men all a'listen ~
Now speaks thus such sorrowful ship ~
With voice akin to crackin' o'whip ~
Hail! Ye Lads.... heartily all ~
Sail we've had & such so a'ball ~
Now deep down Davy Jones' way ~
I'm thus bound this cold north day ~
My sprit I drive now into next wave ~
Darkness & silence I do now crave ~
Gone from me now pleazure o'sound aloft ~
For me hull is naught but now gone soft ~
I'll seek that bottom at sea's very depths ~
Were there I'll find my wager thus kept ~
With devil I’ve played throughout these years ~
Now I’ll so lay to rest all such fears ~
Sail with me now lads & lasses bold all ~
Into realms which di'dst us then enthrall ~
Gone only now our fine spark & fire ~
Quenched so by life's sodden quagmire ~
Off now go we & heads look a'forard ~
To see what 'twas behind & now not toward ~
Rocks... reefs... depth’s sandy shoals ~
These so now our woe begotten goals ~
So to break up these planks hath caused me to live ~
For as ship o'the main I was once known to give ~
Now all such gone with wild sea's winds ~
As now my time... mirrors death's sins ~
Down down down do I speed ~
In need o'sleep... dark do I need ~
Run now quickly from my decks so I say ~
Or with me in devil's depths ye shall play ~
Bouzouki in hand I now last am at rest ~
For with song always I have been best ~
Tsifteteli my dance so join me now so ~
For life is naught that which e'er we'll know ~
SeaWolf
©
OPEN
Each
chiselled
line
enamel
images
to float
upon
sounds
sans
rime
staccato
syntax
align
symmetry
as
iambics
beat
the
drum
of
vers
liber...
....tine
crosswise MATISSE
Your art your notes your style
So varied so wise so true
Opened then drew close to
My eye my mind my heart
My eye my mind my heart
To love to learn to know
Your craft your theory your technique
Forever you made so unique
crosswise-GRAND-DAUGHTERS FAIR
Your innocence your purity your smile
So open so natural so wide
Charms enchants awakes
My spirit my eyes my pride
My spirit my eyes my pride
Inside in wonder in youth
To pray to gaze to praise
In love in awe of thee
quintile-SWEET VERSE
words too
familiar
or too remote
defeat the purpose of which,
he wrote
was his
hidden
enigma
a step too far,
if no-one could open
his jar
Inspired by Johnson's famous dictum
sequence-THE COUNSELLOR
He
opens
hearts and minds
in sickness and
health-
He
draws us
to himself
a quiet voice
we
hear
prompts
and reminds-
until peace we
find-
Then
fills us
with His word,
so we may be
heard
Fibonacci-faith quaternion
when
I
listen
God will speak
when God speaks
my mind
will
hear
when
the
open
door closes
light begins to glow
a new way
for me
to
go
An open verse
Will
my verse
reach your ear
can
your eye
stay the course
Does
unconvention
confound
the rhythm
of your eyes
Take
a deep breath
exhale and read
between my lines
unphased
by phrase and
habitude
or human voice
The choice
is always
yours if
my poem will
be or is
not to be
a tune upon
your ear
‘Water’ seems a fitting title
of this rhyme on something vital
for the beings we take care of
and the others we’re aware of.
Life on Earth depends on water,
whether human or sea otter,
fish or fowl, whatever creatures
having some subsistence features.
Water may have been existent
in archaic ages distant
long before we tend to think—
even water that we drink.
Yet when in our galactic history
it was formed has been a mystery…
The researchers have debated
as to if it could be stated
that this liquid can be dated
back to when it’s been related
there was a disk of gas and dust
and molecules that were a must
for water that originated
when our ‘system’ was created
(namely, ‘solar’, where we’re fated)…
Or might it be more antiquated?!
Could we trace to outer space
the genesis that took place
of the water in our glass?
If indeed this came to pass,
it would open up new queries,
not to mention E.T. theories…
But that’s within the jurisdiction
of those who compose science fiction.
Many scientists have avowed
that from the Sun’s parental cloud
of interstellar dust and gas,
from which our star derived its mass,
water, well, to be precise,
water in the form of ice
was inherited there and then,
in that olden where and when…
Some astronomers theorize
that what we may not realize
is up to half the H2O
within the oceans that we know
right here on Planet Earth could be,
yes, older than the Sun we see
illuminating from on high,
in daylight’s path across the sky,
our frets and frolics down below,
where heedlessly we come and go…
Water and life go hand in hand,
from briny deep to wooded land.
In the mariner’s rhyming tale,
all the winds at sea did fail,
and the sailors lives were lost—
the idle ship was merely tossed
as if on a painted ocean,
painted ship, devoid of motion.
There was water ‘every where’,
Coleridge says, except that there
was none to quench their parching thirst;
so the voyage seemed doubly cursed.
Water is such precious stuff!
Do we value it enough?
Oh, may there never come a time
(as in that famous rhyming rime)
when as to water here on Earth—
where mortals meet their death and birth—
we too will ever need to think
that there is not a drop to drink!
~ Harley White
" Rime of the Ridiculous Mariner "
{warbled to the Merry Tune: Jingle Bells!}
Jingle Bells & Flyin' Hulls
All sheets in so tight~
Yikes Ahoy! There's the ploy!
Sail right through this night!
Run downwind beat to weather
fall off as ye wish~
Set your mizzen up yer main
tops'ls catch all flyin' fish!
All's well in yer cockleshell
if'n yer head be screwed on right~
Ne'er fear horizon's near
as ye sail as though in flight!
Some shall say if they may
yer off yer rocker tonight~
They them are whot's ne'er far
from bein' sunk from sight!
So this I say to them that may
now hold your hands aloft!
Fer if ye think a sieve will sink
yer mind is goin' soft~
A hole is but what a troll doth see
when all is nightly dark~
For they who may shall thusly say
to all a merry Hark!
Plug yer doubts & ne'er pout
for all shall soon be fine~
Break the cask & lift the flask
let's drink up all this wine!
Sail the ship & give the slip
to all that's dark & dull~
Rock & roll fill the bowl
let's sail this mighty hull!
To those who think this rime doth stink..
damn I say to ye~
Try yerself those wines top shelf
& stand so we all may see!
Fer if yer not all outta pot
& ain't fell in the drink~
I'll pipe right down without a frown
& really begin to think!
The smoke will show all such folk
whot's made me mind so daft~
Fer always have me wishes come
of that whot's all abaft!
One day soon shall then I swoon
as knowledge comes to me~
That all me life I've had me wife
around me as the sea!
Now this then is reason 'tis
me sits alone in bed~
Fer last wench was had me heart
we fell so soon apart!
She caught me far below the keel
& spoutin' off me spiel~
I tried me best but failed the test
got caught showin' off me eel!
Now I sail tied to the rail
for all mermaids to see~
He who did dare to bid
for just a moment's glee!
All whot was dear & near
such truly did'st I wish~
But Har! 'Twas sure underrr that keel
she surely was a dish!
Avast! Ye say! 'Tis way too much
all this rime of such~
So shall I agree as with my sea
fer I've had me quite a touch!
I'll leave ye now & point me bow
into a raging wave~
Fer now ye know I'm all a'blow
& naught but sea do crave!
Jingle Bells & Flyin' Hulls
All sheets in so tight~
Yikes Ahoy! There's the ploy!
I'll sail right through this night!
SeaWolf
©
The Wanderer, Part II
Awakening, the friendless man confronts the murky waves,
the seabirds bathing, broadening out their feathers,
the hoar-frost, harrowing hail & snow eternally falling…
Then his heart’s wounds seem all the heavier for the loss of his beloved lord.
Thus his sorrow is renewed,
remembrance of his lost kinsmen troubles his mind,
& he greets their ghosts with exclamations of joy, but they merely swim away.
The floating ones never tarry.
Thus care is renewed for the one whose weary spirit rides the waves.
Therefore I cannot think why, surveying this world,
my mind should not contemplate its darkness.
When I consider the lives of earls & their retainers,
how at a stroke they departed their halls, those mood-proud thanes!,
then I see how this middle-earth fails & falls, day after day…
Therefore no man becomes wise without his share of winters.
A wise man must be patient,
not hot-hearted, nor over-eager to speak,
nor weak-willed in battles & yet not reckless,
not unwitting nor wanting in forethought,
nor too greedy for gold & goods,
nor too fearful, nor too cheerful,
nor too hot, nor too mild,
nor too eager to boast before he’s thought things through.
A wise man forbears boastmaking
until, stout-hearted, his mind sure & his will strong,
he can read the road where his travels & travails take him.
The wise man grasps how ghastly life will be
when all the world’s wealth becomes waste,
even as middle-earth already is, in so many places
where walls stand weather-beaten by the wind,
crusted with cold rime, ruined dwellings snowbound,
wine-halls crumbling, their dead lords deprived of joy,
the once-hale host all perished beyond the walls.
Some war took, carried them off from their courses;
a bird bore one across the salt sea;
another the gray wolf delivered to Death;
one a sallow-cheeked earl buried in a bleak barrow.
Thus mankind’s Maker laid waste to Middle Earth,
until the works of the giants stood idle,
all eerily silenced, the former joys of their halls.”
Keywords/Tags: Anglo-Saxon, translation, Old English, wanderer, winter, ice, snow, frost, sea, ocean, seabirds, heart, heartbreak, loss, loneliness, alienation, sorrow, death, ghosts, dark, darkness, wise, wisdom, war, bird, birds, wolf, giants
So shocking was that news from France,
we stared at TVs in a trance;
no way to understand.
Those young and old without a chance
were taken down in wide expanse.
Such horror had been planned.
Who could have then foreseen the fate
upon them cast by those who hate?
Just gathered there for fun,
not knowing that their deaths await
while music played and people ate,
their lives were over, done.
Who could have thought ahead that they -
that enemy that wants its way
to change our form of life,
would sacrifice their own to say
that their belief we must obey?
Misguided thoughts run rife.
That Paris scene that fretful night
prepares us now to face the fight.
Define this threat once more
that could erupt within our sight.
Entire world must join the fight
to face this crusade war.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Contest: Rime Couee - Tail-Rhymed Verse - For France
Sponsor: Debbie Guzzi
Judged: 01/03/2016
~2nd Place~
Contest: Best Sad Poem EVER
Sponsor: Laura Loo
Judged: 08/29/2016
=============================================
Rime Couee
I went with this pattern for Rime Couee as shown on "The Poet's Garret" website
x x x x x x x a
x x x x x x x a
x x x x x b
x x x x x x x a
x x x x x x x a
x x x x x b
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"The November 2015 Paris attacks (sometimes referred to as 11/13) were a series of coordinated terrorist attacks that occurred on Friday 13 November 2015 in Paris, France, and the city's northern suburb, Saint-Denis. Beginning at 21:16 CET, three suicide bombers struck outside the Stade de France in Saint-Denis, during a football match. This was followed by several mass shootings, and a suicide bombing, at cafés and restaurants. Gunmen carried out another mass shooting and took hostages at a concert in the Bataclan theatre, leading to a stand-off with police. The attackers were shot or blew themselves up when police raided the theatre.
The attackers killed 130 people, including 89 at the Bataclan theatre. Another 368 people were injured, 80–99 seriously. Seven of the attackers also died, while the authorities continued to search for accomplices. The attacks were the deadliest on France since World War II." Wikipedia
Pink and My Buster Browns
My egg hatched north of the border, Pink is my name
I come from a proud line of egg- layers, poaching is my game
I’ve walked a mile of desert, crossing the Texas sand
I’m here to dip my spurs into the waters of the Rio Grande
I’ve come to quench a rumor that started on the Mexico side
A dandy there’s been crowing and winking his beady eyes
He’s got his reputation alright, he earned it long ago
But he hadn’t met this Road Island Red, squatting here in Mexico
They say he’s a genuine fighting Cock and fast with spur or wing
He’s been strutting with the egg-layers and pecking their chicken feed
He’s scratching around in Laredo, I hear it’s the common belief
Even crowing for the pullets, a double dealing chicken thief
I strut into the fouling yard, my eyes shifting around
I’ve come to pluck a chicken “A new rooster’s in town
The yard is quite and still, not a cackle can be heard
There’s no room in this chicken yard for another crowing bird
I see him fly from the roost and land heavy on the ground
He struts in small circles, as he side-eyes me up and down
The time is high noon and we're standing beak to beak
I look at that blood red comb and my legs start getting weak
His feathers ruffles on his neck, his spurs are gleaming white
His wings hang loose and ready, my heart’s not beating right
My beak starts to pucker in the shape of a pout
I’m flogging it back to Texas, I done chickened out
When I was ten years old I was given a little pink chicken for buying a pair
of Buster Brown Shoes for Easter. Even though everything was against him he lived and grew up to be a mean Road Island Red Rooster. He took
great pleasure in flogging all he could reach even to the point of devising a little trick by tossing a pebble into the air and running to fetch it in order to close the distance to make a strike. My Grandpa was always threatening to blow his head off. He finally jumped a dog over a watermelon rime and was dispatched.
Here’s to Pink, the Road Island Red Rooster
The grey mists of a sleeping dawn, cosetting birds still
wrapped up warm in bed, watch a stoat emerge from
its burrow and sprint across his meadow, like a caterpillar
making humped back bridges in Concertina motion
The stoat approaches the discarded shape and sniffs it
for signs of danger, life and food. In that order. Looming
like mountains on the ground and covered in a Turin
Shroud of frost, are a child's pair of crumpled denim blue
jeans, vapoured brittle-stiff with ice crystals overnight from
the nearby stream . Which still wends it's course beneath
ice-capped plates, upon which faux steam rises up like
volcanic springs.
The shape also manifests a pair of very small dumpster boots,
made for the tough little boy of tomorrow. The set is
completed by a vibrant red jumper, a little too big for the lifeless
form it covers. This hoar, this frost of disjointed frozen dendrites,
rests calmly upon this physical testament to the now peaceful
soul that lies within. Whose lungs beneath lie dormant and past
caring, whether or not the air is fresh and cold on its failed
breath. Alibaster-marbeled skin profers one hand raised in a
Post mortem wave. And a lid's refusal to fully shut one eye,
desperate to remain in contact with a living world and deny
the truth of having passed. What the eye has really become is
a dull reflective mirror for the twitching movements of an inquisitive
proboscis. This draws the eye of a man, standing at a man's
full height, able to see across two hundred paces of a frost
bitten meadow and light upon the vivid colour of red, set against
a backdrop of rime white. Eventually, a voice from the ether
confirms the location by a frozen stream and supports the
recommendation to keep the mother away. The devastation
of a hundred heart-stopping caught breaths yet to be lived.
Before the tears can flow and the utter destruction begin
The startled stoat runs away from its own reflection. Back
to the warmth and safety of its hole, in the bank on the Stream.
And the grey mists sadly watch the final act, before its last few
screaming tendrils are burned away on the coming sun
Ten Years Had Raced Into Oblivion's Cup
Second Poets Tribute Series, Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Chained am I, to desolation's huge anchor
on its long black ship, cargo of hate and rancor
yet in spirit oft I roamed blue skies above
and in my fantastic dreams, found I my true love!
Such was a balm that fled when heartache renewed
Could return only when young life was reviewed!
Alas! At night stars dimmed and evil winds blew
midnight hour, I was served bones I could not chew
and a foul drink of bitter regrets and lying
as Fate had set me here, this ship of slow dying!
Such was a dark curse, uttered by her deep hate
For she turned to darkness to then alter my Fate!
Ten years had raced into oblivion's cup
into darkest seas we went, I never gave up
tho' soul had been impaled by poisonous blades
I clung to that romantic love that never fades!
Such as the poets of old sang and wrote about
Crying to the heavens, chorus of mighty shouts!
Chained was I, to desolation's huge anchor
on its long black ship, cargo of hate and rancor
yet in spirit oft I roamed blue skies above
and in my fantastic dreams, found I my true love!
Such was a balm that fled when heartache renewed
Could return only when young life was reviewed!
Robert J. Lindley, 11-10-2019
Rhyme, ( With imagination, laced in darkness, that life hath a poet shown )
Inspired by Samuel Taylor Coleridge's famous poem, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner First poet- poem: of the Second series of poet's tribute poems.
(Five new poets chosen in this Second series.)
Note:
1.
https://www.britannica.com/biography/Samuel-Taylor-Coleridge
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, (born October 21, 1772, Ottery St. Mary, Devonshire, England—died July 25, 1834, Highgate, near London), English lyrical poet, critic, and philosopher. His Lyrical Ballads, written with William Wordsworth, heralded the English Romantic movement, and his Biographia Literaria (1817) is the most significant work of general literary criticism produced in the English Romantic period.
much more at link given...
samuel-taylor-coleridge
2.
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/samuel-taylor-coleridge