Long Rums Poems
Long Rums Poems. Below are the most popular long Rums by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rums poems by poem length and keyword.
We knaves had orders both explicit and dumb:
Scare the blazes out of a management bum.
Thunderstorm weather rocked wide Prince William Sound,
Feisty gales pouring rain all around.
My partner and I took our overseer
In a tiny smoker craft quite rough to steer.
Motoring south, mighty gusts drove us to shore
We staved off sandstone rocks with long wooden oars.
Back to the channel against gusts we did plow.
Our passenger sat white-knuckled in the bow.
We rounded the curve of our wind whipped north shore
To enter Danger Island Strait's tidal bore.
Roller coaster billows rose twenty feet high
Then dropped into wallows roofed only by sky
At bottom our boat swirled among kelp and rocks
Our passenger appeared as a stunned ox.
Through the passage stood our island’s south cliff face
Pacific waves raged, clawing cliffs to deface.
Our passenger’s eyes set to leap into space,
My partner asked about a smooth landing place.
Sad faced I said, “High tide is still hours away
No place for our boat above the surf today.”
Our passengers’ face seemed as if borax bleached
Praying our tiny craft was soon to be beached.
We rocked and rolled daring Danger Island’s sway
Then motored up our channel, heading camp’s way
We fought the frenzied wind and staved off the rocks
Our management friend quietly clutched his socks.
Nodding, we grinned sideways as if to gloat
As we bailed our boat simply to stay afloat.
But when ornery orcas bumped our frail boat
One gave us the eye; we croaked cries from tight throats.
Our urban client raced to the cook tent door.
While we pulled our craft above the tidal bore.
When we got to the tent for our rum and tea
Our client had downed high proof rums one, two, three.
She’s one lonely soul with occasional
Nosebleed, all from the sea-salt of distant
Waves, charmed to weariness by breezes powerful enough
To unfurl umbrellas rolled behind Grandfather’s clock.
She combs her lofty hair seawards, with particles, flimsy and
Delicately grey, tiny and microscopic, storming the sea in their looseness.
She hopes to borrow the strength of the waves
And attract her wayward husband’s lost attention imprisoned
By the west and south seas.
Her letters, before they reach him on the fragrant sails
Of running fleets, get partially soaked by lack of trust
And the impatience of the post.
She needs him.
Just his body and soul.
She misses his kisses, so full of the breath of sea-whisky.
And he misses, though not terribly,
Her long, brunette hair,
A single black sail of bedtime voyages
With patterns of gentle, pulsating tempests
When only two specks of light from a voyeur’s eyes
Light up the hidden corners of the two souls.
She misses his sailor’s whistling power,
Loud and musical,
Like the squawk of an inebriated, singing eagle,
Which is sexy to her young and whimsical ears
Not the rums he ships home late in November,
In readiness for lonesome, tenebrous Christmas,
To her to keep her company —
Among ten-or-six foreign candles she lights in the face of storms
To dare the raging sea-going madness of absent men.
(Please read The Park -- Part One first ...
This is a continuation from Part One, due to space limitations)
Yes, kids at play are bold and wise
with flashing smiles and knowing eyes.
Children tire easily of grown-up prattle;
thoughts turn to cakes, to toys that rattle.
They think that Belles and Bills tell lies.
Tme is a birthday gift or a new surprise:
games to play; a windy day for a kite one flies;
coins that shine; toys that squeak;
a trip to the zoo at the end of the week.
Belles and Bills persist in their story.
Some even mention forgotten glory.
Children go home to eat, to sleep,
as Belles and Bills their vigils keep
then wearily drift back to flats
to listen to the rustling rats,
to sip their beers or gins or rums --
to wait until the morning comes.
They stand and stretch, look all around,
surveying the world to which they're bound.
Then they shuffle away with airs of sadness
at being always on the verge of madness.
They'll see once more the sun's first ray,
the birth in the park of another day.
Eyes are glazed and minds are dazed;
the atmosphere grows dim and hazed.
An eerie echo of an unheard bark
reverberates throughout the park
amid falling leaves and a darkening sky
and the nightly proof of the chilren's lie.
PLAY IT AGAIN SAM I AM THE LIFE OF THE TRUMPETS
IN YOUR ARMS WITH COCKTAILS OF LIKEWISE
AND IN A MOMENT OF THE BANGING OF THE DRUMS
THE SMILES THE SINGING AND THE DRINKING OF
RUMS WITH A TASTE OF THE PALACEOF FOLLIES
OF BEING IN A DICK VAN DYKE FILM AS ANNIE
GET YOUR GUNS PLAYS OUT OF THE THEATRE IN
HEARTS FILM WORLD OF LYRICS AND THE DANCE
THE FRED ASTIRE OR GINGER ROGERS AS WE
COAST THE HIPPODROME AND THE MESSERS IN THE
EVENING BREEZE TENDERLY FILLS MY SOUL
AS THE TAIL OF MY DRESS PASS BY THE GENTS
WHEN THE ELEGANCE OF ZIEGFELD COVER THE LAND
OF DREAMS OF HATES AND BOTTOMS SHIMMERING OUR
SONG THE SONG OF LOVE IN THE VIOLINS AS THE
AUTHUMN RAIN FALLS ASLEEP TO THE SOUND OF OUR
HEARTS IN ONE BEAT PLAYED THROUGH THE SENSUAL
TROMBONE OF STRAIGHTEN UP AND FLY RIGHT RIGHT
BACK INTO THE SOUL OF THE MUSIC THAT TAKES US
ALL RIGHT BACK TO PLAY IT AGAIN SAM
WRITTEN BY MRS. YOLANDA NICHOLSEN 5-11-2004
2610 PROVIDENCE STREET FORT MYERS FLORIDA
DEDECADED TO THE LOVERS OF MUSIC LYRICS AND DANCE
THE FILM HUMPHEY BOGART I ADORED THAT PIANO MAN
Enchanted music
E nya your music fills my soul with hope
N ear or far it follows me, leading home
C lannad too I’ve loved from my youth
H eaven gained your dear sister recently
A ll my love zooms to you in your castle
N ever alone she lives in your heart forever
T he music of celts never dies
E nchanted sounds free the soul to fly
D rums , fiddles, harps sounds magically to the ear, voices serenading me
M usic truly sets my spirit free, inspires me
U nder angel wings we fly the celtic way
S ounds Majestic live forevermore
I thank you Moya Brennan and Enya from my celtic heart
C aptivates this land, sounds of music devine
Written in loving memory of Moya Brennan
RIP Queen of Celts forever, thank you for the music.
Enya keep singing
By Scottydotti April 2026
The hapless fruit cake has endured egregious loathin' o'er the years!
Bein' on the receivin' end of such a delicacy is some folks' greatest fears!
Shucks! I received many a one while in the service to share with my chums,
(Who savored booze in any form, especially those cakes soaked in rums!)
History reveals that fruit cakes were consumed by Roman Legionnaries,
To sustain them in their numerous conflicts with ferocious adversaries!
Fruit cake with nuts and fruits (Lord only knows what else) I won't condemn!
I'm just one of many discriminatin' fellers who happens to like 'em!