Long Shanties Poems
Long Shanties Poems. Below are the most popular long Shanties by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shanties poems by poem length and keyword.
the sounds of a world which once rang
with the magical rhythms of rhyme
from sheep being shorn of wool
to remedies given by the spoonful
magic lie in the ticking of clocks
nonsensical like hickory-dickory-dock
sugar coating the process of learning
lessons came with a cadenced adorning
sailors at work on their ships
sea shanties sprang from their lips
cowpokes alone on the range
clerks counting out the small change
uncrowned royalty without retinue
pouring forth all the things which they knew
beauty came with words which were said
as if laughter and precision had wed
abandon in the scramble for time
the long lost realm of rhyme
Walking, walking, walking!
Impossibly long stretches of walk,
Miles and miles of uncertain journey,
In blazing sun, in sweltering heat,
Tranquil villages with shady trees,
Home, the destination!
Thirsty, hungry, bleeding, exhausted!
With fatigued wives and starving barefoot children they trudge,
Little babies hanging like sandbags from their shoulders, they stumble,
Tears dry on children’s cheeks!
Men and women…they walk, walk, walk
Until their feet can not move an inch further,
Leaving the cities, where they toiled in exchange for a few rupees…
Day after day, months after months,
Hunched under shanties, with empty rumbling stomachs,
Cruelty is the only language they faced!
Trudge beside railroads, follow tracks,
No buses, no trains, no vehicles,
Only two weary feet to carry them to the destination,
Human bodies plodding with all their might!
It’s the darkest of moonless nights…
A few stars glinting in the somber sky to guide them to destiny!!!!
Universe seemed calm, and uncaring!
Come Rest, Come Sleep,
Come Death…blood-stained tracks,
Home eluded them for ever!
Can you see the homeless
Shivering with their emaciated physique
Struggling for shelter in make-shift shanties
Midst luxurious condominiums?
Can you hear their children known as street kids
Yelling at each other for left-overs
While seeking for edible crumbs
Among heaps of garbage?
Can you bear with their impoverished state
Along with their agony and anguish
As they desperately make both ends meet
Even in their shame brought by their misery?
Can you feel their plight
Since they regard themselves as victims
Who have been denied with opportunities
Though they labored hard, as they say?
Oh, my Lord, these are for You to answer…
And as I wait, I trust You and Your wisdom
For You know what’s best in every situation
Being the Almighty Sovereign over all.
Help me, please, to do my part
As Your steward who must help build lives
Thus, by Your grace, I do what’s right
By being a blessing, and not a burden.
Let me share what I have with joy
And to give what I can by Your grace
Make Your goodness always reign
With Your love*that prevails over injustice.
*Jude 1:21 Keep yourselves in the love of God, looking for the mercy of our Lord Jesus Christ unto eternal life.
April 12, 2018
4th place, "Social Justice Free Verse" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by John Hamilton; judged on 4/17/2018.
(Featured PS poem on November 21-27, 2021)
*Image of Twilight New Moon by Novocom.
AUDIO: Soundtrack from the film, 'The Evening Star' with Shirley MacLaine and Jack Nicholson
Seasonings
Summer twilight dawns an evening crown
surfers lounged alongside boards, lain atop cooling sands
chatter swapped to suggestive feeble snores, true lifers naught workers
cresting ripples o'er sandy shore molded whimsy sandcastles to mounds
Trivial zephyr abroad builds, tapping cliffs
sweeping inland indulging effortlessly till slighted by few existing shanties
heeding opened windows lissome brushes, tonal effects quietude to life
September morn declares its golden hues to arrest savoring eyes
yellow accents twirling oranges respite alongside crumpled reds
vibrant picturesque displays an artisans portrait
Mobility afoot, gathering sorts of the anticipating talented, fervid hunch
transitions a time as creation spurs onward whilst we embellish
capturing the day as it occasions
our pleasure, we fail ... pleasing Him, our reward.
2021 August 04
*1st Place*
A BRIAN STRAND 1096
~~Brian Strand: Judged 2022 March 26
*2nd Place*
Writing Prompt - Fragmented Spaces
~~Constance La France: Judged 2021 August 13
Have seen an utopian lane, amidst the thicket, latent In the abode of the clouds, in the lap of the tranquil wilderness, far far away from the mundane mist!
A wheezing sparsely inhabited hamlet, Khonoma, a centuries- old settlement, so green, so serene!
Its' pristine unsullied views, lush wilderness, verdant bushes, aromatic wild blooms, resplendent orchids, rippling rills, are untouched and sacred!
The Angami tribes, the thorpes' dwellers lead an uncustomary simple life, crammed with ancient, timeless traditions and practices, with nature's absolute accord!
The unique panaromic cultivation practice, terrace farming, sprawling on the slopes makes the very sight elating!
Look, the remote richest biodiversity region is twirling with the endemic scented native flora and fauna, the boscage are cramming with untamed wild colourful fruits!
The revered cultural bird, the grey-billed Tragpon, is intoning from the bushes, making the milieu frolic!
Myriads of colourful birds are migrating to nestle in the sacred bushes of the mystic rills!
The pellucid drops from the misty mesas of nearby cascades are playing with the colourful pebbles!
Far from the pandemic, the cherubic hilly terrain is bustling with cerulean rills, shrouded by tropical rain forests and stepped paddy fields!
How finite are the rustic folks' wants and needs, the primitive shanties to dwell, the crystal cascades to quench, the crops of the golden fields to feed the mouths, the vibrant fiestas with nature's changing seasons to celebrate!
A paragon of men and nature in absolute harmony, is lying placidly, the transcendental picturesque tableland, Khonoma, the wheezing green hamlet, an utopia untrodden to bless the naive natives of the far flung highland!
" Sometimes in quest of no man's Utopia, we may miss the existing unleashed Utopia in proximity, yet untrodden " Quote by poet
November 11th 2021
Contest: " U" contest, New Poems Only
Sponsored by: Constane La France
Cap’n Jordan was a scallywag from his nose to his toes.
He was determined to follow the gold through rumors galore.
Trusty companion tried to follow him, his name was Mose.
But Cap’n Jordan came just as Cap’n shoved off the shore.
For a decade or two Mose searched for his favorite pirate king.
‘He sang sea shanties in honor of him with an elegant ring.
Cap’n Jordan had apparently finally found the coins he sought.
His skeleton holding fast to the treasure chest, deteriorating a lot.
Mose was horrified when he received the horrible news.
He demanded the forensics which showed a couple of views.
The skeleton was wearing a wicked smile, a pirate’s glee.
At least he found treasure! Mose said. That’s better than me!
Serene sunset, star studded sky, seamen setting sail,
Sixteen salty sailors, surveying southern seas,
Singing somewhat spicily, saucy sea shanties.
Sea sirens serenading, seductively sedates,
Sailors sleeping senselessly, soon sacrifice shipmates.
Shipwrecked sailors swimming, seeking sandy shores.
Spiral sea shells strident sounds, staccato semaphores.
Steering south, steel steamships, start searching stormy seas,
Searchlights, sirens, struggling, serendipity succeeds.
Soul - searching self survivors, salute salvation's sanctuary.
10 / 11 / 2024.
Back in nineteen hundred and three
I working with a logging crew,
cutting and limbing mighty trees,
be they hemlock, pine, or spruce.
We worked for the Nowell Paper firm,
in the shades of the Adirondacks,
spent all winter in Camp Seven,
sending full sleds down icy tracks.
One morning in late December
we got up before the dawn,
that was just par for the course,
our work days were rather long.
We made it to the cook-house,
where waited the salt pork,
with flapjacks and potatoes fried,
we ate until enrgorged.
Then with a nod to the bull cook,
to let him know he’d done good,
we grabbed our axes, our crosscut saws,
and headed out into the woods.
By noon we worked a stump garden
we’d cleared back in the fall,
when we’d cut down the spruces
though a few still stood tall.
Those ones are the seed trees,
to make sure it grows again,
but the ones we felled we had cut
into fourteen-foot lengths.
Now in that deep chill of winter
we worked with our pike-poles,
hauling the logs to big sleds
drawn by horses, rather cold.
We stacked them for the ice road,
in air that made all shiver,
the teamster waited to haul it
all the way down to the river.
Now lumberjacks always work in pairs,
and my partner was Guy Montreaux,
a Quebecois better with an axe
than any farmer with a hoe.
He was quite an entertaining man,
lifted spirits in our shanties,
and knew the words to every bawdy song
ever sang in the north country.
On that grim day he huffed loudly,
having been put through his paces,
as he loaded up the last big log
a horse jolted back in its traces.
The equine kicked, the pile shook,
the teamster cried,’Get clear!”
Me and the boys all dove away,
filled with a familiar fear...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
Alfred on an Island
I got a phone call a rusty voice said he was Alfred,
But you are dead!
I know, I know the voice told like it meant nothing
I`m at the Saragossa Island you said to me about it is nice
Here but a bit damp and foggy, hence my rusty voice.
a lifeboat that drifted ashore had a ship to shore radio
that is how I`m able to talk to you now.
But how do you get along with rough sailors, and their
salty language, not too bad as you know I play the violin
and they sing shanties and do a jig, I miss the piano though
but it would only rust here and I can`t find a tuner.
I miss you, Alfred, of course, you do I thought how to be cultured
and in a way I`m your father, the real one abandoned you
The voice faded radio interference, but he said he missed too.
He had made my day he remembered me.
We are ocean-born—
sea-salt still flows in our blood,
tides within our veins
the rhythm of waves calls us home,
to sea shanties' pulse and chants.
Once the waves have caught
you in their woven square nets
you are never free—
the waves don't ask permission
to sweep you up, knock you down.
Water yields and bends
soft yet stronger than iron,
nothing holds it back—
learn to ride the crest of change,
let its surge flow and shape you.
Each wind wells up
sculpts waves in sand, sky, sea, sounds
with smoothness caressed
to resonate sinuous
clock-like regularity.
Clouds above reflect
the sea's restless memory—
with waves in the sky
mirroring our handset waves
we use to communicate.
Signs ripple outward—
with wave gestures on the tide,
sometimes dismissive,
dragging under, lifting up,
quelling, by just saying 'Hi'.