Long Stowing Poems
Long Stowing Poems. Below are the most popular long Stowing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Stowing poems by poem length and keyword.
I do not fear Death
It appears he fears me
I have sent him embossed invitations
bordered in black
bought the best bottle of wine
I could afford
lowered the lights
anxiously awaited his arrival
disappointed when there was
no knock on my door
spending the evening sitting in silence
stowing the wine away for another day
I don’t enjoy drinking alone
It continues to sit on the counter
in my kitchen unopened
He’s honored many others I know
with his presence
finding him so charming a gentleman
they abandoned everything
to run away with him
Maybe it’s because I’m not cool
like the other kids at school
used to say
when I would ask them over
to celebrate my birthday
Not a single classmate would show
to watch me blow out the candles
and attempt to guess my wish
(none of which ever came true)
I won’t force him to visit
as others have done
That seems rather rude
I’m sure he has far better things to do
What is behind ?
So many who wear masks, behind which to hide ?
So many who wear a veneer, upon which to ride ?
So many who wear a veil, behind which to slide
beyond their true, sober, reality ?,
beyond their hidden personality ?
One has to wonder ?,
what lies asunder
in the mind
of man kind.
B. J. “A” 2
February 26th 2013
Strange how the germ of an idea,
expressed today,
would materialize,
in a poem
written some five years,
one month, six days apart
Growth of a Mask
A Wake
This, my mask of death – for a funeral pyre -
for the burning love I have for you – for my desire.
This mask, I grow to hide ( to grieve behind ) my tears-
absorb them all, as well as all my fears.
( in grief for my love – stillborn – lost in your womb )
as I dance, with hope, on the grave of that beautiful flame
trying to give it life – keep it growing, clowing
while you are dancing around it, knowing,
as a whirlwind, you can extinguish it – a game ?
In time’s passing – I do believe – I will be just a name
as time, experiences become history, time keeps on going
on and on and on towards an end – showing
me that this is fate for this friend, memories stowing.
In retrospect, this may be my motivation for a beard,
behind which I may hide all that I had feared
B. J. “A” 2
January 20th 2008
A thing possessed by power desires exert
turns into an object inanimate and inert.
A life untainted and vibrant if captured
by the bloodstained clutch of lust tart
rolls like fallen beads, the string ruptured.
The senses drenched in acidic insolence
don’t repent for a moment the presence
in dismal heart the perennial obsession
of fostering desires in their grey essence,
decimating the spirit of their possession.
A body accessed by instincts of desire vile
existence is no longer animated, it’s futile.
The sunken piteous mind breaks asunder
at threshold of disgrace where disdains pile.
Where has sanity gone, times don’t ponder.
The conception called life adored and prized
a precious treasure to be preserved with pride.
When it wrecks to crumble in an object ravaged
the heart spawns hatred stowing love aside
and doesn’t find a place for the soul shamed.
September 22, 2017
Red Beard laughed at this lad
Stumbled on the wrong ship he had
Stowing away on a pirate vessel
Turned himself in not even a wrestle
Stout young lad must be at least ten
He wasn’t sure of the trouble he was in
To the plank cast him aside!
Then the boys knees buckled….he cried
Red Beard yanked him up and stared deep
Some use of this boy, if I want to keep
To the crew or to the sea? Red Beard thought
A pupil to over see if well taught
“Take him below!” are his orders
“Food and water in my quarters”
The boy moved quickly at the thought of food
Take his mind off of his saddened mood
A feast laid before his weary eyes
Hot bread and large chicken thighs
Warm milk and cool fresh water too was in store
He ate and ate till he couldn’t anymore
It was eve before the Captain appeared
The boy was asleep his mind without fear.
Into his arms the boy went
Carried to the cot for his rent
An orphan too, was this pirate knave
Maybe this child he could save
Schooling was what first struck his mind
A great teacher was hard to find
Sailing and piracy was all he knew
“I want more for this lad. A start anew.”
…..A rapping came to the cabin door
Urgent business he had to make sure
“What is it?” Bellowed a voice
“A British flag and jack a hoist!”
A war galleon was on the horizon
A battle was on the rising
The scarlet art of the sapphire sky of my halcyon heart
sparkled with sequined glow of the lone moon leaning low.
I tried tempted to touch your topaz sheen tinted unseen,
but you didn’t stay, slowly sauntered away out of my view
from my silky sky I shaped for you with pure joy for sure.
From the dark domain of dismantled dainty rainbow arc
strong storm surged with snapped shards of slashing scorn,
shattered my sublime sky while stowing in dispersed debris pile.
I couldn’t foresee how to dredge the drowned dreams free
from deep despair before destined day to depart came my way.
I shoved the splinters of my shattered soul on the sly,
turned them into a single white rose, residing in my heart close.
When on the run you returned to my garden under sensual sun
its fragrance fine floated with the pure passion of mine divine.
When in your sweet smile the curl of its pristine petals I saw un-furl
I knew the onset spark of the new beginning it’d memorably mark.
Somewhere the snooty scholars of the world
quietly locked inside their dusty hall
Under the dim light of a candle’s flame
decide which label to put upon us all
I see them now with my book in their hand
yelling to destroy this before it grows
Crying to the world “stop this idiot”
he who disregards every rule of prose
Running around their dusty libraries
Banging their cymbals of fear and alarm
stowing me away on some hidden shelf
before I can do anyone some harm
To all those so-called experts of the world
who will stand upon their soapbox and cry
That I am a con for not following their rules
I tell you that I do apologize
Perhaps it’s true, I am a foolish man
to think this qualifies as poetry
I do not know your rules of form and rhyme
to write the way you tell me it should be
If you’re the kind that cares about such things
you might be right to call this a farce
because I don’t use proper form and rhyme
but to you I say “kiss my ****”
Maybe when it comes time to place this book
back upon those dusty forgotten shelves
Someone who reads these words will find courage
to be the poet that thinks for themselves
QUIET WORD VISION
No disturbance, alone in sheltered eyes torn darkness;
Peaceable releases stowing within the cool black darkness;
Free from sound of sleeping children on a crowded street;
Silents creeps zero nothingness;
Restrained in speech impeached;
Inactive;
Rested;
Inconspicuous;
Unobtrusive way;
Conciliation of affairs nothings hears, darkness in my inner ear?
For Contest: Word Vision
Sponsored by: Vernillion Scythe
Grandpa Francesco Proia,
from Caserta, Italia,
a clever stowaway
in the bowels of the ship
bringing him to Ellis Island,
Feb. 4, 1905.
Gruff ways,
often snarling a guttural “Huh,”
a lack of English,
never-ending hand gestures,
made me fearful of him.
But awestruck I was
with the romantic notion
of his stowing away.
Bootlegging homemade vino
during Prohibition – another
plus as he captured my imagination as
un farabutto – a scoundrel, a reprobate.
Add in his being a coal mine boss
in Marianna, Pennsylvania,
and I had a genuine hero.
How many other children
claimed such details about their grandpas?
Never telling anyone
of my naïve admiration for him,
family loyalty prevented me
from bragging about him.
Living to just a few days short
of his “hunnert” birthday,
I loved and admired him to the end.
Even when the ship’s manifest
I discovered for La Lorraine
listed him as a passenger
in steerage, not a stowaway.