Long Tacking Poems
Long Tacking Poems. Below are the most popular long Tacking by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tacking poems by poem length and keyword.
I see it now
flying low
over silver-spumed waves.
I am a watcher
I can enlarge the picture
zoom in
look into bright midnight eyes
as if it were I
that propelled it.
Spreading bright foils
catching the billowing blows,
a clean swell-rigged clipper
sky-sailing sailor
tacking to gypsy winds.
Within its avian breast a magnetic compass
on a pivoting gimbal,
soon to make a terrible landfall.
For a ship came upon it
a craft arrayed in the guise of a cruel crocodile,
snagged from the air it snared the voyager.
A ship blighted by its own wake,
a very flowering of evil.
A wandering navigator brutishly used,
deckhands bundling broken wings
bound it as if a flopping fish,
gaffed its body open
to a hollow of hope.
I also recall a monstrous time
inside a crocodiles smile,
a time when poetry
was cut from my lips.
Yet here I am flying
in an airplane looking down
upon England,
following an albatross
only I can see.
Few crocodilians in London
yet more perilous reptiles there,
I shall have to take more care,
plot a fairy-tale revenge
with Peter Pan’s time-frozen statue.
At last to Paris
a windborne glide tracking a dream
of slow rowing wings,
there to dine with a restless ghost
who knows well enough
how dangerous monsters
can be
on land and sea.
There to restore myself
with Baudelaire.
to remake over
an imagined albatross of a life,
return it to humanity,
should it ever want to be
that flightless.
~~~~~
“Often to pass the time on board, the crew
will catch an albatross, one of those big birds
which nonchalantly chaperone a ship
across the bitter fathoms of the sea.
Tied to the deck, this sovereign of space,
as if embarrassed by its clumsiness,
pitiably lets its great white wings
drag at its sides like a pair of unshipped oars.
How weak and awkward, even comical
this traveler but lately so adroit -
one deckhand sticks a pipestem in its beak,
another mocks the cripple that once flew!
The Poet is like this monarch of the clouds
riding the storm above the marksman's range;
exiled on the ground, hooted and jeered,
he cannot walk because of his great wings.”
- Charles Baudelaire
Akin to a journalist (hoofing
NOT huffing on the beat)
heedful, mindful, and pain fully aware, bleat
me, asper caveats help me set sights
tacking within parameters of lawfulness,
when questing without sparking browbeat
upon my person, or worse...proceeding toward
said abstract destination until...
impossible mission complete
for verity from figurative horse's
mouth without defeat
dogging this astute brute, destitute, flute glute
hirste human institute irresolute
kickstarting little feet
essentially persevering acquiring,
amassing, and adducing
for instance enlightening
fierce interest how greet
American foreign policy
provokes bristling heat
particularly sinking cerebral teeth
into tomes written by Jeffrey Sachs
(one of the world's leading experts on
economic development,
and the fight against poverty) racks
up with unassuming dignity, grace, integrity,
and prestige in my book -
for birds that quacks
without question, his expertise packs
a punch (Judy be careful),
he earns accolade to the max
factor, and rightly so, asper one of the world's
leading experts on economic development, and lax
global fight against poverty,
yet also in mine reading material canon includes:
TIME Magazine, The Nation, and now imagine klax
on (trumpeting) for Mother Jones, a six month
subscription bringing to alight me to do jumping jacks
(no doubt you remember those vigorous movements),
but tactics to expand learning I put in Italics
if only to maintain alternate rhyming pattern,
which tenebrous, superfluous,
and ridiculous poetic hacks
meant add a little playfulness,
solely intending to bloom forth
with illusory "NOT FAKE) flax
seeding, an ongoing inquisitiveness maybe last
ting influence to ferret out
off the beaten track less broadcast
revelations, since this apt cast
off firmly believes the educated people denied
knowing how government (namely
military industrial complex) past
(and of course present) involvement blast
ting away innocent lives, and/or funding
subversive activity most likely fast
intervening across the real world wide web
to coerce, force, and source vast
suppression jeopardizing United States economy.
an old clock composed of several larger and smaller gearwheels
hung on the wall; some teeth are worn or missing therefore
the gears occlude poorly
they skid and roll unbalanced
no matter how long and how hard the clock chews ‘chronos/time’
with its mismatched jaws, its stomach upset with ‘chronos/time’ indigestion
keeps bothering him
even so, you must eat to survive, thus time occasionally goes out,
lying on the cane that became shorter by time and tide
and stretches his arm with open palm to ask alms from passersby;
he looks worn and tired but what else can he do, it’s the karma of
an isochronal pendulum alone to carry on dangling
when time is shoved in to the point of twenty-four it steps on
the delicate line between today and tomorrow, time must return
to home and tighten an uncoiled spring, which just barely pushes
time forward; then, time has to pull the lever to ring the bell relying
on a worn screw that won’t tighten any more from years of abuse
no matter whether the bell is ringing or not the man bruised from
all day long’s abuse and punishment, has no interest in the ring of
the bell but colors a picture with the colors of his choice pillowing
the pillow named uncertain tomorrow; the man seems so pathetic
the clock turns its face to avoid the miserable sight
and each time the clock turns its face
it gains a wrinkle that is deeper then the skin
it doesn’t matter whether the scene is pathetic or happy,
the matter is that i can count the time hanging on the wall,
and that i am still hanging on the wall
the wall though is partially fallen
it’s glad i am still hanging on it observing human lives
counting their times; the clock, with bit of embarrassment
caused from boasting, stays up tick-tacking all night through
bloated girth deceased,
not surprisingly packed orotund
size appetite conveniently weighted
gravity helped fell
giant gourmand chowhound
demise linkedin automatically tightened
neckerchief doubled as noose clothbound
neck, the luckless bard dead -
poets society he didst cofound
oh captain my captain compound
suffering no more, departure doth not confound
those familiar with ravages of pennilessness
although glum spouse doggone bewailing
analogous to melancholy coonhound
inescapable woebegone travails decompound
constituted complex challenges
doom also depressed petsmart deerhound
four footed friend invisibly yoked, where
writings witnessed scrivener
daily voluntarily deskbound
unsuccessful chicken scratch disbound
dispersed newpages feted
German, Oriental and American cockroaches
courtesy proffered grubhub,
wet precipitation courted mildew,
and mold beheld fancy feast dumbfound
ding maggoty parasites riddled
treasure trove discovered earthbound
corpse hungry flocking carrion
heralded all points of compass - eastbound
most popular, hence route crow did house,
cutthroat beasty boys
aided, devoured, gorged...,
among which canine corps elkhound
leader of pack tacking course enwound
roundabout path barking commands
ruff lee didst expound
slinked sly as foxes -
shushed kindred brothers
up ahead wolf gang,
thence took faux minute paws
aware fresh meat fairground
survival of fittest edict woof lee decreed,
when sudden thick terrain fogbound
not impossible mission, though
totally opaque foreground
keen sense of smell and hearing aid found
dead reckoning, i.e. ground zero.
Captain Bligh was his name,
he ruled his ship with an iron cane.
The Bounty was the ship,
sailing to Tahiti, via Cape Horn was the trip.
At Cape Horn, after tacking back and forth,
eastward, was set the course.
It was the long way round,
but they were still Tahiti bound.
After many long months at sea,
one morning the lookout shouted, "Tahiti."
Wine, women, and song for the crew,
it was a paradise, the like of which they never knew.
When the ship was fully laden with breadfruit trees,
once more the Bounty put to sea.
Three weeks later, the trees began to die,
"Give them the crews water", said captain Bligh.
The crew complained most bitterly,
"silence" said Bligh," or in the brig you will be."
Very early in the next morn,
the mutiny was born.
Over the side went Captain Bligh,
into the long boat, and left to die.
So back to Tahiti sailed the crew,
to the island paradise, that they loved and knew.
After more than a year of island bliss,
they decided, we had better get out of this.
For the British navy, will surely come,
then they will string us up, one, by one.
So once more the Bounty put to sea,
but this time the crew, took their families.
When Pitcairn Island came into view,
they said, "this is home, it will do."
Stripping the Bounty of everything of use,
she was set on fire with a fuse.
So if to Pitcairn Isle you go today,
the mutineers descendants, You will find, fishing in the bay.
I once heard a voice that can speak ever so quietly into the night
And while it was in a dream, it deepens to a whispering thunder
Like a roller coaster, where it’s very coils, silences the vibes
Like an air-draft, trapped, inside a mourner’s floating balloon
A few wishes too soon, it comes; a long sighing sound, growling even…
Filling-up all the voids, between each inconspicuous spaces, in place
Hope traces to a tiny thin line, giving birth to the light, from the darkness
And as it gets nearer, the quicker it turns to shadowy faces
Mimicking the sum of all my fears-to the smallest part of its pieces
Like a grain of salt inside a grain of sand, to the sea and to its rapturous waves
And poof! The voice spoke just once more from a swift edged sword of an epiphany
Teetering from the first breathe, ticking to the last heave, tacking
And somewhere within the ripples, I was left aside to wander
And to ponder, breaking my simplest thought asunder
Under the tender care of the thunder-ing sky, where the sun were,
Then I remembered but only forgotten it in a voice, who uttered the words “. . . "
wilbsd11/23/16
Garden Golden Glove Award
(Or should that be Globe?)
Just dropping by St. James the Fisherman Church.
There was Father Dave doing all of his usual landscaping
work. He is really incredible. Not only does he help us
grow in God, he even helps the grass and flowers grow.
Terrific guy. Here is the poem I wrote for him. We even
actually need to give him one. That would be another
one of my great ideas. James Thomas Horn, Retired Veteran
Father Dave blessed us with beautiful church appearance
Not even needing a military security clearance
Thanks to all of his great efforts we do look forward
To presenting him with Garden Golden Glove Award.
Because of Father Dave's great gardening backing
Not only are we giving him award but also tacking
It up on the wall in the form of a fabulous plaque
After suffering another spiritual Father Dave attack.
(His is way better than a Mac Attack.)
All of this is sure to have an effect which will linger
As garden glove he starts sticking in each finger
Even over St. James from God an anger hovered
Father Dave has landscape issue completely covered.
PS. You need a category for entertaining.
A light wind gently rocks our sailboat as
breezes begin to pick up on the sun drenched dock.
Cable wires rap and tap upon the mast as
daylight filters thinly through the clouds.
Egrets begin to peck around the gangway
foraging for scraps from bugs or grubs.
Great blue heron busily prepares her nest
high upon the eucalyptus tree.
I sit and daydream on the harbor deck
just enjoying the sea breeze, sights and sounds.
Kelp beds sway rhythmically with the currents
lapping the rocks at low tide, while
massive flocks of birds perch purposefully
near a lonely lighthouse high on the jetty.
Open seas spread toward the horizon where
pelicans busily dive bomb for fish.
Quarry rocks surrounding the harbor create
rocky protrusions, allowing ground squirrels to
spy sailors earnestly jibing on ocean water
tacking swiftly through the northwest winds.
Under the pylons and gangways
various starfish and mussels cling
with schools of fish swimming in tandem.
Xylophone sounds drift with music from a
Yacht club hosting a spring concert.
Zeal for the beauty of harbor life moves me.
Written on 2/11/2015
I may be poor
But yet I'm so rich
I count myself lucky
And so privileged.
I have a roof over my head
And a warm cosy bed
To rest my head.
Although my body is often weak
And I'm in a lot of pain
My faith in God.
Keeps me sane.
I have enough to eat
Clothes on my body
And shoes on my feet.
I try to live a simple life
But find it hard I struggle without a wife
Or child to call my own.
I am comfortable
And have all I need
I can pay my bills
And money enough to which to feed.
I try to stay focused in what I do have
And not what I've not
Even though to some
It may not seem a lot.
I often give to those less fortunate than me
For such things make me
Truly happy but also sad
For the world is full of want
And also greed wickedness a d bad.
Count your blessings for what you have
For tomorrow it could all be gone
The powers that be are tacking care of that
The rich get richer
And the poor get even more poor
Who knows what's around the corner
Or behind your door.
Be thankful for what you have got
Even if what you do have
Is not a lot.
Peter Dome.copyright.2015.July.
On the cliff at the Worm’s Head
High above the horns of the bay
I see the surfers ride great waves
With horses’ manes
That ever fail, but never end
In the strong Atlantic surge
In the estuary at Dartmouth
Where the oyster boats dredge
Turning and drifting in slow shadow dance
Great nets of shells are hauled up
And poured out on to the decks
As I plunge upriver
Tacking along the wending Dart
With bent-puzzle oaks on either side
I hear a sudden hush descend
Upon a lonely river hythe
As time and air, smooth and still
Forever glide, like Mayflies
On cold, clear water
In the seaway by the port
With its unmistakable algal aroma
Of the British seashore
I hear the heavy horn of a freighter
That plies its path
And never sinks, yet ever diminishes
Beyond the waves
And far from the pier of the seaside town
Where sandpipers probe
In spiral casts
I hear the penthal call of the curlew
Like silver flourishes on a black cloud
That never moves, but holds dominion
In the cold morning air.