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.
The mellow western sky darkened,
The sea was calm that night,
Yachts tacking across the bay
Towards their appointed piers.
Luminous moon rays shimmer
Over wavelets that bathed
The coloured pebbles
Strewn all over the long shore.
As night slowly fell
I began my walk along the promenade.
A soft breeze was a welcome to all
Especially to the sailors that plied the bay
In their sleek sailing boats
Now tinged in red by the dying sun.
Along the promenade, I met with friends
A few words of salutation
But I hurried on toward an ancient tower
That once stood guard against pirates
That invades the surroundings.
Plundering and taking slaves with them.
The Tower was now a restaurant,
And there sat my love waiting for me.
The breeze-blown brightness of her hair
Seem to invite me to our destined tryst.
She stood up and we embraced,
A soft kiss on her wet lips.
It was a promising beginning
Of our night of love.
Gone forever, the used ones
Never can it be set aside for future use
As food, fuel or money can be
Can it be stored like a pea?
Like a large swift river
Ever flowing forward
Neither can be stopped nor delayed
Nor can thou use every drop flowing over
Moving in its downward flight
Dying in a sleepless night
Time and tide waits for no man
So goes a well worn slogan
A representation of action succession
Kill it with procrastination
Has it any resurrection?
Fatigue, a coin robber
Much emphasis on pleasure,
Grand coin robber
Coin robbers cause extreme pressure
This ticking-tacking coin in life
Can it be spent on behalf?
I'd rather be a time keeper
Than be a time waster
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.
I am the almighty Beangoose,
Jokester to the stars,
But more so of a man that would rise and fall.
They also call me quizmaster,
Though I'm now more of a spellcaster...
Reading daily tarot to avoid further disaster.
You see, it was the army of the Gliesians,
That erupted the fools lack of reason,
In what I call the fifth season.
This will make sense if you will...
By pulling back the veil of the liquid pill,
The one that provides an eternal thrill!
I didn't ask to be this Beangoose,
Finding me with epic stories so loose,
Tacking on to my life-long thread like a runaway kaboose!
16-September-2021
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.
The house grows still as day begins to fade,
Drowning in pools of long and dusky shade.
I keep my vigil while the embers die,
A patient shadow under twilight’s eye,
Waiting until the bruised, receding light
Surrenders to the majesty of night.
Down through the hall I tread a quiet track,
A thick, heavy blanket on my back,
Woven for warmth, soft wool of amber grain,
To navigate this grassy, cool domain.
I carry it into the backyard air,
Where dusk has set its cool and misty snare,
And spread its gentle weight across the lawn,
A tether till the coming of the dawn.
I stretch out flat upon the cushioned yard,
With the cool covered earth, soft, but hard.
The lawn becomes an ocean, shadow-deep,
Where daytime memories lay down to sleep,
And high above, the night opened wide
Into a reverse abyss, on my blanket I ride.
Then comes the spark, the silent, blinding bloom:
Silver pinpricks piercing through the gloom.
Ancient fires, suspended in the frost,
Whisper forgotten secrets to the lost.
Among the motionless and timeless spheres,
A fleet of modern iron astrolabe appears.
Satellites, like ghost-ships forged of glass,
Tacking through vacuum currents as they pass.
And other phantoms dance across the dome:
Erratics, tumbling through their stellar home,
Motes of cosmic dust that glance and skip,
Fireflies that break the dark, then slip.
A streak of chalk across a slate of night,
A sudden flash, a ricochet of light,
Bouncing like polished stones on polished glass
Before they fade and into shadow pass.
Anchorless, I float upon my raft,
Swept up in midnight’s quiet, dizzying craft,
A solitary watchman of the deep,
While all the world below lies fast asleep.
…. all the world below lies fast asleep.
Blue Jay
I cupped the fallen fledgling in my palm,
And unwittingly, caused the neck
To retract the mere measure as had
Raised the hand.
Lowering the foundling, the head rose.
Really? I continued. Down, up;
Extend, retract, eyes fixed
Always at the horizon.
Was it the avian gyroscope
Tacking as if to turbulence,
Or since motion can betray
Location - best feign frozen?
(Once they mused about millennia hence
But scarcely would’ve thought that whence
The confluence of Saurian and Simian roar
Could ever have writ so poorly a score
As has devolved to: cheep; rap nonsense)
I shall call you Icarus for impetuousness
Has got you to ground; like your hapless
Namesake, he from tempting high C,
You, before finding your key.
Copyright Paul Thomson 2018
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.
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
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