Long Tanker Poems
Long Tanker Poems. Below are the most popular long Tanker by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tanker poems by poem length and keyword.
68 years ago
68 years ago, I was onboard the world's oldest tank ship
wooden decks and looking like a sailing ship more than
a tanker in the Black Sea on the way to Odesa.
The sea had ice flakes, fishing vessels got stuck, and a Russian
minesweeper was on its way to help it was painted dark
blue and red; the sky was slightly overcast.
What I remember best was the silence, no TV. no noise
from constant communication in the cold air, above all
no mobile phones had yet to intrude.
Now, ships loaded with grain follow a mine-free lane
on the way to the Dardanelles for inspection by men
in uniform before heading for Africa.
Not destined for the famished population, not yet
the grain is stored in gigantic silos by trying governments
distributed by them at an inflated price, the poor
cannot afford the starvation continues unabated.
We have been here before, in the winter of 1949, people
froze to death when fishing and fell like nine pins when
spring came; few families had any furniture left.
68 years ago, I recall the unmoving stillness, now
there is a cacophony of angry voices protesting against
the burden they are asked to carry for our leaders.
Written: June 04, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Brian Strand
*****************
Crude oil squats between my ribs
as a codependent nebula
asking if we can “talk around our relationship.”
It purrs, leaks, and files an HR complaint
with the Department of Internal Oceans
for “hostile hydration practices.”
It vibrates in my chest
like a supertanker with performance anxiety
and no access to therapy.
The apple in my hand declares a recession mid-bite,
Its seeds unionize,
the core files for bankruptcy,
and the stem starts a podcast about “resilience.”
I chew once,
And suddenly I’m liable
for three galaxies' worth of debt
and one very crestfallen auditor threat.
While the fridge appears geopolitical,
The milk launches a coup, cynical.
The yogurt is sanctioned for “fermenting unrest.”
and the butter — Napoleon of refrigeration —
amasses troops behind the pickles.
While margarine runs for office — for nickels,
on a platform of “No More Warmth.”
When I walk, the floorboards groan
under global markets
and interest rates that adjust themselves —
Whenever I breathe.
They creak like ancient gods
who regret outsourcing creation
to primates with credit cards.
My shadow unionizes,
demands cosmic hazard pay
and a dental plan,
then takes unauthorized smoke breaks
in a separate galaxy.
Every heartbeat slaps like a tanker hull
wondering why anyone trusted apes
with fire, feelings,
or anything that comes in a bottle.
And still — the Strait wears my skin,
the world wears my worry like a borrowed coat —
And I wear the whole mess
two sizes too small,
like a thrift-store spacesuit
missing its helmet.
So I laugh.
Because if I don’t,
the milk wins —
and the apple
will schedule another meeting —
That should’ve been an email.
I recall a scary time
when I brushed shoulders with death.
A blustery winter wind
seeded snow with freezing rain.
I got stuck on the highway
in whiteout conditions.
And the road was one big mess,
traffic was moving too fast.
Hitting a patch of black ice,
I’m spinning out of control.
And I’m right in the path of
an on-coming tanker truck.
The driver’s frightened face was
visibly white with panic.
Letting the steering wheel go,
I was prepared to meet death.
A calmness came over me,
there was no panic or fear.
For I knew it’d be over
in a mere millisecond.
Then something miraculous
occurred, and my life was changed.
Through Divine intervention,
my car got nudged to the side.
And then that tanker whizzed by
with only inches to spare.
I then believed and thanked God,
for my guardian angel.
(Blank Verse)
12/18/2021
DIVINE INTERVENTION Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Chantelle Anne Cooke
I am different today then I was because
Please hold your applause
Using those claws
May I pause
And reference the sunset clause
Document counting cunning manipulative laws
Send us to the malls
Shopping longer nights
Filled with price hiking frights
This you set down
At first, they did make me frown
Wearing an enticing romantic gown
Locked up hidden never to be found
Inside a dungeon underneath, blessed ground
Not hearing a sound
Only heavy breathing
And seething
Above
Someone wanting power instead of love
Hearing anger
Your teeth sharpened with fangers
Sailing like a tanker
Conjured up by a bloody investment banker
What do you mean I performed wrong?
Innocently, going a long
Then me you bust
Saying the duty fee was a must
But I learned
Decided to turn
Things around
And today
Must say
Your arrest
Was the best
I confess
Dispensing any successful endeavors only to impress
Yes, I grew up a free bird
Honestly you were noting me a turd
Always ignoring
My life never boring
Until that one plight
Escalating into a fight
On the field
They made sure I knew the deal
All this never seemed real
There you stood
Uniform said you could
Put me in chains
I could not complain
It was there
Filtering throughout the filthy distrusting air
We started our affair
You set the trap
Now I sit in a cell, taking a nap
The Edmond Fitzgerald was a tanker bold, twenty five thousand tons
of cargo, she held in her hole.
A crew of twenty seven sailors, a captain and a mate sailed the stormy waters
of a Michigan Great Lake.
She cruised out under a clear blue sky: they stood on the decks
as the waves slipped by.
They saw the sea birds turn away and saw the flags flutter
and the tackle swing and sway.
Sailing in the haze of the coming night, dropped her tug at the last buoy
light, trimmed her speed and headed for the south, took the wind on her bow
and a bone in her mouth.
Her radio was warning danger when came the first morn, from
out of the northern waters roared a winter storm.
The first of the season with rain and thunder, with her hole full
of cargo, she threatened to go under.
Fearful was the squall that struck her straight away and bowed
her down to her waterway.
She rose and fell on foamy swells that swept her deck
clean in a roaring hell.
The sailors below and no time to dress, she clashed and clanged
In her tangled distress.
She wallowed and floundered in a deadly death roll and
broke apart at the number six hole.
It took only minutes for the storm to take her down;
not a trace of her passing was ever to be found.
The Edmond Fitzgerald was never to be seen again, a testament
to the power of a Lake Superior wind.
JOTTINGS
Folded paper and scribbled notes
Mutterings of my cluttered mind
Things to do I hope to remember
The memory club, I’m a member
If not, then that’s why I will find
Ideas are sheep, words are goats
Jottings serve as an aide-memoire
Notes to self, so that I won’t forget
Phone numbers or reference codes
My brain cannot handle such loads
I haven’t sorted through them yet
Mental logbooks can only go so far
A thought is ethereal, like vapour
If written, it serves as an anchor
Words can be both meat and rind
Helpful, especially if underlined
Minds turn slow, like an oil tanker
That’s why I get it down on paper
Thee nonpareil Amelie Beth Harris-McGeehan
blessed honest to dog goodness her person doth bring
never could her brother wish upon NON GMO
(archaeopteryx, buffalo, chicken...) wing,
and genuine prayer anybody more a maze zing.
Many countless years before
our dear mother passed away four
plus eleven earth orbitz ago,
she voluntarily repeated more
times than I can remember "your
older sister possesses altruistic qualities."
The above words enclosed by this bloke
with double quotation marks, okey-doke
not necessarily the way mama spoke,
but yours truly took poetic liberty
without any intention generating impulse to choke
the harmless, nameless, and stateless writer
and literally went bonkers
while going for Baroque
for recognized virtue that recently woke.
Kinship towards angelic, fantastic, pacific anchor
understandable why her spouse did hanker
during their courtship to pledge his troth
to maneuver metaphorical
hook, line, and sinker as though steadying a tanker.
Innocence and naïveté suffused little boy
occupying body of aging long haired
pencil necked geek without gainful employ
and (and as a shy person without benefit
of powdered milk biscuits)
generally trended solitary
verses masing with hoi polloi,
nevertheless ofttimes relentlessly teased
bully me, I loathed treatment on par
with worthlessness linkedin with discarded toy,
thus gratitude prevails toward eldest sibling
(no matter just thirteen plus months older)
pseudo motherhood she did deploy
to ward off aggressive monsters.
I reckon eyes appreciation
matured into present thankful attitude,
now with mooch time to ponder and brood
how earlier in my life behavior childish and crude
methought meself as hotshot dude,
yet these days, I couch sincerity writing
one or another poetic endeavor
knitting words analogous to composing an etude
contemplative, intuitive, and ruminative mental food
for thought hoop ping to convey
honest to goodness gratitude
communicating reasonable rhyming message
(if yee be downcast dearly beloved sister)
delivering uplifting, kickstarting exalting mood.
Note this poem was written some time ago but I was sick and deleted my site. I have been patiently reposting my poems since 9 October 2000.
On November 13, 2002. The Prestige, one of twelve tanks burst during a storm off Galicia, in northwestern Spain. No help was forthcoming and by November 19, the ship split in half. 20 million gallons were spilled into the sea.
Beneath the heavy dark clouds,
the storm broke.
An oil-filled tanker sank
spewing black lakes of murderous slime.
What a giant "Prestige"!
Despite the roar of untamed waves
there was a deadly hush over the ocean.
A low death knell sang a purgatory of pain,
as contaminated birds of gulls, orioles, kestrels
squawked their last dirge:
What a giant "Prestige"!
Too late men stretched their ingenuity,
a desire to save and spare
the livelihood of so many families
that sailed the oil-spilled seas,
where baby dead fish dotted the surface,
sands and rocks tainted with death.
Elsewhere engineers burned their chemical gases
and smoke escaped from the earth's fragile shell.
We all have our "Prestige"!
Written 2016
by Bob Moore © 2020
(keep the tune of Lilli Marlene in your mind)
I was born in England, 1942.
Dad was in the Army, and learning what to do
if Jerry the German should invade
he’d make them pay
chase them away.
my dad he was a tanker
an 8th Irish Hussar
On that cold winters morning
when I first saw the light
didn’t know the world was
in the middle of a fight
a fight for its freedom
and way of life
a world of fear
of war and strife
but we would go on fighting
until the very end
In ’46 the war was over
and my dad he came home
to be with his family
and never more to roam,
but six years later
he’d gone again
another war
of fear and flame
fighting in Korea
against another foe
He came home and decided
it was time for us to go
to leave the land where we were born
and find another home
so we went to Australia for peace, and sun
and here ten thousand miles from home
we would stop our roaming
our new life had begun.
Zak at fifteen is a grounded tanker
spilling an oily vitriol
as we listen
"You know how I'm wired! Weed frees me! Chokes off the
dark. Your bloody voices shame me! Messing me up! So I
toke! Bleak dreams break me! Sometimes, hung over, I can't
see the sun. What do you want? A Christmas Eve peace
where we kiss in fake goo? Why all the BS about an elephant in the room? Everybody needs to stop talking about it! Stop
looking at me like you want to see underneath it! Because I
don't know what good is!"
Outraged ire that snaps the air
like cheap china crashing
his pitch for freedom
Toxic stares
as he sweats in the ruling wreckage of words
what is his unheard story?
The family craves a sane peace, some zone of happiness
silver bow of recovery
Zak on speed dial
turbulent
straining at reason
crossing an invisible border
in the cradled heat of summer
His self harm like a full body cast
with no zip line
out
Poem composed: June 30, 2021