Long Trawler Poems
Long Trawler Poems. Below are the most popular long Trawler by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Trawler poems by poem length and keyword.
He Would Leave…
He would leave you his tears,
salt stains on an abandoned beach,
lone gull riding a cold, lonely wind,
shrieking as the chill bites his heart,
lingering, as spurned lovers do,
waiting, watching, numbed by the
never-passing time. The call of the
trawler slipping over the horizon
gnaws at his soul, his wings make
feeble attempt to follow,
the clicking of the crabs
scurrying over hard, wet sand
hold no interest, nor does the
debris of the beach. He sits, red-eyed,
as another sun disappears,
another empty night
slowly surrounds him.
He would leave you his tears
were he able to leave.
John G. Lawless
9/4/2014
“Leave you my tears” (a variation)
For The Poet II – poetry Contest
womankind has been around for a while
hypno-teasing men with her wicked smile
been known by many names starting with Eve
Boadicea, Cleopatra and Genevieve
she can fly-by-night, be out with the bats
purring and prowling with sly slinky cats
never a tame girl, sometimes receptive
with hidden secrets, deep and deceptive
see her in twilight, creature in the dark
flames flickered when she was Joan of Arc
think she has been here for just a few years?
think again, them hills they flow with her tears
woman has been teacher for aeons of time
wrote most of " Homer ", taught Plato to rhyme
as Archimedes' hand-maid, she had a laugh
when he shouted " Eureka, get me out of the bath! "
around when Adam gave out those spare ribs
her name is on parchment writ with rare nibs
her time here with us, a mere interlude
battles over centuries, a bitter feud
with men from the past and future I'm told
man on her arm, just her latest cuckold
well-rounded dame or seriously slim
cheerful demeanour or chief sister grim
close-quarter woman talking loud and fast
words over-taking like a blast from the past
so hard to keep up, so hard to break in
leave you behind in the wake of her din!
what's this I hear, is she now slowing down
pausing for men, is she wearing a frown?
perhaps she's starting to shuffle the deck
departure dreaming on a very long trek
maybe no point in moving on once more
the greater challenge is here at the door
as men they shout " I am invincible
I've the biggest Archimedes Principle! "
late at night she now walks the floorboards
seeking a new role, a song with new chords
" where and when will I go, who will I be
will I stay in this land or else oversea ? "
men of the future and men of the past
treasure this woman as head of the cast
whenever, wherever, whoever you are
she will always twinkle, shine like a star
bring her some chocolate, bring her some wine
make sure she stays and has a good time
but watch at midnight in case she's outside
all alone by the road hitching a ride
silver moonbeam and finest curb crawler
then down to the port and onto a trawler
far out to sea where she thinks of those days
when Gods fought Neptune for sight of her gaze
Wales to me is her Celtic tribal history,
Wales to me is walks upon her shores.
Wales to me is her druids, saints, and mystery,
the soil I tread, the salt that leaves my pores.
We drove an hour from Brecon down to Cardiff,
a plane to catch, a new job to begin.
She dropped me off but lingered for a long, long kiss,
I miss her now; my love, my lady Gwyn.
In my window seat, I glimpse a fishing trawler,
as Bristol Channel meets the Celtic Sea.
My heart grows lonesome as the boat grows smaller,
I long for Wales and all she means to me.
I miss her valleys, I miss her plains and lush, warm hills,
I miss her beauty that would make me stop and stare.
I miss her gardens, her leeks and lovely daffodils,
I miss my Wales, and the sweetheart I left there.
I'll be thinking of her Welsh cakes and her laverbread,
I'll be thinking of our trips to Aberystwyth.
I'll be thinking of the beer we love, the tasty Cwtch red ale,
I'll be thinking of the one I'd drink it with.
I'd love to throw some darts and sing within her pubs,
I'd love to watch her rivers, lakes and coast.
I'd love to watch some matches of her rugby union clubs -
But the one I love is the one I'm missing most.
I miss her valleys, I miss her plains and lush, warm hills,
I miss her beauty that would make me stop and stare.
I miss her gardens, her leeks and lovely daffodils
I miss my Wales, and the sweetheart I left there,
I miss my Wales, and the sweetheart I left there.
Written 16 June 2020
Abacus yacht boats pleasy
Banana boats are queazy
Catamaran boats squeezy
Dinghy boats all out easy
Eagle Craft boats too cheesy
Fishing boats yet so breezy
Game boats crazy uneasy
Houseboats creepy sneezy
Inflatable boats fizzy
Jet boats so smokeeasy
Kayak boats much so creasy
Lifeboats namely are busy
Motor boats mainly teasy
Narrowboats are but woozy
Origami boats leasy
Pontoon boats namely weasy
Q-Ship boats likewise greasy
Rider boats rather wheezy
Sedan bridge boats are flimsy
Trawler boats just as queasy
U-boats notably dizzy
Vessel boats sure are squeasy
Wakeboard boats easy-peasy
Xebec boats rather frenzy
Yacht boats are indeed sleazy
Zille fish boats funny fuzzy
I love to walk barefoot
along the shore
the imprint of my footprints
follows me like a shadow
I know they’ll vanish
as each wave breaks
rushing over the shingle
tickling my toes
I stop
and turn to face the sea
hoping to espy a seal
suddenly a little wave appears
and a black head pops up
bobbing up and down
in the ocean
Alas,
this magical moment
is marred
by squawking seagulls
circling overhead
as they follow a trawler
heading home
with catch of the day
I wave to the fishermen
and continue on my walk
''W'' New Poems Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
11/24/21
Dare to dream Ashes nightmares it seems reawoken
Token words spoken after scares & flares teams broken
Dafter peacocking then rocking no blocking just shocking
Mocking laughter of the ghost of Christmas future knocking
Host boast from coast to coast toast as England roast
Boiling..recoiling..toiling & broiling this is our last post
Our iridescent flaming proper copper haired laird
Incandescent flairs no taming his despairs we all shared
Luminescent cares blaming Bazball heirs ill prepared scared
Stoic brawler our defiant mauler on a leaking reeking trawler
Too reliant on our brilliant defiant resilient glowering giant
Big Ben set up camp crippled by his men again & ripples of cramp
Overpowering pain courses through every vein towering skipper & champ
Heart on his sleeve…makes us believe in a reprieve heroic Firestarter
Immensity of intensity.. O Captain my Captain..our smarter martyr
At the wharf I donned the Wellington boots
Of the fisher deceased, to trace my roots
And see and feel what it was like at sea
For my uncle a fishing devotee.
The clammy boots were three sizes too large.
I kidded myself that I could take charge,
And fill the boots with fishers' gait and guts
Aware the concept was deluded, nuts.
I felt the lure of expectation loom
As the trawler 'Gen' breached to break dawn's gloom
I embraced the hope of a bumper haul
Of keeper fish, not tiddlers, way too small.
I felt the surge of waves tug at the boots,
Like tentacles dragging against the roots
Which held my soles fast on the slimy deck.
The sea incessant for another wreck.
I felt fish guts, innards, blood and gore,
Slather on boots as fish were brought ashore,
And unloaded in bins brimful with ice.
At days end, bootlegging was hard but nice.
Long nosed earthy bookworm knows 'bout Angler Saxon
Shell yours truly share hook line
and sinker, regarding how I nearly
fell prey to off fish shill
doom for umpteenth time?
Ya haint got no choice... to late,
cuz eyes already clicked bait,
though don't worry be happy fate
will find thee enjoying poetic tête-à-tête
rhyming Hors d'oeuvres
ain't no Shakespearean literary great
expert, nonetheless might interest
with special Labor Day rate
absolute zero charge courtesy
to mollycoddle principally
as figurative paypal pit tate
ting gently massaging your pate
anyway don't get doggies in a dimple
yawping personal ambition
of this doggone puppy not to create
literary accomplishment appraised great
merely to fritter away time possibly
unexpectedly, unknowingly,
unwittingly... titillate.
Herewith follows "FAKE" off fish hill
anecdote without wallowing
in self pity and deemed gill
tee of slimy overkill,
whereby fisherman seeks likes of me,
who favors lollygagging
within Brooklyn rill
frequented by Jack and Jill
ice cream in vain
when riled, poked, nabbed...
courtesy angler England Bill
unaware his carping cavil
never fooling this ever will
fill squiggly... d'ya phylum me?
As proud Annelida where trawler
(accompanied with boating mate)
blithely tosses yours truly into catcher's
reel tin can - grim fate
ah, but survival skills include
ability to regenerate
in thee event mine body electric rotate
headed, chopped, perforated, segmented...
evening, increasing, licking... odds
laughing to myself, which doth not abate,
cuz I outsmarted, thus aye state
with modesty if perchance just a sliver
lopped off, destiny cannot eliminate
opportunity not to agitate,
but rather duplicate, replicate
unisexual worman hood
without need to feign
being irate, thus
pretend to equivocate.
Floating
by Michael R. Burch
Memories flood the sand’s unfolding scroll;
they pour in with the long, cursive tides of night.
Memories of revenant blue eyes and wild lips
moist and frantic against my own.
Memories of ghostly white limbs …
of soft sighs
heard once again in the surf’s strangled moans.
We meet in the scarred, fissured caves of old dreams,
green waves of algae billowing about you,
becoming your hair.
Suspended there,
where pale sunset discolors the sea,
I see all that you are
and all that you have become to me.
Your love is a sea,
and I am its trawler;
harbored in dreams,
I ride out night’s storms.
Unanchored, I drift through the hours before morning,
dreaming the solace of your warm breasts,
pondering your riddles, savoring the feel
of the explosions of your hot, saline breath.
And I rise sometimes
from the tropical darkness
to gaze once again out over the sea ...
You watch in the moonlight
that brushes the water;
bright waves throw back your reflection at me.
This is a poem I wrote as a teenager. It has been published by Penny Dreadful, Romantics Quarterly, Boston Poetry Magazine and Poetry Life & Times. The poem's mermaid has aspects of a ghost, phantom and mirage. The mermaid was inspired by ancient myths of Circe, Calypso, Medusa, Atargatis, Ea, Derketo, Thessalonike, Li Ban, Melusine and of the Sirens, Lorelei, Dryads, Nymphs, Sprites, Sylphs, Naiads, Nereides, Nix, Rusalkas, Ceasg and Selkies.
Crystal ball, thy spirit.
Cast thee a mighty spell.
Vision sacred, let's hear it.
Voice of mine, pell-mell.
Tress and trawler, set thy hooks.
River bed to dredge.
Recipes we learned in books?
Formation, wild wedge.
Coal, control, bell toll, sail, soul.
Down the delta wide.
Wasteland, when you set a goal.
Woe, when you betide.
Chicken farm, thy tender.
Politics, tough thy game.
Doubtless, O defender.
Katabothron, quay, claim.
Current, channel. Atmosphere.
Particles, spread out.
Cloud cover, sere or severe?
Cannibal, red rout!
Trickle, stickleback. Code crack.
Fortresses, thy stack.
Under attack? Dinner pack.
Flak ahead? Shellac.
Yawndrift, yucca, yellow eyes.
Oceanic rift.
Circumspect the council's cries?
Petrify, wood. Gift.
Bank, holding of money.
Tornado, spinning fast.
Clown, well, life is funny.
Mead honey, my good ghast?