Long Trawlers Poems
Long Trawlers Poems. Below are the most popular long Trawlers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Trawlers poems by poem length and keyword.
The little thrill as the wave’s ripple in
Making the hairs stand up, on the surface of my skin.
The kiss of the sun with its warm breath so light
As it soothes my skin with warmth and delight.
The sand rolls around where my hands touch it soft.
The water rolls back and forth carrying pebbles aloft.
Setting shells down with rolling grains of sand
Making minute rivers run from the fingers of my hand.
The blue of the sky so pale and so pretty
On the horizon I can see the outline of the city.
Birds bob on by walking in the sand,
Not caring that I’m there lying on their land.
Curiously watching me, little eyes darting here and there
Watching for what, I don’t know or care.
A tiny emerald green beetle scuttles on past
Taking no notice of me, but from the birds, rushes on fast.
The sun is setting; it’s time to go back
The tide has come in but it needs to get back
The coastguard come out and asks so polite
Please can you move, the tide needs to leave tonight.
You have laid there so long, blocking the way
Can you please go back - so the water can flow away?
The ships need to sail and the trawlers come in
But you are blocking the way as you are not that thin.
Slips marked and mapped across the intercoastal waterways
a scanning breached out of high low tidal waves,
silent, still, obscure, and not well hidden
liveaboards hold steady isolated sheltered misgivings;
embedded and anchored in place
buoys secure contested living space,
Matanzas Pass, Sarasota fields, Titusville and Sunset Bay
the Gulf Stream Key Largo flow a mainstay;
honker down between the wind, the rain, and sun
vessels sturdy and rickety, short and long - all come,
house and home hum interludes for a sing-along,
push aways and pull in tights
safeaways and derelicts amidst stormy plights
resident and transient, occupied and abandoned
faceless vacancies, sequestered and random,
marinas and harbors within hurricane holds in tandem,
dockmasters and dock slips. environmental folds alluring
beleaguered and bewildered landlocked sailors touring
in their trawlers, boats, cruisers and yachts adoring
September shelters in the Florida moorings.
Within the strands that capture attention,
Layered by levels to constantly attract.
Is a web that's woven in multiplicity,
Ensnaring reality while hidden and abstract.
Born to inform and enlighten a community,
Its growth has been exponential in its place.
With few boundaries to hold the imagination,
The spread's been viral to the globe everyplace.
Throughout this creation, the content evolved quickly,
Where now the truth is often hidden or obscured.
As if fantasy has uprooted its true value,
Offering no guarantees once insured.
Spinning tirelessly, new cobwebs are left easily,
Where many flies are stuck on big lies and fake news.
Leaving those informed, to question the validity,
As to what's real, or is it just to confuse?
All the while, it only keeps growing to maturity,
With an appetite that's ravenous and obese.
Yet there's no one to monitor any menu,
Or somehow regulate the consumption to police.
So it would seem that more trawlers will be needed,
Casting their ever-widening nets to the sea.
And while few show concern for over-fishing ...
I'm left to wonder, if the catch is reality.
Facing global warming and climate change,
endangered species will die off on Earth.
Yet, folks don't seem concerned: I find that strange
since we're all linked to this planet from birth.
Whales may never swim our oceans again:
while reefs are at the point of no return.
And we're losing vital links in life's chain,
as Earth's glaciers melt, and its forests burn.
Tigers, jaguars, panthers, and leopards,
all the big cats, are doomed to disappear.
For ranchers and hunters, keep culling them,
and their numbers are decreasing each year.
On sea bottoms, where trawlers weren't banished:
like a magician; all life has vanished.
I inhabited a small house near the shore
where the fishes of men hauled their nets,
in dawn’s waters under boats
of wood sheltered by thinning masts.
Time was when they were like kin of god
Trying to feed the hunger of men;
with bodies burnt by a merciless sun
as hands, blowin' free,
allayed 2,000 souls or more.
Riding through for many hours, to catch food
They now pray for bounty when nights break,
While we strum guitars, " The king will come",
That would supply our children’s bowls.
Our trawlers arrive and throw the sword
Weary from roughened winds, leaf, and streams
Yet,I watch them smiling under a darkened cloud,
Looking like apostles of our tiny harbor.
Brian's Select A
He sat on the pathway edge,
crossed legged at the feet.
Donned in green moleskin trousers and yellow oilskin, felt pork pie hat and tilting back from the band a pheasant feather,
multicoloured,
catching the sporadic sunlight.
Thin lipped and with a smile that exposed teeth so uniform that if he had done a handstand you would swear the mouth had not moved.
I imagined the canines and molars worn to evenness by the gnawing of rope and net whilst Captaining trawlers that endured weeks at sea, but more likely a University lecturer, Geography teacher.
Like Shearer at the Gallowgate end I held my arm aloft exposing the too tightly pulled wristband allowing entry to the festivities.
Heartily and simultaneously with him “Morning” and his smile extended further.
Drinks were ordered and it was several minutes before I became aware of my inappropriate footwear as wood chippings bit my toes.
Forgetfulness was becoming an ever increasing trait.
Oofos flip flops were not going to cut it.
A Met Office amber warning, dancing and the threat of a drifting mosh pit required a sturdier approach and a journey back out.
“So soon?” he asked ruefully.
I pointed to the uncovered feet, his brow concertinaed, he stood, smaller than expected, deceived by his outstretched legs.
Arms raised, fully extended, he planted his hands upon my shoulders and with quiet authority
“When your Father told you that things would get easier, that you hadn’t to worry, that you will get wiser. You didn’t listen did you?”
He bellowed and I joined him.
He sent me away.
Uplifted.
When I returned he had been replaced, voluntary shift complete. Sat in his place a young man, a boy barely eighteen I guessed.
I left my arm by its side and tugged at the sleeve, we nodded.
Later that day I spied the man, sat on a tree trunk bench.
Pork pie hat with pheasant feather, crossed legged at the feet but held to his thin lips, a dark beer, a mild, a stout or a porter.
Undoubtedly a Geography teacher.
It was a year of revolutions
Worldwide, quiet little fights
Wanting more from democracy?
Fighting for Civil Rights.?
From Hull three trawlers sank
February, fifty eight lives lost,
Adding to that 10 thousand
Deep sea fishing would finally cost.
They called them Headscarf Heroes
Big Lil lead the housewives, the few
Who stood and fought for
More safety for the crews.
They marched on Downing Street
In defence of their men
Met with PremierHarold Wilson
Up there at Number 10;
United the fishing community
All over the land,
Brought the fight to the public,
Made an historic stand
To fight for basic safety
To fight for better ways
For the men who fished each year
On average over three hundred days.
She was vilified and attacked
Received letters threatening death
But BIg Lil and her companions
Fought with their every breath.
They won many concessions
At their personal cost
The efforts of these ladies
Saved many lives from being lost.
The fishing fleet is finished.
Old Hessle Road is gone.
In time and at a price
This City has moved on.
Such an historic figure
I find it such an awful shame
So very few know or remember
Big Lil and the others names
Lillian Bilocca 1929 - 1988 and the Headscarf Revolutionaries, Christine Jensen, Mary Denness, and Yvonne Blenkinsop,
with respect
The past is a thought.
The coastal fishing town in Peru was charming
its upland was bare and light brown, with roads
looking like scars caused by a triple Bye-Pass.
The sky was enormous, the biggest ever seen
but was unmotivated, not a cloud around.
Teresa is a short, lovely woman in well-filled jeans.
Ah, jeans, one wishes for the skirt’s reappearance.
We hired a car and drove up the bare hills.
The driest of landscapes weighted down by dust
Tiny villages, four houses and a cantina, not a place
for the young, Lima was their dream.
At the top of a hill, we stopped, and afar the Pacific
glittering green living up to its name.
We were in love, the transient kind disappearing
in the morning light; told each other lies and enjoyed
the sweetness of dreams.
We drove back before darkness, the road narrow.
Teresa worked at night, with many trawlers docking.
A stolen moment by two people whose youth had
passed us by, but we remember how sweet it was.
she was a sassy little mermaid
with only one ardent wish
to wreak havoc on mankind
for introducing chips to fish
she’d sit upon that lorelei rock
and keep her constant check
and in the cold weather wore
a cardi zipped up to her neck
but when she spotted a ship
she’d strip down to her vest
which was artfully cut so it
showed off her splendid chest
she’d sing her siren song
and lure them to their doom
there’s many a lovelorn sailor
in a cold and watery tomb
one cold september morning
she was singing for her catch
and she lured a certain vessel
and there she met her match
she tried for an old hull trawler
not sure where he should be
the skipper had gone and turned
wrong way from the north sea
and he wouldn’t tell his crew
no matter what the cost
that they’d be late home
because he’d got a bit lost
then he heard our little mermaid
and her wailing was the last straw
a carefully aimed beer bottle ensured
she bother ed them no more
and while she was thus concussed
he got his sextant out
and realising his mistake
went and turned the ship about
he arrived home a day or so late
but he went and told the crew
they’d been on a secret mission
and they believed him like you do
he never thought any more
about his little slip
nor did he remember the little maid
he’d nearly brained on that eventful trip
the effect on her was terrible
she turned reclusive and very shy
those waters now are quiet and safe
near that once dread lorelei
as for those hull trawlers
they go to sea no more
cos mrs thatcher sold them out
when we lost that last cod war
I stand atop a mountain tall,
look down upon the land,
the forests clinging to the slopes,
green valleys long and grand.
Rivers carve torrents right through them,
can still hear them up here,
cabins scattered amongst the woods,
one such belongs to me.
Some wonder why I walk up peaks,
why I deal with that strain,
the only view that is better
would be from an airplane.
I am jammed in a window seat,
thirty thousand feet high,
the Great Lakes stretching below me,
almost as blue as sky.
There’s boats I see amongst the wave,
but they're actually ships,
trawlers and freighters loaded down,
doggedly make their trip.
The gray of cities on the shore,
suburbs encircle it,
the only view that could beat this
would be up in orbit.
I look out the capsule window,
five hundred miles high,
amazed by fringe of black and blue
where the great void meets sky.
The clouds a frosting, wispy white,
obscuring land and earth,
on the night side a web of lights,
the cities' yellow blur.
Beyond me a spangled starfield
stretches on endlessly,
to see greater you would have to
leave the dang galaxy.
I stare down on the spiral arms
of the grand Milky Way,
Bound loose around a brilliant core
where countless bright stars blaze.
Reaches of stars drifting about
in graceful, curving arcs,
billions of stars and their planets,
defy the endless dark.
The nova and the nebula,
so beautiful it hurts,
to see better you would have to
know the whole universe.
I gaze down on the great clusters,
light dots looks like a star,
but each is a whole galaxy,
Lord, how many there are!
Swinging around in massive groups,
too big to comprehend,
I can’t try to make sense of this,
it’s just too big for men.
My mind says that there’s nothing more,
I’ve reached the end, must quit;
but part of me thinks something else
must be bigger than this.
…and won’t that be cool to see.