Long Trinidad Poems
Long Trinidad Poems. Below are the most popular long Trinidad by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Trinidad poems by poem length and keyword.
Water, water everywhere! What a spectacular view!
The Master's Hand steers our course as we sail the ocean blue!
Though the billowing waves may toss our man o' war about,
The Master Pilot will keep us safe, of that I have no doubt!
I like to think that the playful dolphins leaping about our bow,
Were trained by The Master Navigator to guide our course somehow!
We've sailed the ocean blue seven months visiting mysterious ports of call,
Savoring The Master Creator's handiwork from Trinidad to Senegal!
Our rigging has been rent in battle midst furious shot and shell,
But our Master Captain's leadership has led us through so very well!
When standing midnight watch on moonlit nights upon the ocean blue,
I'm comforted knowing that The Master Guardian is watching over you!
My supplication to The Master of the Cosmos who directs all from above,
Is that one joyful day I'll hold you in my arms forever more, my love!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 1 in Francine Roberts' "Blue on blue on blue" Contest - Jul 2011
Blown by Atlantic wind and sail in chains
once were ragged souls like chattels branded -
from the Guinea Coast to old Port of Spain
African herdsmen on slave ships landed.
From my father’s car I saw the canefields
where slaves cut from cyan-see to cyah-see.
Where broken men of burden stooped and kneeled
my father would stop to cut cane for me.
Now broke are those fetters of time and fate
in that dark and soulless age of tyranny,
and I in old plantation, horse ranch and estate
on his fold-out walking stick seat sat his knee.
In its powerdrive push-button auto as a lad
I rode the hills and streets of old Trinidad -
in that big pale grey Plymouth Fury I swear
I saw ghosts of the mills and the ploughshare.
Written: December 2009
I remember the land of drums I was born
bedded beneath great hanging nets;
the sound of the conch and the horn.
My blue suitcase filled with stuff,
the red tricycle and pedal car
that made me race and made me puff.
I remember the hounds of revolution nightly howl
on the streets of my island home.
Now I reign afar in the land of my exile
as might a king given up his throne
I remember my first day of school so bleak,
a gingerbread house on Picton Street
where I first kissed a sweetheart cheek.
Hearken tales of men in Sherwood,
Nelly Stone in her rocking chair
reading The Adventures of Robin Hood.
The loud guttural yard turkeys’ gobble and flap,
and kids singing their songs of joy.
I remember the year, the girl, the songs
in all its virtue when I was a boy
I remember the front yard we would play
and the annex rooms we called home
watching The Riki Tiki Show at 17 Gray.
Waving at the Queen’s royal parade
down on Saint Clair Avenue
in the crowds following her motorcade.
I remember huddled around the old valve radio,
long siestas in the hot afternoon
till late beneath a corner streetlight halo
raving drunk slumped Blue Moon
I remember sticky chewy peanut brittle
with my cold Nestle chocolate milk
while gorging my tummy little by little.
Behold down-de-islands dashing
in a pirogue out on Grand Fond Bay -
the sea spray across the bow crashing.
Watching as darkness fell on high moon and tide
shining on bay and jetty so bright,
when as young eyes grew weary I would
rest at peace all through the night
I remember all dressed for Sunday School
and afternoons at the Country Club
splashing around in the swimming pool.
And at sea playing captain and sailor
on board a ship Panama bound
in my cabin with my toy boat and trailer.
I remember the ports and voyage of no return
into the yonder crossing the equator,
when old Neptune rose from the undersea
to bless our ship and navigate her
Written: September 1990
Pen pals from the very start
scented paper and feathers of pink
inside a pre-kissed envelope of white
You, writing about the taste of Trinidad
by the sweet-burning smoke of a pipe blend,
me, whispering to you about the beauty of a snowflake
as it comes swiveling down from heaven;
Letter writers of ancient times, hoping for love's arrow
You, singing a Christmas Parang in a Trini voice of honey
me, with my faux fourrure and Christmas boots of leather;
Lovers yet to be my love but if this year I get my winter wish,
I will meet you by the Pigeon Point, on December 29th,
with a glass of rum in one hand
and a plate of festive rice on the other
Together we will melt the last glacial memory
from our burning waiting hearts.
December 7 2021
Meaning of Fourrure / french word for fur
Tropical sunshine
streaming down
from a clear blue and white sky
with fleecy white clouds
edged with wisps of mist
like giant grains of popcorn
drifting slowly by
way up in the sky
The sunshine
bathing the sugar cane fields below
with golden sunbeams
saturating the texture
of its long grass-like leaves
with its radiance
enlivening them and
transforming the fields into
an emerald sea
of brilliant green
Tropical breeze
swaying the sugar cane leaves
gently caressing them
making them dance in unison
like the waves of the ocean
The dancing leaves
vibrating in harmony
with each other
create a murmuring sound
that builds in intensity
and reaches a crescendo
like the roar
of the waves of the ocean
setting the leaves
in a wild dance of ecstasy
and then gently subsiding
to the soothing sound
of a gentle breeze
inducing a state
of peacefulness
and tranquillity
At such moments
alone with nature
one can feel a strange unity
with everything around
Unity that is so strong
and overpowering
that one loses consciousness
of one's individual self
one has no consciousness
of time and space
but only of that moment
- the infinite eternal NOW
One's consciousness seems to merge
with a deeper consciousness
of the unity of all things
in nature and the cosmos
One experiences an awareness
of a deeper reality
that is impossible
to describe in words
One makes contact
with one's cosmic roots
in a dimension where
time and space
are irrelevant
It is the synchronisation
of one's consciousness
with the absolute
and ultimate reality
of the cosmos
As a young boy, around nine or ten, I used to love to be in the sugar-cane fields in my native tropical island, Trinidad. I got a natural high, being dazzled by the brilliant sunshine and listening to the sighing of the sugar cane leaves as they swayed in the breeze like the waves of the ocean. I felt that Nature was speaking to me, transporting me to another world where I connected with my cosmic roots, becoming part of the unity of all things.
the pilot arrives
When the world was big, and my ship left Trinidad just
as the sun set over the blue Caribbean and women, at the dockside waved goodbye forever, or perhaps not, if the ship returned with the same crew.
The Panama Canal was efficient and American, all business
The Pacific Ocean, the ship was a tea leaf in a giant's
saucer any minute now we would disappear and become a mystery at sea, written about in seafarers magazine.
Indian Ocean, finding a small island long before Apollo
made the world into a smaller planet
The moon is a balloon, as David Niven wrote.
The world has shrunk, it is indeed a tiny place a dot in the galaxy hard to see yet we go on fighting about religion and silly political views, and the beauty of what could have been is lost in a blur of hatred
There once was a boy named Brad
Loved to wear a bowtie made of plaid
He looked like a nerd the way he was clad
But he barely knew how to add
Get some sun kept repeating his dad
Couch potato is a real bad fad
There are things to do a whole myriad
Soon when school’s out you’ll be a grad
Time to plan your life, my lad
Gear up to be happy not sad
Sharpen your skills to be had
The last thing you want is a life that’s bad
Motivated, in the paper Brad found an ad
For participants in the Olympiad
He lined up and was glad
'Cause he won a trip to Trinidad
AP: Honorable Mention 2021
Fear and other things
I have recurring nightmares and tell myself
to remember the dream in the morning
but I'm unable to recall the gruesome dream
I think it is about nuclear war
When a seaman, I was often afraid of the ocean
especially in the Pacific, where waves look like
the mountain that even unbalanced hangar ships
the ship on top of a watery mountain, then sliding
down, and in front of another gigantic wave,
will she be able to rise up again
I was in Nagasaki once, and by closing my eyes, I could
see when that Bomb was dropped as tableaux
of suffering people and death
Panic, where I lived before I came to Cascais, there was
a forest, I often walked there with my dog
but not far into the forest, one day, when thinking
about the mountain, what for lunch at the cafe
I ended up in the deep forest and lost by bearing
I think the dog sensed my distress and began
walking, I followed, every so often turned to see
if I was there until I recognized my surroundings
and bravely took charge
This is not romantic of me, but I do not dream about
women in my life, except Teresa in
Trinidad, I remember her beautiful smile and stars,
light up the world was a good place, to think she was pro
Other women are fading slowly, and faces are in deep
shadow as they disappear from memory
Hear the shout of “SEA!” where ends the land
down Manzanilla way on windward shore -
on coconut road, on golden turtle sand
and follow a far trail of palms to its door.
Upon old plantation footprint I stood,
coco lillies and beach flowers I’ve smelled,
when beachcomber island castaway driftwood
my mother’s full and cradled arms held.
In seine nets from Cocal to Mayaro
villagers pull carite, wahoo, mackerel, and shark,
and dig for chip-chip and watch fireflies glow
as bright the pitch-oil lamps burn after dark.
Like leatherbacks in Grand Riviere I will return
before my oil and lamp do cease to burn,
when eerie is the billfish feeding ground
and missing are the pelicans stormbound.
Gaze out to sea upon blown rig and sail
in our fright’s strand on stormwatch to the south,
heed the mighty whirlwind, its scything trail -
Galleon’s Passage to the Serpent’s Mouth.
See the bended trees on coconut row
when lightning fork flashing turns night to day -
let it thunder, let it rage, let it blow
across river and swamp in Cocos Bay.
When jittery estate cattle away are led
and heron, egret, petrel, ibis, and frigate bird
take flight for cover when all else have fled
till a cockcrow at early dawn is heard.
Like leatherbacks in Grand Riviere I will return
before my oil and lamp do cease to burn,
when eerie is the billfish feeding ground
and missing are the pelicans stormbound
Written: July 1996
Praying For You
Curtis Johnson
My dear brother. Of late, God has placed you on my heart
We have sat and prayed together in years gone by
I know many of your trials and disappointments
I have known your and your wife’s missionary hearts
Sometimes my eyes grow watery over you when
I remember You were in Africa and Trinidad for Christ
May You know that I, and some others, have not forgotten
May you realize that our God is even more careful not to forget
It is He more than I or any other, who remembers your labors of love
May you just now, behold His smiling face, and feel His warm embrace
May you continue to grow and be strong, realizing that you are not alone
May He bless the lands where you have gone, and always bless your dear home
10082013cj