Long Turret Poems
Long Turret Poems. Below are the most popular long Turret by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Turret poems by poem length and keyword.
OUR TIN POT NAVY so THEY SAID in 1914 Sydney in the first World War 1
In 1914 German cruisers were cut loose
and Emden she was one…………….…(fired 38lb shells)
the Indian ocean she did for hunting choose
and 9 ships were sunk by gun…….
Then she sailed and shelled Madras , I say
captured 10 more ships, when off Ceylon…
Penang harbour a night visit,… hey!
sank Frog and Ruski warships, and was gone ….(Emden was daring!)
November 8, morse code it said… strange ship a passing there,
out near Cocos island, the German raider caused a stir
Cruiser Sydney she raced west at 25 knots or more
And sighted wily Emden who opened fire for sure
Sydney took 15 hits before, she then hit back …..(with 100lb shells)
blew away her steering gear and knocked her funnels flat (Emden)
.. ………..demise………..
The Scrap Iron Flotilla they said in 1940
Light Cruiser Sydney in World War 2
Light Cruiser Sydney had some 6 inch guns
she met Italians in the med.
sank destroyer Espero not for fun
in nineteen forty, yes its said
17th july Sydney was on patrol, when,
she was called into a fight
2 Italian cruisers waited, then,
sprung some pommy destroyers in flight....(pommy English)
Yes Sydney came to even up
the poms out gunned for sure
when she arrived with blazing guns
the Italians run for shore
Bande Nere and Colleoni rushed a bit
made smoke to get away
Band Nere then she took a funnel hit
as Sydney passed her way
Collenoni then she wore the brunt
stopped dead by Sydney's shell
so Band Nere escaped the hunt
Sydney's out of ammo… well?.:)
But if you live by the sword you die by the sword
cunning German's had their day
Sydney met a ship with hidden guns aboard
Raider Kormoran made her play
Kormoran she hid behind a Dutch flag
and when Sydney came in range ………a sitting duck ... 1000 yards
she fired first, jerked down the rag……...old navy trick
two equals did exchange………………….similar guns…
Though mortally wounded Sydney, still,
had some guns to fire,
x turret still fired with a bitter will
burnt Kornoran …'the liar'…….Don Johnson
……….demise of both……….
No trace of the Sydney sailors ...Kormoran sailors made it to the barren west coast of
Australia
and were interned as P.O.Ws....Almost seems like Karma with payback by the German navy...
“If you would merge with oneness, vaporise!
Be a child again, welcoming surprise!”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Immersed in limitation
Shrouded in darkness
Feeling thus confined
We flounder about
Hither and thither
Searching for joy
Bliss in permanence
Yet our heart senses
That we are far more
Than this mind body
With senses externalised
Lower mind fragmenting
Trying to piece together
The puzzle of life
Without success
Thus in delusion
Hypnotised by illusions
We strive and struggle
Hoping for a miracle
Which instantly appears
No sooner we ask
As voice of conscience
Echoing Gods will
Which has but one vibration
Love unconditional
Here begins a struggle
Between head and heart
Between ego and the divine
Former seizing, grasping
The latter, sharing, connecting
We recognise
That the voice of truth
Is that of conscience
Yet, we fear to lose
Fleeting images garnered
Or which we yearn for
Since we are clinging
To ego mind body
Stagnating in ferality
Trapped by our own hand
Unable to escape
It is then
That God in His compassion
Extends us a hand
Showing us the clear light
Of immutable truth eternal
By posing challenges
By signalling the futility
Of chasing a mirage
Illusionary thought forms
Which is what
All manifestations are
Thus when so graced
We begin to look inwards
In silence and stillness
Thought rested awareness
Doing nothing
Simply resting
Poised in the void
Of no-thingness
Desireless
Fearless
Detached
Nonchalant
Unexpectant
In timeless time
In as ordained
Attention is softened
Thoughts are quietened
Ego cravings recede
The external fades
As we get to
Vibrant emptiness
Thus we are
Thus we remain
For as long as it takes
Toxins within cleansed
Our earth life vessel
This mind body
Is readied
To receive the elixir
The magnetic impulse
Of Gods bountiful love
In boundless measure
The paths are many
We know them not
For we are not the doer
God alone is the mover
In childlike trust
Aspect allowing
We imbibe the bliss
Scintillating
~~~~~~~
He is that who may not be named
We too are as He, oh hermit
Within heart as the turret
Our divinity unstained
05-December-2020
Contest: The light N/A
You want to know what annoyeth me? Let me count the ways!
I could weave a veritable tapestry of all my aggravations, mostly in
light and deep crimson hues which signify the violence in my Heart.
Easily I could write a novel that reads like a laundry list of everything that
vex me to no fathomable End.
Pretentiousness, which is the ultimate Sin of Sins, maddens me more
than mere meager words can describe or accurately articulate. An example, perhaps?
Someone who claims to be a better poet than Shakespeare! Such heinous poetic heresy and blatant blasphemy! ONE WORD: HA!
Let's see...what else? Oh, how I loath- despise! an unannounced and
unexpected visitor, a "knock, knock" that sends shivers, like shards of glass,
down my disturbed spine. Yes, I know all about Jesus. No, I don't want to come to your church but I'll smile, be polite and friendly as I decline the invitation, then send you off on your merry way to pester someone else with your nonsense and throw your "literature" in the trash. I wish I lived in an impregnable fortress surrounded by a moat and guarded by ten-thousand Pinkerton Guards. They never sleep.
Driving, what a bedeviling task! Anyone remember the old video game "Spy Hunter" where your vehicle was equipped with bombs and lasers and such? How I wish my car had a machine gun or rocket-launcher turret to get everyone out of my way! Going too slow? KABOOM! Didn't use your turn signal? Ratta-tat-tat-tat-tat-t-a-t-t...-a...-t. So long, buster!
Bad hair-do's are ALMOST as sinful and unforgivable as pretentiousness. I cannot abide a bad hair-do. It's a good thing I'm not a socio/psychopathic autocrat or I would have anyone with an offensive coif shot on sight. When I was in school and big, poofy Aqua-Net shellac soaked , giant crunchy big bangs were all the rage, I took great delight in smashing those immense, granite-like monstrous and monumental mega-pompadours. Some of those do's were hard as bricks, like they were surrounded and protected by some kind of hair force-field. I demolished many a poof in my youth!
This diatribe is just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. I could on and on and on and on and on and on...but I'll trail off here...
*What Annoys You Contest Entry*
JustThatArchaicPoet
With the onset of advancing age, so I find,
A man grows weary of all mundane talk;
Occupies his every spare, idle thought
With that of the slow, reflective kind.
Regretful of many a squandered hour,
Turning his back on the squabbling nations,
Their woeful, self-serving deliberations,
Dreams wistfully of his own starlit tower.
Should he hopefully find that blessed stair,
Wound insides of the ancient, dim lit wall,
Where tread from unseen feet sometimes fall,
He could but elevate himself above his cares;
There, throwing his soul upon the night,
Lift his gaze upon a tumultuous crowding!
His thinning pate adorned with a crowning
From a far-flung, pale, distant light.
And if he was to fix his mind upon that point;
To that moment forcefully bring to bear,
With every ounce of fibre when stood there,
An unremitting will to somehow exploit,
That, which, the mystics so jealously guarded...
Then, perhaps, he might too ascend?
For, in all reality, at the very end,
All is thrown off...the very body discarded.
Therefore I will choose my own finality.
I give my remaining days to old worn steps
Enclosed in rock, a turret that silhouettes
Against an endless sky; and if it should be
That I find such hallowed battlements
Give aging legs the strength to slowly climb,
To praise the celestial and sublime,
When reaching up where my God frequents.
For though those stars seem out of reach,
Unattainable by grand, omnipotent design,
Nevertheless I am thusly to be inclined
To offer up a prayer and unto him beseech:-
"Immortal father who created mortal man,
Ye who sits above all earthly thrones,
Give unto me old tools and rubbled stones,
And I shall endeavour to do what I can...
To rebuild that abandoned, crumbled tower...
For, Lord, be it only by dreams men are
Truly empowered"!
I was up on deck of the USS Arizona doing the morning chores,
When another plane came along, so I just passed it by, gores,
Because they landed at Ford Island all the time, but this time,
It was strafing me, attacking me repeatedly as I was the prime.
So I ran forward to get under cover, and I did not get hurt,
But then another plane came around the same way, girt,
But again, nobody got hit, so I proceeded to go inside,
Back to my battle station, when a bomb hit where I did hide.
It knocked me out, ruptured both lungs, all lights went out,
And I awoke and picked up where I left off, with no pout,
Pearl Harbour was rank with warfare, bullets flew all around,
And I don’t know how long I had laid there, but I was bound.
I was intent on opening the water-tight door, not allowed,
In battle conditions to be entered, but I managed proud,
I made my way to the turret to assist there, and one said,
“Boy, you’re a good boy Carson,” they just needed me red.
There was no panic down there or anything, but much water,
And smoke, and they don’t mix, and then a commander
Told me to come on deck and help, but we were at a loss,
The ship was beat, and we then had to abandon and toss.
But just before I did, I ran into a friend, crying and dying,
Burnt, skin dangling off his body, very openly just hanging,
So I took his arm, but there was nothing that I could do,
So he died later, and its bothered me all my life through.
So they gave the word “abandon ship” and so I stepped off,
Not knowing how badly I was hurt, so passed out, did turnoff,
I went down in the water and it was peaceful and nice,
And then I saw this bright light, but something saved me, ice.
I got back up to the water’s surface, but burning oil,
Surrounded me in a complete circle, but, no more toil,
The next thing I knew was somebody’s arm on mine,
Pulling me out the water, and then I knew I’d be fine.
I made it to Ford Island sick bay but saw another there,
Whose intestines were in his hands, holding them bare,
And who said to me “War sure is hell isn’t it, shipmate,”
So I replied and just got up and walked out, straight.
Died January 14th 2001
What a special time of year....
I,Santa and my minion of elves
making a gazillion toys for all
the giddy girls and boys.
Just what are some of the things they
will find under the tree? Let's see !!
Colorful cars that go vroom vroom
and twin engine planes that zoom.
Remote control trucks that
tumble around the room.Oh these
things simply can't come too soon!
There's the cute little doll house
with a canary canopy and the stocking
stuffed to the brim with sugar coated candy.
Oh my, what about the indestructable
tank with the turret that pivots or the
tried and true toolset equipped with
screwdrivers, pliers, hammer
and yes, even a rack of rivets.
I almost forgot about the long-legged dolls
with their fancy silk sweaters and dresses.
Oh how girls love those that talk or cry,
or ..... yes, even make little messes.
Then there are teddy bears,dolphins,
monkeys, ...stuffed animals of all kinds.
Oh, is it possible for the youngsters
to get these tantalizing toys out of their minds?
Chutes and Ladders,Candyland, Twister,
Guess Who, a smorgasboard of board games.
Oh yes, after this Christmas Day,
nothing could ever be the same.
Then there are cd's, dvd's,mp3s
you name it, even cell phones to call.
And no, that's certainly not all.
Catchers mitts, frisbees,yo-yo's or
better yet, a new leather basketball.
Robots, Light Bright,Spirograph,
we are busy making toys for tots.
And I don't think I need to tell you
No matter how you slice it... there's alot.
But I'm running out of time here you see
and there's no limit to what
can be found underneath the tree.
Every year Christmas provides a new story.
I know I hold a special place in
the hearts of people both young and old.
But I will be the first to admit
Christmas is not about me or what's
under the tree, but might I be so bold
as to say we must not forget that the real
Christmas story is all about love.
It starts and ends with the gift of Jesus
sent to us from His Father above.
For without that very "special delivery"
Christmas Day we wouldn't even celebrate.
No, as a matter of fact, December 25th
would simply be just an ordinary date.
. "‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,"
As we lay behind the moonlit door;
So many years we waited
For the voice that would settle the score.
The secrets we held within our hearts
Brought us back to this silent place;
Where for many days, in these lonely rooms
We expected to see your face.
But the forest darkened, as the days became weeks
And the weeks, gathering moss, became years;
You lost our trust, and we lost our youth
In the salty dust of our tears.
Many was the time we would listen
As a noise broke the vacuum we filled;
And one of us would climb to the turret
To call out to the forest now stilled.
Descending the stairs where hope slowly died
Afraid to return to attest;
To our hollow faces and our fear filled hearts
This would not be the day of our guest.
You bade us wait and we honoured our word
The ferns have witnessed our bond;
The thing we promised not to be spake
Has never ventured beyond -
These crumbling walls and rotting beams
As the house itself slowly died -
and one last time we prayed in the hall
That into the glade you would ride.
Our flesh is no more and our bones will not last
But our spirits have entered these walls;
Keeping vigil beyond this time of men
Until he who’s waited for calls.
So, if ever your grey eyes should rest on this place
And your knocking should go unheeded;
Our ghosts will see and we’ll sleep in peace
In the knowledge we did as was needed.
Inspired by:
The Listeners
by Walter de la Mare
Entered for: the Masters Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Tracy Decker.
He's closed the blinds. His twilight dawns.
A midday reverie.
Within his mind, a vision spawns,
awash in mystery.
*
A levee bursts, torrents crash free—
a castle from a dream.
Atop his throne, court bent on knee,
all hail: "Long live the King!"
*
Then suddenly, the hall doors boom.
"A beast! A beast has come!"
As herald wails, and dread consumes:
"The end! The end!" they run.
*
And as he flees, all whimsy gone,
an echo beckons high.
Of beating wings, a chilling song,
a drumbeat from the sky.
*
He steps toward, all nerves afrost—
imagination wild.
A turret falls, asunder tossed—
both home and hearth defiled.
*
The creature belts—a savage shriek!—
black shadow borne aloft.
The king plants firm, through chattered teeth.
You coward! he self-scoffed.
*
A gusty gale, uproots his crown.
Gold ringing on the floor.
Stale, putrid breath, comes choking down.
He'll hide his gaze no more!
*
As four eyes meet, red versus blue,
stark mirrors of two souls.
His greatest fear, now clear as truth:
A wyvern is his foe!
*
One leath'ry wing, comes slashing in.
Its talon rife with flesh.
Unsheathed his blade, a slash akin,
their armaments enmesh.
*
The monster lands, around it whips—
forked tongue a slath'ring sight.
As from barbed tail, vile acid drips.
One prick—a deadly bite.
*
Brass hilt so slick, in sweat-drenched glove,
his lifeline sharp and true.
'Gainst rabid jaws, frothing above—
a witch's bile abrew!
*
A hack a thrust, a dash a dive.
One slip and he's devoured.
A lunge a snap, rampaging eyes!
A fiend by fury soured.
*
When by mere fluke—or was it fate?—
King's cleaving motion fast.
Condescending, full of hate,
the wyvern breathes its last.
*
Like Heracles, the labor won.
hallucination?— No!
A vict'ry yelp, The deed is done.
Now off to sleep he goes.
*
She tucks him in and gently from his fingers peels away,
A plastic sword, a pot-lid shield—which fantasy today?
So free—those fleeting days when visualization knows no end.
Her precious child, who's yet to learn, his kingdom's "just pretend".
‘Sankofa’ In 'Safranbolu'
This bird from Ghana’s legends flies forward looking backward
In the Twi language twinned with indigenous souls and wisdom
the feathered friend suggests to go back and get it and I suppose
some fly backwards while looking ahead but then life is not only
Chronos but 'Kairos' with the meter entwined and composed
At this precise moment not alone in this moving instant it waves
and oscillates conjoining what was and will be when the present
is the past in a flash and one cannot step into the same river again
yet the future is shaped by the past the here and now a 'Kairometer'
transcending artefacts and boundaries into ‘truths’ and reality
The bird flies and time flows back and beyond near and far
further on wings and pinions with roots at heart
In ‘Safranbolu’ the ancient Ottoman town on the Black Sea Coast
and thus close to Ghana in real time place and connection
the old man had been tending the clock in the tower both man and
the turret free standing and wise still present and one
‘Seventy years’ as he explained pendulum hands and the wheels
What memories pride mechanics precision preserved aspiration and
dignity flying into the face of the clock and the distortions of time
Mustafa had climbed those steps so often had rung the bell
oiled the time keeper had not forgotten a day of his duties
had become one with the time piece and stood still many times
in awe of monument and pacing the sleepy old town yet
he flew forward so peacefully looking back in retrospect and respect
He has watched birds history duration impermanence imprinting the
meaning of a life worthy of living in honour of what is the present
20th November in all past and future revisited
Wibble wibble wobble is a typhoon of trouble in a whirling mist of beautifully arranged but mediocre sand castles. Sand castles are great to live in. They carry the might of the ocean. The deep depth of tidal spore. And the secret passageways of the sea whisperers. But sinking to a island that was once erect is very very very interesting indeed for information of indoctrination is merely a symbolic training map to ensure that the human brain is not elevated to it's primeval logic and the capacity therefore is closed, shut, and generally imprisonment is a format through the chains and charms of entertainment booming through rays to hypnotize and halt and to wave a bended stick to stir a non used recipe. When the fortresses of Neptune are discovered by a Neptunian the possibility of an ice cracking is quite a lucid idea. Much akin to a pass the parcel game on a massive train that tootles along over historic trails. Disturbed migration. Destroyed deities. Designed by demons and dug out dignity. But the princess is the royalty from an underscore that has been ignored but soon to enlighten even the most rockiest of landscapes. In hearts. In souls. And primarily in a souk. Wearing a pretty sari and carrying a nine eyed serpent. Good. God grabbing Gaia greedily. Gestational germinations gaming. And a turret talking to a rampart. Fantastic news for a pretty little eight inch worm on a boat journey down and up the river that resembled a hooded cobra when above the earth. And jt is at this point that the figures made will be adjusting the landing strips for the era of the evening is an evening of an earthly effigy. Efficiently placed. And a time of tick tock tick. So take rosin and whirl around the buildings. Hahaha swim suit on a suitcase swimming. Hahahaha beany bran. Xxxxx restitution z. This us the p Y Q REPORTING ON THE GROUND live from 89.0 in a hail of hoses hosing horses. La la Lola. 670,001,300,201. X z x z c vb fjfkrk
Form: