Long Waterline Poems
Long Waterline Poems. Below are the most popular long Waterline by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Waterline poems by poem length and keyword.
“Chased by the Fire”
the story
bald faced
is in front of us
all around the world, brutal
bridges are being burned
we watch with disbelief,
some of us seem to remember
familiar passages written, though
our experiences are quite unfamiliar
real time we escape
into our fragile dreams,
hallucinating through
perfumed smoke screens
we are comfortably
uncomfortable
ringing the bells
of our own chapters
writing our ethereal
burnt candy interpetations,
while others survive, baptised
in their harsh oceans
treading acrid smoke
across the water
swept away by
terrible rips in time
avoiding fins
heads above
the waterline, deeper
than a tide line
waving not sinking
Lahaina
visciously devoured
by the monster,
totally gone
children
looking for rainbows,
the church on the beach,
lost, looks on
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
“A third of the earth was burned up,
a third of the trees were burned up,
and all the green grass was burned up.”
Years ago I did so choose, to go on a Caribbean clipper ship cruise,
and, in addition to several other islands,
anchored off Nevis, northwest of Saint Kitts,
where, in the late 1780's, Nelson had lived,
and still bears traces of his presence today,
in various parts, pieces and bits.
When our windjammer Skipper informed us,
'Shopping here's good, snorkeling is bad,'
I avoided the former, sought out the latter,
and, as a matter of fact, a good time was had,
for no sooner had I ducked under,
two feet from the waterline,
in about one foot deep (shallow) water,
tho' visibility was, in inches, no more than nine,
I espied a white clay churchwarden pipe,
which I retrieved, broken, not whole,
with one third of the stem, and most of the tobacco-burned bowl.
1787, Nelson married the widow Fanny Nisbet on Nevis,
and, as the island he was about to depart,
'Desist smoking or else!'
Horatio may have heard her insist or impart,
and that which I found, I've a mind to say,
was his very last pipe, he'd reluctantly tossed overboard,
on that sunny day, when, as Captain of Boreas, he sailed away.
This is this poems maiden voyage
The first time that it has set sail
Since its early morning creation
Through sweat, tooth, and nail
It was built upon the idea
That hard work and persistence would pay
The way we used to do things
Way back in the day
Each line was painstakingly measured
Followed the plans down to a tee
Sanded smooth all of the verses
So it'd be worthy when set out to sea
This poem holds deeper meaning below the waterline
Than could ever be seen on the deck
On the starboard bow is where it's read out loud
For you land lovers that's the opposite of left
So glad you could make it for this poems Christen
As we're lined up four deep on the dock
To see this poem off in it's poetic mission
As we all wish it Bon Voyage
What is the water of the Bay?
Is it the water that gives life to others?
Is it more than that?
As I look from atop the mountain I see beauty in the bay.
The water around her feet makes her seem like she is walking across the waterline.
As she sings with no one around I hear beauty in her voice.
If only she knew that she had beauty in voice, heart, and vision.
At least I know the truth of her love as I can see the vision of perfection.
Of course, my vision of perfection is when the person does not see themselves as more than humble.
That is the concept of true beauty when they realize that the quality of being humble is beautiful. It is only one concept, but it is the most important.
It is Destiny as her voice sings it proudly!
Message in a bottle
When you having nothing to live for
You have nothing to die for
Often you end up on the floor
In a pool of your own destruction
When you see the flowers in full bloom
You think of graves
When you see the sun shine
You think of hells fire within
When the nighttime comes round
You are thankful for the gin
The tonic of life is killing you
Toxic dreams wake you to horrid illusions
You wonder, who ...am I
Dead?
Or better off dead?
Message in a bottle
I have loved
I have loved you
All my words bottled up
Inside of my fears
I grasp not the light of day
I grasp at straws
Gasping a breath above the waterline
Dreaming that one day you will hold my hand
I know this shall never come to pass
Your fears rival mine
Twins across the ocean of vast emptiness
I shall write to you my deepest desires
I shall profess to you my deepest love
Unrequited devotion of the heart
My soul shall sing and dance in your honor
All this a scribe shall write
For I am not one versed in letters
I small icon painted of your beauty
I will enclose with my broken heart
All of this
Inside a bottle
One day it shall reach your shores
Your grandchildren will be filled in melancholy
At a great love, lost and discarded over the ages
Im talking with nobody listening, see,
front line walking just like a refugee
sentimental, old friend says I'm out of touch
so hard to be gentle when handling the softer stuff
you've seen this face before, You remember the name
in mass-production I, I'm plenty of the same
much more than y'bargained for, now, don't lose your cool in the rush
stripped down n' ribbon bound on arrival the petals are crushed
more than a brother, too dear to bid adieu
another armchair moralist, the word is not the truth
another armchair moralist, too close to be cut loose
down under the waterline, down in the thick of it
I surrender one last time, although, truly sick of it
my nightmare scenario, yeah, my indiff'rence killer
after I hopping over bedpans go to find him in the mirror
only I and I alone must throw myself to the wire
as you sit on a distant throne, too green for the fire
what will it amount to, in the case that it does not combust
I could do without you only missing the sense of enough
more than a brother, too dear to bid adieu
another armchair moralist, the word is not the truth
another armchair moralist, he's dear to me,
too close to be,
expensively... cut loose
"A Perfect Murder Scene"
underneath the gun metal clouds
two bodies imprinted
splayed bookmarked at the waterline
uncannily close
distance would never separate that twin set
the ocean of tears washing over them lachrymose
the day was extraordinarily ordinary
yet the unanticipated came rushing in surprising
two lives captured, seemingly drowned
carried away on the rip, ripped apart, far from shore
thrown for the risk of running
away from it all
eventually like double dice
the Ocean like a roiling bitter life
spits them both back out, not wanting them,
they are the gamble
rolled back in on the wake, washed clean
like a scene wound backwards
scratched and mottled, 8mm frame
slow motion the prostrate dead they rise like ghosts
wound up, holding hands walking backwards
up the sand dunes
not a care in the world
the guns in the clouds all gone
the sun now shining
reversing down the path, hand in hand,
an old movie to who knows where
smiles wide and laughing, hand in hand
the woman and child
out of frame, in the margin unseen,
the murderer plays his shot
all over again, he loves his bad dream
Candide Diderot. ‘24
“Because it was regular film, it was Light sensitive. You had to be very careful when loading and unloading the cartridge.”
scene.
seen.
At noon on the path,
no footprints ever explain
why the bucket's mouth
is stuffed to the rim with dust,
while the rope swings loose below.
In daylight's brief glint,
silver coins lie, unwetted—
the sun holds them still,
threading gold on waterline
until darkness pockets them.
The watchman is gone,
his coat waits upon the hook,
the latch still holds fast—
perhaps the wind borrowed hands,
or the hinges may recall.
The well pool is stained
with a stranger's face
looking back at us—
its pale mouth opens to ours;
we blame the moon's ownership.
All night, worries knot
the rope into little fists—
at dawn each hand grabs
a firm hold, with warm bare palms,
to haul buckets in our sleep.
We brought a blue jar
the potter promised would last—
moss grew over it,
greening the virgin new ribs,
until they forgot they came.
Water leaked from pool,
entered windows, lifted bed—
still, no cup was filled,
the current bore each vessel
over the surface below.
The rope line ended
three hand spans short from the dark—
To increase its span
we added sleeves, legs and hair,
but we can't tie the right knots.
Someone had fitted a lid
over the well top
with a bright polished mirror—
we can't see our reflection
to spring the wellness within.
Night loosens one star
from the well mouth left ajar—
the planets draw back,
defying gravity's pull,
the buckets rise weightless, dry.
We lower a bell
into the well before dawn—
startled it rings, dings,
but the sounds bash the wet walls
to never ripple within.
At the lowest stone
a woman's hair slowly drifts
over, careful hands—
closing the lid without sound
her mouth lies underwater.
As the well deepens
farther into its shadow
thirst gives its answer—
not in water, not in voice—
but with the churn of windlass.
In the misty morning amid the elm and maple trees
The whiteness delicately floats above the ponds waterline
The night hunters abandon their night search for food
As the early morning rays peek through the woodland.
The morning brings the forest teeming to life
The occupants ready to attack their early morning feast
The vines and shrubs hiding them as they arch ready to attack
they scramble for their scrumpcious bite of food.
The geese, crows and magpies mingle around the water's edge
Looking for plants, seeds and aquatic animals to feed
Among the bull rushes and cattails on the sloughs edge
They mingle with the locals who come to drink.
Eating the wild berries for a tasty treat
Saskatoon, chokecherries, pin cherries ready to eat
Juicy and sweet, mild yet tart
Quite edible for a flock to feast.
This is a haven, a sanctuary for all
And as the balmy summer evening turns once again to dusk
The predators will come out with the evening shade
To stalk their prey among the woodland grove.
Another storm commencing.
Crow is in frolic and frenzied mode.
Searching for another slanted piano.
Upsetting melody and rhyme once again.
I haven't fully recovered from prior precision strikes.
One more slash and the heart is below the waterline.
Please mind your business and pass me by,
Bullseye...you've landed on my keys once again.
Cork screwing the mind-laying black to the breeze.
Your nonchalant carnage is nearly complete.
Now you just linger to mock and to tease.
To place my last tear in your big bloody beak.
Please- please-please, for the love of God, just leave.