Long Whaling Poems
Long Whaling Poems. Below are the most popular long Whaling by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Whaling poems by poem length and keyword.
Fierce winds blow across the Atlantic tide,
Colder she gets the rougher she'll ride,
In matt'r minutes a chill to the bone,
Few dare sail her northern zone,
Far north the whaling be done,
Colder in account for the miss'n sun,
The currents below just twist and swell,
Above her frozen by a northenly gale,
Sails drawn, busting through crests,
A captain in hope of filling his chests,
His riches are meat, blubber and oil,
Higher the reward the higher the toil,
Frozen upon a crow's nest a seaman perches,
Breathing warmth to fingers while he searches,
"Hurry up, you! Rise for yer air!,
This seaman's about had all he can bare",
"Ahead a whale's blow!" The watch shouts,
After two months he had his doubts,
On a boat in a vast ocean tis but a speck,
The seamen, like roaches, scatter across the deck,
Upon the bow comes a captain's roar,
"Land the big one and we'll head for shore!",
Mumbles begin to rumble across the crew,
Who can blame, with ev'ry night potato stew,
Still hard hands grasp long harpoons,
Praying to be blessed with throwing boons,
A pod of whales with seven or more,
Ahead at lead, a bull, one hell of a chore,
One hundred feet in length it may seem,
Whale skin pasty white with a hint of green,
Scars from predators who have failed,
Furious temper and plans to nev'r be scaled,
With sails raised the crew lowers cobles,
A small craft nev'r intended for nobles,
These boats were part of a fisherman's craft,
Characterized by high bow and shallow draft,
Upon each boat stood a man with a harpoon,
Chosen by the captain, whom a fellow goon,
They draw closer surrounding their prey,
Harpoons in hand awaiting whale's spray,
Captain points toward a great white mass,
"Alrighty Boys wait for yer pass!",
As the oars stay in motion pressing against the ocean,
The boatmen dare not cause a commotion,
For pure focus is upon this high bow,
With intent to win, this Captain's vow,
The white mass closes making a harpooner throw,
Red against white appears to glow,
First of many fishermen to try,
First of many to hear Moby Dick's cry.
In 1971, in British Columbia,
Greenpeace was founded for
our wounded Earth.
It's causes to fight are to rescue
our world from our own folly.
An international organization that
tirelessly gives global environmental
campaigns the might they need.
A stalwart people for Earth's nature,
setting sail to confront whaling,
and save our struggling planet,
from desecration.
So she can once more be a
breathing Earth of so much life,
an enduring testament of what
God gave us.
For oceans magnificent with the marine gifts
we were given,
for woodlands of the wolves unencumbered,
for plains of prairie dogs,
mountains and lakes we love,
and skies of species of the birds and bats of
the air.
Earth's people,
let your senses be filled,
God is calling out to us-
with His natural wonders we're thrilled,
Greenpeace leads us environmentalists,
to restore the planet as she once was. ~
Just like the days of whaling
Your capitalist regime is failing
What is your idea of order
War,rape,plague and disorder
You will try any old trick to keep from
Floundering
But only the mast can be seen
People have awoken
Had enough of your poking
Will you set Europe on fire
Maybe the rest of the world
Just to hold on to your idea of equality
There is no equality in your eyes
The masters of money
It's ok nobody really believes your ideology anymore
People are tired of just surviving
We all want to be thriving
Not just the few
Yes the tide is rising
You better look for a new trick
And make it quick
Because the time has come
For your head on a stick.
Though amply rested, I still yawn
And feel energized after
light exercise doth spawn
break through viz mental impasse,
where endeavor to coax
germinating ideas to sprout
about as successful as
buzzfeeding, jump/kick starting
rooting brown lawn
to whether drought.
Long fostering literary creativity
analogous to prying open
figurative curtain drawn
shut tight within
thy noggin unresponsive
even when brute force
strongly applied, but still...
no progress (for aging Pilgrim)
made come crack of dawn,
thus I temporarily abandon intent.
An effort to craft satisfactory poem or prose,
(which coveted, kindled, unexpected...
futile endeavor deluges me when
least able to jot down eureka,
whereby brainstorm burst adrip
saturating yours truly head to toes
dribbling out nostrils,
asper my porpoise size bottle nose,
hence this feeble effort to appease.
No expected attaboy, kudos, bravoes...
discerning metaphorical whaling expedition
beseeching, imploring, soaking...
mine mindscape with
profuse voluminous wisdom
sans anonymous followers
waiting for me to compose
usual meaningless gibberish or
rare profound nugget of wisdom to disclose.
While thrashing within cyber sea,
possibly abandoning ambition to compose
superbly laced, ginned, coined...
poetic adage gee oh
into magnum opus masterpiece
eye catchingly exotic creation
exquisite as silk negligee pantyhose
(yea...perhaps yours truly
will also send near nude selfie,
a worse fate than death
cab for cutie)
and chuck stock inhibition
brokering favorable frescoes
tattooed across flesh
accentuating anatomical contours of flab
wharf flexing muscles simulates geckoes,
(albeit selling progressive insurance)
appearing to slither across body electric
predictably ejaculating Freudian peccadillos,
now bolt upright - ******** awakened,
no longer sleepy,
but dwarfed by giant spuds,
no small potatoes
eh...yar right to deem this poker face
eccentric - born (free) this way,
how Elsa to explain (without lion)
rambling riotous rumination
one among many bumptious desperadoes,
and oh...mooch hoe gracias reading poem
bumbling, degenerating, fizzling...
into lobbying primal salvoes.
On ocean bowride below gentle titans peep
ghost ships of the Pacific hunt and chase -
where great barnacled seafarers of the deep
beneath the waves its blue waters grace.
Old sea tales of killing lance and spear tip
tell of the dying struggle of the flurry -
once more mighty hulks of beast and ship
haunt the dark shadows of the undersea.
Let no harpoon pierce your skin,
no flense cut and slice,
not body or fin.
Let no kill sound its death throes,
and may long
live the shout of “thar she blows!”
Far and yon an old boneyard whaling station
fluking bulls and cows circle the perilled pod,
and breach and dive in fabled echolocation
the bones of Ahab and wreck of the Pequod.
Still ghost ships old hunting grounds scout
that mystic echo whalesong far reaching,
and still cavernous mouths unmade to shout
trap by moon and tide on remote beaching.
Let no harpoon pierce your skin,
no flense cut and slice,
not body or fin.
Let no kill sound its death throes,
and may long
live the shout of “thar she blows!”
Written: July 1992
N arwhal... fathomless dreamer of the deep
A resting beauty and fantastic myth
R arest of rare, chased from the land by modern man
W here Unique Horns once pranced the forests, left only Corpses Whaling
H eathen magic has again cast its spell and hidden you
A las, you sing your woe filled song in your last retreat
L iving secret lives in the swaddling comfort of the deep
09/18/15
Impress me with a NARWHAL poem: 3rd Place
SKAT A
10/15/15
I'm pining, they're whining
I want to announce,
Biden is flailing, Democrats whaling,
Give me the nod and watch me just pounce.
Timing’s the key, I know they want me,
But all my square minders
Scratching their head, tossing in bed,
Remind me to follow the words of our founders.
Fighting the British with forces quite skittish,
Washington uttered these very wise words:
“Your enemy's rotten, their gains are Ill-gotten,
They'll flutter and flail like little lost birds”.
With that thought imbedded, I shan't be
Hard-headed
To follow the lead of a man I adore,
With Joe on the ropes, dashing all hopes,
More now than ever it's of me they want more.
at the old fishing lake
In a kingdom full of whitefish
And the mussels are never filleting.
~
at the old fishing lake
I remember I was oystering
That moment my soul grew scalloping
~
And the estuaries never reefing
Mudfish - mudfish – mudfish!
The lagoon laughed
As I threw in my line
Surprise carp and catfish whaling and barks
Dogs chasing squirrels onto rotten logs
~
look at the water
into the pond bubble-bubble
circles swarms
~
my line gyrating slightly moving and bobbing
guess the fishes are biting
at the old fishing lake
6/25/20
WRITTEN WORDS BY James Edward Lee Sr. 2020©
And feel energized after
light exercise doth spawn
an mental impasse,
where endeavor to coax
literary creativity analogous
to a figurative curtain drawn
shut tight within
thy noggin unresponsive
even when brute force
strongly applied, but still...
no progress made come crack of dawn,
thus temporarily abandon intent
to craft satisfactory poem or prose,
which coveted brainstorm burst adrip
saturating yours truly head to toes
dribbling out nostrils,
asper my porpoise size nose,
hence this feeble effort to appease
with no expected attaboy, kudos, bravoes...
discerning whaling imploring be
sea ching, sans anonymous followers
waiting for me to compose
meaningless gibberish or
profound nugget of wisdom to disclose
while thrashing within cyber sea,
possibly abandoning ambition to compose
superbly coined adage
eye catchingly exotic
as silk negligee pantyhose
(yea...perhaps send near nude selfie)
or chuck stocking favoring frescoes
tattooed across flesh
accentuating anatomical contours
wharf flexing muscles simulates geckoes
(albeit selling progressive insurance)
appearing to slither across body electric
predictably ejaculating Freudian peccadillos,
now bolt upright awake, no longer sleepy,
but dwarfed by giant spuds, no small potatoes
eh...yar right to deem this poker face
one among many bumptious desperadoes,
and mooch hoe gracias reading poem
bumbling, degenerating, fizzling...
into lobbying primal salvoes.
When and if the time should ever
come when all is said and that can
be has been done
And the only signs or form of life
that remains is being kept alive
via electronic machines
Believing he could no longer or would
wish to fight on otherwise he surely
would have
Then gather round all that loved this
poor soul whilst still alive for 1 last
final remaining time
Unplug the tubes that aid them breathe
switch off the whaling pinging machines
signaling heartbeat arithmetics
Disconnect the saline solution glucose
drip colostomy bag and statistics patches
covering them from head to toe
Release them from their comatose state
and living nightmare
For this is life in name only alive but
not alive to the world
And rather let all their dreams come true
forevermore and after that day too as
well
And in so doing so let also the living move
on to not join them in their daily grief and
pain as well
To celebrate life not just only death