Long Yacht Poems
Long Yacht Poems. Below are the most popular long Yacht by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Yacht poems by poem length and keyword.
Gloria is the lass all the college boys fancied. In fact, she
was the one they dreamed of marrying. Yet, when she walks
through the door at the reunion, she’s unrecognizable! In
truth, she looks like a wrinkled drag queen. A ravishing beauty,
she is no more. Her once pert breasts now hang down like
spaniel ears. Seeing her makes me glad I’ve kept in shape! The
hours spent working out in our private gym and spa each night
have paid off. Marrying a successful surgeon has its perks! Of
course my tan is from weeks aboard our yacht, ‘Cloudless.’
We escape bitterly cold weather by sailing to sunnier climes.
The Caribbean is where we always celebrate Christmas and
New Year. We sip champagne as fireworks explode in starry
streams of gold and silver sparkles in dark inky blue skies.
The room falls silent, all eyes on me as I sashay to Gloria and
we embrace, kissing the air as we did when we were young. All
evening we reminisced. I'm glad I was an ugly duckling. That’s
how I met, Max. My facial reconstruction proved he was the best
plastic surgeon in the world. He performed with the skill of
an haute couture designer and lifted me from depths of dark
depression. I was totally transformed into a catwalk model and
when we married, I knew my future would always be bright.
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Lord Byron – She Walks in Beauty
Place your bets, you’re just in time
for the game, the fix is in.
What a thrill. Is it a crime to cash in?
The winners do, and that could be you.
You’ll be a witness, as wise guys smoothly step in
- it’s basic greed - and never a sin, as long as they win.
Mr slick ricky, you’ve got to be bold to win gold -
winners never just fold - betting never gets old.
The winners will add your few spare bucks to their pot -
let’s admit, all that you’ve got - isn’t a lot - it won’t fuel a yacht.
Place your bets, you’re in the front row all the time,
don’t be lame, be part of the game, the greasy bigtime.
.
.
NOTE: I LOVE NFL football, but now every commercial is for some sports book like “Draft Kings.” How can the NFL, increasingly in league with gambling books, not end up mobbed-up and fixed?
It’s ruining NFL football - the illusion that it’s a real sporting competition. I’ll tell you, Once they start calling the NFL “entertainment” and not sports - it’s over - the game I once loved will be just like pro wrestling.
God hath provoked man with many challenges about this globe.
One of them requires the patience of a long-suffering Job!
Ensconced with fishing pole in hand on a grassy bank,
Waiting interminably for those wily fishes to yank!
Whether one uses expensive tackle or a simple bamboo pole,
Or cruises the roiling seas aboard a fancy yacht to troll,
All dedicated anglers have their mind set on one goal,
To reel in the "big one" from their favorite fishing hole!
I've had some agonizing adventures that I'll tell you about,
Trying to snag those very elusive and wily trout.
I'm averse to using a bamboo pole and bobber, my patience is nil,
Needing to keep busy with rod and reel, besides it takes more skill!
Oh, to be able to recoup the many fancy lures I have lost,
Increasing my grouch level, never mind the expensive cost!
Or when the hook snagged my shirt or became tangled in the trees,
Or breaking lines near shore, retrieving fish on my hands and knees!
Consider the time I had a nice catch of trout on my stringer,
And I found a hungry snake eating them for his dinner!
Golf, hunting, tennis, by many are much more preferred,
But from the frustrations of fishing I shall never be deterred!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Show a little finesse, place a bet.
You’re just in time for the game, get some skin, the fix is in.
What’s more American than cashing in?
The real winners do, and now that could be you.
With suckers out there waiting, scamming is as easy as creating
an NFT, bitcoin, an online bet or a romance baiting.
You’ll be a witness, as the wise guys step in, for the NFL it’s a win-win
You get the excitement you need and the real playas get the proceeds.
Come on, Mr slick ricky, you know you’ve got to be bold to win gold
winners double-down, they never fold—the thrill never gets old.
The winners will add your measly bucks to their pot.
Let's admit, all you’ve got, isn’t a lot - it wouldn’t, say, fuel a yacht.
So, step up, place your bets, you’re in the digital front row all the time,
don’t be lame, be part of the game, it’s greasy, sleazy, organized crime.
.
.
A song for this:
Vicious Games by Yello
The Game of Love (feat. Michelle Branch) [Main/Radio Mix] by Santana
.
.
I LOVE NFL football, but now every commercial is for some sports book like “Draft Kings.”
How can the NFL, increasingly in league with gambling books, not end mobbed-up and fixed?
It’s ruining NFL football - the illusion that it’s a real sporting competition.
Once they start calling the NFL “entertainment” and not sports - it’s over.
The game I grew up loving will be like pro wrestling.
I’d extend an invitation
to all in the congregation
through this speech of inspiration
which is quite a compilation
yet I expect no adulation
and no gest of adoration
for in my own estimation
it’s a trifle occupation
clearing out the obfuscation
of a simple predication
o’er the course of this oration
through the rhyme of this dictation
See it’s a feebly built narration,
or an errant adaptation
sitting ‘top a weak foundation
grounded on some old quotation
writ in archaic notation
which seems to bear no strong relation
to the current held fixation
on the poorly built translation
which is more of a mutation
than an actual citation.
Now to give a brief summation
I will fight off the temptation
and my present inclination
to continue this vocation
and I’ll risk your irritation
with this act of abdication
and upset your expectation
by using this line instead
to add a bit of variation
as the only deviation
in my final recitation.
Now please stifle your elation
as I offer resignation
for I’m out of medication
and I fear the obligation
to interpret revelation
meant to spell out your salvation
is to my great consternation
causing meal regurgitation
and worse stomach ulceration
though at best the correlation
is just my imagination.
So I’m taking a vacation
to a tropical location
lost in wild vegetation
where I’ll watch in adoration
those grass skirts in their gyration
and sip drinks of fermentation
to avoid the dehydration
that always comes by deprivation
or by over-conservation.
If it’s any consolation,
after lots of vaccination
I’ll pursue my destination
through a week of navigation
on a vessel of flotation
as my mode of transportation
and forego all aviation.
So I plead, dear congregation
understand my situation
‘spite my freedom from taxation,
just suppress your indignation
toward my dreams of recreation
though I have no explanation
save this current presentation.
And though there is no valuation
for true acts of consecration,
after much consideration
if you’d show your dedication
with a generous donation,
I could use the insulation.
Amen.
In loving memory the saga goes,
or so they say when feint reminder culls a piercing interlude.
Remnant of an unfinished sentence,
broken shadow haunt awash with grief,
snapshot at the edge of a well.
Parachute of blinding insight on queue or on song,
paper mache angel deep within.
Verses, scrolls, smudges from that pink enamel claw,
whose back fold clip appearance left one reeling,
like some
tree house dweller rattled by a swooping hawk.
Gimlet sipping voyageur
adrift on ice pack yacht,
in need of solace,
yet wishing it to the bottom of his rusty bucket list.
Fragile human being torn apart,
funeral bound,
that once upon a time surreal biker skirting mountains.
A priori stunt man metaphysically divine on rocky ledge,
dare devil prayer when it suits.
Feat performance activist a sleight of hand jester,
yet despite this vapid mask of dumb amnesia,
he wanders blindfold down
an alpine peak while chasing after dim and distant keepsake
Date posted :31st January 2022
I was on the road to hell one day
and then Jesus stopped the bus
He told the devil "you can't have this soul
because she is one of us"
He then took me off that riverboat going to Hades
and placed me on a yacht sailing towards salvation
He then covered me with the sacrificial blood
and paid the fare for my justification
Now I'm a true disciple of Christ
heading in the right direction
and one day I will be standing
before the throne of God's heavenly perfection
so I bless the Lord each day
and I pray to Him every night
I thank Him for showing me The Way
to be acceptable in His sight
Hey Daddy!
I got a gap toothed grin and that's a sin.
Hey Daddy!
I really need some dentistry.
Ohhhh Daddy!
I got a double chin and jowls like Gentle Ben.
Hey Daddy!
I need plastic surgery.
Ummmm Daddy!
I need a fanny lift, nose bob and a boob job.
Ohhh Daddy!
I sure could use some surgery.
Ohhh Daddy!
I've had my tummy tucked and been lipo-sucked.
Oooo Daddy!
Now I look just like Barbie.
Hey Daddy!
I want a diamond ring and things with lots of bling.
Oh Daddy!
You gotta buy it all for me.
Ohhh Daddy!
He's got a brand new car, a yacht and caviar.
Bye Daddy!
You sure have been a friend to me.
First bell rings, the shuffle begins—
sunburnt stories dragged from skin.
“Write what you did,” the prompt repeats,
while I juggle rosters, forms, receipts.
They groan, they stall, they stare at air,
I sip cold coffee, feign repair.
This rite of passage, tired and true,
a paper bridge from June to school.
Pencils tap, a groan or two,
blank pages stare like skies unblue.
Some scribble tales of poolside bliss,
of yachts, of fame, of movie scripts—
a flex, a boast, a gilded lie,
too polished for a child to try.
Others barely scratch the page,
a sentence gasped, a silent cage.
Then one—misspelled, a tangled thread,
but something in it softly bled.
A whisper lost in syntax storm,
a cry disguised in fractured form.
A paper torn, the margins frayed,
each crooked line a truth conveyed.
No yacht, no beach, no firework show—
just hunger etched in undertow.
My breath halts, the room goes still,
the clamor fades, replaced by will.
This child—this voice—this silent scream,
not fiction, not a summer dream.
I read again, then once again,
each misspelled word a thread of pain.
No time for tears, no space for fear,
the path is clear, the need is near.
How do I reach, not scare away?
How do I help, not go astray?
This is the test, the sacred fight—
to see, to act, to get it right.
"Life is about moments: Grasp
them when they drift your way."
Quote by _ Constance
I was attending a party on a sleek yacht one evening. The music was playing,
the booze flowing, laughter filled the night, some folks were dancing, others
just lounging on deck chairs. I was leaning against the rail talking to a man.
He was handsome and interesting .... when suddenly, the yacht jerked and I
was falling through the air. I landed with a splash into the ocean. The cold overwhelming me and for a moment I was still, next, I was with someone as
the man I had been talking to jumped in to save me and had brought with him
life jackets. We held each other as great waves crashed the yacht slipping
into the ocean. We began to swim fast to avoid going under, we swam and
swam, only pausing to rest and look up at the sky.
the bright star glittered
in the dark velvety sky ...
and the ocean roared
With the waves and wind pushing us we gained distance from the yacht, in fact we could not see it anymore. We alternated swimming and resting and I guess that I fell asleep because when I woke we were on a wild tropical island.
I have never seen anything so lush and beautiful, and the sounds of animals
were haunting. I was not afraid yet, it did not occur to me that we were lost.
But, suddenly I recall deep blue eyes looking down at me with worry in them.
Swirling around I found him standing scanning the ocean.
the waves were crashing
rolling onto the sand beach ...
roaring endlessly
Days turned into weeks, and months. We had become quite skilled at this
survival thing, we had shelter, fire, and blue eyes was great at fishing while
I foraged for wild plants we could eat, each day passed I loved him more and more, a part of me wanted to stay on this tropical island forever with him. But,
one day we were rescued, I stood looking as our island retreated with a deep
sadness, I had been happy with him. Then, he had me in his arms, kissing
my tears away and whispered, will you marry me, yes was my quick answer.
the breeze was gentle
and birds were singing in trees ...
as two love birds wed