Portholes Poems | Examples

the awakening

The Awakening

My first wife's house was very small
her bed was narrow to
after sex, she told me to sleep in the bathtub
In the night, I got up, opened the window
The sea-washed moon came in
I have seen that moon many times before
from many portholes 
I was always enchanted by the pool
of stillness
I walked out of the sleeping house, by
the steps, my dog, I patted her head
but she refused to come with  me on my walk
By a lamppost under  a circle  of light
I waited for a bus that would never arrive

Tilting Decks

The year I became seasick
I lived in a bungalow on the edge
of a wilderness moor.

The sky and land
grappled together
for supremacy of my soul,
Inner dogs whined,
my eyes were portholes
where cats watched
the turbulent dance
of garbled mind waves.

I had to leave a wife,
but knew I could not swim,
couldn't drown, nor float.
I stumbled across high wind-woven gorse,
ghosts crying through my hair.

in the end,
the crashing sound of breakers
smashing against cliffs
made me vomit, I staggered
choking still
into a pathless night.

A cloud garden had to
wither and bloom,
toes had to learn to grip
ever shifting sands.

Time whittles,
it sharpens the bones of your throat
until you can consume
the stale and the fresh,
while riding a moon crazed
rocking-horse.

Impending

Moments become wet steppingstone
over a stream of consciousness.
At breakfast, a TV delivers omens
with a perky disposition.
Buttering grilled bread, distracted by normality,
slipping through the well-greased gears
of a self-made reality,
then a singing hint of burnt toast
ripples through suddenly aware
nostril hair.

What should you do today -
walk the mood off
or pray brother pray?

Will the monstrous appear,
its likeness --- cute and kittenish,
though even now
new velvet satanic horns
are already budding.
Will the fuzz and fur turn quickly
to scabs and scales?

Sinister left-handed slaps of hysteria
swipe the sweat from wrinkled foreheads.

In a room bereft of natural illumination,
a light on an open laptop is blinking,
imagination types a nightmare
on the underside of its blank screen.
Brains unchecked by reason,
swivel inside their bony portholes,
they search this way and that
for a more feasible fantasy

before this amorphous apprehension
emerges fully clothed
as an all too familiar
mirror image.

Beyond Wonderland - Kuhlmann Sonnet

Spaceward: genesis, obedience, fathomless: universe.
In Cerulean: lambent, sullen, discernible: Close ignite.
With harmony: hypaethral, skyward, aether: womb hiccups 
Whelm time: serenade, stardust, drizzles: diamond dust,
Overall trends: extinguish, slumber, wonder: celestial hymn,
By extolling: Argyle, twinkle, soothing:  miraculous rule

Alabaster Gypsum: portholes, peering, ogling: rain glints
Rubicund Jocund: ventral, sheqalim, vivid: lured stars 
Exalt air: Blistering, bleeding, molting: Corolla collide
Orotund Moire: Kaleidoscopic, sentient, dusk: carnal life 
Grab fistful: Dripping, purple, precipitation: Sunburnt sky
Dodging Venus: Flytrap, ill-wishers, pyramids: Shift astern.


This variation on sonnet XL1 to illustrate what Kuhlmann intended .
kuhlmann  is a verse poem of two phrases interspered with three related monosyllabic stem- words(nouns,adjectives )with an integral title.The label and form is derived from the baroque poet Quirinus Kuhlmann's 50 sonnet 
form Love-kiss XLI

Poem inspired by the sonnet penned by Brian Stand

Cyber Life

CYBER LIFE


My stamen a purple flare of Light
lit from Galactic Sun
igniting me for an hour or a day 
a week or month, who knows ?
Portholes open ever so slightly 
     Time truly an illusion 

Between petals I zoom extracting 
nectar for cloaking against 
cyber pistols, unpeelings
invasions, unveilings, insertions
      with fire eating flesh

A joke tastes of poison
Moon a metallic observer
Buttons, knobs, numbers, clicks
My babes in their Pleiadian pods
incubated quietly like geraniums 
      in the backyard 

Radiants swirl down marbled stairways
No corridors or medbeds touched
trained so on a faraway planet
Sheets folded in symphony 
      without speck, sparkle or frequency 

We were strapped 
Plutonians commanded
destruction
Tails chopped or dissolved
    pendulums swung

A silent silvery slippery kiss
below a peppered moustache
pats on backs for a job 
        well done

My stamen wilted into mauve
Galactic Sun still waits
for me, as I return 
       to civilian couch


©GhairoDanielsPoetry&Song
2022

Heart Gore

Poem by: Ilori Mikhail Oluwatosin

Heart Gige.

I missed no soul as
my heart is full of
holes like Nigeria bad
roads full of portholes

I am left with no hope
I just have to let go
perimeter for love is
so low as days
in it has been wallowed

Seeking for time to 
borrow I got more 
bone marrow while
I thought way to get
it isn't narrow rather
I am living in my on
shadow

Its time to let go thy 
carnage in thy heart 
have to bow to stop 
acting like clown as
tomorrow is brighter
than yellow.


©TheGentleInnocentSoul.

Time In a Bell Jar

Time in a Bell Jar
David J Walker

Maybe my mistake was 
Poking holes in the lid 
Creating portholes for
The idea of a kid's reasonings 

that air was essential
For survival 
The rational of a child

out to capture and
Save time in Bell Jar

But day by day 
It slipped away without any
Notice or reason

And I, who grew taller and older
And wiser with each season 
Would stare into the clear glass
Of pure air held captive for years

And watch my younger self
Playing there, A
Captive in the glass confines
Of a Bell Jar

As time slipped away 
Through its portholes

The Conductor

The Conductor
David J Walker

The low rumbling voice
Of the locomotive  reminded  me
Of my time traveling days from this to
Another place 
  another time
In space
That would become Mine as well

Where the young  sang 
Love songs in romance
Languages unknown
In this today 

The engineer poet played his prose
On his whistle in echoed  harmonies 
on the landscape
While trees danced to the tune in the
Midnight rambling concert 
In the moonscape

I have been the passenger
	I have been the
Engineer
I have been the conductor 
On the passage to portholes
Both far and near

And now
I am content to listen to
The train pass
Knowing at last
Where it is going
It’s echo in the distance
Clear

Robots At Sea

Robots at sea

the sun shines, it always shines, on the portholes
on the ships in the bay looking enticing.
To be a mariner is not a natural form of life and
should be run by robots can tie a ship to a port.
As it is an engineer can sit in a control room
and press the relevant buttons no need for an oiler
to walk around seeing if something has to be done
and cleaning the floor. 
On long journeys by the young especially is not 
healthy, too much time spent reading *********** 
and getting a wrong view of what sex is.
Visiting prostitutes thinking women are like this.
Come to think of it robots could be used as soldiers
and the interest in armies would lessen.

Peeks, Slopes and Portholes

Red throne, ambitious and they shout more fire!
So I had to ignite my spirit even though
At times I'm cold, and life be like an ocean, 
Trapped in the center no shore's 
"So how can you be sure; if ye don't know thee self"..?
But now I understand, reality quiet-
simple and clear: Crystals...

Beams of lights, more light as I go deep
In the cave of life; searching for gems:
Rocks and things...
To the pointless they pointless!
Hence the bottomless
To me, I see shines!

Damn unbelievers be bringing me down 
Dark entities with armies and they on me
Curse those heathens "I" ain't stopping!

Sweet Revenge

Revenge of sort
 
 The old ship has four cranes for loading
Also, unlading has anchored in 
the bay
For four days.
It must be hot all portholes are open and the cook
Sweats in the galley it drips onto the dough
Moreover, into the food, cooks transpire a lot and it
Has to go somewhere.
They call him a fool but eat his sweat a sweet
Revenge a secret he keeps to himself.
The crew pick rust and paint a little but most
Of the time they sit in the mess hall waiting for
Something to eat.
Dinner is served, the cook wash pots and pan
Goes into his cabin lays down on the couch the one
Under the porthole, and sleeps till it is time
To prepare the evening meal.

A Thought Wanders Lonely

A thought wanders lonely, detached, into my brain
  Meanders through portholes of pleasure and pain
Settles in a remote chamber of my dullard's mind
  Yawns, stretches out, dons a sleeping cap
  Drowsy, relaxed -- time for a very long nap...

When -- What this? -- a tiny spark ignites
  Leaping to touch its neighbor's' dendrite
Soon my cerebrum's lit up, on fire
  Thoughts fueling thoughts
     ~ Rocketing higher and higher

Portholes Plugged Snug

portholes
round by design
in sides of ships and planes
encircle scenes of sky and sea
plugged snug

Under the Surface of Things

If we have to see the fishes closer
and   immerse ourselves under the surface of things
I put on the wetsuit
The  diver's paraphernalia 
And I let myself go  to obscure distances
And think no more at the air, which usually
fill my lungs …

I am a ludion suspended in waters
Tickled by shoals of fish that roam
Caressed by jellyfishes, eager for a country ,
One above, which they are not allowed
As I am no longer allowed for sunlight
So low, beneath   tons of moving liquid.
That is, across the border turbulent waves,
A reserved area, where the feeling of feet wouldn’t be enough
And that includes me, and swallows me
Like all the certainties of dry floor …

And cuttlefish lend me their naval ink
Writing for   the memory of the abyss,
The silent vrombissemnt  of   orcas passing
The strange lanterns of monkfishes
And the maze of colorful corals and anemones
Dancing with the warm currents
Barely the memory of man
And an oblique wreck, portholes with crimped
Shells and rust, with its scale
Hanging on the railing of  useless.

Novice Sailor

The Novice Sailor
It was ten o´clock in the morning I was struggling 
to keep my balance looking out of the porthole in 
the galley and the day was dark as acute hatred
against the living. Green waves hit the deck tried
to break portholes a full winter storm and fear of
the sea filled us with silence. Somehow the cook 
managed to bake bread and make Irish stew and it
was my job to stop it from flying off the stove. 

On an iron ship on the precipice of a mountain of
water; we were insignificant and vulnerable ants 
on a leaf in an immense pool. Yet the sea calmed,
and the storm abated. I was fifteen and was proud 
to have survived a winter storm in the north Atlantic,
something to tell my mum when coming home.

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