She came aboard my sinking ship
a death blow to the bow,
attempts to bail and keep afloat
this mariners tattered sails.
Plot a new course and navigate
in storms and angry seas,
this vessel lists in the swells
life plundered by piracy.
Now this new maidens charge
is to steer starboard side,
for a new sheltered port
with rising tides.
This once scuttled ship
ill winds cast adrift,
is now tacking leeward
this sailors gift!
The mellow western sky darkened,
The sea was calm that night,
Yachts tacking across the bay
Towards their appointed piers.
Luminous moon rays shimmer
Over wavelets that bathed
The coloured pebbles
Strewn all over the long shore.
As night slowly fell
I began my walk along the promenade.
A soft breeze was a welcome to all
Especially to the sailors that plied the bay
In their sleek sailing boats
Now tinged in red by the dying sun.
Along the promenade, I met with friends
A few words of salutation
But I hurried on toward an ancient tower
That once stood guard against pirates
That invades the surroundings.
Plundering and taking slaves with them.
The Tower was now a restaurant,
And there sat my love waiting for me.
The breeze-blown brightness of her hair
Seem to invite me to our destined tryst.
She stood up and we embraced,
A soft kiss on her wet lips.
It was a promising beginning
Of our night of love.
On the cliff at the Worm’s Head
High above the horns of the bay
I see the surfers ride great waves
With horses’ manes
That ever fail, but never end
In the strong Atlantic surge
In the estuary at Dartmouth
Where the oyster boats dredge
Turning and drifting in slow shadow dance
Great nets of shells are hauled up
And poured out on to the decks
As I plunge upriver
Tacking along the wending Dart
With bent-puzzle oaks on either side
I hear a sudden hush descend
Upon a lonely river hythe
As time and air, smooth and still
Forever glide, like Mayflies
On cold, clear water
In the seaway by the port
With its unmistakable algal aroma
Of the British seashore
I hear the heavy horn of a freighter
That plies its path
And never sinks, yet ever diminishes
Beyond the waves
And far from the pier of the seaside town
Where sandpipers probe
In spiral casts
I hear the penthal call of the curlew
Like silver flourishes on a black cloud
That never moves, but holds dominion
In the cold morning air.
Chet grabbed my story and claimed it as his own.
Tacking on a slightly different ending.
I kept my mouth shut about this.
War has obliterated his own stories.
PTSD dangles him in a state of web-like anxiety.
If claiming my stories makes him happy, then great.
I am glad to be of service to this Vietnam War vet.
I am the almighty Beangoose,
Jokester to the stars,
But more so of a man that would rise and fall.
They also call me quizmaster,
Though I'm now more of a spellcaster...
Reading daily tarot to avoid further disaster.
You see, it was the army of the Gliesians,
That erupted the fools lack of reason,
In what I call the fifth season.
This will make sense if you will...
By pulling back the veil of the liquid pill,
The one that provides an eternal thrill!
I didn't ask to be this Beangoose,
Finding me with epic stories so loose,
Tacking on to my life-long thread like a runaway kaboose!
16-September-2021
I feel sorrow and dread when they borrow ideas from Marx.
The sorry living, and the dead, know
it never works.
It never has in the least.
To that, let the millions of people
this theory has killed attest;
And let them, in peace, rest.
But always comes a new crew,
who are sure they can make it work.
And now they are banging on our door,
tacking new lies to the old lies of before.
So resist!
Use all available methods and tools to
stop propaganda from flowing to fools.
These blind ones, stripped of love for God
and Family and Country,
will attack you incessantly.
Keep resisting, and never let them know
you know,
they are monsters.
Blue Jay
I cupped the fallen fledgling in my palm,
And unwittingly, caused the neck
To retract the mere measure as had
Raised the hand.
Lowering the foundling, the head rose.
Really? I continued. Down, up;
Extend, retract, eyes fixed
Always at the horizon.
Was it the avian gyroscope
Tacking as if to turbulence,
Or since motion can betray
Location - best feign frozen?
(Once they mused about millennia hence
But scarcely would’ve thought that whence
The confluence of Saurian and Simian roar
Could ever have writ so poorly a score
As has devolved to: cheep; rap nonsense)
I shall call you Icarus for impetuousness
Has got you to ground; like your hapless
Namesake, he from tempting high C,
You, before finding your key.
Copyright Paul Thomson 2018
growing up
we now have
a son who is
compared to
a free range
chicken
he is muscular
skateboarding
cycling around
and karate but
he did go off the
grid and without
cooping up
or telling what
was thought
to be our fence
he took German
in defense and
attacked with
tacking a flank
blitzkrieg upon
his wall and last
of all he knew to
let his hair grow
L
O
N
G
E
R
If there is any deity out there,
And if you hear my voice cracking,
Why’d you let the seams tear,
And let the animosity come tacking.
I’ve built you up in my faith,
I’ve built you up an effigy.
But I’ve been accompanied by a wraith,
Who tirelessly consumes me.
If you are there, why am I alone?
If you are there, why haven’t you called?
The lack of answers I’ve been shown,
Like the blind sheep, I’ve too been lulled.
So tell me, where are you now,
When I needed you the most?
I cannot and will not bow,
To an ungracious host.
Are you unable to dow,
Or are you this haunting ghost?
Show me what I can do,
How do I appease you?
Show me what to do,
So I can get through.
An omnipotence calling in sick,
I bet you think you’re pretty slick.
Show me the way to go,
Show me what I need to know.
Will Not Receive My Backing
Trump will not receive any of my backing,
While from him are receiving a shellacking;
Total trouble make;
Being breath taker;
Sailboat turned over after all of his tacking.
Jim Horn
Gone forever, the used ones
Never can it be set aside for future use
As food, fuel or money can be
Can it be stored like a pea?
Like a large swift river
Ever flowing forward
Neither can be stopped nor delayed
Nor can thou use every drop flowing over
Moving in its downward flight
Dying in a sleepless night
Time and tide waits for no man
So goes a well worn slogan
A representation of action succession
Kill it with procrastination
Has it any resurrection?
Fatigue, a coin robber
Much emphasis on pleasure,
Grand coin robber
Coin robbers cause extreme pressure
This ticking-tacking coin in life
Can it be spent on behalf?
I'd rather be a time keeper
Than be a time waster
I once heard a voice that can speak ever so quietly into the night
And while it was in a dream, it deepens to a whispering thunder
Like a roller coaster, where it’s very coils, silences the vibes
Like an air-draft, trapped, inside a mourner’s floating balloon
A few wishes too soon, it comes; a long sighing sound, growling even…
Filling-up all the voids, between each inconspicuous spaces, in place
Hope traces to a tiny thin line, giving birth to the light, from the darkness
And as it gets nearer, the quicker it turns to shadowy faces
Mimicking the sum of all my fears-to the smallest part of its pieces
Like a grain of salt inside a grain of sand, to the sea and to its rapturous waves
And poof! The voice spoke just once more from a swift edged sword of an epiphany
Teetering from the first breathe, ticking to the last heave, tacking
And somewhere within the ripples, I was left aside to wander
And to ponder, breaking my simplest thought asunder
Under the tender care of the thunder-ing sky, where the sun were,
Then I remembered but only forgotten it in a voice, who uttered the words “. . . "
wilbsd11/23/16
The cruise ship charged
Whistleless at my sail boat
In a narrow channel
Between Islands
Of The Salish Sea.
I was powerless with sails up
Tacking against a current
Knotted against me.
The water boiled.
I recoiled
In dread
I could see them
Cosmetic lazy travellers
Lounging unconcerned
Tending to their looks
As the mass
Of their moving Carnival
Careened
At my destruction.
Two glaucous winged seagulls
Preening feathers were
Unconcerned
As the submerging emerging hulking
Tree trunk and roots
Surged at me
I may be poor
But yet I'm so rich
I count myself lucky
And so privileged.
I have a roof over my head
And a warm cosy bed
To rest my head.
Although my body is often weak
And I'm in a lot of pain
My faith in God.
Keeps me sane.
I have enough to eat
Clothes on my body
And shoes on my feet.
I try to live a simple life
But find it hard I struggle without a wife
Or child to call my own.
I am comfortable
And have all I need
I can pay my bills
And money enough to which to feed.
I try to stay focused in what I do have
And not what I've not
Even though to some
It may not seem a lot.
I often give to those less fortunate than me
For such things make me
Truly happy but also sad
For the world is full of want
And also greed wickedness a d bad.
Count your blessings for what you have
For tomorrow it could all be gone
The powers that be are tacking care of that
The rich get richer
And the poor get even more poor
Who knows what's around the corner
Or behind your door.
Be thankful for what you have got
Even if what you do have
Is not a lot.
Peter Dome.copyright.2015.July.
Garden Golden Glove Award
(Or should that be Globe?)
Just dropping by St. James the Fisherman Church.
There was Father Dave doing all of his usual landscaping
work. He is really incredible. Not only does he help us
grow in God, he even helps the grass and flowers grow.
Terrific guy. Here is the poem I wrote for him. We even
actually need to give him one. That would be another
one of my great ideas. James Thomas Horn, Retired Veteran
Father Dave blessed us with beautiful church appearance
Not even needing a military security clearance
Thanks to all of his great efforts we do look forward
To presenting him with Garden Golden Glove Award.
Because of Father Dave's great gardening backing
Not only are we giving him award but also tacking
It up on the wall in the form of a fabulous plaque
After suffering another spiritual Father Dave attack.
(His is way better than a Mac Attack.)
All of this is sure to have an effect which will linger
As garden glove he starts sticking in each finger
Even over St. James from God an anger hovered
Father Dave has landscape issue completely covered.
PS. You need a category for entertaining.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.