"buccaneer" poems
1656
Down Time’s quaint stream
Without an oar
We are enforced to sail
Our Port a secret
Our Perchance a Gale
What Skipper would
Incur the Risk
What Buccaneer would ride
Without a surety from the Wind
Or schedule of the Tide—
6.8k
Oh, I should like to ride the seas,
A roaring buccaneer;
A cutlass banging at my knees,
A dirk behind my ear.
And when my captives' chains would clank
I'd howl with glee and drink,
And then fling out the quivering plank
And watch the beggars sink.
I'd like to straddle gory decks,
And dig in laden sands,
And know the feel of throbbing necks
Between my knotted hands.
Oh, I should like to strut and curse
Among my blackguard crew...
But I am writing little verse,
As little ladies do.
Oh, I should like to dance and laugh
And pose and preen and sway,
And rip the hearts of men in half,
And toss the bits away.
I'd like to view the reeling years
Through unastonished eyes,
And dip my finger-tips in tears,
And give my smiles for sighs.
I'd stroll beyond the ancient bounds,
And tap at fastened gates,
And hear the prettiest of sound-
The clink of shattered fates.
My slaves I'd like to bind with thongs
That cut and burn and chill...
But I am writing little songs,
As little ladies will.
2.9k
Your troubles shrink not, though I feel them less
Here, far away, than when I tarried near;
I even smile old smiles—with listlessness—
Yet smiles they are, not ghastly mockeries mere.
A thought too strange to house within my brain
Haunting its outer precincts I discern:
—That I will not show zeal again to learn
Your griefs, and, sharing them, renew my pain….
It goes, like murky bird or buccaneer
That shapes its lawless figure on the main,
And each new impulse tends to make outflee
The unseemly instinct that had lodgment here;
Yet, comrade old, can bitterer knowledge be
Than that, though banned, such instinct was in me!
2.5k
This is the last time I write about ships; the mighty seafarer, clasping in the deep. The last time the esoteric tides capriciously change their erratic minds, left torn between rousing up to fight and solemnly crawling into the shapeless night. I’ll haul, I’ll haul. Outward bound, I’ll haul away from the safety of the buoy, through a thousand spiralling knots, batten aground and set anchor upon the recondite bay. I’ll avast the journeys where the compass takes an unprompted turn, where celestial proves consort to nautical woes, awoke awash amidst the darkened shallows.
This is the last time I go back and fill vast depths, bearing right, then left, across the beating breadth. This is the last ring of brash audacity resonating in chime with the gull’s hooded pride, the last of the salt and sway commandeering the longitude of each tumultuous ride. I’ll roll, I’ll roll. Hanging on behind, I’ll roll with the salted souls of Nelson and Hook as they furl and collide, hand over fist, drawing the curtains from their chariot’s majestic height. I’ll gybe and set back to sail, quarrel with the rushing sands, and grace every fractured notion that tooth and nail can siege the devil’s rest and forge currents capable of hustling both vessel and man.
This is the last of the gallant endeavours, set adrift from buccaneer’s voyage to a solitary pulse at the end of storm’s tether. This is the last stern embrace of Poseidon’s harrowing howls, the last of the rapturous applause mordant as it rises and swirls, the last time I wrestle away from his scaly hold. This is the last time I change tack and set course into the path of the sound, where finally, the tides settled
I’ll release control of the helm.
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 8:26 PM UTC
Like a ghost on the wind
She comes from the sea
And trembles the foe
So wild and free
With swashbuckling swagger
And a Jolly Roger laugh
She flies the black flag
On a whalebone staff
She has terrifying eyes
And a ring in her ear
And on her sun tanned face
A flippant leer
With a bone-cold glare
And a sneer on her lip
She has coins in hand
And a cutlass on hip
With a thunderous blast
From her cannons' might
She plants fear in the strong
And steals the fight
She takes all that's lost
And turns it to gold
For she's crafty and devious
And frightningly bold
She is dashing and daring,
A fierce buccaneer
Faces of many
Pale when she's near
From ocean to ocean
Her tales are spun
About the queen of the pirates
For in the end she won
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 4:24 PM UTC
I'm an enigma, a quitter and survivor, a pioneer weary of the change that literally defines the career
In desperate need of a savior or at the very least a lucky rabbits foot souvenir
One to keep me free and clear from the type of bad karma that's over the top severe
I've been thinking I don't belong here, I don't know if it's me talking that talk or the fear
I let it take the wheel and steer, my driving advise from the rear seat falls on a deaf ear
I guess I ain't suppose to interfere with the charioteer, the why isn't clear
Now I've gotta kick it into another gear to commandeer my own life like a buccaneer
This deer in headlights nonsense won't get me anywhere near my "new beginnings" frontier
I lost track of my trail guide mountaineer, forgotten about like I'm the fourth musketeer
The sheer volume of every collected tear almost drowns me at least once a year
Or acts like pavement when I smear across it after falling from the atmosphere
My guardian angel is a horrible puppeteer, seems to disappear when needed most like he's the one with crippling fear
...go figure
©2021
Jan 4, 2021
Jan 4, 2021 at 2:05 AM UTC
The mighty wooden ship awaits,
the pirate and his *****
The massive sails and spinnakers bold
pondering seven seas.
Adventure beckons, be still my heart,
adrenalin rushing forth.
My pirate blood, from birth doth flood
my veins with plunderous thoughts.
But hark, my beloved approaches now
With chest of clothes abundant
She says we must first speak of things
so as not to be redundant.
“Before we leave dry land, I must confess
of second thoughts about our new address.
A secret that I’m holding must be shared:
…..I am a little scared.
Sea legs, I’ve none, nor a stomach strong.
Even my sense of direction is mostly wrong.
I’m just hoping that as your Pirate queen,
….. I do not turn green.
You’d love to sail away beyond far horizons,
though, if you must know, I cannot roam
further than my cell phone plan,
…..which is Verizon.
Oh let me think this through a minute,
My love, my one eyed wonder
To sail the earth to see the world
To steal and maim and plunder
Sounds like fun, but when we’re done -
I’ve broken my nails
On those ********* sails
and I don’t know my stern from my bow
My teacher of Zen
will want to know when
my monthly bill will be paid, anyhow.
So I think I must stay, oh and by the way,
Have the boatswain untie the cable
And get me that yawl or I swear I will crawl
To the dock as fast as I’m able.
I guess I’m not much of a buccaneer
but the thought of the trip made me sick.
So a pirate’s life is not one for a wife -
at least not a wife
with a hair appointment
on Thursday!
May 8, 2010
May 8, 2010 at 2:32 PM UTC
Nestled in a pencil case
And snuggled up in fluff
There snoozed a tiny pirate man
Of legendary stuff
He'd spied the hidden secrets
And trod the haunted shore
Blu-tack Beard the buccaneer
Scourge of the open floor
He stole a shoe-box galleon
And sailed the carpet blue
With pencil mast and paper sails
And crayons as his crew
They forayed on the crooked tiles
And crested every ridge
Blu-tack Beard the scallywag
The raider of the fridge
When moored up in the kitchen
With all his crew around
The captain showed to one and all
A treasure map he'd found
It bore a chart of distant parts
And quite a course it plot
It pointed to the bathroom lands
And tip-ex marked the spot
They crammed the hold with cornflakes
To feed them on their trip
They pulled hard on the piece of string
And weighed the paperclip
The crew they dragged their boat aloft
On neatly woven hairs
Blu-tack Beard the privateer
Surmounter of the stairs
They heaved their vessel restlessly
Atop the final brow
The crayon pirates caught their breath
And leaned against her bow
Then scaled tiny ladders
And each took to their post
Blu-tack Beard was at the helm
And watched the foreign coast
Through countless minutes voyaging
There loomed the bathroom door
They slacked the sail and went below
And each took to an oar
They pulled a mighty rhythm
Till their waxy arms were numb
And Blu-tack Beard the plunderer
Was beater of the drum
But though they pried in every nook
And each last inch of grout
They skirted round the skirting board
They tapped each silver spout
Illusive was their bounty
And they grew ever the crueller
They took their skipper angrily
And made him walk the ruler
He landed glum and ruefully
Amid the ***** socks
He heard the merry spiteful sound
Of laughing, taunting mocks
And saw the sight of mutiny
With waxen little smiles
Blu-tack Beard the cast-away
Alone among the tiles
He commandeered a washing cloth
And weaved himself a rope
He scaled the dreaded washstand
And stole a bar of soap
He carved himself a coracle
And set his sights on home
Blu-tack Beard the wanderer
Awash amid the foam
He slithered down the stairwell
And landed with a plan
For warmer climes and restfulness
A cocktail and a tan
And so he met his final port
Right then did he retire
Blu-tack Beard the pensioner
Of the warm spot near the fire
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC
I am a glass of skim milk.
I am a reconstituted congealed protein fixture-ate
molded like a rack of ribs.
I could be alien technology
if I weren't christmas lights and a projector.
In fact if I were any more prosthetic I'd be...
a picture of a painting of a plastic rose.
I'd be at the globe theatre.
I'd be lear, othello, hammers, macky, romero and roz.
Cuz I'm a lick-on-stamp of higher education,
and I'm a bottle of **** that you find under your seat in the van
when you're so thirsty you can hear Berbers in the distance.
I could be the mermaid on the front of wooden ships.
I would be the black olives on your gordita cruch;
and I'll smile at you with 9 inch long teeth
as I dutifully hang your laundry in the rain.
With dozens of laughs all covering up
tender spots I'm too chicken to cry about
I am a master parade floating up, up,
in the middle of the street,
Til I fall with a big black box of bottled bourbon *****
for my buccaneer bravado's.
And fists
I make while walking
and beating sticks
I carve, still beating,
with imaginary reasons
that I find a bit disturbing.
When I go walking I go walking off into the ending
cuz I'm just killing time while trying not to go crazy
i-I-eye-shouldastudiedmore
I shoulda beat up my *** drive in a dark alley
while it was still raining,
and a I shoulda
red more
bled more
sweat-ed more than I did,
cuz I'm standing here in a bucket
with the thunderstorm looming
clutching onto a flag pole for dear life
like it was my mother.
Hoping just for one big bang
to send me off into the twilight
to shoot me out past the moon once again.
Cuz I'm drowning in the rain that doesn't hit the ground.
and I'm smiling like Bob Wiley on a tree stump,
as I sip at strychnine
like it's Chianti.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
I am a rocketeer
And somewhat of a buccaneer
And I will commandeer
Your heart with mini musketeers
And there is nowhere safe
In my adolescent brain
My life’s like a race
Yo narrow down my breathing
Space
Narrow my breathing space
My breathing space
Narrow my breathing space
And I hope it’s not to late
To make up for all of my mistakes
But I’m set in my ways
Cuz’ life is just mere childsplay
I choose to play this game
And say Jason is my name
And now that I'm awake
I’m gonna need more breathing
Space
Need more breathing space
More breathing space
Need more breathing space
I am a rocketeer
And somewhat of a buccaneer
And I will commandeer
Your heart with mini musketeers
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 11:08 PM UTC
A frailty of quick sand
a deep gap in the immense land
away from clover green
secluded nature's earth
daily seen this dry dusty scene
we have been listening to most touching songs,
psalms, hymns and of magical singing
great person of simplicity
mind match of a genius
man from Mars not from Venus
from dust you are to dust you go
to the Lord's scenic spot
eternal life you will have, it had been said
you are still living amongst the dead.
Worthiest prayer ever heard
loftiest words oftentimes birthed
saddest meanings in every word.
One thing we may rejoice
like Abraham in the Holy Scripture
you left myriads of your own,
from your humble creature.
High Almighty God, most grateful to You,
that You cared for Pieter and led him all time through,
he died once, was resurrected again and now with You
he chooses to go to his beloved époussée
and asked for your permission
while waiting this transition,
all of a sudden he was knocking at your Door,
You received Him at once with greatest love and more....
May he rest in peace, husband, father and engineer,
Pieter van der Werff, the Dutch buccaneer !!
© Sylvia Frances Chan
Jun 18, 2016
Jun 18, 2016 at 4:45 AM UTC
Some call me a savage,
a bit of a lady ravisher,
but actually
I'm a bloodthirsty pirate,
a bearded buccaneer
by trade.
I plunder & I pillage,
but never do I ****
I just soothe you
by kissing the sweet-nape
of your delicate neck
& believe me Queenie,
it'll make you move rather quick,
when I swallow your drip.
You'll want me,
beg me to raid
your pretty ship
again & again,
take all of your precious *****
My parrot will laugh
at my various quips
& don't be alarmed,
there's nothing nefarious
about my peg leg,
'cause it's hollow,
it's where I hide
the golden loot.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 4:05 PM UTC
if you like this poem
send a dollar
to my Paypal account.
Paypal is a trademark
owned by Paypal.
A cash cow,
mooing dung piles of lazy loot
tucked away in thousands of accounts
like stormed tossed buccaneer's ate.
Nov 17, 2010
Nov 17, 2010 at 9:06 PM UTC
If you're wondering why there's so many typos? I'm in the hospital,
Benzo'd out and on phenobarbital.
But I guess it's better than hammered drunk at home trying to give the cat a bath.
He doesn't like that band The Allman Brothers which I Blair at the side of the tub and he tends to scratch me
even with the Mr. bubble bath. Now I'll try to watch the Redskin buccaneer game, they'll always be the Redskins to me. But that could just be the benzos talking
Jan 9, 2021
Jan 9, 2021 at 7:32 PM UTC
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Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 10:50 AM UTC
I beam as I scheme and who gives a **** if I duck and I dive it's what I have to do to get by and to thrive,while the cops in their cars the modern day tsars are grafting away,getting more than their pay in backhanders and doughnuts.
My M.P'S on a freebee and it's paid for by me,me, in the taxes they take and they're breaking me down,it's time to get out of this town and head West.
I'll take a schooner from Bristol,carry a pistol,become a pirate,a buccaneer,sail near and far and the cops in their cars will have no chance to catch me or give me an asbo,
does anyone know what an asbo looks like?
or I could take the long view,play the long game,get a good name.
No,
I'd rather be a privateer anything away from here,does anyone know how to steer a ship?
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 8:42 AM UTC
Escape from captivity pulled off
when I came of age
boyhood begrudged,
and bested by brigandage,
but willpower sans declaration
of independence begot bravery
against British brutes
bridging caper (involving collusion)
to bust loose from cage,
and trappings forcibly to plunder artworks
and sculpted treasures
by classical masters
without causing damage
taught by professional thieves
requiring minimal equipage
whereat over time footage
sordid memory constantly replayed
plunder and pillage unwittingly
fostering getaway
from hell raising gambits
planting seed to gauge
optimal instance cut footloose
cutting dashing Dickensian goniff
to feign criminal shenanigans
running rampant with militant spunky gangs
"FAKING" das spies zing
trumpeting hostage killing
and taking, nonetheless
swallowing bitter pill
reeking havoc as honorable image
in order to survive
within world wide
web of criminals (especially
an unwelcome foreigner),
where skills as buccaneer
really put to test, and tried
maximum lawlessness partaken
in (dolled up) guise suppressing shied
pitifull looking indigent vagabond
self away by donning
"FAKE" whippersnapper
benefiting getting to sally and ride
always exuding patriotic pride
pleasing ghosts of founding fathers
against their autonomy from
crown weathering woe be chide
recrimination impossible
to enforce as bride
of Lady Liberty opened arms for those,
who made dangerous journey
across avast ocean
only to confront (whodunit) thuggery
this lifestyle ****** looting,
and burning WITHOUT choice,
but guilt aye didst abide.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Retrospective many generations since
marking birth of a nation
(The United States of America),
now mecca, sans land of milk and honey
current president imposed antithetical ration!
Jul 3, 2018
Jul 3, 2018 at 6:00 PM UTC
Scarpered for the siren liquor
Shame-seared claret cheeks
Lost to time and regulation
Found by terrified relation
Taught that gravity was quicker
Supine in the streets
Too pie-eyed for interventions
Fuddled buccaneer
Too aware for rectifiers
No relief with pacifiers
Banished now for contraventions
No more welcome here
Therein lies the contradiction
Tricksy elbow-bender
You designed this cunning passport
Teamed constabulary transport
Speedy coveted eviction
Purposeful offender
Now we nurse the convalescent
Scarring quips ignore
Dodging pleading, wounding protest
Culpable without an inquest
Feeling without feel-depressant
Pain-drink tug-of-war
Where to put our damaged kindred
Languishing in grief
Ductile truth in glass distended
Remedies are not extended
Therapies are judgement-tinted
Distanced from relief
Imminent familiar wipeout
Nowhere safe to be
Don’t do as the doc suggested
Cede to being bottle-bested
Bottle-lock in private hideout
Throw away the key
Aug 16, 2024
Aug 16, 2024 at 12:56 AM UTC
When I was writing my piece, "For Donna(Society has Changed)", I remembered that Corpus Christi has an annual "Buccaneer Day" celebration. My brother and me always dressed up in costume to take in some of the events. Of course, as a kid, and some "adult kids" couldn't be a pirate unless you wore a patch over one eye, a red bandana around your head, and a scar drawn on your face.
There was always a re-enactment of the pirates attacking, boarding, and taking command of a galleon. Then I remembered columnist Dave Barry's creation of "Talk Like a Pirate Day!" With some of the responses to my post, it seems I found the key to unlock that "inner child", releasing more recollections of childhood pleasantries.
Now, all ages seem to be getting in on the act. Taking time off from these stressful times to do something asinine, somewhat ridiculous, but totally enjoyable, at least for a little while. There doesn't seem to be much of that anymore.
copyright: Richard Riddle 07-28-15
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 8:18 AM UTC
You used to be my subject
every angle, you're the object
inspires me to do more works
and ended up with great artwork.
I can be your Edgar Allan Poe
In a midst o critical world
Could be profound
just to be my Annabelle lee
Rather be your William Shakespeare
timeless age for your soul
endless love bringeth whole
even though just a buccaneer
but ended being Arthur Conan Doyle
You see but you do not observe
The mystery of my love for you
Single glimpse from you can't resolve
Every verse was a reflection
of every inch of you
But you keep on ignoring
And only received a rejection
You prefer to be just a prose
Catatonic yet simple
In my imaginative elated world
where our story remains untold
Feb 21, 2020
Feb 21, 2020 at 12:28 PM UTC
MOTECUHZOMA
Unpack your thoughts. Be free and frank with me.
Pretend yourself my junior cabinetman,
For my own court is often at a loss.
What vague agenda does this fleet announce?
TEUHTLILLI
They masquerade as peaceful legates sent
To haggle wares and flaunt their god, no more.
MOTECUHZOMA
Ridiculous!
TEUHTLILLI My sentiments as well.
MOTECUHZOMA
Then what’s your own misgivings of their aim?
Don’t gild the pill for me. Who are these men?
TEUHTLILLI
I’d bank they’re vigorous, new, cruel foes,
Now swiftly winging from the Eastern Sea
To spoil, maraud, shed sheathes and buccaneer.
We’ve Mayan authority to warrant this,
Hence their determination for the fray.
MOTECUHZOMA
But I have poor rapport with Mayaland.
What do my coastal subjects make of this?
TEUHTLILLI
They call them minor, maverick deities,
As yet unknown, yet fancied devilish.
MOTECUHZOMA
And what if they will prove, as prophesied,
Our long-lost rulers coming home?
TEUHTLILLI Perhaps.
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 2:13 PM UTC
the veneer. Slipping
pieces are chipping and
falling to the floor. I’ll sweep them up,
placing them in a paper cup
drinking a toast to “no more.”
I see-through
the bravado I said
once a hero. The swashbuckling
buccaneer turned to road-killed deer!
I see-through
all the holes. I’ve crawled
between the cracks I once called
love. I can’t have myself back –
the self-made glue of all I misconstrued.
I see-through
the glossy bubble. I'd trouble
for many years. But as it popped
so went my tears and all the heaviness
of airs.
Jan 3, 2022
Jan 3, 2022 at 6:47 AM UTC