"clipper" poems
Perilous voyages of small watercraft at sea , amphibious landings on well defended beachheads , Clipper ships whaling on distant oceans , military vessels in armed conflict , night of relentless cannon fire , explosive reflections across shark infested waters , treasure maps and chest laden with gold , rubies and pieces of eight , the cry of Viking warriors on the rugged coast of Newfoundland .. Pirates just off the shores of the Carolinas .. Forts Pulaski , Sumter and Jefferson on the Dry Tortugas ..
Oil platforms racked by ferocious winds on the Gulf of Mexico ..
Union and Confederate battles on Mobile Bay , Riverboats traversing the Mississippi ..Tending barges along the Ohio ..On high alert through Georgia's intracoastal waterways ....
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 12:39 PM UTC
In this vision though time,
My journey to the past begins,
Beneath the surface of ourselves, my soul rises.
Inside the dream my spirit whispers longing for the past,
In the dream though time the waves cry,
Amongst the shadows of desire.
Sailing on a clipper ship,
Fishing on my trip,
In the midday heat of a tropical sun.
The daily death and birth of the tropical sun.
The sleepy afternoon sun sinks into the Western waves,
The skies on fire with a setting sun,
Blackness of night has come.
Candlelight casts shadows over an ocean of mystery.
Seeing a glow in the sky before sunrise,
A yellow sun skimmed the blue horizon,
The strong morning sun shines on my face.
Sharks endure!
Gulls wave!
Winds blow!
Where is the old reef?
Courage is a warm shore!
Why does the captain wave?
Oh! Island girls wave!
In this dream though time.
© 2013 Ronald J Chapman All Rights Reserved.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 2:06 PM UTC
I coiled around your coast
and gazed at the foreign shore.
The breakers, they did break
and the sirens they did call
to the clipper upon that fallen, foreign shore.
Were we sailors then, you and i?
Or were we shipwrecked?
I think we were shipwrecked.
The mast lay rotting in the waves.
Rope and sail- strewn as a discarded scalp
Upon that foreign shore.
I know the day of leave,
As i know that sirens call.
And I felt the breakers
and the hidden stones that rose as black teeth round your coast.
The wind pulled forth and we did nought to stop the pull.
And crashed upon your fallen shore.
Now we are castaways;
outcasts upon this isle.
Now we are foreigners
on this foreign shore.
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 12:31 AM UTC
I can feel me
******* breaking under gray skies
As I dream of red eyes
And green grass
CPT Slime and Rasta's daft laughs
And the taste of tobacco on your tongue
While I wash up in SlimeyG's kitchen
Good God, if I wasn't there, that infamous week would've been filthy!
We can feel
The bass ******* it through the sideboard
SlmieyG's lounge walls are shaking hard
And we cackle bare
When Big Gay tumbles grinning downstairs
So I stick the kettle on
Good God, we caned a litre of milk in one round of teas!
I can hear
Those slimey green dawgs singing loud
When we bring Tom's cake out
And his face is a chuffin' picture
At the realisation of the six-layers' topper
So throw him a Clipper
Good God - eighteen, eighteen, EIGHTEEN tokes to clear it!
So, will you?
Can we all get together? We'll feel alright
For just one more warm hazy night
And when we sing these songs
Of freedom, we'll laugh in peace together. So long
To misery, my brothers
Jan 29, 2012
Jan 29, 2012 at 2:36 PM UTC
the flicker of a clipper,
is my calling card,
lighting up,
while i'm falling hard,
impulsively puffing,
passing time,
watching haze clouds,
helps me unwind,
oh ,
& A bottle in hand,
seems to be my latest trend..
an empty bottle,
is my closest friend,
but with each swallow,
i find myself..
feeling more hollow.
3am , & i'm on the floor,
holding on,
but i can't take much more..
these sleepy eyes don't find much rest..
& mother dear, never taught me what's best,
substance abuse was her pride & joy,
functioning insufficiently,
like a broken toy..
now, i'm not trying to play the blame game,
no pity parties here,
i just wish i would have been raised,
out of something other than fear.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 3:50 PM UTC
Like an old clipper, sailing on the water
My soul searches all the seas of life
Trying to find that elusive treasure
Not made of gold or silver.
Guided by shining lights placed in towers
Guided by twinkling stars blazing in the sky
I find my wondering ways through the world
Living all the great stories yet untold.
Within the bounds of all four corners
Of this sphere we all claim as home
I search for that elusive treasure
Not made of jewels or gems.
And when I've passed on and sunk
No longer kissing the water's surface
I will be remembered always, forever
Like a ship in a bottle.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 3:51 PM UTC
India painted breast cancer, especially tooth, female, nature beetles and beehives with beehives. Maya Maori Production Source: Unique Police Revolution, Wisdom Propaganda, Female Girls, Snow and Body. In terms of health, Evan changes the market for green maize and gravel, body, sound, leather and lamps in the marketplace. Listen to the person's indignation, his refusal to call his family, and the drama that burns in the Middle East. Children themselves return to pregnant women, breast cancer, pregnancies, especially girls, in the usual rent and flower returns. Maya Maori Production Source: Unique Police Revolution, Wisdom Propaganda Propaganda, Female Girls, Snow and Body. In terms of health, Evan changes the market for green maize and gravel, body, sound, leather and lamps in the marketplace. This is known as the infinite power of Satan, known as the infallible building phase. Even though it is naughty, I'm coming back with a warning. The company was taken in heart. The Children's Science Letter In the 19th century, a clean baby brought fresh green grass and improved their energy. Volcanic eruption begins with a volcanic leaf in the volcanic eruption. The cooled flavors, mills, biscuits, sunflowers, sunlight, Milton's Power, Fireworks, El Universal, Metropolitan Police Station. Clean, are they back? First dress and weapons. Basic gasoline is not permitted. The woman was thrown out. The device includes services and music. Simple, public and geographical answers. Then we go to the town gate and the police station is 1. The main pollutant gas does not. He is a new heir by General Henry and Juan El Batista, a daughter and civil civilian gypsy who has been interviewed for several years. Activities by Philip Ainlin, football, wheat, bran, and web-based resources. 2, 26, Harold, my brother Phillips, and I had David's report. 2 Southern Nigeria's Southern Doctrine Institute was confused. Most "write to Google" crimes were transmitted by the police station. Before the library bar. Philippe goes to Abenne and provides clean Black rivers, leaflets and seeds, which shows the reader and love movement. This is very timely. On the fifth day, modern clipper was called Herod's father. 2, 26 Philip and his brother Harald Aliel were born again in the Netherlands in Phoenix in the Netherlands and Phillips II. There are two trumpets on the "Google" Crime Camp at the police station. But the Fly Museum has doubled before, but it will not be used in the first conflict.
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 3:28 AM UTC
*Whitman Revisited
(Note: apologies to Walt Whitman.. this poem is metaphor for American/U.S. and not, as in Whitman’s classic poem “O’Captain, My Captain”, about Lincoln.)
“O’Captain, O’Captain"
the ship you sailed from port to port,
its prize did surely win,
but its sails were always blown
by winds of war and sin.
"O’Captain", your dreams
were born of pure fantasy of myth
to benefit a few,
all was needed to see the truth
was to take a whiff
of stench in genocidal schemes
turned into tears and screams,
creating chaos and more
from shore to shore.
“O’Captain, O’Captain",
your Yankee Clipper has won,
a single flag was raised
but never should be praised;
from the Halls of Montezuma,
to the shores of Tripoli,
your bombs and drones and unjust wars
have blown many Peoples away
on every single shore.
It’s called the good ship
Manifest Destiny -
it should sink and sail no more.
Aztec Warrior 1.6.16*
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 1:32 PM UTC
Last Again asks,
But the guy shakes his head and ties her to the mast,
Of disappointment, of tears, as the waves crash past,
He’s edged her again, with his skin of alabaster,
And it’s only after this ******* has won she realises she's the disaster,
And all her hopes and dreams, well they were made of plaster,
Because they were meant to hold her up but she can break
hem if she has to,
And she has to alright because this bloke doesn’t have a
light,
So how’s she meant smoke and make herself feel alright?
How’s she meant to have hope when it feels like the night,
Is encroaching, approaching and she can’t put up a fight?
She searches her pockets and the lining of her coat,
Hoping her findings will enable her smoke,
Hoping finding the lighter will make the night a bit lighter,
But in her mum’s eyes she’s always been a fighter,
So she fights into her bag, against the sticking of that zipper,
Hoping her fingers they grab a zippo or a clipper,
She’s been sticking to her guns but never pulling the trigger,
Then she finds metal’s colder than the wind,
It bites as she brushes, the feeling it lingers,
And it’s never been so appealing for her to smell gas on her fingers,
Like a phoenix from the ash, the butane ignites,
Because we find in times of darkness, we must make our own light.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 10:39 AM UTC
"We are creatures of constant awe, curious at beauty, at leaf and blossom, at grief and pleasure, sun and shadow," U.S. poet laureate Ada Limón writes in her new poem that will fly to Jupiter's moon Europa aboard NASA's Europa Clipper mission.
"And it is not darkness that unites us, not the cold distance of space, but the offering of water, each drop of rain."
The poem, unveiled at an event tonight at the Library of Congress, is going to be engraved in Limón's handwriting and affixed to the spacecraft, expected to launch in October 2024, Miriam writes.
The big picture: The Europa Clipper mission follows in the tradition of others — like NASA's Voyagers — that have sent pieces of art representing humanity into the cosmos.
The poem uses water as a thread that binds Earth — and all of its humans — to Europa, a moon with an ocean beneath its icy shell.
For Limón, writing this poem was a very human endeavor.
"The thing I think that makes me the most beautifully overwhelmed is the idea of all the humans that are going to read it," she tells Axios.
The poem, called "In Praise of Mystery: A Poem for Europa," is featured on a NASA webpage where people can sign up to send their names to Europa with the spacecraft.
"I think to have it feel collective is really, really extraordinary to me, because it does feel like it's not my poem," Limón says. "It does feel like a collective poem. And as soon as I wrote it, it felt like oh, this belongs to Earth. This is our poem for Earth."
Between the lines: Sending this poem to Europa is an "evolution" of NASA's Golden Record, which is flying through space aboard the Voyager spacecraft, Robert Pappalardo, Europa Clipper project scientist, tells Axios.
Those records contain sounds from Earth — including music, laughter and animal noises — as well as a map of where we are in the galaxy. They are now billions of miles away, flying through interstellar space.
"This is an outgrowth in that we're not going to the stars," Pappalardo says. "There's no message to aliens here. This is purely a message to ourselves and a symbolic message to Europa."
Sep 16, 2023
Sep 16, 2023 at 2:47 PM UTC
Night & her infernal hues
push the caffeine drip.
I'm caffeinated.
Night & her peyote cues
push the whole world flat.
I'm gelatinous.
Goo, yes, goo.
Star
to form
to dust
to mud.
Night & her violet light
guide me in to silence.
Silence but
for the strike
of a Clipper
or the pop of a
bottle top or
the rip of a
zipper.
Jul 7, 2018
Jul 7, 2018 at 2:05 AM UTC
Electric razor
buzzed to life
across my scalp
as hair fell
to the ground
fresh start
given to me
by a
No. 4
clipper
guard
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 9:44 PM UTC
Music by the ocean
sun tanned
aided by the suntan lotion
factor fifty five.
The sand crab grabs me in
a most peculiar place
mostly forgotten, but
just in case it's not
it reminds me
of
how lucky I got
and I got lucky by the score.
Sea shells yell at me as if the sea
was trapped inside them,
beware of carpenters
walrus too
but alas
the oysters never heard that
and so they never knew.
it's all Beethoven and Bach
on
the clipper
Cutty Sark
I am 'dancing in the dark'
music by the ocean
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 3:30 AM UTC
is life just a cycle of looking down at your feet and realizing that you really need to clip your toenails, but deciding that you’ll do it later because you can’t be bothered in that moment, and then 6 days pass, and you still haven’t clipped your toenails. and then after 2 weeks, you finally pick up the nail clipper and do what you said you would 14 days ago. a moment of relief. and then you go upstairs and look at your laundry pile and decide you’ll tackle that later.
Sep 30, 2020
Sep 30, 2020 at 7:33 PM UTC
You took down both a lion and a bear. But not Delilah there. She was your glass slipper. Pretty little backstabbing hair clipper. She sold you out to the Philistines. Nonetheless, God allowed you to blindly pull down their temple beams. Oh Samson, strength was both your virtue and vice. In giving away your secret you paid the ultimate price.
Apr 19, 2020
Apr 19, 2020 at 11:49 PM UTC
my lovely typewriter
smith-corona clipper
best christmas present
hope for the future
sleek black body
rounded black keys
belly full of mechanics
white paper in between
words flow from my brain
through my fingers
without comprehension
letters
words
sentences
paragraphs
pages
and then i throw it away
and start over
because no matter
what anyone says
it's always so much better
trapped inside my head.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 9:33 PM UTC
*Sometimes the velvet blue night is a sorcerers cloak , prestidigitation
centered on my downfall , the pun of a hurtful joke , belted to the yoke ,
trudging my demons at the crack of the whip , a clipper ship mired in the
doldrums yet life has no braking system , it's a no replay theorem , no drain to open to whirlpool away , no script to learn of the coming days , no Madison Square Garden for petty songs , no oracle defining right from wrong* ..
Oct 4, 2016
Oct 4, 2016 at 8:02 PM UTC
Feelings of aging aches beginning
Creeping in
Creeping in
In morning high snapping
Of joints and bones
Accompanied by deeper moans and groans
My reflection stares back at me now
Whiskered face
Whiskered face
The puffy eyes not younger
The hair I had retreating
I surrendered the troops to a clipper working
I wonder if Dad felt this way too
Numb to time
Numb to time
Boys running circles
Around his life
Did he have time to enjoy the sunsets?
Jun 2, 2019
Jun 2, 2019 at 2:07 PM UTC
.
*The goods trains roll on by,
passing my window at night
and I wonder, wonder,
where are you going to?
May I come?
May I lay back slowly
and let you take me somewhere?
Anywhere.
Anywhere but now.
For here I lay
counting the rhythmic pulses
of iron wheels on iron rails.
As goods trains roll on by.
I need to feel in my bones
these rhythmic pulses
like temperate rain on tin roofs
soothing the beat of a heart.
I want to go and to expand,
to flow through the world
at an even metronomic pace,
to find a place of balance.
And my inner eye like a clipper
sails into the void of dreams,
yet, somehow, more real to me
as I watch myself explore.
Teasing out the dark corners,
bringing light to their inherent terrors
and exposing myself to fears.
But who's fears?
Individual pieces or the whole puzzle?
Pieces missing, the puzzle incomplete.
Its hidden away in my mind
disjointedly interlocking around holes.
I wrote about my sanctuary.
A special garden in a special forest,
providing me with safety
for when the holes become to large.
To this retreat I speed
when the sensory input overloads,
blows a fuse or severs a link
to the circuit of attachment
and fractures the edges of the puzzle,
scattering the composite pieces.
The further dislocation of logic
as I sit in my sanctuary and weep.
And through tears I can see
light flooding in to me,
the blush of morning sky
as goods trains roll on by.*
© Pagan Paul (30/01/20)
Jan 31, 2020
Jan 31, 2020 at 4:25 PM UTC
Reality
2 July 2038
Tattered Checker change-purse,
Zipper broken-worn.
Dented tin-full toolbox,
Sat with Clipper horn.
Handkerchief wash-snot-clean,
Work-boot bright-black-sheen.
Sweaty first dinner jacket,
Dusty rust-skin tack.
Stain-fold loving letters,
Hand scribed fuzzy matter,
Words he couldn’t spell,
Fear of burning hell.
Loved his owned reality,
Lived her life true well.
Jul 2, 2022
Jul 2, 2022 at 6:50 PM UTC
in the spring
and agave falling
with rain coming in..
my heart a mad thing
light a caste stone
all blue and
emerald green!
i remember the springs
lord in crete
in crete..
ii
when i was young
and awed by nearly
everything
the blasted beat..
my brain a fried egg..
i looked in the mirror
and stared
who the **** was that there..
the blasted heat
the autumn sun
and wind
and i was a beach
***
in my winter hut
the day a paper´s cut
away fom a soft
blinding night..
iii
when i was young..
iv
small bamboo constructions
right bang next to the surf..
with some red wine..
thus illiminating
the rent man..
stars and the moon..
and phospherous..
i had my guitar
and sang a song..
v
when i was young..
vi
in crete
in spring
is breath taken
from sweet gods
lip..
ambrosia broken..
a flailed heart trip
the blossems and a load
of pure beauty..
in crete
in spring
i found me..
i observed others
do like wise..
they shon and carried on..
in spring
when i was young
played backgammon
and drank cognac
no problem
no problem...
vi
to sail the clipper
the crow´s nest quiver
s in the grey brine
gulls dip their
soaring smiles
lost in mine..
love in horizons
lost in prayer
late too shiver
eyes of god in
bathes my soul
one great river..!
v
Mar 25, 2018
Mar 25, 2018 at 8:33 AM UTC
Why the Alberta clipper again my Lord?
Have we not had enough to afford.
Oh this wetness, this coldness, will it not end.
The robins are in hiding and the daffodils suspend.
This precipitation subterfuge of snow, ice, and rain , occurs time and time again.
My love for summer and glorious sunshine shall give me hope.
For it is your will and I will have to cope.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 3:31 PM UTC
As the light fades and night takes it's duty
Hope does collect tinder and *******
she piles fuel onto the pyers
then with a clipper flick she lights the fires
She watches the flames take hold
they rush to consume eagerly
wood crackles, splitting and spitting
throwing embers into the cool night air
Her faith never wavers or strays
for her love will be back someday
and as the cloak of darkness surrounds her
she takes comfort in the fires glow
Sitting by the embers of carbon spent
a tear does run down her face
that painful ache in her heart
memories never to be replaced
In a moment of loneliness
Hope does start to sway and sing
with broken voice and trembling lips
her lamenting song is carried by the wind
She waits in solitudes cold embrace as the sky fills with stars
singing, my love will come back to me one day from so very far
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 12:30 AM UTC
I fade into my world
Where I am strong
Before the ebb tide -
Like a clipper ship
Embarked on her maiden voyage.
Passing the guarded line
Into deep water
Under the cover of lime
Darkness she hums leaving
Protected harbor - square rigged
For counted moments cradled
For pitch and heave in
Amniotic sway.
My cell phone buzzes and
I return worn. Cold with
Years of white breakers,
Tidal pull, and
Trips around the Horn.
Apr 10, 2022
Apr 10, 2022 at 1:09 AM UTC