"sloop" poems
I will tell you what he told me
in the years just after the war
as we then called
the second world war
don't lose your arrogance yet he said
you can do that when you're older
lose it too soon and you may
merely replace it with vanity
just one time he suggested
changing the usual order
of the same words in a line of verse
why point out a thing twice
he suggested I pray to the Muse
get down on my knees and pray
right there in the corner and he
said he meant it literally
it was in the days before the beard
and the drink but he was deep
in tides of his own through which he sailed
chin sideways and head tilted like a tacking sloop
he was far older than the dates allowed for
much older than I was he was in his thirties
he snapped down his nose with an accent
I think he had affected in England
as for publishing he advised me
to paper my wall with rejection slips
his lips and the bones of his long fingers trembled
with the vehemence of his views about poetry
he said the great presence
that permitted everything and transmuted it
in poetry was passion
passion was genius and he praised movement and invention
I had hardly begun to read
I asked how can you ever be sure
that what you write is really
any good at all and he said you can't
you can't you can never be sure
you die without knowing
whether anything you wrote was any good
if you have to be sure don't write
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SLAP! The graceful whale whacks her tale on the pristine water.
SLUMP! The pod of dolphins flow down in the water.
SLOOP-GLOOP! Breath bubbles soar up to the top of the water.
SHHH! Fishers cast their lines into the deep, clear, water.
SMIP-SMIP! The bats of the seahorses’ tails fling through the blue, blue water.
SLIP! The green, blue water flows through rocks and moss.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 7:53 PM UTC
1622
A Sloop of Amber slips away
Upon an Ether Sea,
And wrecks in Peace a Purple Tar,
The Son of Ecstasy—
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I still feel you
in my heart.
what wrath visited on me,
perhaps I see in your eyes sorrow
the green sea swells with life
the lone seagull cuts
the air,
scanning the waves
which belch and break
on the gray shore.
a fisherman thinks
drowned by the white noise
his rod cast aimlessly
he considers tossing off his
anchor and crashing headlong
into the rocks,
****** underneath
legs shattered as hes dragged
along the bottom,
his thick blood like oil
curls in clouds around him
his lungs burn
he screams and isn't heard
hurt but not forgotten
he drags his sloop ashore,
snaps his rod in half and casts it into
the foam.
fishing makes for terrible metaphors,
he thinks.
the seagull screams in reply.
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 6:45 PM UTC
A storm is raging on the frothy sea
Mountainous waves toss the vessel all around
The ravaging gales impale with a deafening blow
Raucous sheets of salty spray
soak and pelter to and fro
A bucket bails the raged sloop
She moans and groans as she’s flung about
A sailor sails ― A sailor endlessly bails
Engulfed alone in the perfect storm
Two oars are manned on the stormy seas
The halyard torn and ripped from mast
To row and bail is an impossible feat
It’s hard to tell when you've sprung a fateful leak
The captain mans the forlorn skiff
There'll be No white flag of surrender flown ;
" I will go down with my ship! "
A furious soul laments life’s toil
As violent waves crash the gunnels hold
He screamed out loud,
***" My time has come ! "
" My ship is sinking!!! "
" Her broken pieces ne'er to be found ..."***
The rampart boat, well fortified yet built to fail
Plummets from hills of oceans pitifully tall
Cracks are leaking where the lurid light gets in
But so does the briny water, will drowning soon begin?
Lost hope floats the helpless, fearless one man crew
His soul now guides the ether voyage ―
A vessel drifts lifeless on the empty calming sea
Nothing but it can be seen for miles of skies
The free board is deep the salty water high
Two apathetic oars lay silent, is a lost soul inside?
© Harlon Rivers
May 20, 2017
May 20, 2017 at 1:15 PM UTC
Portals are the shortcuts we’ve always dreamed of using
They can help speed up many things that help all.
From the process of bomb defusing
To avoiding a rather large bar brawl.
Portals can also be abused.
Easy things like getting out of bed
And making your boss bemused.
And you end up sitting in your house full of dread.
Portals may be fun for great pranks.
Such as the infinite loop
And transporting them to a certain amount of planks
But a rather clever idea is to help them jump off of a sloop.
The portals can bring an uprising
Or they could be our downfall.
Feb 3, 2012
Feb 3, 2012 at 12:05 AM UTC
shuffled quietly into the busy day
transit thru layers of faces
and the thousand random sounds
meant to distract
but i keep pen to page till image surfaces
and words flow however uneven
almost seems like my poems are crossing roads
only every other phrase survives to the page
the rest lay unadorned baking in some
unrelenting internal sun
like roadkill my thoughts
strange and laughing
like prussian soldiers aligned wait for
the drunken magician to send
them charging into battle marching
lockstep backwards
they are sure to be slain
but they know they will be resurrected
later in my life as some odd little ditty
about some random babylon nubile kitten
**** and sweating at the door
looking for a fresh spike
perpetual motion in this silent sky
the clouds form up white grey along the east
and in slow parade move thru my vision
'brisk eastern wind says rain' whispers a companion
'best be done with your writing friend'
the boat rocks slowly in the waves
and there on this un-named atoll lay the wreck of
some long beached sloop
her mast snapped in some long forgotten storm
and the poem i labored to give birth to
surrenders to such an image
of loss and forlorn dreams
goodnight my love
goodnight and sleep well iv got the watch
and nothing shall disturb
no storm nor pirate shall approach unheeded
lay back and dream of my poems to you
perpetual motion in this silent sky
the clouds form up white grey along the east
and in slow parade move thru my vision
'brisk eastern wind says rain' whispers a companion
'best be done with your writing friend'
so i close my book and put aside my worn pen
for the night
take the tiller
and make haste for open sea
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 3:22 PM UTC
Fly by night,
Or the seat of your pants
Hang on tight,
May I have the next dance?
Take a deep breath,
Or a load off your feet,
Hey pretty mama,
May I sit in this seat?
Snoopy and Sloopy and Sloop John B too
Don’t you know
I think I love you?
All night long,
Nothing else can compare
Mickey Mouse, Elvis, Frankie, Annette
Down on the corner, cool
Cigarette.
All grown up
With no where to go
I left it to ******
But he didn’t know
Wally and Eddie
Were out selling drugs
Popeye and Brutus
Were two vicious thugs.
In the Fifities and Sixties:
It was hard to keep up
“They” fed us the Kool Aid
We drank from the cup.
Kent State and Woodstock
And a man on the moon,
Kaleidoscope childhood,
Ended too soon.
Phil Lindsey 9/16/15
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 11:14 AM UTC
Like a sloop in mid ocean toss
To and fro by a wind boisterous,
Whose fortune is past help and hope, seems he
Among the flotilla of his game--supposedly.
Remember i about two seasons or years
Agone, when it was bruited to my ears
By some analysts and commentators alike,
That the player probably might not strike
Home a Grand Slam at all in his career.
The critics, howbeit, this day wrong were
Proven for his fate changed, when the hand
Of heaven which, as it wills, doth command
The affairs of man, causes at once to cease
The waves, turning a seeming failure to success.
For there in that distant land of America did
That ever presistent and optimistic, avid
For, focusing on a title Andy Murray of Britain,
At last his first Open Tennis Trophy obtain.
No theory new doth his crown prescribe;
Only that a man should likewise subscribe
To those ancient proven principles: believe
In God and thyself, and sincerely give
To every pursuit of life thine very strength and
Power; and whether the occasion be a Grand
Prix or Slam, allow nay no rollicking pundit
Thy faith to cast down. For like a bandit
Are negative words; they do rob the heart
Of its courage and confidence for the most part.
Yea, at 25, the British boy berthed eventually,
Despite the storms, at the harbour of victory.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 10:40 AM UTC
~
from the dock he calls her name,
now beside he grasps her rails,
deftly steps aboard her frame,
to loose her lines of mooring.
leaned o’er, he shares his secret hopes,
ocean breeze her mast is callling;
then wings are spread with hoisted ropes,
the call of ocean’s blue alluring.
he guides her through the shallow drafts,
gliding faster, hull and ballast,
like seabird’s cry on wing, her craft,
his touch responding in devotion.
she heels about now, lunging forward,
together ’cross the waves;
he, the author of this poetry,
keeps rhythm with each changing motion.
they float above the salty spray,
white sails, her wings, a swan of grace;
in fading light, ’cross waterway,
her highway now a full moon bright.
his bearing set for emerald isle,
she tacks to follow compass lines;
together tame the ocean’s wild,
in flight as one to form their rhymes.
from high atop her outstretched form,
he guides her body through the night;
shifting lines to feel the storm,
like bedsheets thrown, arched and open.
then far above this watery bed,
her canvas flows with watercolor,
of sapphire, jade and ruby red;
a sunrise o’er bejeweled ocean.
sailing on,
in stunning sight;
as one they sigh,
in heavenly flight.
~
*post script.
unwinding from the first work week of the new year and a chaotic Friday night commute, these out-of-the-blue, out-from-the-blue lines strike me as i hear strains of Chrstopher Cross crooning his 1980 classic, “Sailing”, from my dear wife's Pandora station, aptly named.
“Well, it's not far
down to paradise,
at least it's not for me.
And if the wind is right
you can sail away,
and find tranquility.
Oh, the canvas can do miracles,
just you wait and see.
Believe me.”
the song takes me back to a simpler time in our marriage, but sailing... this always takes me back, all the way to childhood, and a carefree state of mind. and no wonder... for in my pre-teen years, i and my brothers helped our father build a small, eighteen foot, sailing sloop, crafted after plans he found in a Family Circle magazine. thereafter, childhood summers were spent freshwater sailing at the foot of Fuji, sometimes alone, sometimes together. it is no surprise that today i am most at peace on or beside the water.*
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 12:29 PM UTC
snickersnee
now that is one,
cute, little sounding word.
snickersnee,
snickersnee,
com'ere little,
snickersnee.
here little
snickersnee.
makes a right
fine
cute name.
but look it up,
*yes, of course *
like i had to do,
whadda think,
i know anything?
yeah right!
now let us turn to
SNICKERSNEE.....
i leave the rest of
this inquiry to you....
scrape, scrape
went the sharp blade,
the sound wafting,
through this
fresh, cool,
sweet,
morning air,
where the young
handsome
brave lad
was sharpening
his huge
snickersnees.
\SNIK-er-snee\
noun
1. a knife, especially one used as a weapon.
Quotes
The commander of the sloop was hurrying about and giving a world of orders, which were not very strictly attended to, one man being busy in lighting his pipe, and another in sharpening his snicker-snee.
-- Washington Irving, Bracebridge Hall, 1882
Origin
Snickersnee came to English in the late 1600s from the Dutch steken meaning "to stick" and snijden meaning "to cut."
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 8:35 AM UTC
At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay,
On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of-war;
And at times from the fortress across the bay
The alarum of drums swept past,
Or a bugle blast
From the camp on the shore.
Then far away to the south uprose
A little feather of snow-white smoke,
And we knew that the iron ship of our foes
Was steadily steering its course
To try the force
Of our ribs of oak.
Down upon us heavily runs,
Silent and sullen, the floating fort;
Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns,
And leaps the terrible death,
With fiery breath,
From each open port.
We are not idle, but send her straight
Defiance back in a full broadside!
As hail rebounds from a roof of slate,
Rebounds our heavier hail
From each iron scale
Of the monster’s hide.
“Strike your flag!” the rebel cries,
In his arrogant old plantation strain.
“Never!” our gallant Morris replies;
“It is better to sink than to yield!”
And the whole air pealed
With the cheers of our men.
Then, like a kraken huge and black,
She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp!
Down went the Cumberland all a wrack,
With a sudden shudder of death,
And the cannon’s breath
For her dying gasp.
Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay,
Still floated our flag at the mainmast head.
Lord, how beautiful was Thy day!
Every waft of the air
Was a whisper of prayer,
Or a dirge for the dead.
** brave hearts that went down in the seas
Ye are at peace in the troubled stream;
** brave land! with hearts like these,
Thy flag, that is rent in twain,
Shall be one again,
And without a seam!
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‘Be waiting up at the window,’ said
The note he sent by hand,
‘I’ll come and collect you at midnight,’
Said the note, ‘the way we planned.’
She heard the clatter of hoofbeats in
The courtyard down below,
And waved to him from the window
As she seized her portmanteau.
She quickly skipped down the staircase
Holding both her shoes in hand,
Trying to avoid the clatter as
She raced down to her man,
It only took but a moment then
To seat her on his horse,
And gallop out of the courtyard on
Their way to the watercourse.
A light appeared in an upper room
And they heard her father roar,
‘By God, you’ll pay for your insolence,
I told you once before.’
He’d promised her to a Banker’s clerk
Who had paid him for her hand,
Though she had said that it wouldn’t work,
She had bowed to his command.
But then the couple had plotted,
He was sworn to break her free,
‘If anyone is to marry, it
Will just be you to me.’
They headed down to the water where
The sloop, ‘The Esperance’,
Was waiting for their arrival
Before sailing off to France.
It took an hour to set the sails
And wait for the tide to turn,
They hid themselves below the deck
In a cabin at the stern,
But soon the thunder of hoofbeats said
They must have been found out,
For then they heard her father’s call,
‘It’s best that you come out,’
He ventured slowly out on the deck
To reason with the man,
Then saw the flash of the powder that
Was loaded in the pan,
The ball cut straight through his windpipe,
Left him sprawling on the deck,
While she was dragged from below, and screamed
‘All curses on your neck.’
He locked her into an attic room
And he wouldn’t let her out,
Though she would wail, and would scream at him,
And curse and yell, and shout,
She waited up till the early hours
Then she set her room alight,
The fire spread till they all were dead
From that single candlelight.
It sits as a blackened ruin now
With soot on the standing walls,
A testament to a daughter who
Refused to be overruled,
And still some nights when the moon is bright
There’s a whisper, close at hand,
‘I’ll come and collect you at midnight,
And we’ll leave, the way we planned.’
David Lewis Paget
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 8:38 PM UTC
Inhale to create light
Exhale to pollute
Black lungs
Stained fingers
Mixed with breeze
Smoke and thoughts
Waves and ripples
Leaves they crackle
Higher levitation
Hearts wish
Fate wins
My mind fly
Trees are sloop
Branches raise
Unfolded buds
Wilted flowers
Everyone.
S.O.A.R
Many
Flights
Oct 8, 2011
Oct 8, 2011 at 10:17 PM UTC
Now moored in the dark bays
My ship in the dark days
Sailed light in the wild seas.
The fresh winds that blew in
off the keys
paid no fees nor no duties
those beauties were wild.
We.
In the child that is time
got drunk on cheap whiskey
and drank even more wine.
And sailed on.
We.
were the gone in 'begone with you'
a Devils brew of a troupe
on a sloop with no flag.
Dragging my heels a bit
in a suit of the age
that cannot fit.
It's not cut for this jib
Which is even more of a fib
that is scratched in the journal with ink and with nib.
Here I tie up and stay in the bay of my birth
My final berth and it's fitting
that in this bay where I sit on the sloop
that the loop of my life keeps on playing,
relaying those wild crazy times in 'the Carolines'
or on the 'Main'
Standing, 'man on the wheel'
life is just one big reel
Always one more destination
Just one more salutation
then I go.
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 9:16 AM UTC
turn the swell round both ears
past the field you once left tears
drift the coast round the sloop
hold fast stand the stoop
dream past the sheets
defend the deep
remain the meek
light and sleek
limits left broken
leave past unspoken
live life on the edge
just mind the ledge
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 10:26 PM UTC
My stream of consciousness is in full flow,
Tumbling down the page.
A cascade of words
Bouncing and foaming
Towards unknown seas.
No planning here.
No structure
Or direction.
Just meanderings
And oxbow lakes.
Free verse unfettered
By Draconian Rules
Or dogma.
Odd rhymes thrown in
Perhaps:
Casual confetti.
So what should I type about,
Sitting here in my armchair
In the silence of my lounge?
The sky is full of clouds
A blanket over this
September afternoon.
Perfect conditions
For composing this poem.
Should I put the world to rights?
(How long have you got?)
Or just indulge
In some uplifting visions?
I don’t do emotions very much.
The cork is firmly closed
On those.
Recall my early loves:
All unrequited.
Crushes
That crushed my very soul.
Memories of crying inside,
Unable to eat
Or think of anything except
That longing for love
Which never came.
So no
I don’t do emotions.
And seldom reveal myself
As I just did.
I’d rather let my imagination soar,
My eagle eye -
A soaring cliché –
Taking in the sweep of space
And everything below.
I see trees
And animals,
Mountains, coasts and oceans.
People milling about.
A scream of seagulls soars above the sea.
Waves crash:
A thundering tsunami
Against the brittle cliffs.
I have many voices.
From soft soothing lullabies
To grand orations
Full of pomp and splendour.
Music plays in my head:
A crescendo of orchestras
And songs.
Freddie, Elvis, Bassey
Clapton, Hendrix and Satriani.
Ginger Baker, Phil Collins.
Reciting poetry
Within my brain
Is easy
After Bohemian Rhapsody.
So once more to the beach dear friends
With Brian Wilson
And his crew.
Let Sloop John B be launched
Again
Heading for oceans new.
At last a rhyme
As attention spans begin to
Wane.
Enough for now
My loyal friends.
I’d best bid you
Adieu.
Paul Butters
© PB 4\9\2020. First 3 lines Written 16\8\20 in my big paper diary.
Sep 4, 2020
Sep 4, 2020 at 10:49 AM UTC
Sleepy rain;
fat and slow,
wets the pages
and glues the ages
together in the snow.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 12:21 PM UTC
My son was just a little boy
when he started saving treasure
To him it was each man's duty
to rule by bluster and measure
_______________________________
His heart was set on protection
of this hoard he'd kept in his bag
Filled with pride he was elated
a tough pirate who'd earned his swag
_______________________________
I'd watch as he would sail his sloop
off to some distant hallowed land
To wrest the natives of their loot
leaving their blood upon the sand
________________________________
His first-mate's name had been Jack Tar
from a story that we had read
He neither asked nor gave quarter
to the clansmen who now lay dead
________________________________
The sloop was built of a tree house
that we had hammered for three days
Not a bad deal for a pirate
with livelihood that always pays
________________________________
Many a coward met his end
on the deck of the Black Jack Drake
they begged for mercy every time
but were strung up for the men's sake
________________________________
How wondrous is the child's mind
who dreamed of immortality
He'd leave his mark upon the world
in so doing, he then touched me
________________________________
Little could he have known back then
the paths of dreams that he had paved
Were stored within his father's heart
where they were written down and saved
Tate
Original poem and music
http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/aristate/658027/
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 11:06 PM UTC
I heard about the sloop John B.
When I was fourteen.
I had learned to sail in a storm
And the story gave me daring,
Although I had lost control,
Tightening the sail
Instead of letting it out
In a sudden gale.
And just in time, a boat passed
With a man who shouted,
“Loosen the main sheet!”
As the boat heeled to starboard,
And I nearly capsized.
But discovered a fair wind
And the ease of a beam reach.
So my first time was the worst,
And best…
But adrenaline fueled desire,
To do this again and again!
May 19, 2020
May 19, 2020 at 2:51 PM UTC
I'm afraid to go to sleep.
The monsters under my bed won't subside.
The ghosts in my mirror won't stop moaning.
I'm afraid to go to sleep.
If I go under will I wake up tomorrow?
Will I see the sunrise?
The daemons in my house
They don't go away.
I'm afraid to go to sleep.
I see their shadows stalking me,
I watch their eyes glow.
Will I suffocate in my slumber?
I'm afraid to go to sleep.
I'm afraid I won't wake up.
I'm afraid I won't see you tomorrow.
I'm afraid I'll never speak to you again.
I'm afraid to go to sleep.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC
Trolley cases on the quay, tourists
are part of it when you live here
And Thin John, sitting straight on his bike
every morning three times around the block
in the afternoon on foot the other way around
Mario the Sidewalk Speaker also
is part of it with his dog
Children jumping cannonballs
next to party people in their sloop
Anyone going on vacation
Every two minutes an air-plane
against the wind, low over the houses
Cyclists with their priority face
and the people who live here
The Americans in front of their café
on the corner, where believers sat
when the church with the tower was still there
Red Mia shuffling around
the litter bins, and neighbours
arguing again
They all belong
Here and everywhere the world
is maladjusted, we know
about ourselves and we address
each other: Hello! Good morning
good day here where we are at home
and can only wish that
everything remains different
Jul 5, 2023
Jul 5, 2023 at 4:15 AM UTC
They do not, like their more esteemed Californian cousins,
Sweep into town over sloop-festooned, canvas-checkered waters,
Passing over the remnants of missions
Packed with the ghosts of Christian guilt and romantic swashbucklers;
They labor at their workaday altitude just above the treetops
Still budding in the newness of May,
Pausing to rest on the jagged orange chain-link
Which surrounds the dormant mills,
Or perhaps a sill fronting a boarded window at the old school
Before taking to their summer quarters at the abandoned quarry
A couple of miles up the Klondike Road,
and invariably one of the old-timers will say
*Little birds hain't much too look at,
But at least they come back every year,*
And then not giving the simple brown creatures another thought,
As they find no particular interest in the notion of flight.
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 11:03 AM UTC
We sailed on a sloop with whiskey & jazz;
When a whale called closing time.
She sank to the bottom on a Saturday night,
So we took to the running tide.
Deep in the belly of the ocean,
We did what we could to survive,
Drank sweet water from a swordfish,
As we sang to the blue valentine.
Now everybody’s going to row hard,
Everybody’s going to do what they can,
Everybody’s going to pull real hard,
To get this boat to the Promised Land.
With a little wind and a lonely sky,
Gulls crying for the gypsy’s on the water,
We followed the clouds both day and night,
Till we finally reached the boarders.
Now everybody’s going to row hard,
Everybody’s going to do what they can,
Everybody’s going to pull real hard,
To get this boat to the Promised Land.
To get this boat to the Promised Land.
To get this boat to the Promised Land.
Song at:
https://youtu.be/Y8ERzShVxwY
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 8:17 AM UTC