"steamer" poems - Hello Poetry

"steamer" poems

MS Multiple Scleriosis Aka Miserable Self "Listen to your body" Says MS nurse Your mind keeps going Burning sensations intermittent Stabing and shooting in arms and legs Crawling in your head Numbness in your *** Forget fullness Wobbling stumberling Fear Pregablin ***** Dampening your fuesed nerves Limping dragging "rest" Says MS nurse Mind keeps going Days are half days Taken up by sleep Fear Weakness Dropping Numbness "pace yourself " says MS nurse Mind keeps going job half done Delegate Let go "Use your alternative technology " Says MS nurse Mind keeps going Stick Mixer Steamer Robotic vacuum cleaner Hose Wheelchair Automatic car It's challenging Managing Self Be kinder to yourself Kindness rules

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Nov 12, 2016

Nov 12, 2016 at 6:38 AM UTC

It's challenging managing

MS Multiple Scleriosis Aka Miserable Self "Listen to your body" Says MS nurse Your mind keeps going Burning sensations intermittent Stabing and shooting in arms and legs Crawling in your head Numbness in your *** Forget fullness Wobbling stumberling Fear Pregablin ***** Dampening your fuesed nerves Limping dragging "rest" Says MS nurse Mind keeps going Days are half days Taken up by sleep Fear Weakness Dropping Numbness "pace yourself " says MS nurse Mind keeps going job half done Delegate Let go "Use your alternative technology " Says MS nurse Mind keeps going Stick Mixer Steamer Robotic vacuum cleaner Hose Wheelchair Automatic car It's challenging Managing Self Be kinder to yourself Kindness rules

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A coffee shop afternoon can say it looms significant In the steamer’s sweet humidity And the idle legs pace for more I hear the whispers of world-changers and gossip mix Local color of a quiet little town. Sit humble and lean, a fixture ‘till showtime And ask lines around just we’ve they’ve been And who they’ve seen. There’s a poetry in the patron, come My gaze permits and intervenes Its narrative and scheme, in lover’s hand enweaved. Graphite plays its frustrate part the writer Seated far, far in a blissful nadir Bristles in his pony tail like drawers end to no avail.

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Sep 30, 2014

Sep 30, 2014 at 11:44 PM UTC

Coffee Shop Afternoon

A coffee shop afternoon can say it looms significant In the steamer’s sweet humidity And the idle legs pace for more I hear the whispers of world-changers and gossip mix Local color of a quiet little town. Sit humble and lean, a fixture ‘till showtime And ask lines around just we’ve they’ve been And who they’ve seen. There’s a poetry in the patron, come My gaze permits and intervenes Its narrative and scheme, in lover’s hand enweaved. Graphite plays its frustrate part the writer Seated far, far in a blissful nadir Bristles in his pony tail like drawers end to no avail.

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The stink of fish on earthen streets A hot wind blows from ochre hills Black faces shine with brilliant teeth Street market ***** doth cure all ills. Redness in her plaited hair Rhythm in her steady tread A harmony of balance, she carries Water jars on her head. A market girl is singing As she sits among bananas The drama in her music Is as dusty as the street, It fills the air with magic As it lilts above street chatter In the atmosphere of Africa Where new and ancient meet. The goat boy herds his docile flock Through camel trains and bales The steamer tethered at the dock Announces that she sails With billowed steam and mournful wail It echoes through the town And the planter and his agent Bargain with a harried frown. The bleating of the goat herd And the stench of fish and dung Is as ordinary as Africa In the searing mid day sun. Zanzibar is spices, Zanzibar is Stone. Club Zanzibar is whiskey on the rocks Consumed alone Or shared upon the balcony In the shadow of a palm With the turquoise Indian ocean Reaching out beyond the arm. Do you see the dhows are sailing? Do you see the fishing nets? Do you hear the oarsmen chanting? Did you see black muscle flex? Have you watched the dripping sweat Cascade on alabaster brow? Have you inhaled the scent of Africa And allowed it to allow? Colobus monkeys in the treetops Narrow lanes in the bazaar Dull white walls adorn stone buildings And the rupee is by far The favorite tenure of the Island Since the days when slaves were sold By Arab camel caravaners Who traded coin for young black gold. East and west collide in concert Africa and Asia blend The Sultan's mix of race and spice In Zanzibar, beyond lands end. Marshalg Mangere Bridge 3rd June 2008

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Oct 13, 2009

Oct 13, 2009 at 11:06 PM UTC

The stink of fish on earthen streets A hot wind blows from ochre hills Black faces shine with brilliant teeth Street market ***** doth cure all ills. Redness in her plaited hair Rhythm in her steady tread A harmony of balance, she carries Water jars on her head. A market girl is singing As she sits among bananas The drama in her music Is as dusty as the street, It fills the air with magic As it lilts above street chatter In the atmosphere of Africa Where new and ancient meet. The goat boy herds his docile flock Through camel trains and bales The steamer tethered at the dock Announces that she sails With billowed steam and mournful wail It echoes through the town And the planter and his agent Bargain with a harried frown. The bleating of the goat herd And the stench of fish and dung Is as ordinary as Africa In the searing mid day sun. Zanzibar is spices, Zanzibar is Stone. Club Zanzibar is whiskey on the rocks Consumed alone Or shared upon the balcony In the shadow of a palm With the turquoise Indian ocean Reaching out beyond the arm. Do you see the dhows are sailing? Do you see the fishing nets? Do you hear the oarsmen chanting? Did you see black muscle flex? Have you watched the dripping sweat Cascade on alabaster brow? Have you inhaled the scent of Africa And allowed it to allow? Colobus monkeys in the treetops Narrow lanes in the bazaar Dull white walls adorn stone buildings And the rupee is by far The favorite tenure of the Island Since the days when slaves were sold By Arab camel caravaners Who traded coin for young black gold. East and west collide in concert Africa and Asia blend The Sultan's mix of race and spice In Zanzibar, beyond lands end. Marshalg Mangere Bridge 3rd June 2008

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Carrickfergus (1937) - poem by Louis Macneice. I was born in Belfast between the mountain and the gantries To the hooting of lost sirens and the clang of trams; Thence to Smoky Carrick in County Antrim Where the bottle-neck harbour collects the mud which jams The little boats beneath the Norman castle, The pier shining with lumps of crystal salt; The Scotch quarter was a line of residential houses But the Irish quarter was a slum for the blind and halt. The brook ran yellow from the factory stinking of chlorine, The yarn mill called it's funeral cry at noon; Our lights looked over the lough to the lights of Bangor Under the peacock aura of a drowning moon. The Norman walled this town against the country To stop his ears to the yelping of his slave And built a church in the form of a cross but denoting The list of Christ on the cross in the angle of the nave. I was the rectors son, born to the Anglican order, Banned for ever from the candles of the Irish poor; The Chichesters knelt in marble at the end of a transept With ruffs about their necks, their portion sure. The war came and a huge camp of soldiers Grew from the ground in sight of our house with long Dummies hanging from gibbets for bayonet practice And the sentry's challenge echoing all day long; A Yorkshire terrier ran in and out by the gate-lodge Barred to civilians, yapping as if taking affront; Marching at ease and singing 'Who Killed **** Robin?' The troops went out by the lodge and off to the Front. The steamer was camouflaged that took me to England- Sweat and khaki in the Carlisle train; I thought that the war would last for ever and sugar be always rationed and that never again Would the weekly papers not have photos of sandbags And my governess not make bandages from moss And people not have maps above the fireplace With flags on pins moving across and across- Across the hawthorn hedge the noise of bugles, Flares across the night, Somewhere on the lough was a prison ship for Germans, A cage across their sight. I went to school in Dorset, the world of parents Contracted into a puppet world of sons Far from the mill girls, the smell of porter, the salt-mines And the soldiers with their guns. Louis Macneice

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Jun 17, 2016

Jun 17, 2016 at 8:54 AM UTC

Louis MacNeice (1907-1963)

Carrickfergus (1937) - poem by Louis Macneice. I was born in Belfast between the mountain and the gantries To the hooting of lost sirens and the clang of trams; Thence to Smoky Carrick in County Antrim Where the bottle-neck harbour collects the mud which jams The little boats beneath the Norman castle, The pier shining with lumps of crystal salt; The Scotch quarter was a line of residential houses But the Irish quarter was a slum for the blind and halt. The brook ran yellow from the factory stinking of chlorine, The yarn mill called it's funeral cry at noon; Our lights looked over the lough to the lights of Bangor Under the peacock aura of a drowning moon. The Norman walled this town against the country To stop his ears to the yelping of his slave And built a church in the form of a cross but denoting The list of Christ on the cross in the angle of the nave. I was the rectors son, born to the Anglican order, Banned for ever from the candles of the Irish poor; The Chichesters knelt in marble at the end of a transept With ruffs about their necks, their portion sure. The war came and a huge camp of soldiers Grew from the ground in sight of our house with long Dummies hanging from gibbets for bayonet practice And the sentry's challenge echoing all day long; A Yorkshire terrier ran in and out by the gate-lodge Barred to civilians, yapping as if taking affront; Marching at ease and singing 'Who Killed **** Robin?' The troops went out by the lodge and off to the Front. The steamer was camouflaged that took me to England- Sweat and khaki in the Carlisle train; I thought that the war would last for ever and sugar be always rationed and that never again Would the weekly papers not have photos of sandbags And my governess not make bandages from moss And people not have maps above the fireplace With flags on pins moving across and across- Across the hawthorn hedge the noise of bugles, Flares across the night, Somewhere on the lough was a prison ship for Germans, A cage across their sight. I went to school in Dorset, the world of parents Contracted into a puppet world of sons Far from the mill girls, the smell of porter, the salt-mines And the soldiers with their guns. Louis Macneice

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Mummy what's for breakfast? My tummy starts to ramble Can you hear? Hurry mom!! Soon I will have gas.. and gas is trouble... trouble... Oh my poor child... Come in the kitchen.. Pass me the Gardenia bread... all i need is 8 slices of bread a cup of low fat milk one fresh egg 3 tablespoonful of brown sugar and a pinch of salt.. Walla here's the mixer, mix it well my child.. Now help me put the slices in a tin A dash of cinnamon, in every slices and here we are raisins on the top... Help mummy with steamer now dear everything is set.... In less than 20 minutes.. We will get your tummy settled.... Breakkfast! Rise and Shine!!!!

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May 17, 2013

May 17, 2013 at 7:33 PM UTC

Bread Pudding with Love

Mummy what's for breakfast? My tummy starts to ramble Can you hear? Hurry mom!! Soon I will have gas.. and gas is trouble... trouble... Oh my poor child... Come in the kitchen.. Pass me the Gardenia bread... all i need is 8 slices of bread a cup of low fat milk one fresh egg 3 tablespoonful of brown sugar and a pinch of salt.. Walla here's the mixer, mix it well my child.. Now help me put the slices in a tin A dash of cinnamon, in every slices and here we are raisins on the top... Help mummy with steamer now dear everything is set.... In less than 20 minutes.. We will get your tummy settled.... Breakkfast! Rise and Shine!!!!

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*England 1942 The war was endless she thought it would be over in six weeks when it was declared. now three years later she found herself in this airfield crowded with young fighter pilots flying Spitfires and the bomber crews flying the stalwart Lancaster bombers. She was twenty eight now getting to that age of being called a spinster of the parish. The young airmen were interested in her but really only for one thing. She worked in the photography department of the RAF and developed pictures taken by the recon airmen of France and Germany and Holland . Recently an American had joined her in the darkroom. He was a big man and had a crooked smile and big hands he lay on the belly of the bomber plane taking pictures he laughed and said he never fired a gun in his life. And that he had no beef with Germans he just fired his camera at them. He liked to develop his own pictures and they worked alongside each other in the darkroom all though the war. She got used to his crooked smile and big hands. He got used to her being there. The war finally ended and he went back to the States. Where he opened a small photography store and built a darkroom with his own hands. When it was finished he returned to England on a ***** steamer to save money. He knocked on the ladies door that had worked with him in the darkroom. She answered and he asked her for her hand in marraige. She accepted his proposal and they sailed back to new York. When she explored the photography shop she found the darkroom. On it was pinned a note in his nice neat handwriting. It said I fell in love with you in the dark my love. But I want you spend the rest of of your life following the light with me. She was to be my grandma and he was my grandfather. My father was born a year later he had a crooked smile and big hands with a love of photography. His specaility light and shadow. I was born much later and did not share the family love of photography and was let off by God with only a crooked smile no big hands. Instead I used to get into trouble at school for writing poems in the margins of my exercise books. Grandma passed away a little while ago i was given the task of clearing her personal items from the house. In her memory box I found the note in Grandfathers hand that he pinned on the door of his darkroom so long ago. It moved me to write this story. So Go follow the light Grandma Look for a big man with a crooked smile and big hands Hes waiting for you.*

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Jul 2, 2016

Jul 2, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC

The Lady In The Darkroom---- --a love story

*England 1942 The war was endless she thought it would be over in six weeks when it was declared. now three years later she found herself in this airfield crowded with young fighter pilots flying Spitfires and the bomber crews flying the stalwart Lancaster bombers. She was twenty eight now getting to that age of being called a spinster of the parish. The young airmen were interested in her but really only for one thing. She worked in the photography department of the RAF and developed pictures taken by the recon airmen of France and Germany and Holland . Recently an American had joined her in the darkroom. He was a big man and had a crooked smile and big hands he lay on the belly of the bomber plane taking pictures he laughed and said he never fired a gun in his life. And that he had no beef with Germans he just fired his camera at them. He liked to develop his own pictures and they worked alongside each other in the darkroom all though the war. She got used to his crooked smile and big hands. He got used to her being there. The war finally ended and he went back to the States. Where he opened a small photography store and built a darkroom with his own hands. When it was finished he returned to England on a ***** steamer to save money. He knocked on the ladies door that had worked with him in the darkroom. She answered and he asked her for her hand in marraige. She accepted his proposal and they sailed back to new York. When she explored the photography shop she found the darkroom. On it was pinned a note in his nice neat handwriting. It said I fell in love with you in the dark my love. But I want you spend the rest of of your life following the light with me. She was to be my grandma and he was my grandfather. My father was born a year later he had a crooked smile and big hands with a love of photography. His specaility light and shadow. I was born much later and did not share the family love of photography and was let off by God with only a crooked smile no big hands. Instead I used to get into trouble at school for writing poems in the margins of my exercise books. Grandma passed away a little while ago i was given the task of clearing her personal items from the house. In her memory box I found the note in Grandfathers hand that he pinned on the door of his darkroom so long ago. It moved me to write this story. So Go follow the light Grandma Look for a big man with a crooked smile and big hands Hes waiting for you.*

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He gave me a ring With its facets glazed and cracked Insisting it was once his great-grandmother's She who In rot-edged vintage photos Wore a mink stole and flapper beads. _________________________________________ She pulls at seams Takes up and brings down hems, The stole pushed to the back Of a web festooned attic In a steamer trunk slapped with decals: Moscow Austria Monte Carlo Rio de Janeiro. On cold days she wears it again Dancing to old melodies on rough boards And when she hears the front door slam It's made to disappear in haste, Her engagement ring clacking Against the trunks flip locks. That night as she makes biscuits For her breadwinner she sees The crack, the chip Through a glaze of milked flour.

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Apr 18, 2013

Apr 18, 2013 at 3:51 PM UTC

jessica-thompson

He gave me a ring With its facets glazed and cracked Insisting it was once his great-grandmother's She who In rot-edged vintage photos Wore a mink stole and flapper beads. _________________________________________ She pulls at seams Takes up and brings down hems, The stole pushed to the back Of a web festooned attic In a steamer trunk slapped with decals: Moscow Austria Monte Carlo Rio de Janeiro. On cold days she wears it again Dancing to old melodies on rough boards And when she hears the front door slam It's made to disappear in haste, Her engagement ring clacking Against the trunks flip locks. That night as she makes biscuits For her breadwinner she sees The crack, the chip Through a glaze of milked flour.

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man bench sun Facts are not a life. Details. old man park bench hot sun Better, but not enough. An old man on a green park bench baking in the hot sun. Closer, but not the truth. An old man, still boyish, sitting on a green park bench baking in the hot sun remembering that strange young girl wearing a paisley scarf, red and blue silk, standing like Venus poised above blue Aegean water on the deck of a white steamer, her black hair flowing, four decades past. Closer still, yet missing... An old man, still boyish, sitting on a green park bench baking in the hot sun remembering that strange young girl wearing a paisley scarf, red and blue silk, standing like Venus poised above blue Aegean water on the deck of a white steamer, her black hair flowing, four decades past. He smiles, considering her hot breath, her long sighs, her silken thighs: she lives again. The poem at the confluence of memory and imagination engenders the stories which render meaning. Stories about stories; all we can know of life, yet enough. -mce

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Apr 4, 2015

Apr 4, 2015 at 5:47 PM UTC

A Potential Solution To The Fallacy Contained In Time, Memory And Reality

man bench sun Facts are not a life. Details. old man park bench hot sun Better, but not enough. An old man on a green park bench baking in the hot sun. Closer, but not the truth. An old man, still boyish, sitting on a green park bench baking in the hot sun remembering that strange young girl wearing a paisley scarf, red and blue silk, standing like Venus poised above blue Aegean water on the deck of a white steamer, her black hair flowing, four decades past. Closer still, yet missing... An old man, still boyish, sitting on a green park bench baking in the hot sun remembering that strange young girl wearing a paisley scarf, red and blue silk, standing like Venus poised above blue Aegean water on the deck of a white steamer, her black hair flowing, four decades past. He smiles, considering her hot breath, her long sighs, her silken thighs: she lives again. The poem at the confluence of memory and imagination engenders the stories which render meaning. Stories about stories; all we can know of life, yet enough. -mce

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July Twenty Fourth, Nineteen Fifteen The river was murky, The weather was seen The steamer Eastland, firm on her bow, loaded with coal, port side and sound A captain, that's ***** and stout in his manner stands on his bridge with an arrogant cantor Mooring lines set, stern to the bow Gangplanks are steady, awaiting a crowd Employees of Western dressed to their nines, a picnic awaits, everything's fine Families with smiles and tickets in hand looks up in wonder, the Eastland she stands Boarding commences and loaded up full Twenty Five Hundred, no more to call Port side list, a lean to the river Ballast is leveled, some felt the shiver Worries amount to settling fears, a starboard list and beckoning tears Back to the port, no coming back tipped on her side, everything's black Panic in fever, screams are abound echoes in motion, no silence no sound The river's chaotic with bodies afloat Kenosha stands ready and rescues the most Eight forty four lost their lives In the armory they lay and Chicago cries The Eastland still rests in our hearts and our mind Not a second or hour can turn back the time

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Jul 25, 2015

Jul 25, 2015 at 12:08 PM UTC

Eastland Disaster

July Twenty Fourth, Nineteen Fifteen The river was murky, The weather was seen The steamer Eastland, firm on her bow, loaded with coal, port side and sound A captain, that's ***** and stout in his manner stands on his bridge with an arrogant cantor Mooring lines set, stern to the bow Gangplanks are steady, awaiting a crowd Employees of Western dressed to their nines, a picnic awaits, everything's fine Families with smiles and tickets in hand looks up in wonder, the Eastland she stands Boarding commences and loaded up full Twenty Five Hundred, no more to call Port side list, a lean to the river Ballast is leveled, some felt the shiver Worries amount to settling fears, a starboard list and beckoning tears Back to the port, no coming back tipped on her side, everything's black Panic in fever, screams are abound echoes in motion, no silence no sound The river's chaotic with bodies afloat Kenosha stands ready and rescues the most Eight forty four lost their lives In the armory they lay and Chicago cries The Eastland still rests in our hearts and our mind Not a second or hour can turn back the time

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Worry not for where the steamer heads it simply helps us run away But before you close this door for good please listen to what I say I'd never keep you from your loved ones only your pride could e'er do that and just because we sail away doesn't mean we won't sail back Why content yourself with hearsay and yet insist I give you proof The love you feel for me is real but for him much more aloof I can't promise you a lifetime any more than any man but what we have is here right now with him its just a sham You ask of me some guarantee and then provide your own That to live with one you do not love would be worse than if alone My love is not a lie my love and never could it be it's simply a dream thats unfulfilled a dream of you and me But if you choose to go to Sussex please do not take me there For these memories will haunt you and lead you to despair. Instead cast memories aside both of me and of this week I will think of you in Sussex each time your name I speak For though my this dream may not come true I'll not deny it came to pass For I will see its memory in every looking glass I'll not say another word my love the decision must be yours We both know that truth and happiness starts through the cabin doors

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Jul 18, 2010

Jul 18, 2010 at 3:25 PM UTC

a-thomas-hawkins

Monochrome epologue

Worry not for where the steamer heads it simply helps us run away But before you close this door for good please listen to what I say I'd never keep you from your loved ones only your pride could e'er do that and just because we sail away doesn't mean we won't sail back Why content yourself with hearsay and yet insist I give you proof The love you feel for me is real but for him much more aloof I can't promise you a lifetime any more than any man but what we have is here right now with him its just a sham You ask of me some guarantee and then provide your own That to live with one you do not love would be worse than if alone My love is not a lie my love and never could it be it's simply a dream thats unfulfilled a dream of you and me But if you choose to go to Sussex please do not take me there For these memories will haunt you and lead you to despair. Instead cast memories aside both of me and of this week I will think of you in Sussex each time your name I speak For though my this dream may not come true I'll not deny it came to pass For I will see its memory in every looking glass I'll not say another word my love the decision must be yours We both know that truth and happiness starts through the cabin doors

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The Voyage The big seagull sat on the bow of my rowing boat on my way to Argentina and Rosita, which I never met she had married guitar player- had unfriendly eyes ready to peck my eyes out. I regretted my heroism. I wanted to go to Argentina because of its pampas Beautiful horses and also to be famous for the voyage I was picked up by a merchant ship it was actually going the wrong way docked in Antwerp Free beer for the, would be the hero. I got a job on an old steamer bound for Argentina. Buenos Aires, A City with so many beautiful women it took a long before I got my stead looking for the tree of wisdom. I found it burning in the night the Gauchos were feeling cold and set fire to the tree. What matters is the journey which is a fine sentence to cover for absolute failure.

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Apr 8, 2017

Apr 8, 2017 at 5:29 AM UTC

jan-oskar-hansen

voyage to Argentina

The Voyage The big seagull sat on the bow of my rowing boat on my way to Argentina and Rosita, which I never met she had married guitar player- had unfriendly eyes ready to peck my eyes out. I regretted my heroism. I wanted to go to Argentina because of its pampas Beautiful horses and also to be famous for the voyage I was picked up by a merchant ship it was actually going the wrong way docked in Antwerp Free beer for the, would be the hero. I got a job on an old steamer bound for Argentina. Buenos Aires, A City with so many beautiful women it took a long before I got my stead looking for the tree of wisdom. I found it burning in the night the Gauchos were feeling cold and set fire to the tree. What matters is the journey which is a fine sentence to cover for absolute failure.

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My books are piled in the Hallway, The Girlfriend wants me out, She can keep all the household cargo the insecurities and doubt. I don't care much for chrome Toasters Just give me my Damon Runyon, Brendan Behan, James Joyce, Ernest Hemmingway, Jack Kerouac and Jack London. Albert Camus, Seamus Heaney, Patrick Kavanagh Mayakovsky and Roger McGough, the Steamer, bread -maker, Asparagus- spearer Are all yours, I'm ******* off. Just give me a dozen or so boxes, Not those ***** looks, Your welcome to the giant fridge-freezer, All I want, are my books

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Jan 24, 2016

Jan 24, 2016 at 3:52 PM UTC

My books are piled in the Hallway, The Girlfriend wants me out, She can keep all the household cargo the insecurities and doubt. I don't care much for chrome Toasters Just give me my Damon Runyon, Brendan Behan, James Joyce, Ernest Hemmingway, Jack Kerouac and Jack London. Albert Camus, Seamus Heaney, Patrick Kavanagh Mayakovsky and Roger McGough, the Steamer, bread -maker, Asparagus- spearer Are all yours, I'm ******* off. Just give me a dozen or so boxes, Not those ***** looks, Your welcome to the giant fridge-freezer, All I want, are my books

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After leaving port in March disguised as the Norwegian freighter Rena Norge, the Leopard set sail its mission to disrupt Allied commerce. On the 17 March it was stopped in the North Sea by the cruiser HMS Achilles and ordered to proceed to the boarding vessel HMS Dundee for inspection Heavily outgunned Captain the raider's commander Hans von Laffert had no option other to proceed to meet the boarding vessel. Captain Selwyn Day of the Dundee dispatched a launch containing a boarding party with an officer and five men to investigate the mysterious ship. Hans von Laffert realizing he was about to be discovered detained the party and after about an hour opened fire on the Dundee with a salvo of two torpedoes. The steamer manoeuvred out of the way barely in time and the torpedoes missed Captain Day's ship by twenty feet. Day ordered his guncrews to open fire and a hail of shells struck the Leopard damaging a gun and setting fires. The Achilles hearing the sound of gunfire returned to the scene and opened fire on the raider as the Dundee withdrew. Shortly after the Achilles's arrival the Leopard sank with all 319 hands going down with the ship. Damage to the British vessels was light and the only casualties consisted of the six boarding party members who were trapped in the Leopard when it sank.

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Oct 3, 2013

Oct 3, 2013 at 8:26 PM UTC

WIKIPEDIA POETRY

After leaving port in March disguised as the Norwegian freighter Rena Norge, the Leopard set sail its mission to disrupt Allied commerce. On the 17 March it was stopped in the North Sea by the cruiser HMS Achilles and ordered to proceed to the boarding vessel HMS Dundee for inspection Heavily outgunned Captain the raider's commander Hans von Laffert had no option other to proceed to meet the boarding vessel. Captain Selwyn Day of the Dundee dispatched a launch containing a boarding party with an officer and five men to investigate the mysterious ship. Hans von Laffert realizing he was about to be discovered detained the party and after about an hour opened fire on the Dundee with a salvo of two torpedoes. The steamer manoeuvred out of the way barely in time and the torpedoes missed Captain Day's ship by twenty feet. Day ordered his guncrews to open fire and a hail of shells struck the Leopard damaging a gun and setting fires. The Achilles hearing the sound of gunfire returned to the scene and opened fire on the raider as the Dundee withdrew. Shortly after the Achilles's arrival the Leopard sank with all 319 hands going down with the ship. Damage to the British vessels was light and the only casualties consisted of the six boarding party members who were trapped in the Leopard when it sank.

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The height of summer days become the hot embracing during passionate love making it's hard to breathe torso behaves like pancake tossing and turning on the mattress body is a fire spitting dragon roasting every corner of the bed or the grill if you will mosquitoes are lions on the savanna lying in wait by the river so many spots to start cravings dragged toward the abyss to drink in the sweetened coolness birds in the tree screaming from the heat leaves curled up and blinded in fear the earth is a fresh bun in the steamer flowers faint left and right amidst smell of charring the sun laughs loudly sending chills down some spines when i see a lake i wanna dive in i don't care about the gossip or the hazard at the deepest I'm a cheater that's been cheating beyond the worldly paradigm tears of rain are swirling in the sky the winds hide on the other side everyone in torment expecting plenty of sweating and swearing all kinds of fans waving and spinning.

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Jun 1, 2023

Jun 1, 2023 at 7:24 AM UTC

The height of summer days become the hot embracing during passionate love making it's hard to breathe torso behaves like pancake tossing and turning on the mattress body is a fire spitting dragon roasting every corner of the bed or the grill if you will mosquitoes are lions on the savanna lying in wait by the river so many spots to start cravings dragged toward the abyss to drink in the sweetened coolness birds in the tree screaming from the heat leaves curled up and blinded in fear the earth is a fresh bun in the steamer flowers faint left and right amidst smell of charring the sun laughs loudly sending chills down some spines when i see a lake i wanna dive in i don't care about the gossip or the hazard at the deepest I'm a cheater that's been cheating beyond the worldly paradigm tears of rain are swirling in the sky the winds hide on the other side everyone in torment expecting plenty of sweating and swearing all kinds of fans waving and spinning.

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Legs crossed, propped up on a chair, Being careful to cross them since I'm wearing a skirt, Sipping a white chocolate raspberry steamer, I run my fingers through my hair, At once relaxed and sleepily alert, I hear a man ask the barista for more creamer. Two new books, two whole worlds, sit beside me, My pretty new bag sits there too. My cellphone awaits some call I probably won't take, For I am at peace in the moment, you see, And nothing will interrupt my view, For everything, everything, is at stake. I feel the slight pressure Around my finger, I sense the sparkle before it hits my eyes. I look up from my new jewelry To the man who put them on me, And suddenly I'm surprised. I had wondered where He would lead me, I didn't think he would bring me anywhere, And now, in the local shop for coffee and tea, I find I'll follow him everywhere.

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Aug 31, 2013

Aug 31, 2013 at 8:39 PM UTC

White Chocolate Raspberry Steamer

Legs crossed, propped up on a chair, Being careful to cross them since I'm wearing a skirt, Sipping a white chocolate raspberry steamer, I run my fingers through my hair, At once relaxed and sleepily alert, I hear a man ask the barista for more creamer. Two new books, two whole worlds, sit beside me, My pretty new bag sits there too. My cellphone awaits some call I probably won't take, For I am at peace in the moment, you see, And nothing will interrupt my view, For everything, everything, is at stake. I feel the slight pressure Around my finger, I sense the sparkle before it hits my eyes. I look up from my new jewelry To the man who put them on me, And suddenly I'm surprised. I had wondered where He would lead me, I didn't think he would bring me anywhere, And now, in the local shop for coffee and tea, I find I'll follow him everywhere.

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Everyone has baggage A suitcase from the past It's how we choose to deal with it That decides if it will last Me - I have a steamer trunk Bursting at the seams Full of bits & pieces Broken hearts & shattered dreams Stuffed full of self objection Self criticism & blame Cloaked in dust & cobwebs You can barely see my name But now I shall unpack it From the attic of my mind Pull it out into the light From the place it's been consigned The lock is old and rusted Battered from the sea From the ashes of emotions But I have a brand new key And so I delve into its depths Retrieving from the embers Fragments of my past - that It hurts me to remember Old books, cassettes & letters Hankies soaked with tears The crumbs of old injustice The mammoth bones of fear I lay them out around me And soak up all the pain Seeing them with new eyes Before I shut the lid again Lurking in the darkness Hidden underneath the rope That I put there once to end it Is a polished gem of hope I grab it with both hands Clasp it tight against my breast This tiny piece of energy Undetected in the chest I shall put it in my pocket And stroke it when I'm down When my world closes in on me It will soothe away my frown Because now I own my baggage It's no longer in the past I have hope, self love & guidance And this is set to last Be un afraid my friends Of those suitcases of old That weigh you down, drag you along Sheathed in grime & mould Unpack them & rejoice my friends Find the hope submerged inside And love yourselves, like others do And do it - with a sense of pride (C) Pixievic 2016

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Jan 18, 2016

Jan 18, 2016 at 3:13 AM UTC

Everyone has baggage A suitcase from the past It's how we choose to deal with it That decides if it will last Me - I have a steamer trunk Bursting at the seams Full of bits & pieces Broken hearts & shattered dreams Stuffed full of self objection Self criticism & blame Cloaked in dust & cobwebs You can barely see my name But now I shall unpack it From the attic of my mind Pull it out into the light From the place it's been consigned The lock is old and rusted Battered from the sea From the ashes of emotions But I have a brand new key And so I delve into its depths Retrieving from the embers Fragments of my past - that It hurts me to remember Old books, cassettes & letters Hankies soaked with tears The crumbs of old injustice The mammoth bones of fear I lay them out around me And soak up all the pain Seeing them with new eyes Before I shut the lid again Lurking in the darkness Hidden underneath the rope That I put there once to end it Is a polished gem of hope I grab it with both hands Clasp it tight against my breast This tiny piece of energy Undetected in the chest I shall put it in my pocket And stroke it when I'm down When my world closes in on me It will soothe away my frown Because now I own my baggage It's no longer in the past I have hope, self love & guidance And this is set to last Be un afraid my friends Of those suitcases of old That weigh you down, drag you along Sheathed in grime & mould Unpack them & rejoice my friends Find the hope submerged inside And love yourselves, like others do And do it - with a sense of pride (C) Pixievic 2016

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Where's the steamer headed, love, To a land I do not know? Will the faces of my loved ones be there, I'm not sure that I should go. You see this man in Sussex, Is a good man so I'm told, And I believe he'll take care of me, When I grow gray and old. And true I do not feel the same, About him as I do you, If I step into that harbor, love, I'll lose the life I knew. Do you think that what we feel, Might fade ...as passion can, you know. Or will our love last a lifetime, Can you guarantee me it will grow? You see, I'm not the type of girl, Who gives into affairs of the heart. I can not board your steamer, love, To Sussex...I'll carry your heart. I know once you have heard this, Your love will seem a lie. And it hurts me very deeply, love, But I must say goodbye.

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Jul 18, 2010

Jul 18, 2010 at 2:37 PM UTC

deanena-tierney

There Is Only Black and White

Where's the steamer headed, love, To a land I do not know? Will the faces of my loved ones be there, I'm not sure that I should go. You see this man in Sussex, Is a good man so I'm told, And I believe he'll take care of me, When I grow gray and old. And true I do not feel the same, About him as I do you, If I step into that harbor, love, I'll lose the life I knew. Do you think that what we feel, Might fade ...as passion can, you know. Or will our love last a lifetime, Can you guarantee me it will grow? You see, I'm not the type of girl, Who gives into affairs of the heart. I can not board your steamer, love, To Sussex...I'll carry your heart. I know once you have heard this, Your love will seem a lie. And it hurts me very deeply, love, But I must say goodbye.

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Le matin - En dormant. J'entends des voix. Lueurs à travers ma paupière. Une cloche est en branle à l'église Saint-Pierre. Cris des baigneurs. Plus près ! plus **** ! non, par ici ! Non, par là ! Les oiseaux gazouillent, Jeanne aussi. Georges l'appelle. Chant des coqs. Une truelle Racle un toit. Des chevaux passent dans la ruelle. Grincement d'une faux qui coupe le gazon. Chocs. Rumeurs. Des couvreurs marchent sur la maison. Bruits du port. Sifflement des machines chauffées. Musique militaire arrivant par bouffées. Brouhaha sur le quai. Voix françaises. Merci. Bonjour. Adieu. Sans doute il est **** car voici Que vient tout près de moi chanter mon rouge-gorge. Vacarme de marteaux lointains dans une forge. L'eau clapote. On entend haleter un steamer. Une mouche entre. Souffle immense de la mer.

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1.3k

Fenêtres ouvertes

Le matin - En dormant. J'entends des voix. Lueurs à travers ma paupière. Une cloche est en branle à l'église Saint-Pierre. Cris des baigneurs. Plus près ! plus **** ! non, par ici ! Non, par là ! Les oiseaux gazouillent, Jeanne aussi. Georges l'appelle. Chant des coqs. Une truelle Racle un toit. Des chevaux passent dans la ruelle. Grincement d'une faux qui coupe le gazon. Chocs. Rumeurs. Des couvreurs marchent sur la maison. Bruits du port. Sifflement des machines chauffées. Musique militaire arrivant par bouffées. Brouhaha sur le quai. Voix françaises. Merci. Bonjour. Adieu. Sans doute il est **** car voici Que vient tout près de moi chanter mon rouge-gorge. Vacarme de marteaux lointains dans une forge. L'eau clapote. On entend haleter un steamer. Une mouche entre. Souffle immense de la mer.

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looking across time from my etheric perch or was it a pike as I sat on my flounder… as I was perched on a flounder… perched on a pike I floundered pike perch flounder flounder perch pike pike flounder perch mike’s rounder peach like sounder greetings tricycle ground feet triglycerides around meat polymorphic lounge **** people forget poetry is expression silliness for its own sake nonsensical whimsy for laze-abouts and lollygaggers with unicorns and dragons nothing is more magical than language –

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Nov 4, 2015

Nov 4, 2015 at 1:02 PM UTC

a steamer, perhaps from Cleveland (garbage)

looking across time from my etheric perch or was it a pike as I sat on my flounder… as I was perched on a flounder… perched on a pike I floundered pike perch flounder flounder perch pike pike flounder perch mike’s rounder peach like sounder greetings tricycle ground feet triglycerides around meat polymorphic lounge **** people forget poetry is expression silliness for its own sake nonsensical whimsy for laze-abouts and lollygaggers with unicorns and dragons nothing is more magical than language –

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im a jumper im a thumper im a bear im a pear im a hopper im a stomper im a eater im a steamer but i am not a screamer im not a cryer nor a laugher not a surgeon not a garbage man but i am me and thats all that matters me

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Dec 4, 2010

Dec 4, 2010 at 10:09 PM UTC

im a jumper im a thumper im a bear im a pear im a hopper im a stomper im a eater im a steamer but i am not a screamer im not a cryer nor a laugher not a surgeon not a garbage man but i am me and thats all that matters me

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why can’t I howl like you? like the wild dogs un-muzzled in the karmic night? why can’t I have honesty, like well earned sweat, ooze from every pore like you, Bukowski? why can’t I enter the river against the flow, like the steamer which juggernauted you, Joseph into the black jungle, where scarlet pulses of your dark heart spoke the language of the sword, but words cut more savagely than the sharpened steel? words, so viciously true they had to be silenced by the light of day before they could blind others like I, who would slash and burn you for seeing, and speaking the horror of truth

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Jun 18, 2013

Jun 18, 2013 at 3:08 AM UTC

Allen Ginsberg is dead

why can’t I howl like you? like the wild dogs un-muzzled in the karmic night? why can’t I have honesty, like well earned sweat, ooze from every pore like you, Bukowski? why can’t I enter the river against the flow, like the steamer which juggernauted you, Joseph into the black jungle, where scarlet pulses of your dark heart spoke the language of the sword, but words cut more savagely than the sharpened steel? words, so viciously true they had to be silenced by the light of day before they could blind others like I, who would slash and burn you for seeing, and speaking the horror of truth

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Oh my sweet, sweet gentleman, Who has taught me how to love. I decided I will run away with you, And share the stars above. I thought so very long and hard, Of the decision I should make. And realized if I went to Sussex, It would be a huge mistake. So I waited until after dusk, And packed a few small things. And then I planned that I would leave, When I heard the church bell rings. And when they did I tiptoed, Down the corridor and to the street. Where there stood my trusted friend, Who had arranged with me to meet. We traveled East to the harbor, The steamer was not hard to miss. And anxiously I hurried along, To greet you with a kiss. Conspicuously I wandered about, Until I found cabin two- eleven. And then I pushed the door open a bit, To steal a sight of heaven. Instead I saw you lying there, With a maiden much less fair, I sauntered up, spit in your face, And left your sorry *** there!

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Jul 18, 2010

Jul 18, 2010 at 6:34 PM UTC

deanena-tierney

Oh my sweet, sweet gentleman, Who has taught me how to love. I decided I will run away with you, And share the stars above. I thought so very long and hard, Of the decision I should make. And realized if I went to Sussex, It would be a huge mistake. So I waited until after dusk, And packed a few small things. And then I planned that I would leave, When I heard the church bell rings. And when they did I tiptoed, Down the corridor and to the street. Where there stood my trusted friend, Who had arranged with me to meet. We traveled East to the harbor, The steamer was not hard to miss. And anxiously I hurried along, To greet you with a kiss. Conspicuously I wandered about, Until I found cabin two- eleven. And then I pushed the door open a bit, To steal a sight of heaven. Instead I saw you lying there, With a maiden much less fair, I sauntered up, spit in your face, And left your sorry *** there!

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I have had it all wrong, I wonder if my grandfather thought that, when on a steamer he arrived a dreamer of moving west from Montreal single trying to find a life, better, opened and tasted peanut butter, and never did ever eat that again, I have had it wrong, all of it He kept dreaming and trying, took the train to the northern Alberta, saw his dreams take shape as he built homes for other dreamers, he met his wife, but that is a poem for another story, he was a pacifist, he did not support, killing another, but he sure had a temper, for a peaceful man, he decided to retire, and that let him get old, I admired him for what he stood for and sit at a desk he built with my dad. I still have had it all wrong. The desk is nothing special other than the hands and knowledge that built it and something a father and a son did together, one of the last things of each other, that would be remembered, they worked well with their hands. Both men were dreamers. My dad had his dreams, he mostly kept to himself, but you just knew that they were to do with things outside of the house. Oh don't misunderstand, he loved working with wood, he knew firearms, he recieved a Medal for Military Merit, for dedication above and beyond what a militiaman was to do, he wasn't a pacifist, in many ways he was different from his dad and so many more he was exactly the same. Shame, I have had it all wrong. I was not an A student, but Gee, I tried hard, my potential was palpable we just needed to resuscitate it from time to time, I joined the CAF, married and had three who have amazed me, with their strong beliefs, so different from one another, see? I have worked twenty jobs and not one among them defined as a career... oh and yes, I have spent time in an unemployment line. I am not a carpenter, like the other two could, my grandfather as a career my dad took it on as a hobby, I am a pacifist, yes, but don't push to hard, I might write you into a poem... I have written so many serious and sombre pieces, There is already so much sadness in the world, If planet Earth could cry a tear, standby with the tissue, I deal with my stuff in words, I try not to hang onto them, Rather free them like birds, Ravens and Crows with Hummingbirds and Eagles, My soul is sore and Animus would rather soar, so I pour the toxins from my mind, my skin, from my day you already know I am not perfect I sin, from my way of life, so I pour the garbage I live and beauty as I see it is around me for you all to read, shame on me I have had it all wrong. I don't have to get it right, I must write. ©DWE122013

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Dec 11, 2013

Dec 11, 2013 at 11:01 PM UTC

darrell-wade-elverum

I have had it wrong the whole time

I have had it all wrong, I wonder if my grandfather thought that, when on a steamer he arrived a dreamer of moving west from Montreal single trying to find a life, better, opened and tasted peanut butter, and never did ever eat that again, I have had it wrong, all of it He kept dreaming and trying, took the train to the northern Alberta, saw his dreams take shape as he built homes for other dreamers, he met his wife, but that is a poem for another story, he was a pacifist, he did not support, killing another, but he sure had a temper, for a peaceful man, he decided to retire, and that let him get old, I admired him for what he stood for and sit at a desk he built with my dad. I still have had it all wrong. The desk is nothing special other than the hands and knowledge that built it and something a father and a son did together, one of the last things of each other, that would be remembered, they worked well with their hands. Both men were dreamers. My dad had his dreams, he mostly kept to himself, but you just knew that they were to do with things outside of the house. Oh don't misunderstand, he loved working with wood, he knew firearms, he recieved a Medal for Military Merit, for dedication above and beyond what a militiaman was to do, he wasn't a pacifist, in many ways he was different from his dad and so many more he was exactly the same. Shame, I have had it all wrong. I was not an A student, but Gee, I tried hard, my potential was palpable we just needed to resuscitate it from time to time, I joined the CAF, married and had three who have amazed me, with their strong beliefs, so different from one another, see? I have worked twenty jobs and not one among them defined as a career... oh and yes, I have spent time in an unemployment line. I am not a carpenter, like the other two could, my grandfather as a career my dad took it on as a hobby, I am a pacifist, yes, but don't push to hard, I might write you into a poem... I have written so many serious and sombre pieces, There is already so much sadness in the world, If planet Earth could cry a tear, standby with the tissue, I deal with my stuff in words, I try not to hang onto them, Rather free them like birds, Ravens and Crows with Hummingbirds and Eagles, My soul is sore and Animus would rather soar, so I pour the toxins from my mind, my skin, from my day you already know I am not perfect I sin, from my way of life, so I pour the garbage I live and beauty as I see it is around me for you all to read, shame on me I have had it all wrong. I don't have to get it right, I must write. ©DWE122013

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I sit here and anticipate the pain As I reflect on this most recent Revolution around the sun Alone in a steamer trunk full of memories Your seductive smile from across the room Has hardened into a glare of disdain and Contempt which freezes my heart with each icy glare Your scent like jasmine flowers wafting on a cool breeze Filling my aura with joy has soured Into putrid and stagnant pools of revulsion Your laughter once the driving force behind my self-esteem Has been silenced by disgust and horror My wit no longer clever to your mind My sarcasm no longer endorsed by your approval These tattered remnants of hope drift Between my fingers like a moth eaten quilt Once my muse, my reason for creating, the inspiration for the god within Has taken flight for another star And left me with this ink stained scar

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Mar 11, 2015

Mar 11, 2015 at 10:12 PM UTC

michael-j-daisey-jr

ALL THINGS ARE NEVER ALL GOOD

I sit here and anticipate the pain As I reflect on this most recent Revolution around the sun Alone in a steamer trunk full of memories Your seductive smile from across the room Has hardened into a glare of disdain and Contempt which freezes my heart with each icy glare Your scent like jasmine flowers wafting on a cool breeze Filling my aura with joy has soured Into putrid and stagnant pools of revulsion Your laughter once the driving force behind my self-esteem Has been silenced by disgust and horror My wit no longer clever to your mind My sarcasm no longer endorsed by your approval These tattered remnants of hope drift Between my fingers like a moth eaten quilt Once my muse, my reason for creating, the inspiration for the god within Has taken flight for another star And left me with this ink stained scar

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_ cannot write what _ want to say, _ cannot paint the image in _ mind. Or the feelings bound inside with thickened ropes, used to hold a steamer ship to dock, with diameter of a sailor's mid-waist, encrusted with salt from the ever pressing fault pulling its weight down compressing faces to frown scrunching together in depressing formation as a flock of gull feathers incessantly wash ashore bringing round to the lessening image that draws you back from the metaphorical, analogical, imaginary oceans edge, to the starboard side of a deck on a steamer ship, to the battered ropes that suppress emotions under. Under an ocean, occasionally escaping through thimble-sized samples freed from the depths to race upwards in streamlined-bubbles to break the surface and burst that released category three, Hurricane Miriam which harmed no one but herself because though she roared at one-hundred twenty miles an hour, no one took warning. Because who would be wary of her, when she didn't even break land, she didn't even break surface, didn't even break in, even break through, break her, broken.

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Feb 7, 2013

Feb 7, 2013 at 2:03 AM UTC

_ cannot write what _ want to say, _ cannot paint the image in _ mind. Or the feelings bound inside with thickened ropes, used to hold a steamer ship to dock, with diameter of a sailor's mid-waist, encrusted with salt from the ever pressing fault pulling its weight down compressing faces to frown scrunching together in depressing formation as a flock of gull feathers incessantly wash ashore bringing round to the lessening image that draws you back from the metaphorical, analogical, imaginary oceans edge, to the starboard side of a deck on a steamer ship, to the battered ropes that suppress emotions under. Under an ocean, occasionally escaping through thimble-sized samples freed from the depths to race upwards in streamlined-bubbles to break the surface and burst that released category three, Hurricane Miriam which harmed no one but herself because though she roared at one-hundred twenty miles an hour, no one took warning. Because who would be wary of her, when she didn't even break land, she didn't even break surface, didn't even break in, even break through, break her, broken.

Continue reading...