"trawlers" poems - Hello Poetry

My troubled hands trembling as I truss trusted tricks tried Tragic tropes, tracks Trampled trips and trippy trends Trawlers tread Trebles tremored Trimmed but trackless I don't know what this means anymore Trump

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Sep 15, 2016

Sep 15, 2016 at 3:18 AM UTC

ebor-genzi

Untitled

My troubled hands trembling as I truss trusted tricks tried Tragic tropes, tracks Trampled trips and trippy trends Trawlers tread Trebles tremored Trimmed but trackless I don't know what this means anymore Trump

13

Hills like waves, frozen in motion Topped with bulbous trees, frantically frothing. Homes with minimalist facades, Bobbing like great trawlers; Settled in the steep crevices of looming elevations. The Countryside.

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Sep 14, 2012

Sep 14, 2012 at 8:13 AM UTC

tomorr

Little Explanation Needed

Hills like waves, frozen in motion Topped with bulbous trees, frantically frothing. Homes with minimalist facades, Bobbing like great trawlers; Settled in the steep crevices of looming elevations. The Countryside.

6

A shed, six by four, painted, Landy green, black roof Local fishmongers Down by the harbor gates Battered wooden, fish crates Smelling of the ocean, the waves, The spray Weathered, worn, faded brown Trawlers name a disappearing outline A boy in shorts, blond hair Tugging at his mother’s skirts Pointing, Spattered orange dotted flat fish Flapping, fresh from the boat. Propped against the side wall A box of jade, and emerald sea jewels Eyes frozen in time. Chalk board hung from open door, With names, prices , beyond understanding. To the boy fantastical creatures A man in a white coat, money rattling in pocket Scales set on a bench, ready to measure out scales For the women of the seaside town All the gossip, the fish, and the stories From one little shed down by the harbor wall A boys face mesmerized, by cod Larger than he, caught on a wall hook Swift knife movements, and fillets, Laid on yesterdays newspaper Bones, and head thrown into a bucket Large lazy yellow eyed seagull, Sauntering like a casual thief, eye On the bucket…

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Feb 17, 2015

Feb 17, 2015 at 6:05 PM UTC

nick-strong

A Fishmonger and a Boys Memory

A shed, six by four, painted, Landy green, black roof Local fishmongers Down by the harbor gates Battered wooden, fish crates Smelling of the ocean, the waves, The spray Weathered, worn, faded brown Trawlers name a disappearing outline A boy in shorts, blond hair Tugging at his mother’s skirts Pointing, Spattered orange dotted flat fish Flapping, fresh from the boat. Propped against the side wall A box of jade, and emerald sea jewels Eyes frozen in time. Chalk board hung from open door, With names, prices , beyond understanding. To the boy fantastical creatures A man in a white coat, money rattling in pocket Scales set on a bench, ready to measure out scales For the women of the seaside town All the gossip, the fish, and the stories From one little shed down by the harbor wall A boys face mesmerized, by cod Larger than he, caught on a wall hook Swift knife movements, and fillets, Laid on yesterdays newspaper Bones, and head thrown into a bucket Large lazy yellow eyed seagull, Sauntering like a casual thief, eye On the bucket…

33

The humble fisherman, Trying to make a living. The trawlers haul in their nets. The seagulls take whatever is left. But alas he waits, rod in hand, For that one small bite that makes it all worthwhile.

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Nov 11, 2012

Nov 11, 2012 at 11:16 AM UTC

conor-wilson

No more fish.

The humble fisherman, Trying to make a living. The trawlers haul in their nets. The seagulls take whatever is left. But alas he waits, rod in hand, For that one small bite that makes it all worthwhile.

6

There's a steady mist rising, Down by the sea, Glowing red in the lamplight, I see fishermen unloading their catch, The sea gulls trying to ****** It's growing cold, and my hearts colder still, Life is growing on the harbour side, The steady embrace of the tide. The trawlers trawling heavy on the sea, Fish by the hundred stand on the misty dock. The trawler men unloading, unloading by the clock.

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Jun 30, 2015

Jun 30, 2015 at 8:36 PM UTC

laura-williams

Town By The Sea

There's a steady mist rising, Down by the sea, Glowing red in the lamplight, I see fishermen unloading their catch, The sea gulls trying to ****** It's growing cold, and my hearts colder still, Life is growing on the harbour side, The steady embrace of the tide. The trawlers trawling heavy on the sea, Fish by the hundred stand on the misty dock. The trawler men unloading, unloading by the clock.

11

A little dot of light in the distance Signalled that they were on their way home She was waiting at her own insistence As the trawler drew closer through the foam. Her man had taken another man's place And he sailed with yesterday's tide But their baby was due in only three days She wanted him back on dry land by her side. It caused her to reflect on her father He'd been lost in the'53 spring tide That had raced down the east coast of England Brushing trawlers and ferries to one side. They called it 'The Big Flood', it was really that bad It happened unexpectedly Two and a half thousand, including her dad Were drowned and swallowed by the sea. January thirty-first into February one The storm raged like no other before Then it turned out to sea and was suddenly gone Leaving death and devastation in it's maw. The trawler was pulled into the harbour And her husband jumped the jetty and ran He took her into his arms and she worried no more He was home, he was safe, and her man. ©Joe Wilson - The trawlerman's wife & the 1953 spring-tide disaster...2015

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Jan 7, 2015

Jan 7, 2015 at 2:28 PM UTC

joe-wilson

The trawlerman's wife & the 1953 spring-tide disaster...

A little dot of light in the distance Signalled that they were on their way home She was waiting at her own insistence As the trawler drew closer through the foam. Her man had taken another man's place And he sailed with yesterday's tide But their baby was due in only three days She wanted him back on dry land by her side. It caused her to reflect on her father He'd been lost in the'53 spring tide That had raced down the east coast of England Brushing trawlers and ferries to one side. They called it 'The Big Flood', it was really that bad It happened unexpectedly Two and a half thousand, including her dad Were drowned and swallowed by the sea. January thirty-first into February one The storm raged like no other before Then it turned out to sea and was suddenly gone Leaving death and devastation in it's maw. The trawler was pulled into the harbour And her husband jumped the jetty and ran He took her into his arms and she worried no more He was home, he was safe, and her man. ©Joe Wilson - The trawlerman's wife & the 1953 spring-tide disaster...2015

25

Swept up in a sea of nets, discarded, flapping, drowning in air. Waiting to be landed, dashed upon the dock, waiting to be dressed and dished, fed up, on the menu to fill the mouths of men. Makes me think before I eat, how it must feel, to be a captured fish. I don't know how long it takes them to expire. Think it must must dreadful, to be a fish, captured in a trawlers net. With thousands of wriggling soul mates, and perhaps the cod father too, not many left, only a few. Morals aside, I'm afraid, I love their taste. (C) LIVVI

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Feb 22, 2014

Feb 22, 2014 at 4:41 AM UTC

olivia-kent

TO BE A FISH.

Swept up in a sea of nets, discarded, flapping, drowning in air. Waiting to be landed, dashed upon the dock, waiting to be dressed and dished, fed up, on the menu to fill the mouths of men. Makes me think before I eat, how it must feel, to be a captured fish. I don't know how long it takes them to expire. Think it must must dreadful, to be a fish, captured in a trawlers net. With thousands of wriggling soul mates, and perhaps the cod father too, not many left, only a few. Morals aside, I'm afraid, I love their taste. (C) LIVVI

8

A street is dusty there is grit on my feet. Meat hanging about from a left over stew Bony cats cling to doorsteps Like furry door mats and there are a few Keeping the draughts out from the valley Blowing a disease on bated breath. A cat dares to hope or so it seems But with this only bring a painful death. The street so full of filth from shoes, the smoke, and waste brings creepers from every angle A broken fishing line dares with hope hanging thinks it can dangle into a stream, hoping for a dream fish to bite, but it wont, it is not there it drowned in the sea of doom where there are trawlers and fishermen with shiny nets and no dust in their room Leaves, crunching underfoot of the passer by staring at himself in windows, wiped till they are bone dry. The park gates, daily washed by the thankful dog picking its leg up conveniently at this stop through the stench, the mist and the pea-soup fog it wanders with the peacocks where feathers drop on the dusty lane, the ***** street where cats sleep.

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Oct 13, 2015

Oct 13, 2015 at 12:55 AM UTC

cheryl-love

The Dusty Street

A street is dusty there is grit on my feet. Meat hanging about from a left over stew Bony cats cling to doorsteps Like furry door mats and there are a few Keeping the draughts out from the valley Blowing a disease on bated breath. A cat dares to hope or so it seems But with this only bring a painful death. The street so full of filth from shoes, the smoke, and waste brings creepers from every angle A broken fishing line dares with hope hanging thinks it can dangle into a stream, hoping for a dream fish to bite, but it wont, it is not there it drowned in the sea of doom where there are trawlers and fishermen with shiny nets and no dust in their room Leaves, crunching underfoot of the passer by staring at himself in windows, wiped till they are bone dry. The park gates, daily washed by the thankful dog picking its leg up conveniently at this stop through the stench, the mist and the pea-soup fog it wanders with the peacocks where feathers drop on the dusty lane, the ***** street where cats sleep.

26

Long windy roads hold so much charm Beaches of gold where the sea is calm Underground bunkers the memory of war To stay alive is what they're for Farms and fields house cows and sheep Tiny little lambs like to hop and leap A castle atop a hill and a castle in the sea Astound the tourists who wander round the quay Portuguese ice cream sellers offer their delights Children on the beach happily fly their kites Beach shops and cafes hide in the town Serving the locals who smile then frown Trawlers bring oysters, lobster and shrimp The old weary sailor collects them with a limp Sea shells and ***** litter the shore Abandoned and alone when the waters no more A bright burning sun hovers in the sky Warming the seagulls that glide and fly The B and B's serve scampi and afternoon tea In this mystical Eden that's just where ill be

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Jun 8, 2016

Jun 8, 2016 at 7:37 PM UTC

Chaz2296

Jersey

Long windy roads hold so much charm Beaches of gold where the sea is calm Underground bunkers the memory of war To stay alive is what they're for Farms and fields house cows and sheep Tiny little lambs like to hop and leap A castle atop a hill and a castle in the sea Astound the tourists who wander round the quay Portuguese ice cream sellers offer their delights Children on the beach happily fly their kites Beach shops and cafes hide in the town Serving the locals who smile then frown Trawlers bring oysters, lobster and shrimp The old weary sailor collects them with a limp Sea shells and ***** litter the shore Abandoned and alone when the waters no more A bright burning sun hovers in the sky Warming the seagulls that glide and fly The B and B's serve scampi and afternoon tea In this mystical Eden that's just where ill be

20

alone, poems are always made somewhere out on the fuzzy edge of things where two worlds intertwine the pulpiest juice spews out sea and sky earth and sea fire and earth sky and earth fire and wind water and fire out there the veiled shaking the tenuous shifting the curved drifting the spaces laid bare the whispering down there the cold colliding the subterranean brawling the white-hot raking the broken barriers the rumbling up there the restless rising the upshot turbulence the sudden melting the wind-sheared diving the resurrecting in there the tormented dancing the quiet gnawing the night crawling the bloodied twisting the dawning always, poems are made alone the determined tracing the insistent fingers the tracking no team of divers no web no net no school of trawlers never, because together poems are forever afraid once made, poems are always alone they stand apart the old the etched boulders effaced facing the northward vast dark space alone, poems resist the fade the freeze the mists the fickle seasons the cloudless reasons

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Jan 15, 2017

Jan 15, 2017 at 8:31 PM UTC

joe-disabatino

alone, poems are always made

alone, poems are always made somewhere out on the fuzzy edge of things where two worlds intertwine the pulpiest juice spews out sea and sky earth and sea fire and earth sky and earth fire and wind water and fire out there the veiled shaking the tenuous shifting the curved drifting the spaces laid bare the whispering down there the cold colliding the subterranean brawling the white-hot raking the broken barriers the rumbling up there the restless rising the upshot turbulence the sudden melting the wind-sheared diving the resurrecting in there the tormented dancing the quiet gnawing the night crawling the bloodied twisting the dawning always, poems are made alone the determined tracing the insistent fingers the tracking no team of divers no web no net no school of trawlers never, because together poems are forever afraid once made, poems are always alone they stand apart the old the etched boulders effaced facing the northward vast dark space alone, poems resist the fade the freeze the mists the fickle seasons the cloudless reasons

24

the turn of the rail round the land. the curve of the soundbox against the hand. the engine rumbles somewhere, undefined, as love disappears tonight. the wall lines the sea in holland. The velvet folds close the stage at the opera. Tile on the roof silently shedding the rain as love disappeared today. Relentlessly cold is the hearthstone. The march of the nightshift to the factory from home. Barge tied to barge sounding the horn, a freight of black coal, buries the heart as love disappears tonight. Dark are the waters plied by the fishing boats and trawlers. The paths are map-less ruthlessly speaking a language that's foreign. At the edge of the canyon without finality, love disappears, over and over again.

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Dec 18, 2019

Dec 18, 2019 at 9:20 PM UTC

robert-brunner

velvet folds

the turn of the rail round the land. the curve of the soundbox against the hand. the engine rumbles somewhere, undefined, as love disappears tonight. the wall lines the sea in holland. The velvet folds close the stage at the opera. Tile on the roof silently shedding the rain as love disappeared today. Relentlessly cold is the hearthstone. The march of the nightshift to the factory from home. Barge tied to barge sounding the horn, a freight of black coal, buries the heart as love disappears tonight. Dark are the waters plied by the fishing boats and trawlers. The paths are map-less ruthlessly speaking a language that's foreign. At the edge of the canyon without finality, love disappears, over and over again.

40

We came to Hull As the Humber flowed muddy with our romance By the Docks without trawlers We laughed and we loved Praying forever.

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Sep 4, 2017

Sep 4, 2017 at 4:26 PM UTC