"whaling" poems
I remember hiding under an old cherry wood dining table. I remember holding my baby sister, shielding her eyes, covering her and trying to tuck her away. Pulling her as close to me as possible, like I might be able to fold her skin into mine so she wouldn’t have to see what was happening around us. I can still hear her crying into my bony 7 year old shoulder and whaling amongst the chaos with the bitty 4 year old voice that she had at the time. I remember the heart stopping feeling of watching my mother get thrown into the wall and watching my brother, 11 years older than myself, hurtle the beautiful antique silver coffee *** that my grandmother left us- into the space near her head where it bludgeoned the wall. I remember barely being taller than the table myself and pulling my sister out when I saw a chance for us to escape the scene and run into another room. I remember turning around and seeing my older sister, who was 10 at that time, running up and hitting and kicking my brother and getting shoved to the side. I’ve grown accustomed to the headaches I now get at the sight of flashing police lights.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 12:02 AM UTC
She had been at sea for three decades
her first voyage at age eighteen
a week after her marriage
in the year of our Lord 1883
She married a sailing man
captain of his own ship
handsome, bearded and tall
a fine commander of his men
as they searched the sea for whales
She loved life at sea
and could imagine no other
the motion of the ship
the sounds of the rigging and the sails
the quiet companionship
with her husband every evening
She was beloved by her husband’s men
whom she mothered well
having had no sons of her own
but nurtured and healed
patched and sewed
bloodied and broken hearts and men
Often she came out on deck
for she knew when they would find them
and though she was in the stern
and the lookout was high in the crow's nest
she saw many whales they missed
She thrilled each time she saw them
awed by their sheer size
marveling at their strength
humbled by their beauty
careful to hide her feelings
Sometimes she could feel
when a whale would blow
and she would call to the first mate
so the men looked at her
as the whale passed unseen
Most times she silently prayed
willing the lookout to search
the wrong spot of ocean
and felt again the pang
of disloyalty to her husband
for he commanded a whaling ship
But then the lookout's call came
"Thar she blows!"
and the men sprang to action
taking after the whale in longboats
while she escaped below
She had seen before the killing
she would not watch again
too many whales succumbed
to exploding harpoons
and a death horrifyingly cruel
And she wondered
what would happen
if only whales could scream . . .
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 6:49 AM UTC
Aware of tides
a castle fortifies
with memories of compacted glory,
splendid defiance
lost
to brine horizon,
a hailed day
turned whaling ship grey.
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 12:36 PM UTC
we must have different definitions of faith,
cause your demonstration has left me a wraith
wanting woes whaling in your
soul. so why must i incurr
these laments- no you don't understand!
this whole time you had my heart in your hand.
for which you were to protect and provide,
but like a toy boomerang you threw me aside.
untill u finish with your ken doll and want me to return,
but not this time! now it is my turn!
but i aint playing, i am throwing out the trash.
and don't you dare expect me to come back!
them over me? what were you bored?
of all the years i chored? you know? Now i abhor
the memories of taking you places, all the kind fallacies
that i had to say cause you can't deal with reality.
you have no decency. you've cause me so much pain.
our relationship is a bike but you leave it in the rain.
then you try to ride it, with the gears full of rust
i guess trust is a word imma have to spell without "us".
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 8:22 PM UTC
Hello, Poetry Incorporated,
how are you now, coming after
the world's 3rd breakdown?
Where do we go from here?
Here beside us now, another gift
after the deathly blows.After children entrusts
us yet again pieces of their lives and deaths to us.
A Japanese animation in the 1970s was banned
somewhere offshore. Not just because
the landowners who banned it was just evil,
Nor because one was "better than the other".
It was forbidden maybe because of many questions
still haunting us to and fro, beckoning us into
living our lives fully, not because of the light and dark,
but rather despite of it.
Like the dark and beautifully frightening
ocean tides that have capsized whaling ships
and yet have given birth to all our species.
Unlike many other animations,
the banned show did not have crudely offensive content.
It was a story of different people coming together
inside a big machine and operating it as one
as they manifest themselves as the Voltes Five.
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 10:02 PM UTC
Calabash Squash
A Poem by Eclipsing Moon-blood red
entry for a contest...rhythm
Hip- hop jury swapped
Hippity- hoppity sequestered they stop
Bibity- bobity alone on the cobblestone.
falling in- falling over
The balcone wailing, and buckets pailing, and hailing, and
Scaling
The walls and ramparts the cannons were whaling
Moby dicking and schlicking the schlock of the clock… hickory dickery ..where is the Doc?
Blind mice made the move..up one "grandfather side.
... and
Over the top .
Now wasn’t that a quainty dish to set before the Queens …
in drag
© 2011 Eclipsing Moon-blood red
Sep 15, 2011
Sep 15, 2011 at 4:04 PM UTC
I hear my midnight mistress
Screaming in the night.
It shakes the leave, the grass
The trees.
It echos off the stars it seems.
They twinkle in a shutter
Shed a tear for a broken heart
A whaling heard along the wind,
There goes my midnight mistress
Stinging at my eyes
The tears come.
I am not supposed to walk this road.
Or hear the crying night.
I do not want to think these thoughts,
The tears roll down my cheeks.
"I am sorry my love"
"My cradle of life. You do not sting my eyes so."
"You do not weak my knees"
It is only me, on this walk.
The trees shaking int he night.
The witching hour brings celebration
The dancing of the trees
The transcendental chanting,
Of my mind, and yours.
And the screaming of my midnight mistress, carried across the wind.
Apr 25, 2010
Apr 25, 2010 at 8:51 PM UTC
poisoned well of the antichrist littered with ground cover
picking out ****** flecks of gravel
blacktop kneeskin
patience pieces of scattered space time
to go back to the future of continuity
lack of genius ingenuity
and the suckling of the pig entourage
riding in a flat top hatchback
cadillac of the daily grind
upperclassman japan onii-chan
brother in arms from anotha motha
hug from afar colliding with crackpot theory
terrible fantasia cooling bricks in soggy sun
swallowed his pride with a glass of self-worth
and these ***** don't cook like they used to
I don't look like I used to
warped veil of camouflage chameleon leather
with a ****** level of automobile salesman
tried to get closer to god
ground him up, picked out the stems
twisted him into thin paper
touched flame to his finger tip and a son of Adam was born
gum shoe gaze
or the emptiness felt at the end of reasonable doubt
correctional text messaging system
sent from hoarse corpses
tenderly poignant in their ****** coffins
will think for food
cries from an outdated MENSA
over ***** and under-appreciated
siting on hunched shoulders to get a better look
to be a martian in a plain port
wharf warehouse whaling boat
red tide in a Shanghai **********
floodgates made of bitter premise
that last bit of purple yam
**** Okonkwo
Things Fall Apart fell apart due to faded highschool ambitions and bloodshot eyes
cruel like the shade of off-cerulean
champagne fizz tickles at the soft meat of his tarnished throat
and silver tongue
as the matchstick framework
so fragile in comparison
fizzles out on drenched sidewalk
while cigarette ash floats by
like gray gnats
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
Perilous voyages of small watercraft at sea , amphibious landings on well defended beachheads , Clipper ships whaling on distant oceans , military vessels in armed conflict , night of relentless cannon fire , explosive reflections across shark infested waters , treasure maps and chest laden with gold , rubies and pieces of eight , the cry of Viking warriors on the rugged coast of Newfoundland .. Pirates just off the shores of the Carolinas .. Forts Pulaski , Sumter and Jefferson on the Dry Tortugas ..
Oil platforms racked by ferocious winds on the Gulf of Mexico ..
Union and Confederate battles on Mobile Bay , Riverboats traversing the Mississippi ..Tending barges along the Ohio ..On high alert through Georgia's intracoastal waterways ....
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 12:39 PM UTC
I feel great pain as the harpoon finds
the whale once more, I hear the boom
as explosion thunders, rips apart
the body, sinew and beating heart
as blood and tissue spread and drift
And shark, the lesser predator
nears and circles the carnage 'till
the struggle ends, the whale stills.
The sea once more is filled with loss
that might, had we more courage, been avoided
Cori MacNaughton
26August2003
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 1:14 AM UTC
The Lord hand picks the unworthy
The outcasts, the needy
The downtroden and filthy
Drowning in despair
Shaking in fear
Staggering in sheer agony
Wondering what just might be
What life really means
His hand is upon the lost
Those still imprisoned by their past
The backslidden and fallen
living in sin and lust
Brewing with contempt and disgust
Crumbling into dust
Wondering if the Lord is just
if they can ever come back
The face of the Lord shines upon
Those who weep and bitterly mourn
The Broken hearted and torn
Who stay up until dawn
Singing the burial song
A chorus of whaling voices
A choir of morbid faces
Wondering what the next phase is
The Lord is gracious
The Lord is kind
The Lord will save us
The lost sheep he will find
His people are declared righteous
Adopted, sealed and sighed
Wonderfully and fearfully designed
Chosen, before the beginning of time
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 3:18 AM UTC
Chained to a dark dry wall of a cave.
Nothing to be seen but the shadows that are projected onto this wall.
The shadows are demons dancing behind me.
I can see these shadows because the flaming,
fierce fire behind me glows bright in this dark cave.
But… I can not see the luminous light this fire has to offer,
nor can I see the creatures that taunt me behind my back.
Left to be alone,
an absence of companionship draws me to the conclusion that I will die alone.
Years of yelling,
wallowing, whaling cause my voice to become dry and faint.
All I have to maintain survival is a puddle that is filled every so often with rain water that leaks from the roof of the cave.
One day in winter the fire blows out,
This cold is cruel and I catch every detail of pain as my body starts to burn from this weather.
"This is it… this is my only way of freedom"
As I close my eyes and begin to count down I drift away into a sleep…
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 12:00 PM UTC
I'm starting to question every thought I ever had
every reason for feeling sad
every dream dissolved
every story I ever told
as reality does not live in the mind
but with everything that passes our eyes
so stay focused
don't pay attention to the lies
for in my head I've lived a thousand lives
but in reality I've never touched the sky
not walked on the moon
never had a bride
never been the groom.
We had fun you and I
at least within my mind
been dreaming since I was a kid
of things that I never quite did
never once kissed your lips
nor smelt your sweet perfume
though those memories still exist
the truth is you left to soon
you only live in my imagination
a perfect mix of my creation
loving, kind and gentle
whispers sentimental.
*So the question I ask;
do I keep you close in dreams?
- where our love will forever last*
**or face the whaling screams
of a broken heart.**
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 8:26 PM UTC
We rode to Ta’if on a flying carpet
— a Toyota with a missing hubcap
sweeping through fattened clouds
which clung to the hilltops like grazing bison
arriving on the otherworldly plateau that wore
the death shroud of an old hermit’s mystery
which our Prophet reached in sandals as ******
as the deck of a Nantucket whaling ship
Arabian Himalayas. He climbed like a yak
and the Lord strengthened his steps
Our taxi driver — as lost as the cheque in the mail —
poked at his satnav and called his mates
The Almighty’s beloved followed the angel and
never lost his way. He strained with pain
Our driver’s mirrored eyes intruded while we
held hands on the back seat and yawned
The Lord smiled down upon his aching friend
and eased the pain in cramping calves
A sagging mosque now hunches where the ignorant
had cast away the chance of a lifetime
Oh think if they had taken him in — Medina
would sit as a happy king on a mountain throne
I immortalised my love in a photo in that mosque
praying as a saint where our hero had struggled
I adore my captured shaikha and the memory
of when we followed in the footsteps of our Prophet
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 1:12 PM UTC
Living alone in the arctic circle has challenges of its own.
The weather drops to negative sixty degrees
and during the winter months wolves watch you breath.
Although this is a challenge I have found a challenge of my own.
So, hey asked me, "Is there anything wrong, Jon?"
I tell them no.
I tell them I am fine.
That I am happy.
The cold, grips at my vocal chords.
As the tundra spreads across my veins my body numbly forgets where I am.
The mind that works all to often takes a vacation of blankets and existence.
My fingertips sent in their two week notice without the strength to give a reason of departure.
I am swimming in ice.
Whaling like a baby, with everything to say and no one to understand.
Rolling over the same spot that I swear I can melt into water.
The weather looks down upon me, with closed ears.
Negligent to the heart inside of my chest.
Running away does nothing but create distance.
My problems will never be further than the bottom of a bottle.
Finding and reaching for the tongue out of my mouth.
Asking me to accept the fate dropped before me.
Mimicry, to act or mimic another object or animal.
I became the tundra that day.
Unforgiving to the existence in my chest.
Misunderstanding to the tender chords that hold up life.
Leading on that my heart will not feel again from this day out.
Love will not play its games on my frozen land.
Being polite will never help you hear boy.
Keep running, I will keep extending my reach in front of you.
Today I became,
Cold.
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 8:58 PM UTC
Wind torn sails
and old wives tales
both tell a certain truth
like sailors forlorn
'round the cape horn
drowned or frozen to death
The waves and the wind
punish for sins
that frequently go untold
dare to begin that voyage to win
bring in the most liquid gold
Whaling was the name
of this sailors game
learned from my pappy before
when the tall ships call
you'll answer for all
the misgivings that you ever did
Swabbing the decks
like a beer hall *****
sickly from waves and decay
this is the life
for months at a time
from New England
to the ports of Biscay
First sign of a blow
shouts to below
from where the watch sits above
The decks come alive
thar be the prize
the deadly game awaits
Set sails to the wind
and get that boat in
harpoons and crew await
haul on the ropes
or abandon all hopes
the behemoth will get away
Hearts pound like the oars
sending us forth
Oh, how our quarry evades
better keep your eyes peeled
or your fate is sealed
if she comes up underneath
With a mighty hurrah
the striker lets fly
the harpoon sinks deep in the whale
it plunges below
taking us under tow
blood staining the deep blue waves
I cry for this sin
as we haul the whale in
and cut up all it had been
trade a shilling in the purse
for a life long curse
never to sleep again
When I shut my eyes
I can still hear the cry
up from it's blowhole it came
shivers my spine,every time
I bolt upright wide awake
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 9:32 PM UTC
so, here i sit, having read that semicolons are a ******** tool - im only a partial ******* so, its admissable. in a bar drunk, sass'd, white bitch'd, hot as ever-living hell, hoping for a saxophonist. white ******* off bike lock keys in the bathroom as the door is attempted to be opened; "Sorry, we were ******* splurted, what an excuse; white ***** on a bike lock key - protection from theft, i guess. almost out of tobacco, yet i feel i can sustain, excuse me, remain. "i cant believe you did that, ***** crystal." (not what you think (totally what i think)) ambient psychedelia and a saxophonist (shes been mentioned) wailing, wail, whaling; expunge that Conscious ocean as if you were a Japo. yeah, racial slurs racial slurs. im told its 11.55 post on the 7th, but i am quite aware thats a lie. (most knowledge is (vindication symplified and unerred) unaware of what is being typed anymore) ..
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 12:26 PM UTC
Nosey!
I guess I am,
a boy just wishing to grow into a man.
And by the lies I do tell,
it's growing longer for me to ever fall short
Oh Pinocchio, how could the world ever love us, when all the love in the world feels so bought.
Feelings aside,
hating the mistaken times I've taken the deed of living inside of pride
Never living out of the world,
cause I found it much warmer inside.
A piece of wood thrown into the fire,
till ashes are all what remains
Perhaps tied a knot into these puppet strings,
that never break so easily for their my chains.
Oh Pinocchio, I'm so ashamed.
I've been done in by a sly fox,
buried a lot of my worth, hoping for it all to grown enough to afford a wooden house
And like an foolish ***
I've kicked my own self.
Oh Pinocchio, I surely wish I could be anybody else.
Like a trick,
the play of hand has made it's deal
And maybe if I question reality enough it might show me what's real.
But I'm so much like an old story the world seems to have forgotten,
much in common with the darkness,
my body much like the same material of this black coffin.
Still forgive my whaling Oh Pinocchio. Shall I swallow my sorrow
Maybe be a little thankful for today, but I'm so remorseful for those days that come after tomorrow.
Oh Pinocchio, could I tie one more knot into the string,
could I spell out what I feel, like your name I spell out every time I sing.
Could I ask my creator to create the better version of me,
if such a thing does exist, how could it be.
In the sense of being able to see.
I'd see to that very future,
wind-up into blowing winds heading there
No longer sitting on my talent, though my material is what I sit on as a comfortable chair.
Oh Pinocchio,
I surely don't know
For I once was you so long before. But I'm not a wooden boy anymore.
Jun 14, 2020
Jun 14, 2020 at 7:28 PM UTC
Sometimes I want to shake your head from your shoulders
Try to dislodge the barbed twists of your perverse thinking
And the ideas spearing through your tissues
Like whaling harpoons that hooked their many heads deep
Latching and Leaching
Because you might have ****** your packet of Love Hearts a little too hard
Until it crumbled and fizzed in desperate ecstasy on your tongue
And the rest in the tube read MISS ME
Whenever you asked
But you are not Isolde,
Capulet, Karenina or Earnshaw
And as much as you desire the piercing pity of your broken collar bones
The caress of the lost-souls melody and the razorblades of a ribcage
The bitter corset of an appetite that pays for itself in crocodile tears
And the romance of a noose of flaxen hair
You are not Porphyria
And he is not her lover
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 12:56 PM UTC
People are ****** boring. Thats why Im ****** snoring.
So I must decree that I wish to ****** flee.
Need to leave this place. For fear the lines on face, become the cracks in floor.
Want to walk through that open door. Run as far, as fast as can fall, before the mocking bird doth call.
Must find that thing that entertains, must find that thing for perfect gains.
Pain within the heart, will surly come apart.
Unless to find a place to free the mind then ware forever do we start.
Even if it seems as though theres no ware left to go, insanity your last resort,
then come and join me in the chair and see if I ****** care.
If ever there was a point to life, then why can't it be seen with simple human eyes.
Or shall it be that no one hears the cries, the whaling soul to extole a price that can't be paid
for a life that cant be laid, down upon its'
feet. For entertainment that it seeks is not at all discreet.
So if you please recommend to me something that I can see.
Your take hold and feel so bold, as to see the point in this boring ****** life.
Carry round the misery and the ****** strife. Then sink into flesh and wound,
and those whom should have swooned. Its all the same for everyone the games we ****** play,
wish to just escape the world its so ****** gay.
See me here with out the cheer to get up off my *** and make a pass at this ****** race.
If all there is ****** fake people then get off my ****** case.
Okay **** it, it just boring so now Im ****** snoring, yet again, isn't this how I did begin.
Dec 18, 2010
Dec 18, 2010 at 11:23 AM UTC
All aboard this ship of fools,
all aboard she's sailing,
all aboard this ship of fools,
for we are going a' whaling.
From the harbour our course we keep,
for the distant Antarctic water,
to find the leviathans of the deep,
and begin our ****** slaughter.
All aboard this ship of fools,
all aboard she's sailing,
all aboard this ship of fools,
for we are going a' whaling.
We say there is a scientific need,
to study these magnificent beings
we harpoon them, and watch them bleed,
as before our ship they're fleeing.
All aboard this ship of fools,
all aboard she's sailing,
all aboard this ship of fools,
for we are going a' whaling.
And still our leaders, they entreat
that we do this for the good of science,
but really it is for their meat,
that we **** these gentle giants
All aboard this ship of fools,
all aboard she's sailing,
all aboard this ship of fools,
for we are going a' whaling.
Tom Higgins.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 12:22 PM UTC
Faintly, a force is forming from an abyss of nothingness.
Swelling with the waste of wanton warriors, whaling of a withered world, curled, in the carriers to a scarier dilemma.
Brimstone, fire, a panorama of pandemonium, with jackals projected from podiums, and its right there on the screen.
Gleaming, on the seemingly glorious display, the loops play, and replay, in gorgeous indefinites, frayed in their tethered need to define our sentiments, so in kind, i severed it, and joined the collective.
Much better.
The machines now clever and draws my every breath to this ******* vortex in the sky.
My fruitless efforts defy, the physics of my inner cynic, if only i would get with it or just try.
Watching us just die.
And I feel fine.
Everything's alright.
I'm not in it to win it, but to survive.
Just assisting your suicide, as i'm resisting until i die, just don't resurrect me to the hive, and involve me in the lines, or the triviality of your times, that you are so proud ...
To squander, over yonder, pondering the fonder things, with bonkers themes, spread through out your memes, like a god ****** teen, burning tinfoil seams, on the street with thieves over a live feed.
Please.
Just keep drifting into the black hole, until its fed and full, or just blow out the lights of my futile fighting, and make me Noland void.
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 8:57 PM UTC