There I was, standing on the dock, waiting for him to return. The port was empty, and there wasn’t a ship to be seen, except for the repairees. Today was a day for celebration. My father was returning home.
It was one of those cold dark and gloomy night you so often see in movies, but this wasn’t movie, no, sadly this was reality. The wooden boards creaked under her light weight as she limped towards the port’s end, the place where it seemed that the sea swallowed all whole. Her collar bones were defined by the dark, each jagged bone in her body shone past its masked illness and instead look quite beautiful. But she wasn’t that. At the end of her port she let her feet dangle down into the sea, let the waves lick at her fragile cover, and she thought of her end. It’d be a good, she knew she could go with a peace that could reassure her past whatever waited for her failing body. She looked towards the end of her rainbow and the end of her rope.
A ship came in, you were on it, I waited as long as I could. No one else seemed to be around. I cried silent tears as I realized you weren’t coming home. Wasting away by the sea at the ghost port you sailed away from.
The port-to-port killer, investigated in the hit television show, NCIS, killed women at different ports in the country. He was a serial killer and was finally discovered. In the middle of the season, EJ Barrett was brought on to help investigate, as it was her original case. At first she seemed like someone who might be in on the serial killer’s scandal, but at the end we realized she was indeed a legitimate NCIS figure.
A port, a haven. Death–the port to which we are all sailing and hope to have a smooth docking when we sail into the port. Port is safety. Except in hurricanes when the ships leave the port for the open seas.
Port’s good, rum’s better. And on those really chilly nights, I like scotch with my fire. Alcoholic beverages make some of the best lighter fluid I’ve ever used in my pyromania.
wine cheese home. my only sanctuary in a very choppy bay. i wish that all i could see is my amber hued home. my sweet salvation and my bed. oh the lovely time of cool breezes and love. the crisp air. the stopping of the hurried days.
I stood there. The rain was pouring. He promised he’d be there. He’d promised that he’d come fetch me. All the other people that came with the same ship were all gone. I leant against the pole of a lamp post. It was the only thing holding me up. He never came
there are so many in the world all with their own history and colors and smells I love landing at one jumping out and casting my eye in every direction so that it is almost dizzying. then walking one direction or another without knowing where I am going just taking it all in.
big and spacy. there are ships and boats. people walking around with luggage-ready to board luxuary ships. there are fish and chip resturants, smell of sea and sound of seagulls calling.
it was a essentially a dock for unloading goods, materials. Ships would stay here in between voyages. Sailors identified themselves by which ports they had visited and which port was home to their ship.
Port, the first part of my last name. A harbor, a passageway. Of course, because of recent events I can only think of the most base connotation. My place in a woman. My favorite home.
i used to row. port is a side of the boat. it is the right side if you are a rower. left if you are outside of the boat. i was port. it is also a harbor in a large town. i was not a harbor in a large town. that would make me a slut.
I stayed in the port town for about a week. I had a lot of fun trying to speak French and going to the beach. I’d never done anything like it before or since, it was one of the best times of my life.
At the port of Amsterdam fishermen stand waiting for the storm weaving stories in their baskets of rum, sodomy and hip hop tunes. The sea is gray, storm-clouds hover above the scene, worthy of a turner-painting.
He tipped the remaining liquid out of the small glass and down his throat. He slammed the glass down hard on the pine wood bench. He considered that maybe he shouldn’t have done it. However what else was a man in that position to do. He was a man after all.
The port was warm and sunny. The water lapped at the boat. What wonderful day to enjoy the ocean. The motor hummed as the boat pulled away. I looked forward to a relaxing day at sea.
The Usb port has many fucntions. For example, you can hook up the usbs in it and also attach many other cables through it with the computers. The usb ports also work as excellent ports for transferring data from various storages devices onto the computer and vice versa. You can block or access the usb ports.
they held his hand over the sign document detailing his injustice. Though it was lost in the fire they still had the images enblazened in their minds. Something that changes ones life can never be forgotten. Thus the Universal Serial Bus was born and Jake Mann was killed.
I didn’t know why I was still waiting there. He told me he wasn’t coming back, and I believed him. Most of me did, anyway. There was little room left for doubt when you were watching someone sail away, the slowest way someone can leave, the slowest way someone can be left. There was plenty of time while he was heading out for him to change his mind, for him to turn around and come back to me. Just dock at the port and step out and kiss me again. But he didn’t, and he wouldn’t, and now my feet were dangling off the edge of the dock over the water, and the salty breeze was making my face sticky, and I was drinking a bottle of cheap port, ha, ha, and waiting.
Sometimes I think about saying goodbye to someone on a dock at a sea port. I think about “Braille” by Lisa Hannigan, and saying goodbye to my king of sand and sea. I am hiding out in my head today.
The port bow on the ship dipped and swayed with the rhythm of the sea. A face appeared in the window, nervousness written all over his face. Would his crew stand by his decision to continue or would they make a mutinous decision?
They pulled into port, greeted by a woman resembling the White Witch, and my sister and her husband got off last. From the ceiling hung odd silver rods that reflected light, though I couldn’t tell where the light was coming from.
I wait at the end of the port staring at the blue sea in front of me. My father called for me to come and board the ship. I did not want to leave my beloved England but I knew that had no choice.
Port could be a port of call or a bottle of brandy wine. I like both. I’d love to be at a port of call right now, seeing the ocean, relaxing on a beach. Maybe end the night with a sip of port. They could go together.
The port authority — Charlie — peered beneath the rotting dock. “Hello,” he said. “Mom misses you.”
“I don’t miss her!” said Peter, but it wasn’t true.
Later, he rubbed sand from his hair and walked, barefoot, back home. There was tea waiting, and his brother still in his uniform, and no one said anything about boys gone overnight beneath cold, starry skies.
And Peter certainly said nothing about girls with green scales, flashing in the moonlight as they jumped and dance across silver waves.
Walking through the suburbs of interstellar space I noticed a strange animal, not quite like something one might see on Earth and yet not so foreign with it’s head in a strange bag. I removed the bag the the head of the thing and ended up somewhere else.
A fine glass or a simple dock for a ship. The utility of either depends on your current mood.
seagulls dancing on oil painting skies
there is nothing to do but
breathe.
a place to call home
and a place to escape just the same.
There I was, standing on the dock, waiting for him to return. The port was empty, and there wasn’t a ship to be seen, except for the repairees. Today was a day for celebration. My father was returning home.
A great drink from the Portuguese. Yummo! More Please! They also made corks to keep my wine nice and fresh. Lush!
It was one of those cold dark and gloomy night you so often see in movies, but this wasn’t movie, no, sadly this was reality. The wooden boards creaked under her light weight as she limped towards the port’s end, the place where it seemed that the sea swallowed all whole. Her collar bones were defined by the dark, each jagged bone in her body shone past its masked illness and instead look quite beautiful. But she wasn’t that. At the end of her port she let her feet dangle down into the sea, let the waves lick at her fragile cover, and she thought of her end. It’d be a good, she knew she could go with a peace that could reassure her past whatever waited for her failing body. She looked towards the end of her rainbow and the end of her rope.
A ship came in, you were on it, I waited as long as I could. No one else seemed to be around. I cried silent tears as I realized you weren’t coming home. Wasting away by the sea at the ghost port you sailed away from.
The port-to-port killer, investigated in the hit television show, NCIS, killed women at different ports in the country. He was a serial killer and was finally discovered. In the middle of the season, EJ Barrett was brought on to help investigate, as it was her original case. At first she seemed like someone who might be in on the serial killer’s scandal, but at the end we realized she was indeed a legitimate NCIS figure.
A port, a haven. Death–the port to which we are all sailing and hope to have a smooth docking when we sail into the port. Port is safety. Except in hurricanes when the ships leave the port for the open seas.
i’d like to stay there forever.
the wind in my hair.
the salt water below my feet.
the rocks steady against my back.
Port’s good, rum’s better. And on those really chilly nights, I like scotch with my fire. Alcoholic beverages make some of the best lighter fluid I’ve ever used in my pyromania.
wine cheese home. my only sanctuary in a very choppy bay. i wish that all i could see is my amber hued home. my sweet salvation and my bed. oh the lovely time of cool breezes and love. the crisp air. the stopping of the hurried days.
A place where a boat docks. Another thing that comes to mind is port wine.
Also an airport. It is a short use, not used in my vocabulary very often other than the word airport.
I am sure it takes alot of man power to build a port of any kind.
I stood there. The rain was pouring. He promised he’d be there. He’d promised that he’d come fetch me. All the other people that came with the same ship were all gone. I leant against the pole of a lamp post. It was the only thing holding me up. He never came
there are so many in the world all with their own history and colors and smells I love landing at one jumping out and casting my eye in every direction so that it is almost dizzying. then walking one direction or another without knowing where I am going just taking it all in.
we visited the port.
big and spacy. there are ships and boats. people walking around with luggage-ready to board luxuary ships. there are fish and chip resturants, smell of sea and sound of seagulls calling.
port-ey shortay uglay donkay (: < I hav no clu wat 2 say bout port duddEEEEE
it was a essentially a dock for unloading goods, materials. Ships would stay here in between voyages. Sailors identified themselves by which ports they had visited and which port was home to their ship.
Where ships dock. Champagnes. Wedding proposals. Boardwalk. Holding hands while walking. Food fair. Pigeons. Balloons. Photoshoots.
Port, the first part of my last name. A harbor, a passageway. Of course, because of recent events I can only think of the most base connotation. My place in a woman. My favorite home.
i used to row. port is a side of the boat. it is the right side if you are a rower. left if you are outside of the boat. i was port. it is also a harbor in a large town. i was not a harbor in a large town. that would make me a slut.
I stayed in the port town for about a week. I had a lot of fun trying to speak French and going to the beach. I’d never done anything like it before or since, it was one of the best times of my life.
At the port of Amsterdam fishermen stand waiting for the storm weaving stories in their baskets of rum, sodomy and hip hop tunes. The sea is gray, storm-clouds hover above the scene, worthy of a turner-painting.
He tipped the remaining liquid out of the small glass and down his throat. He slammed the glass down hard on the pine wood bench. He considered that maybe he shouldn’t have done it. However what else was a man in that position to do. He was a man after all.
The port was warm and sunny. The water lapped at the boat. What wonderful day to enjoy the ocean. The motor hummed as the boat pulled away. I looked forward to a relaxing day at sea.
The Usb port has many fucntions. For example, you can hook up the usbs in it and also attach many other cables through it with the computers. The usb ports also work as excellent ports for transferring data from various storages devices onto the computer and vice versa. You can block or access the usb ports.
starboard forth aft….vintage ruby sherry…..harbour
they held his hand over the sign document detailing his injustice. Though it was lost in the fire they still had the images enblazened in their minds. Something that changes ones life can never be forgotten. Thus the Universal Serial Bus was born and Jake Mann was killed.
Ports. I have always been fascinated about ports. Tradings, family reunions, family parting ways, an old man fishing and poor kids asking for coins.
I didn’t know why I was still waiting there. He told me he wasn’t coming back, and I believed him. Most of me did, anyway. There was little room left for doubt when you were watching someone sail away, the slowest way someone can leave, the slowest way someone can be left. There was plenty of time while he was heading out for him to change his mind, for him to turn around and come back to me. Just dock at the port and step out and kiss me again. But he didn’t, and he wouldn’t, and now my feet were dangling off the edge of the dock over the water, and the salty breeze was making my face sticky, and I was drinking a bottle of cheap port, ha, ha, and waiting.
The port wine, tasted so fine. I could barely see straight anymore. I was bound to hit the floor.
Sometimes I think about saying goodbye to someone on a dock at a sea port. I think about “Braille” by Lisa Hannigan, and saying goodbye to my king of sand and sea. I am hiding out in my head today.
The port bow on the ship dipped and swayed with the rhythm of the sea. A face appeared in the window, nervousness written all over his face. Would his crew stand by his decision to continue or would they make a mutinous decision?
They pulled into port, greeted by a woman resembling the White Witch, and my sister and her husband got off last. From the ceiling hung odd silver rods that reflected light, though I couldn’t tell where the light was coming from.
I wait at the end of the port staring at the blue sea in front of me. My father called for me to come and board the ship. I did not want to leave my beloved England but I knew that had no choice.
boats
trade
Port could be a port of call or a bottle of brandy wine. I like both. I’d love to be at a port of call right now, seeing the ocean, relaxing on a beach. Maybe end the night with a sip of port. They could go together.
The port authority — Charlie — peered beneath the rotting dock. “Hello,” he said. “Mom misses you.”
“I don’t miss her!” said Peter, but it wasn’t true.
Later, he rubbed sand from his hair and walked, barefoot, back home. There was tea waiting, and his brother still in his uniform, and no one said anything about boys gone overnight beneath cold, starry skies.
And Peter certainly said nothing about girls with green scales, flashing in the moonlight as they jumped and dance across silver waves.
I ran and ran, anxious to to get to the port before dark. If i did’nt they would be so worried.
Walking through the suburbs of interstellar space I noticed a strange animal, not quite like something one might see on Earth and yet not so foreign with it’s head in a strange bag. I removed the bag the the head of the thing and ended up somewhere else.