For some reason this makes me think of a porta potty. Those things stink. They are really gross and I hate using them. Especially when they have blue toilet water that stains your skin when you touch it. That has never happened to me. But I have seen it happen to other people. Gross.
Haley Blaisdale
Boston harbors and dark blue oceans come to mind when I think of the word port. The salty sea wind is just somewhat bitter yet the breeze calms me and soothes my worries.
Emily
I DON’T WANT THIS WORD AGAIN
agh
DKZ
Ports, like harbors? I’ll go with teleport. SUMMONERS RIFT. YOU’RE A BADDIE. GET DUNK’D. BROSEPHIROTH BROSEPHIROTH I wish people didn’t talk like that. haha.
they sailed in smoothly, the deep rocky water of the harbor far under them. by night the water was dark as wine. as they unloaded their goods – gold from the shores of east africa, heady-smelling blocks of tea from the deep east in canton and cathay, obsidian from the depths of asia. in the night the boxes were put on the dock, in the morning they were gone.
Rugby – for ladies unafraid of blood-filled saliva. Bruises the size of the ball they so desperately tried to grasp hold of as a large lady missing teeth bore down on you. Get some port at half time and you’ll be right – or was that sherry?
New Orleans, city with access to the sea. port wine. culture. variety. different ethnicities and languages. four letter word. wish i could go. meet strangers by the sea.
Makayla Dooley
I’ve been to a port once, I think. Boats were there. Boats are cool. I mean, come on, they can take you practically everywhere. A port is kind of like a world like I guess. Who knows where you can go with a little boat on tow.
Reclining to take a quick sip of his tart port, the short, roundish man kicked his feet up to take a quick nap. A quick bout of “shut-eye” as he put it. Little did he know that the place of great things that he had so long wished to behold no longer existed. The world of beautiful women, strong ale, and smooth seas that he had yearned for for so long would never become a reality.
My Aunt Ethel used to drink a glass of port everyday! Kept her young I guess. We always smelled it and thought it was too strong – just like the communion wine at church. It was ruby red and she always used the smallest little juice glass.
Suzanne Meyer
The ferry ride departed from Plymouth in the south of England. A five hour drive from Harrogate, where we had been living for a few years. I just recall the wind – it was sharp coming off the water. And the ferry trip to France was deliciously harsh. Sun and no heat – just brightness.
At night the French boys were out, and the smell was of fried food, cigarettes and perfume. Such a strange mix. Until you go to the deck. Lashed in the face by salty water. My eyes stung. I loved it. I hung with my face hurting as the blood rushed in, my eyes bulging slightly as I stared at the waves.
Mo
to fly through to find your way
a tunnel of transportation
so you can get
some place, some day
a way to fly through time
to travel through space
the type of magic motion
in which you keep faith in grace
lauren
is left of the cetre but its whatmy father di to me an given that i”m that kind of person im fraid that ill leave me to its agood drink as well and red im not well read but port is a harbour too from benjamin britten or some other poet who oi cant remember now, its also red nautically
Andrew Whitehead
is left of the cetre but its whatmy father di to me an given that i”m that kind of person im fraid that ill leave me to its agood drink as well and red im not well read but port is a harbour too from benjamin britten or some other poet who oi cant remember now, its also red nautically
Andrew Whitehead
There’s this opening. This way out into nothingness, into the ocean of forgetfulness and thought where we can loose ourselves. This is this place where it starts. Where we leave eachother. And we are not remembered for long by those here, or there, but we are loved.
Mary Grace Riddle
port. LOL THIS IS FUNNY CAUSE PORT IS THE RIGHT SIDE OF A BOAT. i was in a boat today. it was raining. the whole time i was thinking about willyum because it was a depressing scene. legs on fire. gorgeous hair.. soaked. absolutely terrible. but then i saw the light. i saw him. my willyum. he made me feel so much better, he made the searing pain in my body bearable. it made me feel.. amazing.
austitties
The port on this side of the island was empty, and had been empty for a long time. No ships had graced the rotten wooden planks for perhaps as long as fifty years, and they were beginning to show their age, with green all growing between them and eating away at them. Some had fallen into the water and gave the impression that the port was the broken smile of an old man.
kat
Port reminds me of airport. The last time i went to the airport was to drop off my grandfather after he visited us from poland. I pray every single day it wasn’t the last time i get to see him . He is the only man i have ever trusted.
Joanna Kozak
close to my apartment there is a port. This port is very nice place to spend a evening and jog i the morning.This port is main tourist attraction in Toronto.
pavan
She stared onward from the dock where she stood. Across that sea of waving blue velvet, were all her problems. Everything that had haunted her to the point of sleeplessness. Everything that had gripped her heart. Her family. Her love. Her life. She flipped her silky black hair over her shoulder, and turned, a wry smile twisting her lips. With one last glance back, she swayed forward into a car whose passenger door opened promptly. A strong masculine hand reached a hand out, and holding it delicately, she slid into the car.
Diana
a place where ships dock and unload cargo
a place where you can plug in things to your computer
a 4 letter word
starts with a p
ends with a t
has or in it
alex
today is where i dock, i am tired i have to rest, not going any further until i rejuvenate what i have lost then to move on to the next phase but knowing where.
The port loomed before us like the statue of liberty. A sign of sure freedom, and comfort. The excitement bubbled up from within me, and i could imagine music playing in the background. two handsome young men ran up to tie up our boat, and my heart beat with joy. I could see boys again! I ran off the boat, taking the last step with a leap as the ladder hadn’t been propped up against the damp side of the boat yet. I stepped onto the firm land, and promptly threw up.
Diana
Salt water scrubbed ships pull into the port. It’s hectic, in a fantastic sort of way- traders from overseas unloading boxes of who-knows, merchants hawking their wares, patterned cloth and shiny bits, magic captured in colored glass, it smells like fish and far away.
There was a port where a person meet an octupus. the octopus was rather friendly, not caring a whim in the world. He merely wanted to find his friend the squirll whom he had quarelled with earlier that morning. He wanted to find him and apologize, for he knew he was wrong in his actions
Danielle
I know the saying about any port in a storm, but choosing to go with Lyle into the den of the enemy just to get away from the forces which had been pursuing me for months might have been an error in judgement.
Raymond Masters
she lived in a port city. it was a nice little city in the rainy northwest, rather famous to be honest–seattle; it was the home of book nerds, asian nerds, coffee nerds, music nerds, and really just a wonderful little crossroad of lovely lovely nerdiness. pike place market was her favorite; she would visit, almost weekly, to buy cd’s from the street musicians or watch the flying fish “acrobats” or simply sit on the waterfront and watch the boats pass by.
My dear, anyone with a head that large is welcome in my port.
Linsey Rimmer
Port angeles, vampires and the taste of corndogs. the smell of the sea and everything that i wish i could see but i’m afraid I never will. Port-al…… to somewhere other than here, not that here’s bad:)
abby agnew
the sound of ships and the smell of salt water and bird business filled Emily as she stepped out of her coach, on her way across the sea to meet her husband to be, whom she’d never met in her life. Well this is it, emily thought, good bye Clearwater, I shall never forget of my fond memories here. Emily paid the coachman and walked across the cobblestone and up the wooden plank on to a large wooden ship. Men boarded on as Emily took one last sight of Clearwater’s port. her last picture of her true happiness.
Jillian
Porting through the universe on a mailman’s salery is not the easiest thing in any world. After all, you barely make ends meet for doing a vital job! How fair is that? Too bad my wife doesn’t agree and thinks I should continue on as I am. Here, with me having a perfectly good job opportunity on Alpha Phi with the Sontaran League! Silly bitch doesn’t see the first thing about good business sense. She does make a mean pie though and there’s a lot to be said about that…
The ships lined the dock, majestic giants with sails swaying in slow motion. Below, the hustle and bustle of the people of all different colors, shapes, and sizes push and shove, shout and laugh.
Aquarius2332
There I sat, eating dinner at a semi-classy restaurant. My table for one, out on the balcony facing the river screamed “LONELY LOSER!” in the faces of all passers-by. I saw other families, smiling and laughing and having a nice time. I saw some soon-to-be-couples, making the first move or reaching out to touch the other’s hand. But there I sat at a restaurant near the port, staring at the sunset and wishing that maybe the softness and shine of the colorful sky will see me, peering from the heavens at the sad existence that is I, and will seep some of its beauty and charm onto me so I may lead its life, too.
I wonder if people can see the longing for this impossible event to happen in my eyes, with my head resting patiently on my hand, my stomach ignoring the salad placed before me. It seems the salad wilts when presented to me. I take no notice. The only things in the world are me and the sky. I urge it to follow my command. I’ve tried coaxing and I’ve tried pressuring, but none came to pass. I sometimes wish I could see me from the outside, so I could find out if I muttered, spoke or even screamed when asking the sky to help a man not worthy. To see from the happy, yet ever so shallow minds what it looks like to glance at a person and immediately define them as “crazy,” “mentally challenged” or more commonly, “special”.
None are true.
I have no mental conditions. I am an otherwise completely normal person, social until the age of twelve. What a scary age that was. Entering a domain not suited for me, where there are so many people that everyone picks and chooses the most important or talented ones and filters out the rest, instead of accepting everybody like in elementary school. In elementary school I had no talent. I was just the kid with all the Tonka trucks, or in 5th grade the one with the coolest pencil. In middle school none of those mattered. I had no talent. I had nothing cool, interesting or special about me. So I was befriended by no one.
I remember the sad days, sitting alone in History class in my all-too-square haircut, puffy vest that my mother insisted I wear, and enormous binder. My teacher would call on me when my hand wasn’t even up. I wanted to respond with a grand answer, but I could usually barely respond with a squeak. I would have been a brain, a geek or a nerd. But instead I was a dip-wad because my handwriting was so illegible and my organizational skills were non-existent, I failed many assignments for either not turning it in on time, losing it in my binder or failure to print clearly.
Many days I would come in to class and my face, after a terrible sunburn, would be red and peeling. And kids, instead of teasing and making fun of me, said nothing of it and avoided eye-contact which stings most of all because (1 I can’t defend myself and (2 I’m being treated like I have disabilities. Like an alien. Like someone who no one would ever be caught DEAD hanging out with.
And that was the other thing. I had NO friends.
I could befriend the jocks because I am skin and bones. I couldn’t befriend the nerds because my grades were terrible. I couldn’t befriend the trouble-makers because I was incredibly shy. I was socially a nobody. And nobody knows nobodies like a nobody.
And that was me.
…dude, can someone comment on this and tell me what they think?? Does it drag on too much?? I don’t know how to write these things, I’M still in middleschool
This makes me think of a sea port, possibly in a nineteenth century British novel. Perhaps the young woman’s love is sailing away from the port. Her dress sways in the wind. Or maybe she and her family are leaving with all of their belongings for a better future. Either scenario is bittersweet. Sweet like port, perhaps?
G
We try to sail away, to be free
But our unfinished masts and unpolished floorboards
weigh us down like anchors,
dragging us into the darkness of the deep
where we’re crushed before we can take a last breath.
“I’ve got to go down to the port, i won’t be long.” she muttered, as she raced out the door, leaving him in a stunned daze. She dashed down the side walk, her superior running skills were coming in handy. She could see it, a man in a trench coat, on the boardwalk. A thin smile spread across her face as she approached the man.
For some reason this makes me think of a porta potty. Those things stink. They are really gross and I hate using them. Especially when they have blue toilet water that stains your skin when you touch it. That has never happened to me. But I have seen it happen to other people. Gross.
Boston harbors and dark blue oceans come to mind when I think of the word port. The salty sea wind is just somewhat bitter yet the breeze calms me and soothes my worries.
I DON’T WANT THIS WORD AGAIN
agh
Ports, like harbors? I’ll go with teleport. SUMMONERS RIFT. YOU’RE A BADDIE. GET DUNK’D. BROSEPHIROTH BROSEPHIROTH I wish people didn’t talk like that. haha.
they sailed in smoothly, the deep rocky water of the harbor far under them. by night the water was dark as wine. as they unloaded their goods – gold from the shores of east africa, heady-smelling blocks of tea from the deep east in canton and cathay, obsidian from the depths of asia. in the night the boxes were put on the dock, in the morning they were gone.
Rugby – for ladies unafraid of blood-filled saliva. Bruises the size of the ball they so desperately tried to grasp hold of as a large lady missing teeth bore down on you. Get some port at half time and you’ll be right – or was that sherry?
Green and grey,
the sea sways silently under the horizon
Holding a scrawled letter
between my ageing fingers
I see the distance I must still travel
I see the future
New Orleans, city with access to the sea. port wine. culture. variety. different ethnicities and languages. four letter word. wish i could go. meet strangers by the sea.
I’ve been to a port once, I think. Boats were there. Boats are cool. I mean, come on, they can take you practically everywhere. A port is kind of like a world like I guess. Who knows where you can go with a little boat on tow.
Reclining to take a quick sip of his tart port, the short, roundish man kicked his feet up to take a quick nap. A quick bout of “shut-eye” as he put it. Little did he know that the place of great things that he had so long wished to behold no longer existed. The world of beautiful women, strong ale, and smooth seas that he had yearned for for so long would never become a reality.
He never opened his eyes again.
My Aunt Ethel used to drink a glass of port everyday! Kept her young I guess. We always smelled it and thought it was too strong – just like the communion wine at church. It was ruby red and she always used the smallest little juice glass.
The ferry ride departed from Plymouth in the south of England. A five hour drive from Harrogate, where we had been living for a few years. I just recall the wind – it was sharp coming off the water. And the ferry trip to France was deliciously harsh. Sun and no heat – just brightness.
At night the French boys were out, and the smell was of fried food, cigarettes and perfume. Such a strange mix. Until you go to the deck. Lashed in the face by salty water. My eyes stung. I loved it. I hung with my face hurting as the blood rushed in, my eyes bulging slightly as I stared at the waves.
to fly through to find your way
a tunnel of transportation
so you can get
some place, some day
a way to fly through time
to travel through space
the type of magic motion
in which you keep faith in grace
is left of the cetre but its whatmy father di to me an given that i”m that kind of person im fraid that ill leave me to its agood drink as well and red im not well read but port is a harbour too from benjamin britten or some other poet who oi cant remember now, its also red nautically
is left of the cetre but its whatmy father di to me an given that i”m that kind of person im fraid that ill leave me to its agood drink as well and red im not well read but port is a harbour too from benjamin britten or some other poet who oi cant remember now, its also red nautically
There’s this opening. This way out into nothingness, into the ocean of forgetfulness and thought where we can loose ourselves. This is this place where it starts. Where we leave eachother. And we are not remembered for long by those here, or there, but we are loved.
port. LOL THIS IS FUNNY CAUSE PORT IS THE RIGHT SIDE OF A BOAT. i was in a boat today. it was raining. the whole time i was thinking about willyum because it was a depressing scene. legs on fire. gorgeous hair.. soaked. absolutely terrible. but then i saw the light. i saw him. my willyum. he made me feel so much better, he made the searing pain in my body bearable. it made me feel.. amazing.
The port on this side of the island was empty, and had been empty for a long time. No ships had graced the rotten wooden planks for perhaps as long as fifty years, and they were beginning to show their age, with green all growing between them and eating away at them. Some had fallen into the water and gave the impression that the port was the broken smile of an old man.
Port reminds me of airport. The last time i went to the airport was to drop off my grandfather after he visited us from poland. I pray every single day it wasn’t the last time i get to see him . He is the only man i have ever trusted.
close to my apartment there is a port. This port is very nice place to spend a evening and jog i the morning.This port is main tourist attraction in Toronto.
She stared onward from the dock where she stood. Across that sea of waving blue velvet, were all her problems. Everything that had haunted her to the point of sleeplessness. Everything that had gripped her heart. Her family. Her love. Her life. She flipped her silky black hair over her shoulder, and turned, a wry smile twisting her lips. With one last glance back, she swayed forward into a car whose passenger door opened promptly. A strong masculine hand reached a hand out, and holding it delicately, she slid into the car.
a place where ships dock and unload cargo
a place where you can plug in things to your computer
a 4 letter word
starts with a p
ends with a t
has or in it
today is where i dock, i am tired i have to rest, not going any further until i rejuvenate what i have lost then to move on to the next phase but knowing where.
The port loomed before us like the statue of liberty. A sign of sure freedom, and comfort. The excitement bubbled up from within me, and i could imagine music playing in the background. two handsome young men ran up to tie up our boat, and my heart beat with joy. I could see boys again! I ran off the boat, taking the last step with a leap as the ladder hadn’t been propped up against the damp side of the boat yet. I stepped onto the firm land, and promptly threw up.
Salt water scrubbed ships pull into the port. It’s hectic, in a fantastic sort of way- traders from overseas unloading boxes of who-knows, merchants hawking their wares, patterned cloth and shiny bits, magic captured in colored glass, it smells like fish and far away.
There was a port where a person meet an octupus. the octopus was rather friendly, not caring a whim in the world. He merely wanted to find his friend the squirll whom he had quarelled with earlier that morning. He wanted to find him and apologize, for he knew he was wrong in his actions
I know the saying about any port in a storm, but choosing to go with Lyle into the den of the enemy just to get away from the forces which had been pursuing me for months might have been an error in judgement.
she lived in a port city. it was a nice little city in the rainy northwest, rather famous to be honest–seattle; it was the home of book nerds, asian nerds, coffee nerds, music nerds, and really just a wonderful little crossroad of lovely lovely nerdiness. pike place market was her favorite; she would visit, almost weekly, to buy cd’s from the street musicians or watch the flying fish “acrobats” or simply sit on the waterfront and watch the boats pass by.
My dear, anyone with a head that large is welcome in my port.
Port angeles, vampires and the taste of corndogs. the smell of the sea and everything that i wish i could see but i’m afraid I never will. Port-al…… to somewhere other than here, not that here’s bad:)
the sound of ships and the smell of salt water and bird business filled Emily as she stepped out of her coach, on her way across the sea to meet her husband to be, whom she’d never met in her life. Well this is it, emily thought, good bye Clearwater, I shall never forget of my fond memories here. Emily paid the coachman and walked across the cobblestone and up the wooden plank on to a large wooden ship. Men boarded on as Emily took one last sight of Clearwater’s port. her last picture of her true happiness.
Porting through the universe on a mailman’s salery is not the easiest thing in any world. After all, you barely make ends meet for doing a vital job! How fair is that? Too bad my wife doesn’t agree and thinks I should continue on as I am. Here, with me having a perfectly good job opportunity on Alpha Phi with the Sontaran League! Silly bitch doesn’t see the first thing about good business sense. She does make a mean pie though and there’s a lot to be said about that…
where am i going? what do i do? i can’t leave. i have to stay. but how? am i just killing myself more and more?
Where is my haven? Across the small waters and big mountains to be sure, but where, over there is my home?
He looked out across the sea. God, his whole life was on the other side of it. His family, his friends. Her.
But now that he thought of it, he was kind of glad.
The ships lined the dock, majestic giants with sails swaying in slow motion. Below, the hustle and bustle of the people of all different colors, shapes, and sizes push and shove, shout and laugh.
There I sat, eating dinner at a semi-classy restaurant. My table for one, out on the balcony facing the river screamed “LONELY LOSER!” in the faces of all passers-by. I saw other families, smiling and laughing and having a nice time. I saw some soon-to-be-couples, making the first move or reaching out to touch the other’s hand. But there I sat at a restaurant near the port, staring at the sunset and wishing that maybe the softness and shine of the colorful sky will see me, peering from the heavens at the sad existence that is I, and will seep some of its beauty and charm onto me so I may lead its life, too.
I wonder if people can see the longing for this impossible event to happen in my eyes, with my head resting patiently on my hand, my stomach ignoring the salad placed before me. It seems the salad wilts when presented to me. I take no notice. The only things in the world are me and the sky. I urge it to follow my command. I’ve tried coaxing and I’ve tried pressuring, but none came to pass. I sometimes wish I could see me from the outside, so I could find out if I muttered, spoke or even screamed when asking the sky to help a man not worthy. To see from the happy, yet ever so shallow minds what it looks like to glance at a person and immediately define them as “crazy,” “mentally challenged” or more commonly, “special”.
None are true.
I have no mental conditions. I am an otherwise completely normal person, social until the age of twelve. What a scary age that was. Entering a domain not suited for me, where there are so many people that everyone picks and chooses the most important or talented ones and filters out the rest, instead of accepting everybody like in elementary school. In elementary school I had no talent. I was just the kid with all the Tonka trucks, or in 5th grade the one with the coolest pencil. In middle school none of those mattered. I had no talent. I had nothing cool, interesting or special about me. So I was befriended by no one.
I remember the sad days, sitting alone in History class in my all-too-square haircut, puffy vest that my mother insisted I wear, and enormous binder. My teacher would call on me when my hand wasn’t even up. I wanted to respond with a grand answer, but I could usually barely respond with a squeak. I would have been a brain, a geek or a nerd. But instead I was a dip-wad because my handwriting was so illegible and my organizational skills were non-existent, I failed many assignments for either not turning it in on time, losing it in my binder or failure to print clearly.
Many days I would come in to class and my face, after a terrible sunburn, would be red and peeling. And kids, instead of teasing and making fun of me, said nothing of it and avoided eye-contact which stings most of all because (1 I can’t defend myself and (2 I’m being treated like I have disabilities. Like an alien. Like someone who no one would ever be caught DEAD hanging out with.
And that was the other thing. I had NO friends.
I could befriend the jocks because I am skin and bones. I couldn’t befriend the nerds because my grades were terrible. I couldn’t befriend the trouble-makers because I was incredibly shy. I was socially a nobody. And nobody knows nobodies like a nobody.
And that was me.
…dude, can someone comment on this and tell me what they think?? Does it drag on too much?? I don’t know how to write these things, I’M still in middleschool
This makes me think of a sea port, possibly in a nineteenth century British novel. Perhaps the young woman’s love is sailing away from the port. Her dress sways in the wind. Or maybe she and her family are leaving with all of their belongings for a better future. Either scenario is bittersweet. Sweet like port, perhaps?
We try to sail away, to be free
But our unfinished masts and unpolished floorboards
weigh us down like anchors,
dragging us into the darkness of the deep
where we’re crushed before we can take a last breath.
“I’ve got to go down to the port, i won’t be long.” she muttered, as she raced out the door, leaving him in a stunned daze. She dashed down the side walk, her superior running skills were coming in handy. She could see it, a man in a trench coat, on the boardwalk. A thin smile spread across her face as she approached the man.