Best Cobbles Poems
T’was flair from the cobbles that drove the loom
with forced hardy sweat they laboured till eve
a family tradition from the womb
with threaded shuttle and reed hook they weave.
The warp the weft that nurtured the blending
the clatter the din the need of lip sync
a marriage of yarns a pattern pending
the huff and the puff with no time to blink.
This place the cornerstone belonged one’s life
town mill chimneys stretching into the clouds
the smog the fog to cut through with a knife
one pence to pay if late due to the crowds.
While in the countryside the manor house
no longer ‘His Grace’ but master with nous.
© Harry J Horsman 2018
CAFE TERRACE AT NIGHT (Van Gogh)
Orbital focus of assured kindness and hospitality
From the waitress in long white apron
Where time stands still for a moment,
Where the golden interior glow of the shelter
Gravitates under the canvas roof and
Permits a little topaz flavor to anoint the cobbled street,
Its dark forbidding geometry of the night,
Its silhouetted shapes of blackened houses
Whose dead windows suggest only a half life,
Whose clock tower suggests the running sands of time,
While dizzying stars, circular orbs of cold white,
Stare unblinking at the colors uncertain
In a neighbourhood of crumbling age,
On the pavement of uncertain difficult cobbles.
The café is not crowded but it is the sun
For the people orbiting its warmth.
Should you venture home, now,
And see the cobbles gone,
Hear the rattle on steel shutters
As the rain falls on and on,
You might as well be leaving
Just the way that you arrived,
For there’s nothing for you here, now,
Nothing has survived.
Should you tread the streets, now,
Between the alien facades,
And puzzle at the structures
In the cul-de-sacs and yards,
You should do yourself a favour,
And turn away into the rain,
For there’s nothing left for you, now,
Nothing to remain.
Should you reach the house, now,
And fail to recognise,
The brickwork and the curtains
And the car parked on the rise,
You really should be going,
From the freshly painted door,
For there’s nothing of your life, now,
Nothing anymore.
Tiny eyelids flutter ...
The orbs beneath, busy with their magical meanderings,
Monochromatic piano keys gently holding up your cherub cheeks.
I wonder, Squeaker, so close to the instrument ...
Do you dream of melody and metre?
Are your tiny legs yet dancing across a whimsical landscape,
Black and white cobbles underfoot -
While marvelous creatures tumble and play for your charms?
Or is it possibility and hope that hammer the strings of your heart?
Oh, my precious and darling little one,
How I pray for your life to be full and fancy!
How I hope that you hear the music of wonder and enchantment ...
The white, shiny tones of joy and love and beauty!
But I wish for you to know the black keys as well,
The sharps and flats of life and love,
The darker and more concerning harmonies ...
Only in moments, but enough so you'll know their importance -
So you'll appreciate the bright melodies all the more,
And learn that it's the balance and delicate interplay of BOTH,
That makes this song, Life, so exquisite - so priceless and amazing!
I wonder, what will your song be, my little one?
What pattern will you follow as you skip atop the keys of life?
Whatever your song, Squeaker, it will be YOURS ...
And it will most certainly be joyous ... and loud!
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Tell Me A Story 2" Poetry Contest
Brenda Chiri, Judge & Sponsor.
The lamp outside my lodgings cut through fog of dirty grey,
I donned my coat and hat ready to start another day.
The sound of hooves on cobbles meant my transport was at hand
I stepped onto the pavement as it pulled up at the stand.
Quick turn of the brass handle, creaky door swung open wide,
a short leap to the footplate and I clambered up inside.
The bench seat buttoned velour, colours fading, rather frayed,
long scratches on the rosewood round the Marquetry inlaid.
We bounced and swung on straps and springs and galloped through the streets,
Side window broken in one corner, letting out the heat.
Outside the Quad I paid my fare and stepped into the cold,
and thought 'how many other Derby cabs are quite that old?'
Inspired by an article in today's local paper regarding the age
and appalling state of some of our local Taxi cabs.
Below within the dwelling deep,
while tumbling in fitful sleep;
the rumble-hum of furnace keep;
the mouse and Cat Lord Bo-peep.
Fluttering lids and labored breath
below within the dwelling deep,
furious dreams do waken sleep
attributes of childhood’s bequeath.
Horrors rise on temporal tides
a stew of insanity bides.
Below within the dwelling deep,
the cat fiddle-screeches life’s weep.
Dali cobbles retinal creeps
the mind dittles and cows moo oon,
The nightmares ending none too soon
below within the dwelling deep.
Chasing stray dreams down the street
I poked my head behind a sheet
It hung there splashing shadows on
The polished cobbles at my feet
I'd learned ago, it was a sign
To indicate the goodies, fine
That lay behind its hidden edge
A market, grand and clandestine
There was no arrow to indicate
No neon flash or spinning gate
Just that blank white tapestry
Known only to the fortunate
You see, I'd been there thrice before
For treasure, and was back for more
The irony was, it always changed
In ways that one could not ignore
So, then ...
Thru the sheet to market stream
To shops with golden goods, agleam
But then my wife's voice from behind ...
"Sweetheart - you're having another dream!"
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "A Hidden Market" Poetry Contest, Julia Ward, Sponsor.
Mary King’s Close
Set underneath the cobbles
Below the Royal Mile
The close is dimly lit
You can visit there awhile
Go back into the past
Explore the narrow wynds
Live the overcrowding
Get inside their minds
Look out for scurrying rats
As they scavenge to survive
A battle of the shrewd
Where rats appear to thrive
See where chamber pots were emptied
Into the streets below
Gardyloo the warning shout
The one you needed to know
Within these city walls
Is where the plague broke out
Death was more than likely
Of that there was no doubt
Many people perished
A horrible painful death
Suffocated and poisoned
To their very end breath
Not all the dead have gone
Some spirits stayed behind
It’s a fact that they are evil
Sinister, they are inclined
If your heart starts racing
Hairs rise upon your neck
A spirit may be lurking
Very slowy - - turn and check
If a spirit you do disturb
To the exit I advise
For these spirits are demonic
Heed my words and be wise
'twas a dark and rainy night as she hurried home after missing the last tram.
She never gave a thought for the mysterious man in the shadows as she passed by.
In a heavy raincoat, his hat pulled down, masking his eyes, he began to follow.
All she heard was the tap, tap, tap of a walking cane coming behind her.
She felt her heart race, looking about for a friendly face, there was no one,
Just the tap, tap, tap of the cane echoing on the cobbled street.
She could see her house, it seemed so far away, she tried not to panic,
Her feet slipping on the rain slicked cobbles as she neared safety.
Tap, tap, tap, it was incessant, driving her half crazy with fear,
Her feet felt like lead, her dry throat strangling the scream that filled her head.
Tap, tap, tap, ever closer, the beads of sweat now stinging her eyes,
Tap, tap, tap, she was shaking and lightheaded, fearing the worst.
She fumbled for her door key, her fingers trembling,
She opened the door and turned on the light in one swift movement.
Tap, tap, tap. It stopped.
Her stomach in knots, she slowly turned to look outside.
" Granddad" , she said, " why didn't you say something?"
Beginning to think of Halloween now.
© Dave Timperley September 2014
Smiling, I cross the facade.
Mottled, the evening violets
wane -- into a subtle fusion
of smoothly muted grays.
A thin sheen of water lies
fallow Upon stone cobbles.
8/28/2016
In Dickensian time
Upon sunset hour
Overshadowing Thames
Is London Tower
Blackened cobble streets
Shimmer in the rain
Big Ben at Westminster
Chimes an eight bells refrain
At Euston Station
A passenger alights
On Platform 3
And enters the caff
for a nice cup of tea
At the local tavern
Behind steamy windows
The opportunists sit
Gleaning local gossip
Ever watchful to ensnare
Any hapless stranger
come wandering there
Covent Garden
still well lit
As lamplighters
carry out their remit
Striding with ladders
about old London town
With a cheery wave
and a purposeful frown
Patrolling policemen
in forbidding places
Echoing footfalls
as boots make paces
A courting couple shelters
under the arches
Oblivious to passerby's
and dray cart horses
A hackney driver cracks his whip
As high stepping hooves
on cobbles clip
From Westminster
stove pipe hatted M.P.s from
parliament sitting
enter a members club
to continue their
political discourses
unremitting
Mudlark urchins ankle deep
in moonshine glow
watch chugging steam boats
along the Thames flow
Billingsgate Market's
straw boated and
stripe aproned men
are found sluicing
with brooms in hand
the blood drenched ground
Along the West End thoroughfares
Come wealthy patrons
in open carriages with lantern flares
wearing evening attire
Bejewelled ladies in fanciful frocks
And around bare shoulders
Stoles of mink and silver fox
They ascend the red carpeted stairs
And look towards the royal box
A pretty young street seller
of violets and roses
with straw basket on hip
proffers up the scented poses
A peasouper fog blankets from
Thames to chimney tops
As a trader hooks his shutters down
Outside his haberdashery shop
Across London Bridge the East End rabble
Trail homeward to Hackney, Bethnal Green
and Whitechapel
From an open pub door
streams a music hall tune
played on an accordion
in a crowded tap room
Wending amongst the walkers
in the Strand
run beggarly children
with outstretched hand.
And......
Charles Dickens
walks the streets
at night
taking note
of every sight.
Let loose the whip
and tighten the lip
with its reasons for humble cause.
And I'm alight in darkened entries
shrugging my shoulders to warm
my picked pockets with another's
shoes.
Burning down the towered clouds
for the gas chamber streets,
why burn the bills
whilst flesh is still flamable?
And the crier rang out silently.
Could only make out the action,
of something she was trying desperately
the reasons of the destraction.
"You're too blind to make out colours
which have mixed to make brown.
Just a human illusion
of light under cover of sound."
The cobbles are disrupted
and yet its just another cup of tea
to watch on with, pathetically.
(after Giosue Carducci)
I dreamed of gentle things. My freshman year,
a room where sun poured in, freedom from books,
the thundering carts on cobbles in the via,
a wreath of sorghum round my neck. To look
out from my window was unbroken joy:
one way those flower-carpeted old hills,
the other, sparkling shoreline: still a boy,
I splashed out on a suit, and shirts with frills!
I'll never know that animal verve again.
I'm sure that glittering sea, those slumbering isles,
were not like now, prosaic. And summer rain,
I swear, on mornings when it caught me, smiled.
Amsterdam.
Calm, gentle.
Cycling, boating, walking.
Tulips, cobbles, bakeries, fresh air.
Eating, drinking, sight-seeing.
Modern, historic.
Holiday.
Gritted pavements chew neath worn sodden soles
Dissipating cardboard inlaid repairs
Gravel chews at my thrice darned old socks
Absorbing trudged blisters weeping despair
This old northerly town of sepia and grey
Drains unborn hope from lowered blank eyes
As winter chills with her misted damp breath
Cobbled streets lay neath smog’s opaque disguise
Worn cobbles pierce thinly veiled tarmac refurb’
Painting generations of Lowry bald souls
The hoop and the football once soul of the streets
Replaced by generations that queue for their dole
Chiselled grey faces reminisce past Jarrow march
Regional poverty plants roots in the north
Black and white photos of stretched terraced slums
Slip through time and with modern streets morph
Factories boarded, silhouettes stripped of their roofs
Deliberate was felt this themed disrepair
Shadows of hope eroded within misted times grey
Monotony a communities subconscious despair
Yet this is my home, still my dirty old town
Whining milk carts, belched thick diesel fumes
The scented soot coughed from open slack fires
Cradles and frames this, my northerly womb