Best Cupola Poems
Shrub leaves lie curled in the dormant yard;
Trees shiver in their nakedness
As a crisp autumn wind exhales
Into the barren night sky.
On the corner of Walnut and Maple,
The Old Crowder House fights for breath--
Creaking and moaning with age and neglect;
Too decrepit to shelter life beyond a few strays.
There in the cupola she sits
In the long forgotten platform rocker,
Watching the child parade with eager longing
As they wander from house to house.
Will one look up to give her a smile?
Will they even notice her there in her chair
Rocking, as she has done for a lifetime or two
Mourning the loss of her own?
She hears a child's cry echo through the night
And notices a boy clinging to his mother.
Does he see me? Will I finally be released?
Alas, it's just the cats and startled birds.
And so she sits. Waiting and Rocking;
Rocking and Waiting for that magic night,
When the hallow spirits sing and dance
Under a barren sky as the cool winds exhale,
And the marchers of the child parade
Finally, look up and notice the wraith
Longing for a child's smile,
As they pass on their way to the next treat.
Jsc
October 17, 2004
On the wind-swept Nebraska prairie sits a building in wretched shambles,
Surrounded by a sagging fence and overgrown with prickly brambles.
It was once a bustling one-room school house, abandoned long ago.
Its weather-beaten clapboards, I judged to be a century old or so.
Atop its cupola, swaying listlessly in the wind, was a rusted weather vane.
Eerily, at the whim of the wind, the school bell still tolled now and again.
Two ancient oak trees stood sentinel seeming to provide a guard,
To ensure that trespassers like me would value its past with high regard.
I warily opened the door, its rusty hinges protesting, to take a look inside.
Mice skittered across the dusty floor and cobwebs I had to brush aside.
There were well-worn desks, a blackboard and pot-bellied stove for heat.
To muse about its past and the ghosts of scholars of yore, I took a seat.
I pictured the schoolmarm who taught readin', writin' and basic math,
Who struggled to maintain order with imps who suffered her fearful wrath!
Little girls looked so prim in their pinafores and gingham frocks;
The boys wore knickers, buckled boots and gaudy argyle socks!
I could hear the droning recitations of pupils whose attention would digress,
To the ticking of the school clock anticipating the merriment of recess!
I noted relief on the teacher's face when at last the kids were released.
I sensed that she felt she had been nurturing a horde of wild beasts!
Night bring terrible memories,
shadows of yesteryears,
it takes my breath away
in fears, anguish and hell.
An ugly wolf runs after me
as I slither in the mud
heart beats burst my chest with pains.
Please take away those forces
that rumble in my midriff
driving me crazy with dread.
I cannot cry, I can only pray
that dawn arrives
with its damask cupola
when stars fade away
and the moon hides its face in shame.
Why is the break of day so far away?
I lie numb on the settee
Perspiration running down my cheeks.
I skate near life's edge
I try to grab a lifeline,
find only puffs of hot dry air.
And time goes by so slowly,
pain like the claws of an eagle
squash my soul of its life.
No, I will not cry, I will only pray.
Dear God, thanks,
You've given me a new day.
Where have all the cabooses gone,
Red slab sided, cupola, curved roof,
Friendly stove pipe hat, every kids wish,
Moveable tree house clickety-clacking
Cozily rolling across America
Snappy visored cap, brass buttons
Blue coat, wind whipped leaning out
One hand on the stanchion
Waving an all clear lantern, nights shining arc
Then crack, all along the line each
Snapping to attention each car in its turn
With a rattle rattle, huff and puff
Away it roars into childhood.
A memory of something important,
Those years gone like borrowed money
And now the dollars have all been spent
But the secret stays in the heart An ancient fondness now focused
A connection across the years
Tears and a smile for that railroad boy
Where have all the cabooses gone,
Red slab sided, cupola, curved roof,
Friendly stove pipe hat, every kids wish,
Moveable tree house clickety-clacking
Cozily rolling across America
Snappy visored cap, brass buttons
Blue coat, wind whipped leaning out
One hand on the stanchion
Waving an all clear lantern, nights shining arc
Then crack, all along the line each
Snapping to attention each car in its turn
With a rattle rattle, huff and puff
Away it roars into childhood.
A memory of something important,
An ancient fondness now focused
A connection across the years
A tear, a smile for that railroading boy
Those years lavished, gone borrowed money
And now the dollars have all been spent
But the secret stays in the heart of hearts.
Oh, I wish to go back to those days,
To see the world for the first time,
In all its glory, the glory of a life yet to live.
SAVIOUR CHURCH, GRIBOYEDOVA CANAL, ST. PETERSBURG
In defiance of its Soviet museum-death
Reflected in water moved by God’s breath
The five-domed Saviour church gives
Hope, for its bulbous gold dome yet lives
Silent spheres sing of new life glowing
With gold-edged scales reflecting, showing
In watery swaying flashes
Like shoals of precious trembling fishes
Each scalloped wavelet free of bondage
A floating rocking hollow image
Each preserving part of dome
Like cell-life survivors, seeking home,
Always dividing, always merging,
A breath behind them always urging
Each insubstantial golden sliver,
This restless gilt amoeba-river.
Passing boat’s wake - the song of cupola,
The surface is alive from passing gondola
Shimmering millioned changing shapes
Countless gold-coin waterscapes
Myriad miracles – smithereens of gilt -
Tremulous treasure, shining spilt
Water calms from images manifold
To cells quiescent, edged in gold.
They coalesce. From many are spun one
Music of the sphere living in the sun
Of God’s golden dome - museum dead -
By the life-giving saviour water of canal fed.
.............................................................
Note.
Ever watched how a reflection of a church or other object in moving water produces small swirling part-images, each undefined but still clearly part of the object's image? It's fascinating.
I planted this garden to enjoy.
Photosynthesis comes from the sun.
The white orchids set to the east.
The daffodils are astray.
The roses are a spread on a rack.
The tulips and morning glory are in a flowerbed.
I am relishing nature this year.
I planted these gardens to enjoy.
I sit in my cupola thinking about, therapeutically writing poetry, and reading aloud.
Behind this belvedere are a plot of mustard greens, tomatoes, carrots, and cucumbers.
The radiant energy celestially augments the vegetation.
The foliage is an architectural beautification.
These gardens were planted to enjoy.
No qualms I have, thus far.
I am truly adorned.
____________________|
Penned on May 02, 2014!
What's in your GARDEN? Contest
Crooner one on one aloft the cupola
Accolade acappella acappella
Mr. chicken echoes a road island rue
Hound dog cryin all the time
should a caught a possum
Then I wouldn’t be blue
A barney king dressed to the tooth
singing jail house rock monomania
A mano a mano swinging by his a marsupial grin
Jail house bird echoes a road island rue
Hound dog cryin all the time
Should a caught a possum
Then I wouldn’t be blue
\
For Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen poem contest theme on chickens Armano Aurocano Rock Star
A cupola shin, prickly dick creed, hoary
testes tossed, master baiting ova all eel trades
crossed the fecund Rubicon and ejaculated
olly olly oxen yawping, in utero seminal raids
with phallic coup d’etat that buck came vasocongested spades
lit torch, where hello kitty Ernst lee screeched
amidst Grafenberg tit parades
bumping uglies during four nuke key eight ting game
where pinkish puckered two lips viz biological
Russian roulette played – birth control relegated as desuetude
hotly contested fee conned, caved heat seminal blitzkrieg overlaid
bilging swamped,
whence olds eye goat ruff fused exiting nightshade
shy ham mull in, and gave way to blast ta cyst
vis a visa viz biological fertilization qua two plump milkmaids
from inchoate seeds juiced beginning
to compress bladder re: lemonades
per diem mother via umbilical cord fueling gestation,
where sonogram shows faint genetic threnody skein
perchance manifold jades
nope – no fallacy when peppy thrust with sucks esse full feint
after thwarting objection against skin flute charmed thence invades
which begot conception from chromosomal traits stitched
via jean S, and her faction of trumpeting handmaids
whose fecund ditty began to feel swell as biological reproduction
showed no uterine back grades
as Tabula rasa In utero endured fusillades per what mother tubby ingested
sustenance promulgated noticeable womb dar full expansion fusillades
of nutriments ordaining future health of progeny
riddling endless questions within the gallimaufry
discombobulated mental, physical fatigue enfilades
and spiritual state of momma me ya in tha family way, whereby baby blueprint an outcome as nano sized atomic bombshells scoured decades
to determine the ontological makeup from when the fluid dynamics
spelling impregnation since time immemorial and into the future cascades
artfully concatenating eminent grise immaculate kindred laminated with waxy substance i.e. vernix, though smooth
doth serve analogous to microscopic switch-blades.
Disappearing like the straggling stars
of morning, all the discontent of winter
fades before the multifarious data
streaming from the light-filled cupola above.
It funnels into every mind, resisted only
by that most persistent ignorance
selected with our daily bread.
There are those few incisive revelers
who celebrate the windows in the cupola,
who love the vastness of a universe
gone strange. They are the ones who
stand apart from all the marionettes
who feed on green reward,
who dance among the pleasure domes
of Kublai Kahn.
How strange, indeed, to make a choice
that spites the madding crowd,
that takes a curious joy from any
sober judgment by the hound of heaven--
that kindly beast who leads
where multitudes decline to follow.
That is the course of neverland,
the beat of saints and of angelic hosts
of art yet to be shaped,
of philosophic insight yet too far advanced
to understand.
All right. It is too much of fantasy.
Some work remains, even to speculate
that such romance could ever be desired,
beyond the carmelcorn, the Croesis fellowship,
the manufactured lusts.
For there are the ingredients to feed the soul.
Just behind those lavish windows lies
not only consolation, but
the challenge of a paradise that offers up
its heart within the mine
to every prospecter for truth.
~
A great snowy owl
Sat on a cupola
Looking wise
But undoubtedly thinking of mice
Who might be down under the barn
To come out to be devoured
He had flown in from the far north
So large and commanding a bird
Hundreds came daily to gape
His head swiveled
His eyes were astonishing
His silence complete
At the Preakness, horses race;
The crowd is quite excited.
After winners are declared,
Observers are invited
To witness a tradition
Which, since nineteen hundred nine
Has been special to all racing fans
And cool in its design.
See, atop the Members’ Clubhouse,
A historic weather vane
Of a horse and jockey waits there
For the colors it will claim.
Lawrence Jones, the current painter
(At his job since ‘88)
Climbs a ladder to the cupola
To bring things up to date.
He applies the owner’s colors,
Which the winning jockey’s worn,
On the weather vane to show the world
A champion’s been born.
So today, for Cloud Computing,
(That’s the winning horse’s name)
Red and white have just been painted,
Horse and owner’s claim to fame.
Mop Woman
Near dwarf this woman.
Foreign born. Minsk,
perhaps. Nose
a fist. Hair
a whisk broom
only black. Her back
an Orthodox cupola,
her arms braids of gym rope
lowered to the floor.
Orangutans could climb
those ropes, hand
over hand, no rose
no purple
doughnuts
on their hinds.
Near dwarf this woman.
Foreign born. Minsk,
perhaps.
Her hands, all gristle,
hang an inch, no more,
above her shining floor.
Donal Mahoney
Suddenly everybody was awaken by the strong tremors
of the early April's earthquake...walls falling all around them,
dust suffocating them as they ran out to the debris-covered streets;
with no slippers and shoes on their cold feet;
people of all ages with their robes and pajamas on...screaming,
running scared with horror-stricken faces, not wanting
to be buried alive and actually die in the rubble!
L'aquila, the mighty, has crumbled into the dust,
and by the dauntless spirit of its people, it must be rebuilt:
as it arose from destruction and returned to dazzle;
the earthquakes that preceded were unpredictable,
but this one was announced by a concerned scientist,
who warned of the disaster, but authorities ridiculed him and didn't heed
the warning, but rather called him an imbecile!
O L'aquila, unless your bells hadn't rung, not everyone could have been told!
This medieval town of L'Aquila was besieged by armies,
but they never conquered it and its invincibility angered its enemies;
now, it is crumbling, shaken by the fury of the inclement Nature;
devastation is seen everywhere: churches with a toppled bell tower
or cupola...castles and historic buildings heavily damaged;
corpses strewn along the dusty streets...people searching for survivors:
digging with their bare hands to save lives, and some are found alive!
O L'Aquila, highest eagle on this devastated hill, see all the tears shed!
A dog, limping and bleeding, seems lost among dusty stones and faces not so recognizable,
is he looking for his owner; and over two-hundred fifty bodies not yet excavated...
how can he find him? By Heaven's mercy, someone lead him to the piles of rubble,
to let him sniff in the spot where he is buried...hoping he'll be alive, not dead!
And why should everyone despair?...Isn't life worthier than those lost art treasures?
L'Aquila, the mighty, has crumbled into the dust and light is erased from the taciturn sky;
I weep like others, and my lamentation echoes in the doomed valley when peace was audible!
O L'aquila, more glory awaits you: arise from the ruins and your greatness won't fade away!
This poem is dedicated to the unfortunate people of L'aquila and those of the surrounding
villages that were devastated by the earthquake of early April.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Love you're
the first
lighthouse
with a bright beacon
that shines across
this ocean
Carved into foundations
chiseled within emotions
plastered covered feelings
etched in stone
Climbing each step
a winding staircase
one skyscraper
heading towards
the Heaven's
A lofty
tower built
standing tallest
rising from
out of the ground
one kingdom
White stone faced
marble blocks
cemented with
lead mortar
bonded together
Upon the Cupola
a great
fire burns
lighting across,
the ocean
warmly carrying
for miles
one curved
mirrored soul
searching waters
Lights into
a hot beam
setting this ship
on passions fire
desire in this ocean
swimming remains
the wonder
of you
A torso
of one woman
living in
the heart
Beating drums
within this deep
blue sea
trembles hotly
ablaze on fire
Loving until
the end
of time
sealed with
800 hundred
gold kisses
a wonderful treasure
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
lighthouse of Alexander one wonder
800 TALENTS equal to 3 million in today's money to build
cupola is where the light burned
stories were told that the light could burn approaching ships
first lighthouse a skyscraper
Ptolemy 11 carved his inscription into the foundations then covered it with plaster
built with marble stone faced blocks bedded in lead plaster
a large curved mirror of polished bronze projected the fires light into a beam also said to be a weapon when concentrated with the sun setting ships ablaze some distance away
could also be used as a mirror that magnified images in the distance