Best Suburb Poems
He told me he loved me.
It was winter and snowing.
We walked on the street.
In a suburb, what a treat.
Houses aglow, Rudolph outside.
I wanted Santa there to go
for a sky ride.
Mom had her pink flocked
tree in our bay window glowing.
He kissed me then, I hoped
my blushing was not showing.
That does seem, like centuries
ago.
That innocent kiss, so blessed
by the snow!
It was so crystalline and pure
as were we.
Kissing so sweetly,in front of
Mom's pink tree.
The years are gone, so is my
Mother, like her!
Oh.no, there shall never be
another.
God, eventually, calls us to our
eternal home.
Where happiness and peace do exist
and we never want to roam!
4/29/2021
The Merry Minstrel of Mickleover
I strike this chord without a sword
For I am not so brave
Whence came a knight with armour bright
Who vowed princess to save
The wicked sire of the shire
Had seen well to kidnap
The daughter of the king and bring
Much wealth into his lap
Handsome he thought the ransom
The king was sure to pay
For fear his precious princess dear
The wicked sire would slay
From his abode the knight he rode
Through wind and rain and storm
O’er hill and dale and muddy trail
His quest to keep him warm
The castle wall it looked so tall
Impregnable in height
Banged on the door and yet once more
His iron fist with might
The surly sire quoths to enquire
“Who raps upon my door”
“Tis mystery, now set her free
Or death you’ll lay before”
With lunge and slash with swords they clash
Upon the open plain
Died his desire there in the mire
As evil sire is slain
The princess freed from needless greed
Sort knight to gift reward
“Place in my hand just thine hair band
If this please thy accord”
( The minstrels song lived large and long
Was sung all o’er the land
Where ‘ere he been could still be seen
Rebec ‘dorned with blue band )
Rebec; A medaeval violin type instrument
Mickleover; A village in Derbyshire, England
Though now a suburb of the City of Derby
The residents still refer to it as ‘The Village’
For Medaeval Idealism Contest
Sponsor, Isaiah Zerbst
Sue and I had lost contact when we left school and the Dominican Convent,
Met up ten years later, admitted both of us foolish, each nodded consent,
Had coffee, agreed to meet often, lived in Cape Town, merely a suburb apart,
Both happy with our villas, loved our homes, the Cape so stylish and smart.
She invited me to her home for a braai with her family this coming Sunday,
The door was open, I went in, is that you Jenn, I’ve got to look good today,
Mother-in-law coming, do come up, but what took you so long coming upstairs,
I met an old man, we chatted a while, what a sweetie, said his name was Zairs
Who, she asked me in disbelief, Zairs, impossible, loved to play musical chairs, He told me, is it your dad, Sue,you look alike, spoke of you and how he cares,
But you’ve gone pale as if you’ve seen a ghost, why are you so terribly upset,
Jenn, dad died years ago, seems he got lost, confused, but glad you two met.
Contest entry:One in Five 2 Poetry Contest
A Ghost story
Sponsor: Joseph May
Dated; 26th July 2022
Lovely
In deep woods, so verdant, quiet and still,
below the sun where bravely hawks do fly,
you’ll find a county spot called Owings Mills,
a suburb born beneath the Maryland sky.
Sweet doe pop their big eyes in headlights glare,
and maybe a huge stag will grace your path.
Escape from city smog and breathe fresh air,
to swim, play tennis, walk or just plain laugh.
Condos, town homes, single family choice,
ranked 49 in U.S. spots to stay.
A place of people with an active voice.
Home where the Ravens practice how to play.
This land that's rich in streams and little hills,
makes rustic scene in lovely Owings Mills.
12/29/16
Sonnet about where I live
In a California suburb she sits,
Pondering to go on with her writs!
All seem pointless to her now.
Even though~to her family she
made a vow!
To leave them a heritage of her life.
The happiness, sorrow, pain and strife.
Perhaps major surgery in November,
Made this vow, to her poetry vow
not remember?
She sighs, softly in the Spring starlight.
Recalling her early days here, so bright!
When she penned with happiness!
Greeted by others, cheering her success.
The road to being a good poet seems so long.
And poetry seems life’s forever Spring song!
It is an adventure, like doing a figure-eight!
On this mellow, starlit night, it is her fate!
The clock moved the velvet of her heart.
Its hands opening her rainbowed,glowing parts!
4-12-2022
Words,
too many words,
superfluous and useless.
They bind you in a swirling vortex,
drown you in inconsequential thoughtlessness.
Oh for a few moments of supreme silence,
in some secluded space,
where you might not even hear
the wayward wind comes and goes.
A quiet nook, devoid of insane noise,
You then can walk with God.
For even when He became man,
He looked for silent places,
high up on the lofty mountain tops.
So my sinful superficial soul aspires
for that empty sound of the suburb soul,
a liveable lullaby of paradoxical peace,
where the warring world is shut out
There I will find a small cosy corner
where I can meet and talk to God,
my rendezvous with my beloved Lord.
“There is no death! What seems so is transition;
this life of mortal breath is but a suburb of the life elysian,
whose portal we call Death.”
-Henry W. Longfellow
A single tick in time, that’s all
our life on earth is meant to be,
but souls transcend upon death’s call
while lifting up, God’s face to see,
and lasting an eternity.
“I believe there are two sides to the phenomenon known as death,
this side where we live, and the other side where we shall continue to live.
Eternity does not start with death. We are in eternity now.”
-Norman Vincent Peale
August 26, 2019
1. Valsa (means in our language 'loved' or 'dear')
2. I rate myself as sincere, humble, compassionate and conscientious
3. I am the proud Mother of two sons-Thomas and George
4. I long for peace, wish to have strong family ties and keep a child- like
fasciation for flowers, often getting lost in natural beauty.
5. I feel saddened by the pain of the less privileged and those stricken with
misfortune, find joy in the company of friends and keep a grateful heart for
God’s blessings.
6. I fear most, the ill health of the family members, disruption of family ties and
unexpected natural calamities that plunge many into misery.
7. I live in a suburb of Ernakulam in the state of Kerala, India
8. George
When days become messy with problems rife,
He helps me learn how to savor life.
He stays as a pillar by my side in all my strife.
I am ever content to be his adoring wife.
I hail each bronze, red, and blue coloured dawn,
as pulsing heart mould torch flame of bliss,
to gaze across some awestruck mint sprig lawn,
that golden birthright never goes amiss
Eye beam urban verve one duly savours,
coruscating joie de vivre street life,
bursts of swift dash coffee’s hazel flavours,
cell-phone upbeat day ahead hubbub rife
Blue robin high pitch chirp from chimney top,
sets the tone for morning wonders brightly,
activate those spark prompt hunches nonstop,
schedules met in narrow windows tightly
In suburb or in city centre fair,
skies and pavements segue with deft flourish,
your dreamland ticket ace broad daylight flair,
groundbreaking spurt fantastic, let us nourish
Dynamic itch to stray amid blind alley,
lurk within some parboiled notion latent,
steel clad zone that mosaic sculpted tally,
animated focus me the claimant
Today I'm learning the name
of war refugee camps,
in Congo, Rwanda, Palestine, Lebanon,
Turkey, Syria, Yemen, you name it,
and the children who play hide and seek
in charred automobiles, shivering in cold
and starvation behind the barb wires, thanking
the good Samaritans clothed in peace.
Today I'm signing Lennon's Imagine,
imagining those children swapping their places
even for a day, with your rich suburb kids
whose fathers profit from arms, to see them
recruited as child soldiers, putting their war game skills
to good use.
Today I'm laying siege to warmongers and their kins
who love peace and practice war, the true artisans of
hypocrisy.
Written: September 25, 2023
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In the depth of night, we gathered as one,
With eyes akin to a tiger, fierce and undone
The night itself, a canvas, poetry unbound,
Diction, akin to skyscrapers, soar as sound.
The moon and stars danced in verse.
A cosmos in every window spells obverse.
We gazed in awe at the grandeur we wove.
A suburb of the lexicon, a testament to love
Some of us were clad in cold-weather gear.
Others have palms and hearts full of cheer.
But, in a stupor, we all wore thrilled cloaks.
Words painted universes with each stroke.
Where are you, poets of the seas and air?
A word may soar hills and dive with no care.
I'll cherish them close to my delicate heart.
Endure in the city of words; never depart.
In the depth of the night, we saw your light.
A beacon of verity, blazing ever so bright.
Together, we gathered, souls entwined high.
Bound by the power of words, we decry.
You, poets of oceans, of the untamed,
Verses are akin to waves, ever unchained.
In the quiet night, we still hear your voice.
Echoing through the depth, giving us choice.
I'll dwell in your spoken city of dreams.
Here stories are told, and the heart gleams.
I decry peace and comfort in your poetry.
A wonderful escape, yet a haven of flattery
As long as I breathe, words I'll embrace,
In this heavenly glamor, a timeless space
In the depth of night, we gathered as one.
I was enthralled by the mysteries you spun.
You captivated us with your ferocious gaze.
At the same moment, everything was ablaze.
Our poetry reached skyscraper-like highs.
Seeking to reach for the stars in dark skies.
If you are not from the area, you probably don’t know
about this town which is a suburb of Chicago.
It is located to the southwest of the Windy City.
With Morgan Park, it shares its northern boundary.
Blue Island thrives in the heart of Cook County.
The people who live there are proud of this little city.
The town has a long and interesting history.
Due to the discovery of rich deposits of clay,
Blue Island produced tons of bricks in an earlier day.
There is something most people don’t understand.
The village is neither blue, nor is it an island.
However, this spot is bountiful with a lot to give.
Blue Island continues to be a great town to live.
I thank wikipedia.org online encyclopedia for information I obtained to write this poem.
He's an urban redneck
Likes his George and Madflex
He's country and what's next
Metropolis with crops
From barn to the city
Farming in the nitty-gritty
He's surrounded by concrete
Too many suburb plots
Sticking to dirt past
Agricultural for the future
He's certain who are unsure
Aware of hidden costs
Plowing his own stake
And modern, make no mistake
He's in tune to the horizon
Up until he drops off
Where I was Born
by Bob Moore (c) 2017
I am a product of where I was born
long ago on a cold winter’s morn
my father and mother are part of me,
and their loving faces, I still can see
The sky was often dark and grey,
but that could never stop our play
we’d be outside in rain and snow,
play football, or any game you know
Lancashire my county, of hills and dales,
I’d ramble the Pennines, and camp in Wales
Manchester the city, was home to me
and Gorton the suburb, where I would run free
With Belle Vue Speedway, and Circus too
this was the life, that we all knew
it’s where we thought we’d spend our life
have a job, and children, and find a wife
My school, my friends, not far from home
never thought one day, we would roam
across the world, to another land
on a ship where we were treated grand
To a place of sunshine, and sandy shores
look out Australia, here come the Moore’s
we’ll make our fortune, then leave for home
and never again will we have to roam
But years went by, and we stayed here
got used to the sun, and the ice cold beer
became an Aussie, the certificate says
but kept many of my English ways
At least that’s what my friends will say
and even my family, think that way
but they understand, with pride it is worn
this being a product, of where I was born
Sexually Gamble
nookie
bookie
Hangover in the Suburb
alcoholic
bucolic
Just trying something different