Long Church tower Poems
Long Church tower Poems. Below are the most popular long Church tower by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Church tower poems by poem length and keyword.
The bell of the high church tower
Rings every hour
The sound echoes with power
As in the skies shooting stars shower
Beyond the castle wall
There is suffering of a lonely soul
The chestnuts fall like hail this fall
And leaves autumn paints in colors beyond all control
The young man was riding the road map did chart
But on the way there he got shot with a poison arrow through his heart
His father was to be next baron but political rivals decided to get rid of upstart
To send a message they killed his son by paying off the local blackheart
In the churchyard his love waited patiently
But meeting between them was not to be
Unsure why breaking the promise was he
She knew that their togetherness was destiny
Her lips were inviting crimson red
But her deep eyes were sad after tears they began to shed
When she found out that her love was dead
She lost her head
She prayed to the God to bring her love back
She begged the God until of time she lost track
Trying to pierce nothingness with her eyes she stared into black
But what is once gone from this world it cannot backtrack
As she looked at the cross she begged first then threatened with violence
But in return she heard only silence
The cross was made of gold showing its brilliance
But yield no answer to her grievance
When she talked to the priest he would tell
That if she continued to be angry she would go to hell
Since he was on payroll of political party he would also tell
That her lover would go to hell as well
First furious then crying of tears sea
Then she thought that maybe that was her destiny
Then to grant her wish heavens would agree
But rather then bring the love back they told her to look at world’s beauty
The reason was so it she would not forget when she ventured to the skies
Beyond second place where the out world lies
For the Gods joined the couple together not where soul goes when it dies
But rather to final fundamental place to be the king and queen of the very skies
The portal to the seventh skies
Was through the girl’s enchanting deep eyes
The beauty that never dies
The abyss of wonder and the gate to highest heaven in those eyes would arise
I've wandered many islands,
Seen countless shades of blue.
But none compare, my friends, to where
The glass and lace ring true.
Let me paint you a picture,
Of Murano's fiery art,
And Burano's rainbow houses,
That set these isles apart.
Murano's furnaces blazing,
Glass maestros at their craft.
Molten sand transformed into beauty,
With every skilful draft.
The clink of cooling crystals,
A melody so clear.
Chandeliers and figurines,
Fragile art appears.
In Burano, colours dancing,
On every house and street.
A painter's palette comes to life,
Where sky and water meet.
Lacemakers' fingers flying,
Creating intricate dreams.
Their needles flash like lightning,
Stitching stories at the seams.
The canals reflect the hues,
Of houses standing tall.
A kaleidoscope of wonder,
Enchanting one and all.
Fishermen's boats bob gently,
In waters calm and still.
Their nets full of the day's catch,
The air with salt air fills.
The church tower leans so slightly,
A guardian of time.
Watching over coloured houses,
In this land so sublime.
Tourists wander, cameras clicking,
To capture every sight.
In this magical lagoon world,
Bathed in Venetian light.
As day fades into twilight,
The islands slowly sleep.
But their beauty keeps on glowing,
A memory to keep.
So when you're seeking wonder,
And your heart yearns to roam,
Remember Murano and Burano,
Where art and colour call home.
In glass and lace and painted walls,
These isles have cast their spell.
A testament to human craft,
And nature's beauty as well.
So let the world keep turning,
But pause here for a while,
Where Murano's glass keeps burning,
And Burano's colours smile.
Cameras snap on the last action tourists trap
As shutters flash, bullets fly by respectfully
Go past Sunday services at high velocity
Stain glass windows stay intact
Some one falls from the high church tower
Assisted by gravity, a force of nature at work
A push out a window from a stranger works as well
Even better, since it brings a man to his senses
In a splat, a stain on the pavement
Obsequious to that end to make a mark
On the square, over a glass of cold fresh brew
A hit man, this time, does not miss his mark
The story, like the beer, is delicious this time of year
Robbery is also good to attract new business
Loaded guns must bow to authority
To conduct commerce on the streets
Ammo leaves chambers only by permission
Empty, safe and sound as ordinances intend
Approved by law enforcement
There is no end to city limits
Tourists are the center of attraction
Our aim is to aim at them
Credit the Chamber of Commerce
They do business the old fashioned way
At the end of the barrel of a gun
Emptied chambers make more profits
Bullets don't pay taxes
He mounted his horse impatient to ride,
With silver spurs and a heavy stride;
The clatter of hooves on the cobblestone street,
Flew on limbs so swift and fleet.
The moon rose above the copse on the hill,
Casting dark shadows gloomy and still;
The clock chimed twelve in the village square,
As he rode through the land shrouded and bare.
The toll of the bell in the stone church tower,
Rings long and loud at the midnight hour.
The moon rose above the graves on the hill,
Casting dark shadows dim and still;
Beneath the churchyard lay those who died,
But still he rode with measured stride.
A glimmer of light from the belfry's height,
Pierces the gloom of the cold dark night;
As he leans in the saddle with reigns in hand,
With flying feet he gallops over the land;
Ride up the hill and down in the dale,
His cape flying in the wind like a serpent's tail;
He rode his horse faster and fleet,
With sparks flying out from under his feet;
And people rose from their beds to listen and heed,
Of the footfall of rider and his gallant steed.
The Roundel
From the top of the staircase
the sun shines through
an oval stained-glass window,
spreading slow, blush-rose
over footworn, blue-veined Carrara.
Set high in the wall a white star
against a blood-red sea
and through the red panes,
and rippling as though dipped
in blood itself,
a glimpse of church tower
shimmering with the sound
of drowning bells:
Malta in a roundel.
Margaret Clerici
from "Glass: Glimpses of Malta"
A perfect evening sky full of stars and
a bright, translucent crescent moon.
Hung like a blanket over the tree
filled mountain tops, bursting
in bloom.
The hillside is silently lazy with the
cast of yellow foliage smiling at
the glare of a perfect night.
Small embers sift through the windows
adorned with flickering light.
A quite little town sits in the valley
below. Everyone at home, near the
fire's glow.
Welcoming all the people,
in the distance a church tower is standing tall.
A cross atop it's steeple,
the warm feeling of come one, come all.
I am here on a blanket, kneeling on my knees,
watching the spruce trees as tall as the sky,
swaying in the peaceful, light breeze.
What a beautiful sight as I stare at the heavens
above. A wonderfully lit night,
painted by the angels with love.
The day of two superpowers
Passing white clouds amidst blue skies
Heaven's sprinkling blesseth showers
Turquoise blue lagoon compromise
Surface inviting raindrop scours
Lush influence by butterflies
Delicate petals of flowers
Redolent coercion complies
Defining times Happiest Hours
The mother of the bride still cries
The bride end days of wallflower's
The daddy's sentimentalize
The proud bridegroom man of the hour
Exchanging vows and sharing eyes
The rings, kiss, bell tolls church tower
Engagement ends and new arise
Family, balance of power
Garter and bouquet caught, surprise
Then culminating, zero hour.
bells
from edges of my dreams
a morning chorus
begins softly.
in the forest meadow
a slow plodding rhythm
sways closer,
brings
recognition.
cow bell’s,
their tinny clunk made more melodious,
all harshness trapped
among the evergreen branches
on bedewed trees.
Hick’s cows, their udders full,
seek relief from the soft handed girl
who waits at the gate
their music is joined
by the bell from
the old Anglican church tower
perched on the hill behind the barn,
it shyly peel’s out a message.
both sounds intertwine, ascend
flow over still somnolent water,
not even the fish are jumping yet,
the heavenly praise loses it self
in the primeval woods.
Sunday bells
early summer morning
Inglesby Bay.
Cameras snap the last actions as tourists flash
Bullets fly by at respective velocities in streets
As dark humor goes out the window in Bruges
Some one falls from the high church tower
Assisted by gravity, a force of nature works well
A push from a stranger works even better
To bring him to his senses, obsequious to that end
A splat, a stain on the pavement below, where else
On the square, over a glass, a sampling of fresh brew
A hit man, this time, does not miss his mark
The story, like the beer, is delicious this time of year
Authors Note: The film named “In Bruges” (Who would do such a thing?) is a gem of a movie.
Colin Farrell, (eye brows and all), stars with Brendan Gleeson and Ralph Fiennes. A must see.
the story goes
that convicted criminals crossing from court to prison
to be executed
or locked away in dank windowless cells
received one last look at the world--
from the bridge's portals facing the sea
where against Agian skies
sails slipped silently past
San Giorgio's doms and its tall tower
a million breaths
wisped away on the wind
fluttered softly to the water--
such a beautiful place
again to never see
forever more to leave
not one sigh stifled--
now, I upon that bridge
drink all that I can see
for whatever I've left
twenty--thirty
before eternity
I sigh
every day
every picture
every poem