Long Cobble Poems
Long Cobble Poems. Below are the most popular long Cobble by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cobble poems by poem length and keyword.
New poem/Emanciated Pigeon:
Gypsy Queen silent king keep your city clean
The fortune of cats eye red Enjoying life on Mars
Burning oil blackened tires sweaty palms
Charging full speed trying to lose the truth
Let's go Light show I'am in no rush just collecting memories
Twilight forever changing scenes cobble sidewalks silent highways
Born upon this world a sentence to search for absence of death
Heaven and Hell and my bicycle that someone stole
skin deep
Exposed sensation
deep In trenches of a spongy generation
I don;t hear the dreams and promises of a worn out car
Have to file my chains and ask the man why i'am paying for chance of richness and everything under the sun
No better time don't rewind just be the robot you never were
The magic and the witches can only prove appeal
Never give up a fight no matter how small
Its worth a lifetime even to find out you was wrong
Italia we strolled the country side throughout
the villages of Tuscany peeking through stone
ways above garden nooks of Puglia catering to
the soft and sensual galleries of floral canvases
that covered scented walk ways gathering the
divine taste of hidden vines borrowed by rows
and rows of lemon trees pricking my fingers
on olive bushes again while we dazzled the
evening air beneath the moonlight both my aunts
my grandmothers sister managed to travel from
Mason Vicentino just for our annual first date as
they chuckled hardily at your vagabond loafers
mocassini's moccassini's making your cheeks
blush while looking over the balconies peering
down the cobble stones this ritual is always
carried out religiously completely steadfast as
everyone sits patiently awaiting my return my
Nonna swaying to the tarantella as soft chiffon
curtains blew in the breeze this fabric was sent
from France by my grandfather still serving in the
Army my shyness remained intact trying not to fall
over wearing my oldest sisters clogs she insisted that
I promised not to scuff them on this grand evening
finally returning to the calming comforting busom of my
family culture heritage Italia Italia and the purity
of my own chastity covenant why until matrimony
celebration like all the women in the family before me
according to my Nonna we are a of rare Greek Italian
Masons and Muses I suppose while i finally arrived
lovingly embraced by sheer wholesomeness tradition
the surety of home
Snow had fallen covering the cobble stone path to the cabin.
It had taken me hours to get here.
I was alone and needed to talk to her, one last time.
She had left in a hurry, after we had had a terrible fight.
I can't remember what it was about, we had so many.
Money, sex, drugs, her abuse, I lost count.
Work was long today and I called to tell her,
we needed to talk.At least one last time.
She said she'd be at the cabin until tomorrow,
when she was leaving.
To where?I don't know.
The night was cold, damp, the kind of night
that can cut through you.
I felt uneasy, as I was later than maybe she expected.
Either way I wasn't going to stay long.
Say goodbye, wish her well, all while keeping
my anger in check.
She needed help and I couldn't give it to her.
Maybe time and distance would help.
As I approached the cabin I saw two sets
of footprints.A trail of blood lead from the
covered path across the porch.
My heart started pounding, who was here?
What had happened?Was she alright?
A candle light flickered in the frosted window.
My steps were slow, careful as I walked onto
the porch and then I opened that door,
the candle went out,I heard glass break, a gunshot.
I woke up in the hospital, hand cuffed to a bed.
A police officer spoke..You have the right to remain silent.
6/19/15
...and possesses means
and tees to till verse
akin to a sorceress
who waves magic wand
to produce such supreme sentences
and weaves tantalizing
terrific topographic tundra's
that this admirer of her artful
and colorful poetic endeavors
prompts him to accompany
Gaia as thought-provoking troubadour
amidst the information
super byways and highways
along winding labyrinths
of critical thinking
or simply stepping cobble stones
comprising silly
rhymes without reason
all the while giving subtle egress
into that chamber of secrets
long kept shut tight
to maintain sure footed
stance of solitude,
whose only entities happen
to constitute trappings
of literary lugubriousness
those tombs of largesse identified
as great works and master
pieces of literature,
yet careful to avoid complete intimacy
lest cherished 100 years of solitude
shattered and heart rent asunder
twin perils of loss provide
an understandable cautionary tale
from author of this rambling missive
a most profoundly perceptive
and acute Ape man
touched to the quick
with a bit of angel dust
and aware this agonized
angst riddled arboreal beast
contents himself with
the confines of cyberspace.
the sea winds calling
calling beach tides thrilling
thrilling woodlands for hiking
hiking along streams vibrant
vibrant wildlife still sprawling
sprawling plant life enthralling
enthralling cobble streets for strolling
strolling perfection in a New England town ~~
a New England town of actual living sounds -
sounds like I should permanently settle down:
Leading a simple life are solid folk.
Many fish the sea for their living.
In city life, they would be slowpokes,
but here time is for deep breathing.
Old lighthouses dot an idyllic coast
and fishing boats fill the scenic harbors.
There’s shellfish aplenty for dining ardor.
Many inns are old homes of lace and charm,
reminiscent of America’s youth.
There are old horse bridges and farms
built when pride was America’s truth.
There is much history to relish
and nature that stirs one zealous.
New England is the good life embellished
and an address that I would cherish.
lookbacks
It’s the time of year to look back - so let’s look back at 2025.
I made some mistakes this year
Like wearing a pristine white dress on the dirty, crowded, metro
and another time, I tried glittery four-inch heels on Paris’ cobble-stone streets. That last was a tragic idea - think romanticized cigarettes.
There were sad things
A champagne flute full of Dom Pérignon Rosé, deserted on a studying student’s desk (it was test week) and I had to say goodbye to my favorite, threadbare, Miraculous-Ladybug pajamas.
There were beautiful things too..
I saw a light, late-night snow, in early November Paris,
several Louis XV gilt-crystal chandeliers dangling, like angels, in a ladies' restroom, and thousands of white Christmas fairy-lights, strung across the top floors of a fog-covered construction site - giving it the look of heaven.
And little miracles
Like Michelin-star meals served on a paper plates and Yves Delorme lace table-cloths draped over plastic folding tables.
Those last two were here - at 6th street - this very weekend.
My Grandmère and the archdiocese of Paris, have little holiday lunches for orphan groups every weekend in December. The group I saw were 70 little-ones from Sudan and Gaza. I doubt that I ever saw so much cuteness in one place - so I mingled.
I sat at one table where a five-year-old was gawking at the lavishly decorated ballroom.
“Who do you think lives here?” I asked her, before joining in and pretending to gawk-around.
A nun, chaperoning the table, translated my question to Arabic.
“Hanan,” the girl replied excitedly, before lapsing into wide-eyed silence.
I looked to the nun who explained that Hanan, in many Arabic fables, was ‘the Sultan’s Daughter.’
I couldn’t stay long, and as I left I looked back at the happy little faces.
“I want one”, I said, half to myself.
An elder-nun, who I suppose was guarding the exit, said, somewhat indignantly, “We don’t sell them” - as if I’d been serious.
(I’m not in a position to own a cat).
“I don’t want to buy one - that would be morally bankrupt,” I answered with equal indignance.
“I want to steal one,” I added, before leaving her there with her sour face.
.
.
A Playlist for this:
daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_25.mp3
Bridge stones cobble streets i'll take whatever God gives to me
Fortunes won and lost by wars
These wounds will never heal because they are so deep
Vast amounts of posion alter the ego I once had
Three stories like these are my babys dreams
Lillies grow and storms blow them away
Needful for employment but not greedy for gain
Sabatauge is a crooked path so i take the narrow way
Streets litered with good intentions have become my home
No where does a man find his true Love
Unless he first look deep down inside himself
Classes like Cladestine and irrational men are not my breed
I'd rather fall off a horse than die in a car wreck
Stars fell spells cast darkness never flees from the light
Hitching a horse to a post is an easy task
But riding at night proves your worth to men
As she introduces herself as a heiress of a King
Etchng this ethic into the ethos A godly man is full of evil deeds
Continuim of Time the features are often at times the equivilent of the McAbees
Sanctions dont stop the Gods from appearing on the screen
Hesitating in the face of caution is likened to repeating the actual events
So I follow through the veins of every man like the voice of Life does
Helogriphs that express the worthy are from God
So remember the voice of Cain as Able killed him by His decree
My room is a mess - it's an archaeological record of boredom.
Christmas, Christmas, come on Christmas.
It's 4 days 'til Christmas. Why don't I go to my room and do NOTHING??
The clock ticking sounds like a large horse clomping over cobble stones.
Last year there were wall-to-wall parties - so many that you had to carry a change of clothes with you.
In 2020 there's nothing to do - but I don't have to tell YOU (my reader). Except for the whole school thing. Nothing to do but study. I read, on that webber-net thing that 38% of students are failing.
Because of the pandemic - oh, not that virus monster - the boredom pandemic - the London-tower-lonely state of slow-motion distress that’s invisibly gripped us all.
Can we hold on people? The hard-won, delicious truth is that there’s hope. Vaccines - a bunch of 'em. Is it possible to let worries go this season and simply treasure our lives?
Just this month we have or had Hanukah, Kwanza, Festivus.
Hopefully, you made wild, monkey-love on December 14th - that was "International Monkey Day" - I couldn't join you - of course - but I'm just sayin. =]
Look it up - almost every day is some kind of celebration or invent your own - if Ice Cream Day, Lemon Cupcake Day, Go Caroling Day or Crossword Puzzle Day don't do it for ya.
The important gifts, this year, are fun, attention and love.
I confess, no deliberate intent, yet often wonder
what spurs me to nudge, goad, coax, et cetera
despite modesty regarding
ably linkedin words for others to ponder
more often than not experiencing nonresponder.
Without lofty literary ambitions,
more so stream of consciousness abandonment
yours truly rests content
to cobble, gamble, noodle... courtesy
swifty tailored stylishly harried element
mild mannered modest gent
bumbling along boulevard of
broken (po' whet) dreams intent
far less superman than Clark Kent
exercising mental cogs and wheels meant
merely to liberate momentary overconfident
zealous spontaneous inspiration,
albeit ordinarily quiescent
ex post facto concluding
equals time most salient
direct object lesson learned
lame, insipid, feeble resultant
effort generates undercurrent
aghast how rapid (think lightspeed) went.
Yours truly his own worst critic aware
how avast mein kampf replete with bare
inducent to tap into latent fledgling clear
propensity to express creatively, I declare
bonafide potential to join pantheon excelsior
reserved for established authors within their
respective canon, genre, league...,
nonetheless an obvious flair
seemed evident perhaps coalesced
when in utero biological gear
yielded wiggly, ugly, scrawny,
quirky Harris heir
(sole son and second of three offspring)
an older and younger sister,
which introverted brother bullies
did constantly jeer
token scapegoat suffered
one after another kingly leer
pushing psychological state near
precipice off into dock side of moon,
who sought (wharf far art grim reaper) to pier
without naked qualm evincing
one very bony rear
without sympathy merely spells severely
pockmarked psyche therefore
impossible mission to set tattered self esteem
tacked toward in opposite direct where
dark shadow of doubt doth not veer
me into apathetic, horrific, pathetic...
suicidal mental state of yesteryear.
LIKE when cold cobble stones are Queens
without their Crowned King, only
now and when my foot-falls scream
through a suffering mostly unknown:
there's no words to express sorry
and love so the Angels shut their Eyes
saving all between the balustrades
and lost hopes of the Grace of God,
Breathe! Don't say sorry for what
you feel and through it all I Drink
for all all the good times and all
the monsters who chose the river
of dead seashells so shut your eyes
and breathe -- breathe for freedom
and expression to all our horde
of lovers, artists, and poets
So you will receive So you say
Just shine sun upon those who are
never heard, and love the despised
screaming souls of, "We are One. &
nothing more!"
:: 12-05-2016 ::