Long Cobbled Poems
Long Cobbled Poems. Below are the most popular long Cobbled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cobbled poems by poem length and keyword.
In the whirlwind of the mountain air I knew
My life would find fulfillment spent with you.
I sensed a sure conviction on my life
That it would bloom if you would be my wife.
We rode through cobbled streets and by a stream,
We sat beside the water's edge and lived a fabled dream.
My heart was filled with you and bore a song
That carried love's enchantment all day long.
It has ever changed the way I look at Vail.
Beyond the splendorous views and each detail,
It gave me grander views and heights of love
That I felt and feel so quite unworthy of.
If you would marry me, the view would change.
Instead of feeling small beside this mountain range,
Our lives would soar and mingle with the galaxies
And I would sing in love's uplifting majesty.
God gave to me a gift that day in Vail.
He spoke into my heart a blessed tale
That you and I would marry and abide
Together where two soul mates ever hide.
Nature's beauty far exceeds the camera lens
And love extends where nature's beauty ends.
I found that day the blessed Savior's will,
To marry you and be forever filled.
Way down south near the marshlands,
near the bayous, and close to the lake.
There is a city with its old wonders.
A place where no one barely sleeps.
Parties move up and down the cobbled streets.
The brass bands play that swinging jazz music.
That smell of the creole and cajun food wafting in the air.
Muggy with that southern heat,
History and legends made this spot worldly known.
With the stories of vampires and voodoo,
and hauntings that frighten the people who visit.
Pirates that came and left their mark,
and a voodoo queen who ruled it all.
Food, festivals, and fairs bring everyone here.
That mixture of blood and culture.
African, French, and Spanish.
The cajun rhythm makes them dance.
Deep down in New Orleans,
where Mardi Gras never dies,
the spirits you feel deep inside,
this site is one of a kind.
In 1878, a gent carrying a cane,
Walked at 6 o’clock, down Ingleburry Lane,
A cobbled street, parading horses and carts,
Where gas lights are placed fifty yards apart.
In 2019, a gent with a phone
Walked down Ingleburry Lane, all alone.
Past the coffee shops and trendy boutiques
In this English town, ever so chic.
And so it was where the Lane met Mill Street,
That these two gentlemen did actually meet,
Crossing over, an anomaly in time,
Through a warped, invisible, pixilated line.
One looked at the other through this time warp illusion,
A look from both of total confusion.
In a flash each was in the other’s place,
In a different year, in an alternate space.
The gent from the past, pocket watch in hand
Tried hard to fathom this alien land
As passers by stared and continually asked
‘Why are you dressed from days gone past?’
And the gent from the future looked all out of sync
With his sneakers, jeans and latte drink
And in his hand a redundant phone
Where he could not call an Uber, to take him home.
Panic ensued as they argued their case
That they shouldn’t be here but in another place
From another time, but it’s hard to persuade
A disbelieving crowd you're trying to evade.
Instinctively both retraced their tracks
To the invisible line, in the hope to go back
And both crossed the line with a nod
and a wink
That a return home was now on the brink.
And so, this strange tale, that on Ingleburry Lane
Two time travelling friends, dress the same
For the appropriate era, so as to mingle with ease
Going about their adventures, however they please.
The bridge... long
every step rang in my ears
like a horse on a cobbled street
The rain was cold, hard, and prickly
I look down into the rushing black water
My mind vacant on an ever-darkening night
She was miles away and the room was empty but for her
the door I closed, silent as I walked into tomorrow
White foam from the river woke my thoughts
Its rippling waters flow without care or need,
pounding speckled stones into sand
I paused, filled my lungs,
the only sound is a deep sigh,
I lifted my collar to hold back the rain
moved on into the night, never looking back
to a time when there was a streaking flame of light
in a dark sky filled with contradictions and conflict
Still wondering, if the next day would be as dark
as the night I realized, she was already gone
Behold the coming of the infidel
with his tanks and brigades in battledress,
where once barbarians on horseback fell
new destroyers hide new sin unconfessed.
Now Serb boots march where invaders have trod
on Muslim Srebrenica in blood thirst,
but where, O tell, is their merciful God
when the lords of genocide do their worst?
Will mortar shells discern installation
from infant flesh in the stone cobbled street?
Might enemy siege end in salvation
where ancient homeland and battlefield meet?
Or will more die in the cold snow and mud
when raised are partisan flags stained in blood?
Written: April 1993
Stones remember,
the first cold plunge
in ice-melt currents
hurling the sense of fear.
They remember
each bump, each grind,
each sudden collision,
that carved their surface
to soft compliance,
yielding to the drag.
They remember
the murmuring bobble,
as gentler waters
tumbled them together,
stone on stone mumbling
in the cobbled bed.
They remember
the drought years -
sun cracking their dried backs,
leaving flakes and crack lines,
on once-smooth sides.
They remember
the roaring flood -
how it tore them loose,
spun them helpless downstream,
to settle again
in some strange, swirling eddy.
They remember
this when lifted,
when held in the warmth of hand,
that their surface, shape and feel,
reveals the legacy,
of every touch, gentle or jarring,
of every bruise, bash and bump,
the river has used to shape them thus.
Let’s sail away to Acapella,
A celebrity haunt owned by Penn and Teller.
I shall act as your prince, you’ll be Cinderella
When we’re sat on a beach in Acapella.
It’s not as sexy as Cannes or as dowdy as Rhyl
But their choirs and ensembles will give you a thrill,
Acapella compares well to old Casablanca,
As you will observe once we have dropped anchor.
Their libraries don’t hold any musical score,
Acoustic folk singers are considered a bore,
All keyboards and trombones were sold overseas
And whistles restricted to football referees.
So you won’t hear the bagpipes of Kenneth McKellar
Or repetitive bass notes plucked by Paul Weller.
Your voice will entrance all the ladies and fellas
Once we’ve moored in the harbour of Acapella’s.
There fishermen bring ashore haddock and bream
Having sung shanties as a well-rehearsed team,
The salty sea breeze gives their voices a rasp
And the youngest amongst them let out a gasp!
Melodic and manly, the crews ride the waves,
Proud of their seamanship, masters not slaves,
They heed the advice of their mothers and aunties
But rarely acknowledge the source of their shanties.
Once a solitary busker was found in a yacht
And by all accounts he deserved what he got,
He was forced down the plank at the tip of a sword
Then his vintage viola was flung overboard!
On the pier you’ll find orators and callers at bingo,
But no jukebox is pumping out John, Paul or Ringo.
Pop or rock music gives locals the creeps,
It’s no wonder that George’s guitar gently weeps.
So, if Customs Control takes your squeezebox or trumpet
Don’t seek compensation, you’ll just have to lump it;
Those instruments go to a processing plant
Because singers are welcome but musicians aren’t.
We shall seek out the nightlife in numerous bars
Where the locals all sing without playing guitars,
Dodge the Lambrettas in quaint cobbled alleys,
Then stride across hills and along peaceful valleys.
So, if you’re tired of concertos or singles by Queen
Book a cruise to a place where they’re considered obscene,
It’s a magical island owned by Penn and by Teller -
The remote principality of Acapella.
So let us sail forth across the briny
In a luxury yacht - well furnished and shiny
To where your vocal range will be valued quite highly,
And you won’t have to sit through Baba O’Riley.
Aridisol
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Human emotion
the exploration of
a
the underlain
topsoils of
clayey deposits
a camera merley captures it's sight
loamy the interconnectedness
beneath our feet
perfection in human sight
the depths of the alluvial outwash
pretty in every measure
quarts agate and gems
the treasures of a cobbled assortment
the perfections I marveled at the
crown jewel of the bunch
meditating on the dirt beneath our feet
---------------------------------------------
Uhm, uh, ooh, auh, ooh
and Mmmmm,auh,ooh!
her sandles were full of clay and sand
she sat to enjoy agave edible flowers and stalks
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Once in a memory
The boy played by the small stream running near the hospital
where his mother was a patient and time hung heavy this
afternoon in late September.
The boy picked five elongated leaves from a bush on each one
he put a pebble wanted to see if any leaf/boat survived
the voyage to where the stream went underground.
One leaf made it and should come out where the seaport is.
Once the stream had run free and rapidly crossed the green
field where elderly horses grazed, after a life of pulling
heavy carts, the lady who owned the land let the horses
be free; she had spent her youth looking after her father
who had been a Danish general, keeping his boots shining?
Habits are difficult to erase sometimes, a horse was seen
trotting in the cobbled streets lost in the past.
The stream ran to the strand where men pulled the boats
up for repair and selling fresh fish, crabs and shrimps.
As for the horses, when they were so old their teeth, gone could
not eat, the last walk was the knacker’s yard; salami and glue.
The field is now a town square where farmers sell their products
and their wives sell thick woolen long jones.
There is a statue of a famous writer he looked patrician, but mostly
he suffers the indignity of seagull droppings.
The lady who protected horses was regarded as eccentric,
but she lives on in songs and tales.
The boy saw in a café two ladies he sensed he knew; little did
he knows they were, as time rolled on- one at the time, wives.
When the boy came home, his mother was out of hospital,
boiling potatoes and frying sliced turnips.
The castle stood within the walls
to guard the river Dee,
a garrison for many years
and steeped in history.
Across the street by its arched gate
a courtyard housed some folk,
the families of soldiers there
would laugh and smile and joke.
With cobbled square and gaslights
many memories lingered on
of times gone by in distant past
when life was not such fun.
Alone at night when in this place,
and sometimes even day,
you’d see strange shadows pass you by
as they went on their way.
A graveyard stood outside the gate
where you would hear the cries
of souls that were still roaming
in the place their body lies.
I saw them clearly through the years,
I shared my home with them
and in that yard I came to know
some truths hidden from men.
The spirit is a living thing
and dies not when we lose
the flesh we carry through our life
that’s given us to use.
But mankind’s mind is fragile
and easily may be swayed,
unless he takes control of it
he’s easily dismayed.
Confusion is the enemy
that ties him to the earth
and stops his spirit rising back
to where it had its birth.
A lifetime can be wasted
or even worse than that,
you may return less able
than when you were begat.
So now you’ve got a chance at life
don’t let it slip away
for you can wait for centuries
to see another day.
The message is quite simple
there is something we must learn,
don’t let life take you prisoner
now it’s time to have your turn!
Ivor G Davies