Long Cobbles Poems
Long Cobbles Poems. Below are the most popular long Cobbles by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cobbles poems by poem length and keyword.
~MI'SANTA MON'IQUE~
I woke up this morn',on an journey back through time...
Of an most hallowed memory,is an beauty I still behold
But in mine mind's eye solely,'stead of where I wish her be
Still I consider me an rich'st,for an moment marked eternal
Rest a'top an mountain high,stands an lighthouse void of sea
An goddess bourne most beaut~full,I cradled gent'ly at it's base
We 'scended down th' cobbles,her teh'ng 'long with glee their path
As I lit an kiss 'pon soft'st skin,through jet tresses scented sublime
Of those moments we enraptured,not an 'nother mortal existed
Th' most ancient of all spirits,had halt'd quiescent time n' space
Glid to an ridge o'er~look'ng,we reign'd majesty of splendor'd vale
An loch's surface 'lumed below,dancing rays 'pon her countenance
Whilst whisper'ng her awe'd approval,I gazed 'pon her in prayer...
"Mi'Lord,Mi'Lord...please preserve this 'vent perpetual...
I beg privilege of her company,after both us You've retrieved...
For an marionette she hath made me,from this most sacred day on...
...as of sever'ng n'er,pleadeth mine heart's strings!!!
~AZAZA~'09
The lamp outside my lodgings cut through fog of dirty grey,
I donned my coat and hat ready to start another day.
The sound of hooves on cobbles meant my transport was at hand
I stepped onto the pavement as it pulled up at the stand.
Quick turn of the brass handle, creaky door swung open wide,
a short leap to the footplate and I clambered up inside.
The bench seat buttoned velour, colours fading, rather frayed,
long scratches on the rosewood round the Marquetry inlaid.
We bounced and swung on straps and springs and galloped through the streets,
Side window broken in one corner, letting out the heat.
Outside the Quad I paid my fare and stepped into the cold,
and thought 'how many other Derby cabs are quite that old?'
Inspired by an article in today's local paper regarding the age
and appalling state of some of our local Taxi cabs.
as Las Vegas blood pours on Manchester in droplets the shape of poker chips scattered, dropped by a God laughing all the way to the bank
when the lattice streets, corners and cobbles and bridges of London bend with a gasp backward, with the suppleness of a rheumatic spine, to lay a hand over a Barcelona street and Parisian concert hall, whilst trying to shade a train track in Madrid from searing heat, although years before
where Dachau had no birdsong, its buildings walled away from ignorant eyes, death camps today are not so silent with their terror in plain sight, hidden inside vans and suburban semis, in red brick lecture halls, in hundred and forty characters that hashtag extremist slaughter
beside an Orlando rainbow strewn with special offer laptops that print out onto paper guides to gain a gun or build a bomb to ram a Berlin Christmas market where mulled scents of a year are muted by screaming wi-fi connections allowing a faceless anybody to sign up to chat rooms to fell fellow men for beliefs to better an already fallen foreign land, lost
alongside the fallen of the Great War that are not forgotten because they fall today, still - only now, in shorter pockets of horror: in broadband routed trenches untraceable; dug within devices cradled in a millennial’s palm
The Flower Seller
Amelia wares un- cuticled painted nails,
She hop scotches a pirate on one leg,
Tip-toeing long sun cast morning shadows,
beneath billowing hand stitched, salty sails;
Under an early Sun, fingers whir in a motion sweet,
directing an imaginary rainbow of colours to run,
In the trodden silk grass; marked in herbs and fallen pears, while!
Fragrant is a Jasmine breeze, as the Flower cart rumbles the street.
There is a nestling in the spoked wheel pink hue friction,
the dark pupil eyed horse gazes un-blinkered beneath its mane,
peers out of its global socket spooked; unsteady, unsure,
Amelias fingers fanned out now, a serene juxtaposition.
Crickets emit now, in the felt unseen heat, a high noted sonata,
For the flower seller, shes shaded, except from hot air thro her sandalled feet
The flower seller trudges onwards without a sale, while a balconied young Maid, sings solo to herself, a sweet half whistled performance, puccini’s cantata.
Morning becomes its distant day, roasted coffee bean aroma drifts her way,
On sweeping wings of African winds, her straw hat tumbles, she fumbles,
pitted cobbles win; the juggled disappearing bonnet, like a torn feathered falcon,
It dances on, chased by a ferrel Cat; sharp claws grasping, a prize for a stray.
Evening draws a shimmered line, above white horses, (eeing the never; time,
In the retreating back drop, wooded ; trumpeting bark of Stags brakes the stillness !
Rips out, the creeping-darkness, strung out like threads of unwanted faded garments
its left to time to dismantle this opera of thorns, of minutes and hours, her paradigm.
So, Amelia sits rests her sleepy head in the Flower sellers lap,
the subsiding pain, once again, counts the meagre gains,
those long past sensual moments, are floated on seas of tears,
sharp time dismantles us, falling petals on wrinkled skin, short on heartbeats within,
It is, dead quiet !
The steep steps go down
the winding wash,
along the plodded cobbles
between the cottages
with their smuggling hollows,
their sleet rinsed eaves.
Beyond the scarp
the bay tumbles over
shingle, shale, and scree
to a shore and its contesting tide.
Above my flying coat,
the huddled village
bobs and floats in a flooding cloud.
I could throw a stick
at the sea here
and the wind, like a dog
would fetch it,
elemental voices
return from the deep.
Now a chopping fray,
squabbles at a brim where
flurries of tern and guillemot
trawl for brill;
a pell-mell of light
roiling on a harrying spray.
Today, I allow myself to fail
here at the surging squall,
and crashing crests;
to lapse and founder -
to be redone in the one gulp
of self.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This one was written a pretty long time ago,
but recently fiddled with.
(translated from Giosue Carducci)
I dream of gentle things. My freshman year,
a room where sun poured in, freedom from books,
the thundering carts on cobbles in the via,
a wreath of sorghum round my neck. To look
out from my window was unbroken joy:
one way those flower-carpeted old hills,
the other, sparkling shoreline: still a boy,
I splashed out on a suit, and shirts with frills!
I'll never know that animal verve again.
I'm sure that glittering sea, those slumbering isles,
were not like now, prosaic. And summer rain,
I swear, on mornings when it caught me, smiled.
If you're ever lost, forgotten, or misstep.
I'll traipse down the cobbles of your crash.
Hand in hand until you're back on track.
I'll surely spruce up a room for you.
It'll be on the mundane -humble side
but safe, warm, and welcoming.
Like in a child's sunlit dream.
I can cloak the well-worn floor
with a pattern of your choice.
There'll be no rent or rent of judgement.
Only a gray shoulder to stain
with the colors of your choice.
We'll whisper of the misty past.
Untangle the present and its jaggedness.
Pan the gold from the slag of tomorrow.
I'll gently lay a patch upon that blue chip in your heart.
For I love you immensely; you can stay forever if you wish, dear heart.
Four Cafe’s
It was post digestion time, 6pm ! uncomfortable bloating causing a staggering stand,supported by the apartment windows brass clasp, the torn green velvet digestion chair lilted just beneath. Nested above the Canal Madeline, perched in a loft atop hundreds of lonely books, which i have not browsed ! their prison the De Krook. Afar beyond the cracked glass, out into the January month night, wildly dancing snowflakes cause a cataract pin pointed view of the culprit of indigestion
“ Cafe Croix de Fer”!
Along the frozen cobbles, “Chartreuse” fuelled, in-firms trudge and trip precariously, Monkeyfied by the Green Devil; towards “ Cafe Le repaire des ames perdues” I myself, visit this lair to regularly, its chestnut doors, spit tainted in past blood, open 24 hrs per day 364 days each year , “ No ! Not Noel ! Its Cask day “ And, on this day, i visit four cafe’s.
My tipple of choice Absinth ! And a deck of cards ! held in gloves tattered and fingerless. This addiction to be found in the basement of the Bookshop. A Cafe, 174 worn steps below me, its name “ Enfer” my light purse, confirms this.
Count.
Let loose the whip
and tighten the lip
with its reasons for humble cause.
And I'm alight in darkened entries
shrugging my shoulders to warm
my picked pockets with another's
shoes.
Burning down the towered clouds
for the gas chamber streets,
why burn the bills
whilst flesh is still flamable?
And the crier rang out silently.
Could only make out the action,
of something she was trying desperately
the reasons of the destraction.
"You're too blind to make out colours
which have mixed to make brown.
Just a human illusion
of light under cover of sound."
The cobbles are disrupted
and yet its just another cup of tea
to watch on with, pathetically.
Four Cafe’s
It was post digestion time, 10pm ! uncomfortable bloating causing a staggering stand,supported by the apartment windows brass clasp, the torn green velvet digestion chair lilted just beneath. Nested above the Canal Madeline, perched in a loft atop hundreds of lonely books, which i have not browsed ! their prison the De Krook. Afar beyond the cracked glass, out into the January month night, wildly dancing snowflakes cause a cataract pin pointed view of the culprit of indigestion
“ Cafe Croix de Fer”!
Along the frozen cobbles, Ale fuelled, in-firms trudge and trip precariously, fuelled “by many Trappist brews” towards “ Cafe Le repaire des ames perdues” I myself, visit this lair to regularly, its chestnut doors, spit tainted in past blood, open 24 hrs per day 364 days each year , “ No ! The one day is not Noel ! Its Cask day “ And, on this one day, i visit " Cafe Noir"
My tipple of choice is a hand of cards ! held in gloves tattered and fingerless. This addiction to be found in the basement of the Library, a Cafe,174 worn steps below me, name “ Enfer” my light purse, confirms this.
Count.