Long Cobblestone Poems
Long Cobblestone Poems. Below are the most popular long Cobblestone by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cobblestone poems by poem length and keyword.
It was another grey stone winter.
Menacing Queen Beira terrorized the countryside.
We traveled the winding cobblestone way,
the grey stone winter way.
We believed in anything to get us through the murk,
anything to overlook our disintegration.
We sought patterns, convictions, decrees within the chaos
until all our candles blew out.
We believed in believing and we thought it worked,
so it must have.
When the Queen ended her wrath, we felt the warm balm
of spring restoring our faith in life and order
but the second law of thermodynamics was not reversible.
Our animated order of life expended more energy,
By delaying decay we paradoxically tended toward it,
Like snakes, we shed our skins,
transforming, reforming until death.
The impressions lingering from our consciousness
seek new venues,
we know not the dimensions of these new spectral landscapes.
Not created, not destroyed, our energy transcends
only by the menacing queen.
Our Town
Our town, where are you now, our streets are now empty of kids playing and playing hopscotch. Where is the good times we used to know?
Minneapolis used to be nice, who took it away?
Our town, all I see are ghosts..
No words, just empty stares, the sidewalks are empty of children’s laughter..
St. Paul once was so lively, now so diselent, only the cobblestone streets and empty Rice Park, the sound of trees limbs blowing lightly in the wind..
Our town needs our help, to open up our ears and talk to one another, walk up to someone and ask their name, you never know what you’ll get in return, a handshake, a smile, grab a cup of coffee, stay for awhile..
Our town is worth saving, stick around for awhile..
Van Gogh's Yellow House
On the corner of a cobblestone street, a yellow house is located,
and nearby, there is a bistro to eat at and a café where friends meet,
which are illuminated by a sulphur sun under a cobalt sky.
A train barrels past the sunlit house of unfulfilled dreams
as I enter the building and grin as life passes me by,
because I can’t see the future for the tears in my eyes.
Through cracked-open green shutters, as reclusive as I can be,
I see gawkers with their arms outstretched and fingers pointing,
saying to each other, “Look up there, the painter’s crazy.”
My heart has grown cold and dry. Destiny has been mean to me.
And now, the police come to my door to force me to leave,
by decree of law, with a petition signed by the community.
Still, the scenery inspires me, and I can’t relinquish my painting.
With palette in hand, I mix red, green, blue, and yellow paints
and brush their hues, tints, tones, and shades on the canvas to create
“The Street” (with audience) on 2 Place Lamartine, Arles, France.
***
Note:
On May 1, 1888, Vincent van Gogh (1853–1890) rented four rooms in the Yellow House at 2 Place Lamartine, Arles, France, and lived there from September 1, 1888, to March 1889. Fellow artist Paul Gauguin (1848–1903) shared the house with Van Gogh from late October 1888 to December 1888. It was here that Vincent van Gogh painted many of his masterpieces.
Van Gogh was forced to leave the house in March 1889 when the police, acting on a petition signed by thirty townspeople claiming that Van Gogh was mad and a threat to the community, closed the house.
The house was severely damaged during an Allied bombing raid in World War II and later demolished.
Neon haze on cobblestone nights,
whispers ride on the southern moonlight.
Shadows dance in the lamplight’s gleam,
bourbon burns, but so do my dreams.
There's a preacher on the corner,
selling sinners one last prayer.
But the devil’s got a table,
and he’s pulling up a chair.
Oh, Bourbon Street, take my soul,
drown my sins in rock and roll.
Golden whiskey, lace and lies,
where saints fall and the spirits rise.
The river hums a lonesome tune,
trumpets wail under a voodoo moon.
Cards fall fast in the gambler’s hand,
love’s for sale with a one-night stand.
There's a girl in red velvet,
spilling secrets in her wine,
Says, "Boy, you best be leavin',
while the night is still alive."
Oh, Bourbon Street, take my soul,
drown my sins in rock and roll.
Golden whiskey, lace and lies,
where saints fall and the spirits rise.
Footsteps fade in the mist and rain,
the ghosts still whisper my name…
Oh, Bourbon Street, take my soul,
drown my sins in rock and roll.
Golden whiskey, lace and lies,
where saints fall and the spirits rise…
I went across the field of daisies
Lavenders and tulips too
The time around was self-erasing
Flowers bent as I walked through
Stepped onto a wooden path
Trees ahead were falling down
Leafy branches I did pass
Out of woods I went to town
It was raining through the sunlight
Garbage and recycling bins
Stood there overflown as I
Passed the cobblestone old streets
I’ve found your house rang the door
Someone else’s voice proclaimed
You don’t live there anymore
And they can’t recall your name
Then I died and went away
Cause the dead can walk unseen
So I do this everyday
Walking in and out of screen.
A Haunting Waltz
As I recline, wearied, on this eve so dark and dreary,
Whispers in the shadows, tales of Victorian eerie.
The moon, a spectral lantern, spills its ghastly glow on cobblestone streets,
Where specters of yore, in corsets and top hats, discreetly meet.
Beneath flickering gas lamps, secrets deftly concealed,
In murky alleys, truths unfold, a clandestine reveal.
Gloom, thick as velvet, cloaks the halls of this Gothic terrain,
Sorrow and madness entwine in a macabre dance, a haunting refrain.
The ticking clock tolls a mournful chime,
Velvet curtains shiver, echoing a ghostly rhyme.
In the parlor, a specter, veiled in lace,
Dances with memories, a waltz in somber grace.
Haunted whispers, ethereal threads through tapestry and lace,
Betrayals linger, a venomous embrace.
Raven calls echo in the ink-black night,
Tales of sorrow and lost love take ethereal flight.
A portrait on the wall, pallor of despair,
Capturing the essence of a soul laid bare.
In this Gothic Twilight, where shadows conspire,
The heartache of ages, a symphony in the choir.
The sepulchral beauty of the night unfolds,
In corridors of despair, where grim tales are told.
No respite from melancholy, no escape,
As the past entwines with fate's remorseless tape.
So, I recline here, in this realm of the morose,
Where echoes of the past in haunting prose.
In the dark Victorian era, where shadows reign,
A macabre sonnet etched with sorrow's indelible stain.
-Edward
As still as night, her heart aghast,
she pondered of her fellow's fairing,
for word had spread of his capture.
She dreamt of blooming meadows past,
as butterfly spies enrapture
lunch baskets and laughter sharing.
Alas, now shadows are glaring.
A fugitive, she never knew,
throughout each lovely rendezvous,
a swindler with another life
abandoned children and a wife!
Disheartening, the aftermath!
Lo, upon their cobblestone path,
a sennight long, tears filled a bath.
Then yonder from the fog he came,
with perplexing news to proclaim.
From a journey far he'd returned,
and all the while his bowels churned,
consoling greiving family,
yearning for her like no other.
The outlaw that she thought was he,
was his long estranged twin brother!
1-19-2020
Strict Rhyme and Meter Challenge
Sponsor: Son Of Spock
We are tossed by every uneven street
And I try not to recall the ocean
In the heart of this great city-
The cobblestone! The church! The mansions! The soviet blocks!
Wordless stanzas.
Watch the ink
Scratch at half-utterances
World churning
In Grandma's kitchen
1998-
Memory please
Catch the hot wind.
I will be airborne
One day fly back to you
and patience
My virtue dies.
Billboards scream
But I have
Just
Like love, don't want.
My keyboard, the typewriter.
My hand quills
My two-lung stone slabs
Mindless etchings.
Faint anger
And the distant sound of you-
Singing?
Grandfather Frost
you recognize him
He sprinkles the city
with vanilla sugar
May lead to several
than just one opinion
It turns white
and sticky all over
On the street
all shoes are left behind
glued in sweet cobblestone
The stings are relentless -
questions of endless worries
Exhausted by a long winter
through a frost patterned lens
Where is
Grandma Frost
she is much softer
and always look
with loving eyes
06.01.2023
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
A nurse takes time
To hang a DNA rainbow strain
Of Christmas bulbs
Along my gray window ledge
He plugged them in
Bringing a campfire glow of embers
Under my lids
And to the shirking corners
And the inflating machines shushing the room
Below
In the cobblestone valley of downtown
Ballerinas of steam
Spin
From paper-pushed vents in the empty streets
Window shopping on Washington Square
Laces of faces and hands
Pressed to glass
Longing for suits at Kositcheks
Or gold and silver from Linn & Owen
Mists jaywalking
And flagging a cold evening of vacated taxis
I dream
Of taking my wife’s hand
Pirouetting her across a crowded floor
At the Green Door
To a band bellowing the flutes of Canned Heat
Flinging sweat again like bathers in an ocean
Kissing and hugging and ass grabbing
Elbows bent with Fireball shots
High-fiving
Imploring return to our basic instinct
The perfect gift
Of lust and love marked by our fingerprints.