Long Cottage Poems
Long Cottage Poems. Below are the most popular long Cottage by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cottage poems by poem length and keyword.
Overlooking
The lake from his cottage deck
Like a captain last to leave his ship
My dad
Discards his cane atop the stairs
Fastens his wobbly hips and knees
Sideways
And to the rickety railing
He Inchworms his wrinkled hands
Across the slivers
Down he goes
Two feet
Each
A step at a time
Descending the 40 planks to Torch Lake
He enters the cold water
Strolling to the end of the rickety dock
Where his hands release
To a buoyancy catching him
Under his arms
My dad is young again
Springing high and settling back
Bouncy as a moon walker
Bending easily for pennies or clams
And no one dares cha-ching
At his elbow to help anymore.
He levitates on his back
Arms arrowed past his head
Like Superman
With his blue lake cape sailing behind him
Flying away across the summer.
I have a curious mind
About humans and their life’s
As I correspond with PS poets
I wonder where they reside?
Do you live in a house in suburbia
Or an apartment in a busy city
On a farm or ranch in the country?
With nature so captivating and pretty
Or are you beside the ocean?
In a cottage overgrown with thistle
Perhaps in a huge mansion
With all the bells and whistles!
Maybe you are a nomad
Your home on wheels and mobile
Or live in a boat on the water
Or is off grid more your style?
Do you just have a room?
Maybe a flat or a retirement home
Or high up in the mountains
In a commune or all alone?
Do you reside in a dry hot desert
Or in the alps covered with snow
Or by a babbling brook?
Where fresh water trickles and flows
Maybe you are a free spirit
Living life in a tent
Is your home your sanctuary
Do you feel safe and content?
I live in a house in the suburbs
One street back from the sea
I love my home and where I live
It is “my” sanctuary ….
Having been brought up on a farm cottage
cows are a breed I know about
they make indeed an interesting study
of that they can be no doubt
Think of yourself as a cow
having to eat grass all day
drinking water from a trough
to produce white milk for your pay
Would you like such a life
so mundane so predictable
not much different from our own?
maybe ours is just a fable!
But this life has some plus points
you don't need to talk
just a moooooo! here and there
time passes no need for a clock
So what do you think?
live on a cow farm oh wow!
want to make your introduction
how now brown cow!
poetgord@2013
Over many years of great holidays
to the English lakes we would go
never a year passed always be there
such beauty around, inspired pen to flow
Many a time we would think wishing
of moving to English lake district so good
this would be a dream miles too far
the cost far too high, oh if we only could!
Dreamt often when on lakeside walk
stopped at cottage on the lake so awesome
this would be heaven indeed to live there
especially when the flowers would blossom
We would sometimes rent a cottage
just for week to feel what it be like
live in a cottage so lovely and bright
beautiful thoughts filled every sight
But reality came home to roost
it's not to be for us anyway
so the good Lord knows our needs
that's sufficient for here we stay
(Just thinking back to Christine and my unfulfilled dreams of living in the English lake district but it was not to be so content ourselves in God's goodness to us where we are now. )
We all felt we were immortal
Nothing would ever change
As a child of the village with
Acres of fields to range.
All these years later
So much has gone
Meadows under concrete
As time has moved on.
Gardens occupy those
Once informal footways
So some old shortcuts
Are closed these days.
Most streets are signed
And have streetlights
Some of the magic gone
From dark winter nights.
The imagined invisibilty
Of roaming girls and boys
But always given away by
The chatter and the noise.
My old home and Forge Cottage
Modernised, knocked into one,
The forge yard now under grass
The farm machinery long gone.
As a listed building the Forge,
Restored, still sadly stands
In a no longer working village
Now mainly commuter land.
The shops now long closed
To me there’s sadness in the air
I feel no empathy or connection
With the folk now living there.
Those good old days
Were at times quite bad,
Nostalgia has Its drawbacks
But now I feel alone and sad.
Occasionally I visit graves
But very quickly move on
I belong only to its past
My village now being gone.
With Athena's wise courage
and the fierce confidence of Artemis'
The lily pond smiles back at Esmeralda
hypnotizing waterlilies-
beauty so cleansed
the water can't mimic her movements.
The enchanting dark haunts the lively garden-
hidden within a forest,
behind a cottage of green
The wings of an angel mirror the auburn hair,
the array of hydrangeas
mermaid-like white-
flowing violently over the fuzzy water,
effect the loss of gravity.
She floats.
Sits. Waiting-
for the answer to all of her questions,
to know right from wrong,
even though her answer lies in front-
within the gleaming light
that presents itself so delicately on the surface
but hides in a world
far from reality.
Within a book, with twists and plots that never end
and where the fantasy unfolds
only sharing clips from chapters.
The serenity
still,
as though there are no clocks,
no ticking
only moments
creating miracles.
Sarah Casey-Reflection
Myrtle Parker
Myrtle Parker lived on the Riviera,
That’s the English one not the French.
Her favourite tipple is Red Currant Cider,
Only beverage her thirst would quench.
Never did she marry no husband,
Preference for life single and free,
Though kept two doggy companions,
Twin Westies, Florence and Zebedee.
Miss Parker was a gatherer and hoarder,
Antiques, curios, lots of impractical tat.
Her catchphrase was somewhat familiar,
“I‘ll find a good use for that.”
Tumbledown Cottage name on the gate,
Aptly called for badly required repair.
The man from Devonshire Council,
Shakes his head in anguished despair.
Oh, dear Myrtle what are we to do,
I cannot see the wood for the trees,
Environment Officer is calling today,
He doesn’t like cockroach and fleas.
Myrtle lives close to Muscle shell beach,
Small cove of shingle and coarse sand,
Opposite the Cat protection league,
Where she buys new clothes second hand.
One summer had a house full of Kittens,
That grew into fully grown cats.
They left her in search of new comforts,
Plagued by visits of large rodent rats.
Myrtle decided on a radical clear out,
To make way for a new feather bed,
But could not let go of her treasures,
So continued sleeping on the sofa instead.
Seventy years old, obstinate and proud,
Devon Council man returned to her door.
“This house is making you poorly my dear,
Regretfully you cannot live here anymore.
Oh, dear Myrtle here’s what we’ll do,
Move you into a comfy town flat,
Environment Officer is calling today,
Condemn your cottage, so sorry about that.
Myrtle Parker was born in this house,
Her father he worked on the boats,
Mother stayed home baking bread,
From freshly ground buckwheat groats.
Tumbledown cottage is full of memories,
Though can’t find many for the clutter.
Diminutive rooms two up two down,
Walls dampened by broken pipe gutter.
If I have to go then take me in a box,
She chained herself to the newel post.
I’ll defend my rights for all I’m worth,
Then haunt Council man as his ghost.
Council man arrives excited with keys,
For Miss Parkers new urban home,
But Myrtle had been true to her word,
and perished on the staircase all alone.
Oh, dear Myrtle what have you done,
Your new flat was shiny and clean,
Environment Officer is calling today,
Demolition boss with bulldozer team.
Our Paradise Advise—My Sweetest Love!
My sweetest love hearest thou reverently my advice
My advice is to leave now for our home—in paradise.
Paradise blooming with rainbows and tasty red cherries
Cherries, delicious mangoes, and bright sweet berries.
Berries with our cottage in the midst with a skylight
Skylight, gingerbread, and sunset—await us at twilight.
Twilight and misting rain for showers on our lawn
Lawn where we sing sweet songs with birds at dawn.
Dawn where firefly’s lights soothing sweet moods
Moods with ravens bringing us nice nourishing food.
Food while sparrows build our soft resting nest
Resting nest, my dear love—my darling, my sweetest.
Sweetest we will wish upon the mellow shining stars,
Stars shining above us—where we shall not be far!
Author’s Notes: The “Linking Pin Sonnet” ending lines join with the same beginning word of the next line consecutively to the end of the sonnet. It has fourteen lines as each sonnet does. The “Linking Pin Sonnet” has a rhyming scheme of AABB CCDD EEFF GG. Each quatrain stanza has four line of two rhyming couplets, and the poem ends with a rhyming couplet. The “Linking Pin Sonnet” was created by Dr. Joseph S. Spence, Sr. (Me), January 15, 2017, while studying English literature, creative writing, the African Diaspora, and poetry, at the University of Wisconsin, Milwaukee, after studying twenty different sonnet forms and styles from different poets. There are multiple examples in my most recent 9th poetry book, “Sincerely Speaking Spiritually,” published February 18, 2020, on the link to Amazon.com below! https://www.amazon.com/Joseph-S-Spence-Sr/e/B0855CYRPS?ref_=dbs_p_ebk_r00_abau_000000.
In a faraway land
In a cottage of stone and sand
Live Mr and Mrs Nod
Follow the winding path
Deep into the woods
To a cottage sweet though odd
On the way woodland animals play
In colourful knitted clothes
A rabbit passes by
With a twinkle in his eye
And a big twitching nose
The cottage is small and cosy
Warm with the sweet smell of baked pie
A fire crackles and burns brightly
Where two sleeping dogs lie
The Nods are by the fire
In their rocking chairs
Smiling faces
Chubby red cheeks
Both with crisp white hair
Mr Nod is reading
As Mrs Nod knits
Hurriedly clicking her needles
Making colourful animal outfits
The kettle quietly whistles
Ready for continual cups of tea
Accompanied by relaxing chatter
In this moment …..
There is no place I’d rather be
The Nods are enchanting
They radiate peace and happiness
So calm and relaxing
No concerns, no stress
I visit The Nods every evening
My favourite part of the day
Depending on how I feel
Dictates how long I stay
Good night….Sleep tight!
Sewing machine, long idle, gathered dust
in Grandma's loft I found, the week after we
laid her to rest next to her slain husband.
He was only twenty four yet a squadron leader
when his spitfire was shot down over France.
Mother was only three at the time and my uncle
a babe in Grandma's arms. How awful yet how
familiar those sad stories were then.
The war years seemed like only yesterday
when Grandma would tell us of Grandfather's
gallantry in the face of an evil oncoming foe.
Those stories now came flooding back as I
rummaged in the attic of her cottage with
a candle to guide my way, tears smarting as I
imagined myself as Mother then, missing a father.
The candle sputtered, spent, and all was dark.