Long Cupola Poems
Long Cupola Poems. Below are the most popular long Cupola by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cupola poems by poem length and keyword.
At the Preakness, horses race;
The crowd is quite excited.
After winners are declared,
Observers are invited
To witness a tradition
Which, since nineteen hundred nine
Has been special to all racing fans
And cool in its design.
See, atop the Members’ Clubhouse,
A historic weather vane
Of a horse and jockey waits there
For the colors it will claim.
Lawrence Jones, the current painter
(At his job since ‘88)
Climbs a ladder to the cupola
To bring things up to date.
He applies the owner’s colors,
Which the winning jockey’s worn,
On the weather vane to show the world
A champion’s been born.
So today, for Cloud Computing,
(That’s the winning horse’s name)
Red and white have just been painted,
Horse and owner’s claim to fame.
Scratchboarded stars of liquid light pouring in like rain
beneath the cupola of heaven one sentinel of night
A solitary figure stilled by the mutany of a willful hoot
his head is bowed as he listens, pressed to the dark
A Universal ensemble of nightly vocation, owlish wise
he knows not to disturb the hour, as he turns right on time
Earthly vibrations of the lowest kind everyone is sleeping
but not everyone is blind, head bowed he listens to ...
Insiped in velvet with browny eyes of amber flame n' light
beneath the humdrum moments of nocturnal sweep,
the owl breathes, where no man has yet trespassed
the owl heeds, through ebons of nocturnality-delights
Scratchboarded stars of liquid light pouring in like rain,
beneath the cupola of heaven the Sentinal, of night.
Written by: Mystic Rose 5/18/2019
Scratchboard Painting Photography
By: Nathan Cole . [email protected]
Love you're
the first
lighthouse
with a bright beacon
that shines across
this ocean
Carved into foundations
chiseled within emotions
plastered covered feelings
etched in stone
Climbing each step
a winding staircase
one skyscraper
heading towards
the Heaven's
A lofty
tower built
standing tallest
rising from
out of the ground
one kingdom
White stone faced
marble blocks
cemented with
lead mortar
bonded together
Upon the Cupola
a great
fire burns
lighting across,
the ocean
warmly carrying
for miles
one curved
mirrored soul
searching waters
Lights into
a hot beam
setting this ship
on passions fire
desire in this ocean
swimming remains
the wonder
of you
A torso
of one woman
living in
the heart
Beating drums
within this deep
blue sea
trembles hotly
ablaze on fire
Loving until
the end
of time
sealed with
800 hundred
gold kisses
a wonderful treasure
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
lighthouse of Alexander one wonder
800 TALENTS equal to 3 million in today's money to build
cupola is where the light burned
stories were told that the light could burn approaching ships
first lighthouse a skyscraper
Ptolemy 11 carved his inscription into the foundations then covered it with plaster
built with marble stone faced blocks bedded in lead plaster
a large curved mirror of polished bronze projected the fires light into a beam also said to be a weapon when concentrated with the sun setting ships ablaze some distance away
could also be used as a mirror that magnified images in the distance
On the wind-swept Nebraska prairie sits a building in wretched shambles,
Surrounded by a sagging fence and overgrown with prickly brambles.
It was once a bustling one-room school house, abandoned long ago.
Its weather-beaten clapboards, I judged to be a century old or so.
Atop its cupola, swaying listlessly in the wind, was a rusted weather vane.
Eerily, at the whim of the wind, the school bell still tolled now and again.
Two ancient oak trees stood sentinel seeming to provide a guard,
To ensure that trespassers like me would value its past with high regard.
I warily opened the door, its rusty hinges protesting, to take a look inside.
Mice skittered across the dusty floor and cobwebs I had to brush aside.
There were well-worn desks, a blackboard and pot-bellied stove for heat.
To muse about its past and the ghosts of scholars of yore, I took a seat.
I pictured the schoolmarm who taught readin', writin' and basic math,
Who struggled to maintain order with imps who suffered her fearful wrath!
Little girls looked so prim in their pinafores and gingham frocks;
The boys wore knickers, buckled boots and gaudy argyle socks!
I could hear the droning recitations of pupils whose attention would digress,
To the ticking of the school clock anticipating the merriment of recess!
I noted relief on the teacher's face when at last the kids were released.
I sensed that she felt she had been nurturing a horde of wild beasts!
Suddenly everybody was awaken by the strong tremors
of the early April's earthquake...walls falling all around them,
dust suffocating them as they ran out to the debris-covered streets;
with no slippers and shoes on their cold feet;
people of all ages with their robes and pajamas on...screaming,
running scared with horror-stricken faces, not wanting
to be buried alive and actually die in the rubble!
L'aquila, the mighty, has crumbled into the dust,
and by the dauntless spirit of its people, it must be rebuilt:
as it arose from destruction and returned to dazzle;
the earthquakes that preceded were unpredictable,
but this one was announced by a concerned scientist,
who warned of the disaster, but authorities ridiculed him and didn't heed
the warning, but rather called him an imbecile!
O L'aquila, unless your bells hadn't rung, not everyone could have been told!
This medieval town of L'Aquila was besieged by armies,
but they never conquered it and its invincibility angered its enemies;
now, it is crumbling, shaken by the fury of the inclement Nature;
devastation is seen everywhere: churches with a toppled bell tower
or cupola...castles and historic buildings heavily damaged;
corpses strewn along the dusty streets...people searching for survivors:
digging with their bare hands to save lives, and some are found alive!
O L'Aquila, highest eagle on this devastated hill, see all the tears shed!
A dog, limping and bleeding, seems lost among dusty stones and faces not so recognizable,
is he looking for his owner; and over two-hundred fifty bodies not yet excavated...
how can he find him? By Heaven's mercy, someone lead him to the piles of rubble,
to let him sniff in the spot where he is buried...hoping he'll be alive, not dead!
And why should everyone despair?...Isn't life worthier than those lost art treasures?
L'Aquila, the mighty, has crumbled into the dust and light is erased from the taciturn sky;
I weep like others, and my lamentation echoes in the doomed valley when peace was audible!
O L'aquila, more glory awaits you: arise from the ruins and your greatness won't fade away!
This poem is dedicated to the unfortunate people of L'aquila and those of the surrounding
villages that were devastated by the earthquake of early April.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Night bring terrible memories,
shadows of yesteryears,
it takes my breath away
in fears, anguish and hell.
An ugly wolf runs after me
as I slither in the mud
heart beats burst my chest with pains.
Please take away those forces
that rumble in my midriff
driving me crazy with dread.
I cannot cry, I can only pray
that dawn arrives
with its damask cupola
when stars fade away
and the moon hides its face in shame.
Why is the break of day so far away?
I lie numb on the settee
Perspiration running down my cheeks.
I skate near life's edge
I try to grab a lifeline,
find only puffs of hot dry air.
And time goes by so slowly,
pain like the claws of an eagle
squash my soul of its life.
No, I will not cry, I will only pray.
Dear God, thanks,
You've given me a new day.
In the small town up the road from the farm where I grew up,
the library was in the town hall,
which was also the fire station,
which was also the jail house,
and later the Plumber’s place.
It was a friendly place.
The Boy Scouts met there.
They had all the Hardy Boys books.
And a hardy lot of boys, but no nooks.
Just one room with a table in the middle.
One year the oldest bible school class
convened there when the church was full.
Wyatt Earp, son of the Preacher, and a direct descendant,
contracted Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever at scout camp.
I met him there.
There was a cupola which held the fire siren,
which was also the noon whistle in town.
Old Bill Westphal lived in the basement jail cell.
We saw him through the casement window, while at the scout meeting,
doing things that violated the scout oath.
But his scouting days had long since passed.
In the summer, while I’m at the big church,
where my sons go to scouts…
many miles and years from there,
I think of it.
And just tonight, while I’m at the poetry session
with my daughters at the big city library…
it comes back to me.
I’d like to go back to it.
I’d take my family.
That’d be a Father’s Day!
A cupola shin, prickly dick creed, hoary
testes tossed, master baiting ova all eel trades
crossed the fecund Rubicon and ejaculated
olly olly oxen yawping, in utero seminal raids
with phallic coup d’etat that buck came vasocongested spades
lit torch, where hello kitty Ernst lee screeched
amidst Grafenberg tit parades
bumping uglies during four nuke key eight ting game
where pinkish puckered two lips viz biological
Russian roulette played – birth control relegated as desuetude
hotly contested fee conned, caved heat seminal blitzkrieg overlaid
bilging swamped,
whence olds eye goat ruff fused exiting nightshade
shy ham mull in, and gave way to blast ta cyst
vis a visa viz biological fertilization qua two plump milkmaids
from inchoate seeds juiced beginning
to compress bladder re: lemonades
per diem mother via umbilical cord fueling gestation,
where sonogram shows faint genetic threnody skein
perchance manifold jades
nope – no fallacy when peppy thrust with sucks esse full feint
after thwarting objection against skin flute charmed thence invades
which begot conception from chromosomal traits stitched
via jean S, and her faction of trumpeting handmaids
whose fecund ditty began to feel swell as biological reproduction
showed no uterine back grades
as Tabula rasa In utero endured fusillades per what mother tubby ingested
sustenance promulgated noticeable womb dar full expansion fusillades
of nutriments ordaining future health of progeny
riddling endless questions within the gallimaufry
discombobulated mental, physical fatigue enfilades
and spiritual state of momma me ya in tha family way, whereby baby blueprint an outcome as nano sized atomic bombshells scoured decades
to determine the ontological makeup from when the fluid dynamics
spelling impregnation since time immemorial and into the future cascades
artfully concatenating eminent grise immaculate kindred laminated with waxy substance i.e. vernix, though smooth
doth serve analogous to microscopic switch-blades.
Form:
Chalice of Darkness
Buried deep inside the blinded eye of midnight
My fugitive heart,
Homeless in winter’s frozen wrath,
Seeks an abyss with rotund borders –
A rounded vault of endorphic sacredness
Overflowing with elixirs of metamorphosis
Born from dark dry crystals of crisis –
Angles of anxiety –
Dark womb no sepulcher for magic of wonder.
Rotunda made with sacred walls of purple heart
Where stamens and pistils entwine,
Ferment to maturity in a lightless vessel,
To press against the wholeness of their birthing cup
In a goblet of a chrysalis catacomb
Ecstasy bidding my weeds of mourning
Flame within the grail of martyrs
To pollinate, despite shades of gloom,
Blooms rising above this cupola of blessings.
1-24-21
Contest: Chalice of Darkness
Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke
Purple heart is a hardwood that when cut reveals a nature purple color.
A chalice is a cup. It is also the interior shape of a flower.
It seems so long ago
is if in days of old
When the locomotive riding the tracks
always had a red caboose at it's back
Inside the cupola the conductor riding high
if any trouble to the train he could instantly spy
As children would wave is the train would ride
the conductor smiled and waved goodbye
The caboose would protect and provide
a shelter place for the crew to abide
A stove for warmth and hot food
lanterns, tools, ledgers and bathroom too
A desk for the conductor, bunks for the crew.
But all good things must come to an end
the caboose was removed on a financial bend
Replace by FRED technology scored
All the crew and caboose not needed anymore.
Just a simple device on the last train cart
allowed railroads caboose and crew to depart
Flashing Rear End Device
the money it saved to railroads was nice
Nostalgia feeling hard to explain
when now a days you see the train
Something is missing it does not look right
without the conductor smiling and waving in height
In his cupola on top of that red caboose
along side the brakeman for sight to boost.