Long Drawbridge Poems
Long Drawbridge Poems. Below are the most popular long Drawbridge by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Drawbridge poems by poem length and keyword.
Castle On A Hill
Centuries ago built by hand with stones
A formidable fortress now stands alone
Sentries would guard the drawbridge and gate
Townsmen sold goods in the castle's marketplace
Legions of men camped outside to defend
Echoes of the past on a hill my friends
Old ways stand proud in a world anew
Nottingham now has nothing to prove
Arrows held steady for the Archers bow
Hiking for miles uphill on this road
Intricate labrynith no map has shown
Life lived hard behind these stone walls
Long live the King and Queen and all
04/23/2016
I thought I was safe behind Castle walls
Within my Kingdom I made the rules
There outside the gate I heard her calls
Why did I choose to listen to fools
I opened the drawbridge, let her in
Within my Kingdom I made the rules
I had not known where she had been
Her ideas corrupted my mind
I opened the drawbridge, let her in
In the beginning she seemed so kind
At my table together we ate
Her ideas corrupted my mind
Completly unaware of my fate
She beguiled me, with that lovely smile
At my table together we ate
I became subdued after a while
She beguiled me, with that lovely smile
I thought I was safe behind castle walls
There outside the gate her lover calls
Written February 3rd for Shadow's Castle Contest.
Toward Material Trappings
Gold and silver upholds
true value capitalist money tree
Thrown down upon gaunt
lit alter of Midas,
treasured as current sea
Countless denominations
cashiered legal tender to grant
Rich Midas, who straddles
diamond compound,
billed as sacred Kant
Tickles with dollar signs
motley foolish crue scrambling
towards drawbridge gate
Pedestrians malingering
hungry thirst
for wealth of nations to satiate
Inexorable appetite
for wanton money to amass
Fuels reverence
all that glitters even brass
Whence madding crowd
behaviour cruel and crass
Deplorable if perceived
from one-way looking glass
Fool hardiness to revere
what beast called money,
lucre, and green back
Can buy - sweeping across
World Wide Web
scarring globe on fast track
Toward accumulating
high excess lavish life harried style
parade with pomp
and swiftly tailored circumstances while
Ninety nine percent
of less wealthy live hand to mouth
Envying those billeted
behind sealed mansions
east, west, north and south
Except this dollar less chap,
who could not give a rat’s tush
For ka-ching melodic sound
twenty four seven that does swoosh
In burlap sack clothes
and bank accounts preferring
to slog and push
Along boulevard of broken dreams
that resembles nothing but mush
Yet preference prevails
foregoing attachment
to government sanctioned loot
Freeing mind and body trying
to cherish voluntary simplicity,
which does suit
This quest for knowledge seeking writer,
who disparages
tooting his own horn
Nor imposing personal philosophy
that gives reason exuberantly to exhale
Versus vacuity and purposelessness
sans, blind faith toward Holy Grail
Goading most people to persevere
for millions of bucks over hill and dale
Despite owning next to nothing,
yet detaching psychological
bond that doth choke
Ability to experience unfettered psyche
likened to oxen iron bound yoke!
I want to write something beautiful for you
How can when all I am is ugly?
Grab a mirror just to be sure
Reflecting sunsets and puppies
Can something common be bonny?
It is only in your eyes I am pretty
I see your bud in the dead of May
Without your gaze I’m rotting peat
You are the blue wisteria lasting days
These despised hands still tap futilely
You ask me why I need all these drugs
I tell my love they are veils to mad beauty
You tell me I’m adorable like sunsets
You tell me this puppy to finish a painting
In my bones, ugly see beauty the best
Your childish perspective is simply pure
My maturity is a cracked cynical beauty
With ego waking beauty descends
Art is just banging on the gate of Eden
With ego sleeping the drawbridge descends
Adam and Eve used to be lovely
A fig leaf won’t cover what’s ugly
Your beauty crosses bearing my words
You baptize the serpent in me
A pen will not ink away my sins
Child, bring me back to the Tree of Life
No drink of mine will make me lovely
Make my words innocent children
Hate not the sins of the father
There is no page for hate in beauty
No room for ugly me
Mend the fences, patch each tear,
Till every post stands prim and square.
But every board I nailed into place,
Just let light through another space.
I paced the fence from end to end.
Unsure what really needed a mend.
Our bridge looked too sturdy and sound.
The fault lay hidden well below ground.
I found a gate beneath the vine.
Its rusty latch concealed a sign.
It would not yield to a gentle push.
As it lay caught up on a thorny bush.
The fence was fine as fences stood.
The sign said "Keep Out—Dead Wood!"
But anyone could climb right over it.
I needed a better way to seal the split.
The old bridge lay there to ease our way.
So simple to cross with no fuss or delay.
It's too easy, though — and that's the curse;
It made every quick quarrel get worse.
"Burn the bridges! Just walk away!"
Nothing can ever save the day.
I'll watch the flames leap high, with glee,
With no path left to welcome you, or me.
The fence still stood like fences do.
The bridge ashes drifted on right through.
But neither kept our lonely hearts apart—
For now, we yearned, to make up, and restart.
To mend what's broken, to bridge the gaps;
We need a link that will not collapse.
Yet first ask this- before you choose:
"What wall did you build, you can't excuse?"
We found a step-stile we'd never tried,
Half-hidden beneath our neglected pride.
The fence was never quite the foe.
It was the gate we had failed to show.
We found a drawbridge so snug and neat,
To lift for peace — and lower to greet.
The moat remained to guard, not part.
It spans our link from heart to heart.
No,
Not the comfort of old habits, though I’m settled in my ways;
Not the couch beside the window, where my little thoughts arose;
Not the glory of the orchids, nor the colors of Van Gogh;
Not the books of two millennia, nor the solemn masks of wood;
Not the kettle as it’s warming, for tea, with cheerful wheeze;
Not these;
Not evening, descending, to cloak the little town;
Not the Anchor of antiquity, where once the Winston sat;
Not still the drums of Wednesday, as they circle in the Square;
Not the trains that bear a nation by the beat of Johnnie Brown’s;
Not the bands of ragged rhythm, ‘neath the splendor of the stars;
Not the wind within the walkways, waltzing with the trees;
No, not these;
Not the morning’s glowing freshness,
Not the murals upon the walls;
Not the café at the corner, nor the bucket lunch of cod;
Not the egress-blocking egrets with their white and bobbing heads;
Not the walk across the drawbridge, to the flag beside the sea;
Not the tide about my ankles, nor the sand that warms my feet;
No, not the flowers beside the breakers, nor the petals on the breeze,
No, no, not these, no, not these;
No, none of these I’ll miss, across the weary mile,
No nothing shall I miss, except your smile.
As a ...
child I was carefree
played in the mud
football my hero
goals from the foot
teenager I had worries
imagined and real
twisted illusions
hands on the trigger
young man I searched
for a pearl in the shell
submerged in an oyster
cracked abalone dreams
midlife contender I built castles
fortresses and embrasures
aimed for dubious targets
carried quivers and arrows
midlife defender I proceeded
octopus in smudged mind
jellyfish in a broken soul
starfish bereft of shine
comet in waiting I flickered
pondered the milky way
approached reflections
condensed my approach
fading asteroid I wandered
questions unanswered
responses transcended
beginnings of ends
The path took me ...
to a compass with no needle
the chart lost on the way
with a pocketful of marbles
and a hole in my trousers
away into an underworld
a cess pool of promises
an anchor rising above
shredded sails on the mast
to a point of surrender
white flag crusted in salt
the earth as a rainbow
horizon in waves
a tool kit of memories
scraped knees once again
scabby wounds healing
shedding my score sheet
The aging child ...
needs no referee
no penalty zone
no final whistle
no chalk in the dirt
thrives in the mud
balls up or not
shelters a mussel
opens the drawbridge
back to the square root
equating adventures
the circle half finished
I pump up the ball
I moved a few goal posts
changed my position of play
removed strings from my boots
walk the pitch back to the roots
Childish or a bit wiser but carefree at last ...
16th May 2020
I started young, laying brick on brick—
each anxiety a stone I mortared into place.
By twelve, the walls were thick enough
to keep out compliments, to muffle praise.
The moat I dug with my own hands,
filled it with every worst-case scene:
the car crash, the missed deadline, the test
I’d fail despite knowing every answer clean.
I raised the drawbridge for anyone
who got too close, who saw the turrets
for what they were—not protection
but a prison I’d designed with such care
the architect and prisoner were the same.
Now I stand on the highest tower,
looking down at the life outside these walls,
the one I could have lived
if I hadn’t been so good at building,
if I hadn’t made this fortress so complete
that even I can’t find the door,
can’t remember which stone was the first I laid.????????????????
gently through the mist
with darkness falling
nostalgia hovers sweetly
i can’t forget i can’t
as raindrops trickle
like whispers lingering
of bygone fears and dreams
i cant’ forget i can’t
blue mellow memories
longing hopes and wishes
of a wistful yesteryear
overcast the dismal tears
when all else fails like regrets
under the drawbridge
time passes without looking back
i cant’ forget i can’t
AP: 1st place 2026, Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on May 5, 2019 for contest MUSICAL INSPIRATION (#4 Holding Back The Years by Simply Red) sponsored by JOSEPH MAY - RANKED 1ST
RICKETY BRIDGE
image#5
I keep my access bridge looking rickety
It makes unwanted visitors think twice
I like my solitude, I’m quite pernickety
Just one invitation each year will suffice
It’s actually stronger than it may appear
There’s a deep, fast flowing river below
I watch them approach and see the fear
Of falling, but I’ll wave as I see them go
My mailbox is standing on the other side
So, no need for post brought to my door
Nor any sales people with smiles so wide
But they know I have heard it all before
My home is my castle, and I’m just fine
Even without a drawbridge, it is efficient
I own it and the surrounding land is mine
By now you’ve guessed I’m self-sufficient
Maybe it’ll break and fall apart one day
A bit like me as the years take their toll
With independence slowly ebbing away
And no rickety bridge, just this sad soul