Long Gables Poems
Long Gables Poems. Below are the most popular long Gables by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gables poems by poem length and keyword.
Along the paw-trod path
Narrow and dainty through the gorse
Where yellow flowers
Lie dim like fallen stars in the mist
Comes a silent visitor, hesitant
It licks its lips
A taste like vinegar
Humans of old and long ago
Their lonely essence gone
The heather-stepper flinches
Shy of memorial eyes
The castle ruined on the hill
The manse below with broken windows
No smoke at the chimney
Only the wind that whips at the gables
And the empty nests of swifts
Nudging open the gate, it sniffs
The garden is overgrown
Cow parsley four feet tall
The front door at the porch swings on its hinges
Frightened at first, it shies back
But, then, seeing the door ajar once more
It pads in
In the hall, the photographs are curled in their frames
The flock wallpaper brown with age
Light rectangles appear on the wall
Where paintings have fallen to the floor
As nails have loosened away
Through a dirty glass door into the kitchen
A female body, face-up, mummified by cold
Her icy fingers gnawed by time
Clasps a mobile phone to her breast
The last note she wrote
With her thumbs
Before the screen went blank
Was: "It won't be long now."
As I wend my way around curving roads
up high into the mountains
I finally arrive at the Eight Gables Inn.
I wonder what it is that drives me here!
Perhaps I have developed wings
and flew across the Atlantic towards
The Great Smoky Mountains
on my adventurous ride
to the Blue Ridge Mountains.
Tired I hope the Inn
will live up to its reputation.
The sun is setting as I view
the purple orange skies darken,
whilst here and there lights
in desolate cottages twinkle in the dark.
I hasten to my private bath
and slowly sink in the warm water,
overpowered by the smell of soapy foams.
Pleased with my silky skin
I put on a plush bathrobe
luxuriously enjoying the feel
of the soft fabric against my spores,
and with a graceful dive find myself
on top of a feather-top bed.
This is the life of luxury...
Until I feel the taste of blotting paper
that cover my whole mouth.
I open my eyes and know
it was all a dream, alas.
Wysocki’s world always feels like a place paused in time,
and here the old house rises with its many angles~
gable stacked upon gable
like thoughts a century deep.
The clapboard walls hold the color of weathered memory,
a soft, seasoned brown
that seems to remember every storm
and every quiet morning after.
Windows watch from every direction,
small square eyes
that have seen too many seasons
to be surprised by anything now.
A cat sits on the fence
as if appointed guardian of the view,
tail curled in the calm certainty
that nothing important escapes its notice.
The yard is tidy in that Wysocki way~
grass trimmed, path swept,
a place where time moves slowly enough
for chores to feel like rituals.
Standing in front of it
I sense a rush of stories
that never needed telling~
a house content to keep its history
folded into wood and windowlight.
The house feels like a pause in time,
a place where the wandering mind
can rest a moment
and imagine the lives still echoing inside.
it is a sad, sad tale indeed it is
father passed when i was but a babe
left with mother, sisters, dog, rabbits
there were three parakeets
and they all shared a commonality
they were female, still suspect the goldfish
such was life for me
mornings i had to prepare baths
hang towels, washcloths
then set the table with placings
wake my sisters for their baths
begin their breakfast
as they began to dine
prepared their clothes
cleaned the bathroom
cleaned the kitchen, wash the dishes
i cannot continue in this nightmare
later in life, i would pen this story
set it into a fairy tale
where my heart could always go
and wish this had been my life
sent it off to a publisher
low and behold they wrote
such a children's fable
we will print your story at once
joy filled my heart, my narrative told
and then the shock, the final blow
they had changed everything
even the name was gone
and the world was to be denied
the story of Cinderfella
who won the heart of the princess
and it was no pumpkin
it was a purple eggplant
the color of royalty
i am working on my next book
i dreamed i was orphaned
out of that feminine pit
found a balanced family
and such my new novel
Danne of Blue Gables
the "e" is silent
and pray my four daughters
find it entertaining
gentlemen may i share some wisdom
an adage belonging to the ages
in life there are times
from which there is, alas, no escape
OKC 6/22
My footsteps echoed the echoes of Time
as through the streets of Salem I walked.
The hour was early and the city still asleep
with only a cat sitting quietly on a cold granite sill,
the sky slowly turning from night into dawn,
my mind still in twilight as my footsteps echoed on.
The Ropes Mansion looked proud
as I strolled Essex Street,
its pediments and roof balustrades all stately,
its fence posts freshly painted
and hydrangea all in bloom.
I faintly heard voices
of a long-ago family
gathered about the hearth
in its fine parlor room.
I passed the Athenaeum
and hailed this library noble, so renowned
its soaring columns and arched doorway
have welcomed countless seekers of knowledge
and those sharing the wisdom of learning
and the comfort of reading from volumes well-bound.
Ten generations of Pickerings
have lived in the 1660 house
situated on 18 Broad.
A descendant, Timothy Pickering
under George Washington had served
and witnessed the surrender of Cornwallis’ sword.
I admired the house’s gables, its unique fence and its posts
then journeyed along to find more of Olde Salem’s ghosts.
At the Broad Street Cemetery
just steps across the street
I tipped my hat to those
who once lived here
now in honest sleep
at the second oldest resting place
in Salem Town.
But I shook my head over the grave
of High Sheriff Corwin of the Witchcraft Trial
beneath his time-weathered obelisk
he must be tossing for all Eternity
in his dank unholy ground.
For the true ghosts of Olde Salem
haunt the air of Proctor’s Ledge
where 19 innocents all
swung in the 1692 breeze
and it was there at the edge
of this hillside they died
overlooking a town
where too many had been tried.
How real was their torture
how sad was their pain
and in their lonely silence
do they relive it all again?
And when it all was over,
all said and all done
Salem would feel cursed
for its unforgivable deeds
that could not be undone,
for as I walk the streets
of Olde Salem
in the still-early morn,
I see their spirits all around me
along these sidewalks old and worn.
Copyright 2020 Gregory Joseph Firlotte
Years have past but still can’t quell… won’t snub Orwell’s “the Moon under Water” pub as did cast a vast spell which did last….but pray tell what the hell should we call the restaurant of our dreams….which memes bestows seems to have all the right themes…glows how about “the Sunbeams below Sea”
Fables about higgledy piggledy chairs & tables
Cradles candles & scandals under their gables
Culinary cables run free no bland brand labels
Feast on every bit of the beast gourmet stables
Restaurant procured and manicured by a savant
Chef the ref hits the right clef is the commandant
An epicure tincture the cure for any bon vivant
An apothecary of wonders dispensed you adore
A third space with grace for either rich or poor
Service smooth as lace sings like a troubadour
Sweet as the smell after a downpour of petrichor
To attract and have a pact with every locavore
Delightful detour will always get highest score
Every encore makes sure come back for more
Beacon of light for us with appetite of a labrador
Another secret lover met palate whet paramour
The restaurateur not only a brassy raconteur
Flavour to savour taste bud flood provocateur
With bravura not bravado true entrepreneur
Not only an aficionado a classy connoisseur
Food looking pretty thanks to chef de partie
Maitre d’ quick with a ditty and slick repartee
Never sh*tty always a pity if they’re not witty
Cheer for every peer & the atmosphere is free
Sanctuary of treats from nearby streets so gritty
Harmonious not parsimonious not overly twee
Sybaritic symphony its rhapsody down to a tee
Glee of a miner finding gold & going on a spree
Umami tsunami a melody for my old china & me
Marvel at the majesty of a well woven tapestry
Pedigree and fancy free filigree the place to be
Treacle toned well honed academy of alchemy
Push the glutton button for a gourmands epiphany
Charms calms any qualms are like balms of apricity
Nowt finer for any city diner than elan & bonhomie
That it seems would be a restaurant of our dreams
Teems with reams of gleams “Sunbeams below sea”
I
Between Juliet and me
Devotion thrived . . .
We stayed all day and all night
In dark, hidden places, picking watercress for the moon
Together we lived, Juliet and I,
Among worm woods
Friendly gardens
Doing silly things,
Avoiding the city’s hastiness,
Befriending rural life,
Hiding behind palisade fences
Among stunted grass,
Waiting for sunset’s glow to light up
The dark paths of our stolen love.
I remember us running talks with
Anne of Green Gables
On the greenishness of a stable summer.
And when the church bell tolled
For the vespers,
We ran across the external nave,
Our faces frowned with shyness,
Thinking? we are full of ourselves. . .
And I loved her
And I loved her name
And still love it.
Fret not, O’ Juliet
But read to me
Like you read, that memorable Friday night
You and I sighted frescoes on the rapier-thin
Rim of dusk’s azimuth.
II
I sang your songs, O’ Maria,
In the days grandfather lived and smiled on
With his broken front tooth stained by age and sageness
Your narrow, sweet face paled and showed signs of the
Dim past
I do not know who you were, dear Maria
I did not know you deeply,
But with strings straightened across hard-bending bow,
Earthen pots,
Grass-flutes,
And ivory samba,
I have discerned all that happened to you
Through ancestral lyrics laced with drops of love.
In those days,
There lived Maria,
Mother of sons and daughters,
And she had dark eyes and dark lips
And teeth whiter than clouds . . .
In those days
There was confusion and strife
But Maria made the best out of them
Because she had love so fragrant
And her soul bled with devotion
And every word she puked had love in it.
Trenches, valleys, gullies
And images of blissful youth
Blended carefully, forming imposing pictures
Before her charming eyes.
Her name pokes my ribs gently
And she knew well how to write love-letters
Some of which have been reserved in the museum of
Memory where they eternally reside,
The cellar of the soul
Rolls of parchment, browned by time,
Season the words of love in them stronger.
Here, my vigil candles
Have ceased blinking
And have glowed the more —like the
Curved ends of the crescent moon —
Just for your name, O’ Maria.
he peeks into his world,
begins with a wide angle lens,
values not yet placed,
as he sees the plethora
of youth — gathers the street,
the cottage, its double-hung windows,
gables and gardens, trees.
beyond his prime, florals
with stems — their long limbs
painted with pride. countenance
of cheerful blossoms — xanthous,
tangerines, ceruleans in close-ups.
their centers titter with delight.
a microscopic brush — vain
exposition of life inside
poppy-red.
one captivating purchase
i wish i had made —
it is the beauty that got away.
i only have myself to blame.
3/5/2021
I wrote a great book, part memoir, part novel
Shopped it around, I ain’t too proud to grovel
Got kicked upstairs to a big publishing head
He invited me in, and here's what was said:
This screed you call Crack House of the 13 Gables
Is one long rant mixed with recycled fables
It wanders aimlessly, but never resolves
Characters pop out of nowhere, then simply dissolve
But the symbolism, sir, allow me to explain
The Victorian parlor represents pathos and pain
In the attic are mothballed broken dreams and betrayals
It's gonna shift your paradigm right off its rails
It’s a thousand-page odyssey into the surreal
The hedge maze is where all 14 sub-plots congeal
Enough! The only reason I called you in, punk
Is to meet the lunatic who scribbled this junk
So I slunk away, not a little dejected
Ain’t much fun being literarily rejected
Trudged back to my grueling, stale coffee grind
Working 15-hour days, going out of my mind
Then one day I met an old pal for some beers
Hadn't seen him in quite a few years
I told him about my rejection slip wrangle
He said buck up, you just need the right angle
I like reading novels, now don’t get me wrong
But writin' 'em, man, that just takes too damn long
And what a huge risk, 16 years you devoted
For no payday at all, just your ego imploded
There's no need to pen the next Moby Dick
Try something short, now that is the trick!
So, I thanked my friend for his most sage advice
And took it to heart without thinkin' thrice
And now I am back as a voice for the ages
Except I'm makin' my mark in far fewer pages
I write sound bites and maxims and pithy remarks
T-shirt slogans and jokes, I just do on a lark
I bang out poems and lyrics at the drop of a hat
Dash off 17 syllables in ten seconds flat
Haikus by the bunch
Cook up a batch before lunch
Put that in your pipe
____________________________
For Humor Contest
Sponsored by: Carol Eastman
We have waited for this day to come when we would finally pack up and run. We have waited for this day to come when or battle would be won.
The stakes were already high, and the decree was set for everyone to die, the Thoroughbred in the stable, the football and green gables were part of the clown that was destined to drown and so the guilt trip continued to take a dip.
History has proven to be true and it is loaded with information for me and you, the tennis on the court, the avenue and the boat and the people that like to shout.
I could not understand it all until the women next door gets into a brawl, and then the picture was clear about the enemies far and near. I wasn’t going to buy into it until I run through every line to make sure that the story fits, the author was authentic and the crypto currency was not diabolic.
I have thought hard and long how to sing the unscrupulous song, but the rhythm was not right when you want to roll the dice; the submarine on the ocean floor has finally made it to the shore all the creatures were alive and the misery was revealed in the middle of the night. White sharks don’t attack you unless they are provoked. They will not come near you unless they have something to say to you.
Where do I go from here when I have so much to share, where do I go from here when life has treated me so unfairly? I have written so many cook books yet I don’t know which meal to cook.
The past is gone and the future is yet to come so I have to focus on a recipe that speaks of now important, now is chaotic, now is unkind, now is reality and it speaks truth to the unfamiliar youth.
We have waited for this day to come when we could finally settle down, and have a decent meal and enjoy the cool breeze. We will not be running from tornado, hurricane or typhoon, earthquake will be things in the past and we don't have function in the dark . The climate will be balance and we will not have too much of everything .
It will be perfect period for the multitude to come out of hiding and join the big bands, the parade and the festivals all over the land, this is the day when you are set free, leave the stage and go in peace, the universe will embrace you and love will support you; this day will go down in history as your day.