Long Gawkers Poems
Long Gawkers Poems. Below are the most popular long Gawkers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gawkers poems by poem length and keyword.
Swans row the sky
just feet above the copper water.
Gulls twist their necks to watch
a lone sailor on the prow
of a sludge-decked dredger.
On the slate thatched gambrels
of a lesser known roofs
spotters search for night bombers,
the figures have turned to stone
as do all oft repeated passages
from dog-eared scripts.
London growls under the axels
of diesel driven dreams.
A stork has visited
an attic full of discarded toys
bells ring out for new born sales.
Barges reek still, just as when
sweat was as common as dirt.
A window in Baker street
opens to let pipe smoke out,
it uncoils in the air
like a left handed genie.
Tower bridge drops upward,
to quarantine all gawkers.
Meat mongers return to their
blood-soaked cradles
before the dawns leery light.
The city is a fable,
It is aflame with tall buses
that never were the same,
yet there is sea oil seeping
from the tunnels and runnels,
where entrenched gutter snipers
lie low.
Here in the denizen dinge
the sure footed dead
avoid being seen
by the googly eyes of alien robots,
tin manikins that crab-walk
along Regents Street
barking Chinese commands
at oppressed corgis
and other less compliant drones.
On what was once Speakers Corner
hunched pavement artists
dribble into the chalky cracks
between showcased hoopla’s.
Slyly the loitering snollygosters,
lollygaggers and stumblebums,
crane their ductile necks to see
shell games in full view
even as they vanish.
Fat little curls bounced as she walked the tightrope over the canyon
She was balancing herself while holding her pretty umbrella
How is she doing it? Some gawkers asked, fearful for her
She has faith, the family told them.
Should we be silent? Someone asked me.
It will not make a difference, I told her.
She has faith that she will be able to walk among the clouds
No person can stop her
How do we get such faith? A man asked, amazed at the sky walker.
I have been trying to develop it myself, I told him.
For now, let’s just be in awe that one of us has it.
A bunch of strangers clapped as she reached heaven’s gate.
We are partly into an early Spring and the horses' struts with their
heads held up. White Palominos all, majestic beauties they'd be in the
heart of the little village passing by the central square where the market
is full of life of sellers and buyers, to gawkers and talkers as well.
Nearby is the marbled-tier water fountain brimming with fish life and just beyond is the village lake, also teeming with edible fishes unlike those inside of the fountain. Edges of Papyrus and tall Cypress grass and just touching the colorful water lilies. Ahh, they've just arrived and tied up the horses so they'd be secured, here on top of the hill that overlooks the tiny village but seemingly the town life seems to have come up onto the hill, now the hill is full of life.
Oh, I forgot, the village of 'Somerset' with its old charm, thick thatched rooftops with their upper windows of English Oak, post and doorways too. Peaches, Apples Banana trees. Daffodils, daisies, roses, pansies, gladiolas, and much much more. This is truly Spring, the other seasons will be along shortly. I am here, that's why the village is here. I wanted to come home to 'Somerset' and be buried here in the Spring.
Shall I compare thee to a summer drive
in traffic, packed beyond capacity?
Or to a freeway snarl, an angry hive,
bothered and hot, as far as eyes can see?
Or to a wreck with gawkers slowing down,
and not one that is even on their side?
Or when, at last, you drive up, what the heck,
and it appears that everybody lied?
Or detours off the road and back again
through horrid little towns where none dare tread,
at least those still possessed of working brains,
not shuffling in the heat like the undead.
Nay, best not liken such a drive to thee;
I’d lock the car, dear, throw away the key.
Pulsating honor doth corroded hearts impound
A blustery breeze echoes cries from each, preceding battleground
A recurring, eager parade of reporters, gawkers freely roam distant mound
Below, fatigued, tidy mass of steeled infantry; to death's throes bound
Neighing horses conditioned to mayhem the pageantry doth confound
On opposite ridges, mounted turrets prepared hell's fury to expound
On signal, a synchronized, concussive chorus doth its dark melody propound
Scraps of metal shards initiate; commencing another, toilsome round
After lengthy barrage, wits collected a more lethal volley to stound
Familiar, urgent order to charge christens hallowed ground
With youthful ardor a wide-eyed bugler doth the bridled expanse unbound
Shrieking rancor from recoiling rifles; a familiar anthem doth resound
Recurring cacophonous medley, weathered nerves drowned
Once more, a mass of flesh surges into the abyss with mortal hopes crowned
Anon, shattered limbs; gory wounds misery's cache compound
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.
It’s facile to turn your back on the turmoil
to walk away from the disarray
forego the risks of reaching out
into the morass to hands that
might be holding deadly daggers
Separating the wheat from
the chaff can be a challenge
the stalkers and gawkers
from the sincere merely
searching for a kindred soul
with whom to share their
dreams that drive them on
for one more day and another after that
though they’ve known nothing but darkness
the hopes they desperately hold onto
as they shiver in an icy sea of melancholy
This screen my window to the world
in all its ugliness and glory
my only means of sharing my story
My wallet empty and my prospects few
these paltry words all I have to offer you
A feathered clutch once bewailed –
What can a sparrow do
in a sky full of raptors?
The red-necked puckers’ won’t arrive
until blood smells like copper pennies.
She was only one winter old,
cried a fuss-bucket booby.
Begone crone.
croaked a plumed strutter.
A fish needs a fish for its supper,
little girls should not roam
far from their nests.
One bold worm spoke forth
before the lollers and gawkers.
She ate only half of me
before the hawkish lout knocked her out.
Now I must bury us both.
Fellow travelers, both the peckish and the pecked,
we all belong to this green turning morgue.
All must ride the sky-wagons
where last breaths are turned to rainclouds.
What can we do?
Sobbed a brimful of hatchlings.
O what can we do?
Boohoo, boohoo, boohoo.
Vivian, my eighty-years-seasoned neighbor, called Vi, is a mystery only to those who did not return her first cheerful “hi”.
She is an open-book person, ready to love and accept everyone. I met Vi the first day I was out in my yard building a rock garden, two days after moving in. She came roaring down my driveway in an older model of a car, something gray, with long seats. She stopped about a foot from me and got out. I turned and smiled, and so did she.
She was here to offer her son’s tractor services to me for free, tried to talk me into letting him come over here and mow down the trees and bushes that traveled along our mutual wire fence line from the road to the back forty. She called it a “mess”.
We love it like that, I told her. My husband in particular loved it because he is a natural guy, who enjoys sitting on the porch in his boxer shorts on a summer night, catching the breeze, without any gawkers.
But I kept that quiet.
She told me a funny story about catching her husband and his newest girlfriend at a motel. She waited until he paid, and they were walking to their room. Then she fell into step beside him and said “What are you doing, Eddie?” The girlfriend must have known who I was, she said, because she screamed and ran off.
I spent a lovely forty minutes or so politely laughing my head off at Vi’s funny stories. Then she asked again if they could mow the mess away. Which would have given them a clear view to our yard if they had a telescope, and I figured they did. In spite of her terrifically funny stories, I stood my ground.
What gallant form from vaunted perch doth alight
Leaving tailwind that unassuming gawkers affright
Whose tawny shadow the sun's rays doth blight;
Swarthy silhouette shading glint so erudite
Whose tan-welted oars the azure seas doth smite;
With swift strokes the ethereal waves doth unrequite
Whose beige shield occludes satin rampart's line of sight;
O'er satin folds his opaque image doth highlight
What spindling machine doth wind's billowy currents spite,
With each sweeping motion a cylinder doth ignite
What grainy visage doth earth's footstool beknight,
With majestic crown his diminutive subjects delight
What predator drone spreads its cerebral kite;
Soaring fowl, creeping ermine safe sanctuary to slight
Whose steely eyes sky's tenants doth frivolously indict;
His insatiable, rapacious appetite to expedite