Long Parapets Poems
Long Parapets Poems. Below are the most popular long Parapets by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Parapets poems by poem length and keyword.
I built my shrine ...
My brittle heart, sheltered to hide
Choked so often by trust's entangled vine
Strong stones, placed side-by-side ...
I raised each wall sound and tall for my castle keep
The parapets high, the foundations sure and deep
Yet ... it all crumbled to a heap ...
With but a single soft press of your lips ... to mine.
~ 3rd Place ~ in the "Writing Challenge 1, June 2019, Crumbling Rhyme" Poetry Contest, Dear Heart, Judge & Sponsor.
* This is a form called Crumbling Rhyme, created by the sponsor *
(Syllables = 4, 8, 10, 6, 12, 12, 8, 12, counted at HowManySyllables.com)
Many times through many lives I fought for freedom of the mind
As burdens made by living’s curse ensured restraint of freewill’s kind.
Then something found in search beyond the rampart walls of prison’s kind
Revoked the parapets unscaled to free the curse of limit’s mind.
Then arose from dungeon’s depth that once was bound by living’s curse
Free spirit with its wings unfurled where thoughts could soar in freedom’s verse.
Though many lifetimes I had walked denied the ways of freedom’s verse
Now unconfined by mind’s restraints I’m now released from living’s curse.
Walking now new paths illumed, as with new sight I am consumed.
Ivor G Davies
I thought the landscape burst in sudden flame
with embers wild cavorting in the glare
of dawning sun, but boundless sparks became
a throng of monarchs flitting through the air
above a field as though on charcoal ash
that gusts of wind then carry as they gyre.
From wings illumined spread the brilliant flash
of pixie dragons breathing threads of fire
as fine as frog hair glinting in the slow
emission of the morning's creeping light
that struck the gloom with every lambent blow
until each wizard shadow was in flight.
The tartan tiger eye that draped the glade
was blazoned on the pinions as they flew
like flower petals of the clans arrayed
in Lilliputian combat on the dew.
A cadence of disheveled leaves they fell,
these butterflies upon the turrets mean,
escarpments and fay parapets to quell
the mist ascendant from the April green,
then rose again like prodigies from smoke
that came to cloak them from the murky foe,
kaleidoscopes of flutterings that broke
the cling of darkness with emerging glow.
By noon the burnished battle scene had cleared
as dandelions waved their vanquished whites,
the gleaming copper standards disappeared
and I relinquished images of sprites.
innocence in stock?
playtime a torrent.
precious salve needed.
swings low and highs.
slide like the wind; climb
spider-red web — now
he’s asail on the deep sea.
mud puddles* all around.
running, jumping, playing, chasing.
especially loved my grand chasing the sweet
little girl. adorable….quite adorable
and my grown-like-a-weed grandson
playing so sweetly...quite sweetly with the throng.
but the pudgy kid
carried a twisted wire
and his parents let him carry
guns — no permit, not concealed,
toy guns in fact,
as he rings my young grandsons neck
with the crook
of his elbow and him and another kid
hold guns to his head.
this is playtime?
WHAT...THE…
the youngest boy wearing a tube hat,
starts acting out cujo,
going after the “big kid,”
who also got kicked in the knee
and the butt.
it was time to leave this public park.
my youngest grand had escaped
the treachery with an elbow to the perpetrator’s gut
and i left this sordid scene as if it was
a bar room brawl,
“Let’s go.”
so let’s judge —
where were these parents?
likely seated on the outskirtting benches.
of course they would have come down on me,
like a waterfall, if i had had to pry my precious grand
from one of the soulless kid’s hands.
2/20/2021
*using as a verb here
**YES! A TRUE STORY!
Allocation, O ally?
Resources put where?
In the heads of those who fly?
Worry, hast thou care?
O ye spirits, I collect!
End Times, be my Muse!
Golden gods to genuflect?
Dare to disabuse!
Wrath of wind, thy cyclone?
It really must blow in.
Heaven and Hell, hie to hone!
Drenching downpour, din!
Ramparts of old castle?
They're slippery when wet.
Gods of death, call thy vassal!
How could we forget?
Tomb of ancient pharaoh?
A curse is on the door.
Folly thus to enter? Go?
Doom, thy pinafore!
Mercenary armies!
Become, O lords of hell!
Storm from thy cemeteries!
Legions, lead thee well!
Soar, O mighty eagles!
O parapets, take heed:
Fate and Fortune, full the fools!
Grind them in their greed!
Ache in heart of bygone race?
Lulled within thy chase.
Dithering is thy disgrace!
Seize the skin of face...
A 21st Century Question?
Do people still need real human poetry in the 21st century
Some still ask as AI plagiarizes when put to task
To be the social connectors
The innovation and invitation
To new or old, writers
Adored heroes
Thought leaders
To breathe form from the intangible into their quiet lives
For them to taste the twist and guile of the Mysteries Schools
Poetry in all its many magical ceremonial forms provides
For soon
Each and every quest will end in a visit to a lone watchtower
In the mind
And when one is on the other side watching from those parapets
AI won't help
Because only real created human poetry will help you once again remember
Through someone else's shared experience
In rhymes
All those people and things you once loved
So you don't forget
With the passing of time
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
We drive breakneck over hot roads.
Churches, big as cathedrals, rocket
from pocket villages.
Castillo's cast their campanile on the baking earth.
The Great Mosque of Cordoba,
the green Alhambra shades us
through a preaching dust.
The Giralda; its Christianized minaret
stretched like a tourists neck,
and above the Papal parapets,
a banished Allah.
The holy places have hollow guts,
their tubes are wrapped
around a torso, like alien spaceships.
One edifice dwarfs another
until awe sinks to its knees
attired in the black mufti
of old peasant women.
We are traveling fast now.
Nave and transept are our crossroads.
Basilica and sacellum our roadside naps.
The car parallel parks itself
beside every altar and shrine,
it's engine running
as we chase God's works down,
ticking off not only Him
but ourselves.
We drive breakneck over hot roads.
Churches, big as cathedrals, rocket
from pocket villages.
Castillo's cast their campanile on the baking earth.
The Great Mosque of Cordoba,
the green Alhambra shades us
through a preaching dust.
The Giralda; its Christianized minaret
stretched like a tourists neck,
and above the Papal parapets,
a banished Allah.
The holy places have hollow guts,
their tubes are wrapped
around a torso, like alien spaceships.
One edifice dwarfs another
until awe sinks to its knees
attired in the black mufti
of old peasant women.
We are traveling fast now.
Nave and transept are our crossroads.
Basilica and sacellum our roadside naps.
The car parallel parks itself
beside every altar and shrine,
it's engine running,
as we chase God's works down,
ticking off only ourselves.
To that shadowed city round
Come those that are sorrow bound
In their multitudes alas
Through a Terminus so vast
For a city grim enabling
Their eternal laboring
From the parapets looking down
Cold and timid souls abound
To shed their tears in torment rife
That shed they not for all their life
And from the masses on the wall
Does that gentle misery fall
It stains the heights in colors woe
And settles heavily on those below
Who join the marchers in their toil
Redemption seekers one and all
They wail and walk an endless path
Divined here by no mortal wrath
Their tribute to a city sown
By their tears and ghastly moans
For they seek in the hereafter
What risk rewards and all its laughter
For they in life with trouble severe
Found not the will to persevere
And made a choice by many before
To embrace a simple life and ignore
The treasures offered and wisdom attained
That adversity's teaching hand ordained
Pink and grey walls rise like castle parapets
Reflecting the sunrise in golden hues
I ride along the canyon to the sound of leather
Creaking softly in the tranquil mountain air
Sweat and horse, with layers of dust
Well worn jeans against a speckled hide
Gently swaying in a unified rhythm
Languidly haze swirling about our feet
Around the bend we startle snow geese
Flocks floating, rising, settling serenely
Angling, landings against the lapping waters
Black tipped wings against wintry white
Sandhill cranes foraging for cutthroat trout
Reflecting blue beside the meandering creek
Majestically standing, patiently waiting
Blue dragon flies dancing within their reach
Off the beaten path we wander
Past yucca swaying in the breeze
O’er grama blue as sky beneath us
Cushioned carpet of pine and peat
Rock squirrels scurry across a Douglas fir
Scolding woodpeckers on a burnt oak tree
The chorus is merged by the hoot of an owl
And the clip clop against rocks as we proceed
Canopies of piñon line the trail
Mixtures of conifer shade the landscape
Grey blue greens with clusters of sienna
Cathedral spiritual within an ageless solitude