Long Portcullis Poems
Long Portcullis Poems. Below are the most popular long Portcullis by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Portcullis poems by poem length and keyword.
The door is closed
The shutter down
No voices heard
Now out of town
Portcullis, locks
A barricade
Small chance to rescue
What was made
The landing pad
A storm does seize
To wildest rush
From gentle breeze
Out to lunch
Back in five
Lost moments where
A heart did thrive
I missed a memo
No call to chat
Thumbs-up emoji
That is that?
A one-way street
Without reverse
A mystery
Perhaps a curse
What's done is done
Some may say
But heroes find
A better way
To rescue friendship
To seek the truth
It's old school faithful
Yes, foresooth
Place on the armour
Grab sword..Away!
We live to love
Another day
Life like from a fish bowl, really!
Way ... encapsulated like above and behind, you know?
All those like gilded dado's of peachy-pink, gnarly puff, sweet aye?
All those awesome totally rad houses of
flannel-gray San Fran's Victorian Ladies, classic!
Life all sweet and wrapped in the ledges and overhangs, really!
Portcullis like totally frail, precious, half formed, clueless babes.
Really, half the town is like crazed!
Full of what-evers and dandy duds like newborns
each Lilliputian pop-up a sweet meat, smoked
stoked and toked inside their saccharin selves.
Life's a gay and grodie array of colorful buggers.
A,gag me with a spoon, side show of hard candy colored covers.
Really, like jujubes shaken from raspberry doors...
So take a chill pill, a coffee toffee, a licorice bit, a vanilla sucker
and get your most excellent self
with your killer looks and like surprisingly soft center
to sweet Ole San Francisco's scene.
*internal line rhyme [not end rhyme ;)]
** 1980's Cal i forn i a English
Contest: Talk Like That
Sponsor:Craig Cornish
Poet: Debbie Guzzi
Castle On A Hill
I saw a magnificent castle on a hill
Its towers up high piercing the clouds
Conical roofs with slight golden shimmer
Brilliantly covered with a sunny shroud
But the walls looked old and tarnished
And the big metal portcullis was rusted
The moat was definitely all dried up
And the ditch was grime-crusted
I wonder if anyone lives up there
If there is a princess on one of the towers
I'd like to be her knight and rescue her
If only I could climb above that flimsy bower
But this castle looked way too old
And abandoned as it lost its glory
My fairytales had a different picture
They did not look this profane in the stories
Instead it looks like one of those castles
They show in horror movies and cartoons
With a thundery night, full moon and a wolf howling
Housing a big frightening buffoon
Yes, that must be it
Its nothing but a scary old mansion
I'm glad I didn't linger there long
So much for a monumental attraction.
20/04/2016
The whole of my life is rather mundane, endured only until those few minutes gained; Yes, granted reprieve from this daily drudge, and allowed for the nonce, even if begrudged, to hold a feather,very sharp, to write with the tip. Slow and steady like a man taking sips…from the water of life after a long weary trip.
When all the gears are lubricated, operating efficiently, and the needs of the world weigh on someone else, the mechanism of creativity connects with the crenelated cog of self.
Dominoesk works cause my hand to haltingly write. Heart to mind, mind to body, body to hand, hand to quill…okay, so it's a keyboard, alright.
Emotion, like sand after a beach trip, pours forth from places usually dark, not seen, unlit.
Using that water of life and the sands of emotion, I build my castle with words and notions.
Intricate battlements, portcullis, bailey , and arrow loops. Protection from arrows of interruption, darts of responsibility, and soldiers of the Soup.
Until, Inevitably the drawbridge is breached, the end of my time finally reached.
Slowly I surrender my feather sword, in this messy, mixed metaphorical world.
The oven timer beeps and the phone rings, bringing me back to my life of mundane things.
KEEP
All keep safe and heed my warning
Too late to escape by early morning
And surrounded as the day is dawning
The outer walls are thick and strong
But battered, they’ll not last too long
And our fate is solely in our hands
The keep is well protected by a moat
As those in armour will never float
Guards will follow all orders by rote
But access will be barred, it is true
With portcullis and drawbridge too
And our fate is solely in our hands
We do have secrets that we must keep
But if under attack, we will not sleep
As our dead will pile high in a heap
Yet we will certainly respond in kind
By killing them all and yet never mind
And our fate is solely in our hands
We’ll keep the true faith as crusaders
Even though we’re considered invaders
And none staying here are dissuaders
The Holy Land is our very right to win
And with never a thought of giving in
And our fate is solely in our hands
November is a thin needle under the shortest rib,
often it slips past your moat, your portcullis,
your castle walls unnoticed.
The fire in your kitchen splutters
and the wood is too wet to rekindle it.
Only then do you look through a spy glass
from your highest tower
see the wraiths churning in the sparse woods,
see the dervish dance of demented bones
resurrected from last year.
Chill November is here
and the guards are asleep.
The dark winter of your content
needs a new puffer jacket.
Call for the seamstress of your soul,
call for the mitten maidens.
Gather up the woolens
for all the wind soaked feet
that have to march on.
A mother’s two daughters transformed the bookstore the other day…
let me set the scene….
They turned our bookstore into a castle…ruled over by two queens.
In an instant the battlements and a tower were erected…and here’s a fine footnote…
our door became a portcullis and outside…a drawbridge covered our moat.
The Deacon’s chair that sits in our store…the two queens let it be known…
would no longer be a Deacons’ chair as it became their throne.
They wore long and flowing robes and carried the sovereign orb…
in strict Victorian fashion
and I was happy to see the two queens not only shared the throne…
but ruled with fairness and compassion.
From my vantage point behind the counter I sent them good wishes and regards…
they were fair but they were strict but I didn’t want them summoning the guards.
Their mom asked if it was okay…
”No need to worry I said…I love to see imaginations soar.”
“Besides,” I whispered, “the queens and you the queen mother
are the only three people in the store.”
“But there is one thing you need, your majesties.”
I bowed, knelt down then said.
and, with their permission, I placed an imaginary crown on the top of each queen’s head.
They ruled over the kingdom until Mom said, “It’s time for dinner!”
at which point they hurried out the store…
and I watched as the two queens moved their castle to the restaurant next door.
I love imagination…how it can turn a bookstore into a castle…
two children into queens and one bookseller into a vassal.
As I closed up for the evening I thought back to those two queens
with their imaginations so innocent and pure…
Then I made sure the drawbridge was up…
the portcullis was locked
and their castle was secure.
Escapism – For the readers.
(A lone voice whispers)
Hey you,
Reading this
From way beyond the reach
Of the Great Abyss
I, Thomas, have a question or two
Would you blindly follow me if I lit a red candle
In this final odyssey home
To be rescued
And finally bare your soul
Together with mine
And all you can handle
Before the Sacred Salt Pillar of Ado
Of Sodom and Gomorrah
Near the Dead Sea and atone
Would you follow me and that maybe life-changing suggestion
Willingly into this swirling dark
And grasp my coattails within this invocation and rhyme
As we trespass tentatively through all of this life's scary parks
Just you and me
To somewhere only the courageous can ever conceive
As we strip off all the world's detritus
That tries to smother us with all their rock slides
And swim against all societies fast-flowing dividing tides
Will you dare tango and tiptoe past the ever watchful Tall Man and all his worldly Minions
As we circumnavigate the spiritual globe
To truly see the new world grid and reclaim our own freedom
To sit beside our newly created Holy River
To write poetry and sing
To joyously watch through that river's undulating scrying mirror
As the real world slowly disappears
To then walk through a portal which I know will appear
Through all the luscious green grass to finally reach the portcullis gates to the
Eternal City
Of Tartaria
To hear the greatest stories ever told to human ears
In any era
To finally embrace a new realm free from all restrictions
Laws or fears
For although we are but lost souls going eventually to try to conquer She'ol
Would you still just blindly follow me
For you also
Seek Escapism
For you too are a true reader
Past the awakening powers of an immoral old fallen god
A new age world leader
And all its political forces
To walk unashamed together
Hand in hand
To somewhere to renew
Hidden from view
Beyond this world,
Many new pale white horses
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
Your castle has a moat
to mark for the unawares
the point of danger,
the change of rule.
My fort has a juice box
Your castle has a drawbridge
to allow in only those
who pass the "Hark! Who goes"
test and cause the chains
to move.
My fort has peak roof
for peeking out
and, on occasion
for peeking in.
But only for the Lucky Few
and only in the Lucky Few
moments when all is well,
for a spell.
Your castle has
both balustrade and colonnade,
meurtrière 'n its parapets
for staving off the storms
and againststanding and
withstanding arméd swarms.
My fort has a
pair a pets:
this fluffster at my calf,
snoring and this stuffster
in crook of arm;
well-worn, with eye
missing but stuffed
animals see with squishy bits
inside, not these button eyes.
Your castle has barbican and portcullis.
My fort has a wittle wiccan. Jealous?
Your castle has both crenellation and machicolation.
My fort has an introvert's narration and ceaseless cogitation.
Your castle has walls of
stone, long-charred by dragon
breath. With dents by dint
of Minotaur and Harpy.
My fort is cotton batting,
linen for winnin'
battles with monsters
greater than your gods.
IT STARTED WITH A BLANK CANVAS
Come lay your paint on me, it pleaded
I’m here in this garret, naked and cold
So what could I as a sensitive artist, do
Except comply, dabbing shades of blue
Reaching for indigo, as if I’d been told
Then pausing, to hear what it needed
Canvas relieved it was no longer blank
Stood there proud, and eager for more
As if formally bloodied in its first hunt
And so pleased, I almost heard it grunt
To win this creative battle, if not a war
For every new daub, the muse to thank
Coloured layers, streaks and a smudge
To which even a rainbow might defer
But now an abstract image has its day
It now had a life of its own on display
And for myself, expression is the spur
Unpainted areas still bearing a grudge
Both the brushes and I played our part
The canvas with a coat of many colours
With a final flourish, it is finally signed
And now it seems to have its own mind
It’s access for all, with raised portcullis
Now a painting, perhaps a work of art