Long Tankards Poems
Long Tankards Poems. Below are the most popular long Tankards by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tankards poems by poem length and keyword.
Viva la morning sun
Midnight, dark night, no light, can’t go.
So dark, so quiet, so I guess the neighbours are not home.
Waiting for sleep to arrive, but it never does on time.
Still waiting to permanently close my eyes;
But match sticks under baggy eye lids,
Will not show me the peaceful dreams I need to find.
Brain storms while outside it is silent.
Not a raindrop in the air.
Sun will rise shortly, as will the neighbours;
They all arise without a care.
I will hear their alarms and the beeping of their cars
And each and every door they all slam, God damn!
Muffled music drives away and I am left with clinking milk bottles.
How I hate to hear the milk man moving in full throttle.
The bin men arrive flashing their ‘vehicle is reversing’ lights.
I close my eyes, but they peek around the curtain…sigh.
People are busy nattering and I am left sinking;
There is no calling for the postman singing.
The birds have not even got their song books out yet,
Because there is too much noise, for all their rehearsing.
Now I arise from the deep pit in which I dwell.
The zombie arisen, the power button pressed, another day of Hell.
In a state of half-dress the violins begin,
Quietly at first, but soon a full orchestra of noise;
A cup of tea is soon ready to drink.
This symphony would wake the whole neighbourhood,
If it wasn’t for all the toys and work, which mean they are already up.
The din would be said to be deafening, ironic,
If I cared to hear those muggles out there, but today is supersonic
And the strings are rising up to the top of the planet,
And I am drifting within the music’s magic.
I am taken away to a classical age,
Where maidens play while in-waiting in castles.
The beer is served in tankards,
Meat ripped with fists and soldiers prepare for battle.
This warrior mind has no strength for a Queen,
The zenith passed, the air up here is so clean
And now the end of the song approaches
And with a whimper, I remember, the line of forgotten roaches…
I raise to my height, now at full length, a citizen.
Viva la revolution! I am at one with creation.
Hello Earth and morning sun!
Let me feel your warmth…my morning divine, my elation.
(C)2018 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
AWAKENING
Sleep and slumber, dreams of wonder... weaving,
morning’s vacuum broke the spell
Pitted pillow, note of parting... leaving,
“from your friend, a fond farewell”
Sunrise throbbing, twilight aching... grieving,
daydreams, flashbacks, nightmares knell
Pale phantasms, visions sneaking... thieving,
plot to fill the empty shell
12 DELIRIA
1st Delirium: Collapses
Fractured sky bolts, billows bursting... rumbling,
heavens tighten, turn the vise
Horsemen saddle shafts of lightning... tumbling,
jagged highways must suffice
Ruptured skyways, hailstones crackling... crumbling,
naked pearls of paradise
Toxic tongues of laughter stinging... stumbling,
ocean buckets choked with ice
Droplets drumming, thunder muzzled... mumbling,
washed out whispers pay the price
Smothered blazes, cinders smoking... humbling,
ashes shaped in sacrifice
2nd Delirium: Descents
Asphalt alleys, ashen faces... frowning,
blowing bubbles, chewing gum
Drinking ale from tavern tankards... downing,
moonlit beads of painted rum
Stony stars and sea misshapen... drowning,
humble rivers’ rhythms hum
Apparitions aspirating... clowning,
diamonds dying , minstrels strum
Incandescent candles conquered... crowning,
vacant vapours, cold and numb
3rd Delirium: Fates
Tempest turmoil, tapered turrets... holding,
dungeons, dragons, chains and racks
Wheels of fortune, Tarot temptress... molding,
Hangmen, Towers, One Eyed Jacks
Sand dune castles, cryptic candles... folding,
warping walls of liquid wax
Idols colder, combed and coddled... scolding,
hide in fissures, peek through cracks
continued in part 2
It stood on the top of the hill
dominating all of its surrounds.
Its drawbridge these days lay open
spanning with ease the now dry moat.
Like a fairy tale fortress it had turrets
that soared up high brushing the clouds.
Its four towers majestic as blankly,
they stared, covering all points of the compass.
Slit windows peered out of casements
through walls up to six feet thick.
The massive double oak doors
fifteen feet high and twelve wide
stood thrown open allowing glimpses
of the enormous courtyard beyond.
Battlements led to each round tower
that once housed the nobles.
Old battered forgotten furniture
grandly carved four poster beds.
A sword or two lay scattered
amidst the clutter and bird dropping.
Wide stone staircases meandered
curling round and round the walls.
A gallery or two dotted here and there
perfect hiding places above the hall.
Some for musicians to play unseen
Their notes floating through the air
as below the dancers swept and strutted
as the ladies hooped dresses swirled.
Long tables once laden with food
stood a skiff with broken legs.
Wooden pint tankards higgledy piggledy
strewn about midst wooden platters.
Tattered standards limply lay motionless
against walls dotted with scattered torches.
The Lord of these lands killed in distant lands
leaving an infant son removed to the city
by his grieving mother who sought to forget.
Now ninety years later his grandson views
the devastation of years of neglect and vows
to return the castle to the glory of its heydays.
After three long years of often brutal work
removing shrubbery, moss and decay
Life starts to re-emerge Flags flutter
gaily high up on the battlements.
Chandeliers sparkle and the torches flicker
Tables once more groan with a feast of food
Happy shrieks of laughter fill the grand hall
And one would swear the castle wore a smile,
as children played around the buttress's.
The sea gathered her voice
on the crest of the waves
as dark clouds were herded
by the wind as he raved
in a symphony orchestrated
through elements of sound
composed by the air
from his drafty compound.
By the drum of the surf
on the beat of the waves
a crescendo that climbed
with the sea as she raged
while the wind as the maestro
pulled pockets of sound
from the whistles and moans
as he swept ‘cross the ground.
Soprano! cried the killdeer
Tenor! screeched the gulls
as a baritone foghorn
boomed from the hull
of a ship that swayed
drunkenly atop of the surf
staying clear of the breakers
that crashed on the turf
The ship creaked a response
as it groaned a refrain
but the deft hand of a shipwright
would keep it sustained
for he’d hewn and he’d whittled
great emblems of love
carving an angel for the figurehead
and atop the masthead, a dove.
When the wind stopped his jostling
and the sea spent her ire
the ship slipped back to its haven
of warm hearths and bright fires
where the men mused and wondered
over great tankards of ale
if the hymns and hosannas..
had been but, the wind in the sails?
I once lived in high Montana
and I knew a man who live there,
went by the name Rodrigo,
known to most for his wild hair.
But Roddy didn’t grow it long
to try and impress some girl,
Roddy was a history nut,
obsessed with the medieval world.
He had all sorts of goblets,
tankards, and great drinking horns,
he must’ve owned a dozen swords,
but was always buying more.
Roddy owned full chain-mail armor,
wore it to the renaissance fair,
and he paid no heed to the folks
who would shake their heads and stare.
But Roddy’s greatest possession
was one he built with his own hands,
Roddy had a full-sized catapult
and would launch stuff across his land.
One day I went to see my friend
and he was launching things out back.
He said,”Get me that watermelon,
and we’ll launch our next ‘attack.’”
We loaded up the giant fruit,
and laughed as it took to flight,
said he,”If launching fruit be wrong
then to hell with being right!”
Next we took a bunch of apples
to achieve a shot-gun effect.
I cracked a joke and Roddy laughed,
so hard we didn’t see what came next.
A black bear in the woods nearby
saw the apples in their pile,
and wouldn’t find a meal that good
if he wandered a dozen miles.
He ran out onto the scoop
while we were both still laughing,
Roddy pulled the lever, unaware,
and he sent the bear a-flying!
The bruin’s moan caught us both
as apple and bear too to sky,
across the field to lodgepole trees
did the beast and his lunch fly.
He disappeared in the branches,
vanishing from our line of sight,
I stood stunned, said to Roddy,
“Should we go see if it’s allright?”
Roddy shrugged and started walking,
we both made our way over there,
high up in an old lodgepole pine
sprawled a frightened, confused bear.
The branches had broken the fall,
saved the beast from being dead,
I said to Roddy,”We should go
before that bear can clear its head.”
Roddy took a picture on his phone
to prove what had happened that day,
then we beat a hasty retreat
before the bear could come our way.
To this day Roddy still recounts,
in his booth at renaissance fairs,
how catapults can launch anything,
even hungry and wayward bears.
`
O’ crooked branch and magpie’s claw,
yon rusted chains a’ sway this night
Clutch tight a sign “The Seagull's Squall”
of splintered wood and storm clouds fight
Old tavern lone this craggy shore
where angered waves accost the sand
and drenching rains from heavens pour,
whilst thunder boasts its loud command
On creaking stools with painted legs
'long the bar, a gathered crew
Expected flow from aging kegs
a frothy crown this lagered brew
Fills tankards held of one now gone
'midst pewter death in golden ale
In drunk'n stupor sorrows shown
lost at sea, his soul last sailed
Watching cloaked of shadowed mist
in darkened corner, lingered smoke
O’er long goodbyes on echoes twist
and couraged voices soundly spoke
Weaving tales a' journeys past,
voyages beyond the deep
Ports o’ call and forth day cast,
of treasures that abound to reap
When one, a glass above his head
beckons silence, moments slow
Respect, our mate now swallow'd dead,
entombed within the depths below
Then hearty cheers and farewell speak,
this touching scene if one would be
A ghostly tear now falls my cheek,
this fallen mate they cheer is me