Long Taverns Poems
Long Taverns Poems. Below are the most popular long Taverns by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Taverns poems by poem length and keyword.
A candle burns its life away;
sacrifice to it, is sweet;
it is a candle’s lot in life.
Candles gift, a light dark cloaked;
beacon burning bright;
candles warmth and charm are unmatched by
anything else, man has made.
Candles birth soft memories;
lend rest to the eyes and romance to the heart.
Candle has sung many centuries;
a companion in dark ages; on dark nights,
its glow can hold childhood terrors, at bay.
Candle songs kept aging sailors company on raging,
storm-ridden seas. No bullying leviathan
would ever cross candle’s path willingly.
Even sea monsters fear its burning breath.
Candles glow, a dancer on the air,
dances for everyone;
candle-tango brings passion to lovers.
No one is alone when candle is near,
such a light-companion,
draws others to its domain.
Candle has gathered friends together in
taverns to celebrate;
in hovels, for warmth and at parties of celebration.
By candles gift, we find our way home;
its welcome warmth, a song of love on an empty, cold night.
When you burn, burn bright and long;
your light is the warm love that you leave to the world.
No bulb, LED or solar panel can bestow your gift.
When your flame is gone, when your torch has been passed;
your legacy will light another’s way to
faith, hope and love.
**The Next Zimbabwe: A Call to Rise**
In lands where dreams were forged in fire,
A tale of strength, of fierce desire,
From ashes of despair, they’ve learned to climb,
Zimbabwe’s spirit soaring through the sands of time.
A currency’s fall, a lesson steep,
Where once was value, now shadows creep.
Yet brothers and sisters, with hearts aflame,
Have risen from ruins to reclaim their name.
Across the borders, they sought a way,
With every rand, they’d chart their sway.
Determined souls, they harnessed the grind,
While others indulged, their vision aligned.
In taverns dark, where laughter flows,
Their laughter echoes, where no one knows
That diligence crafted on foreign ground,
Now boasts of success that astounds the town.
“Oh, they take our jobs!” is the weary cry,
But it’s passion and grit that lift them high.
While some chase vanity, or fleeting thrills,
The Zim hearts beat strong, finding strength in their skills.
From cleanings to braids, they’ve mastered the art,
With every endeavor, they've played their part.
Boardrooms and mines, a tapestry spun,
Where barriers crumble, new futures begun.
Look closely, dear neighbors, it’s time to awake,
From slumber of habits, it’s change that we’ll make.
The bars and the bottles won’t fill us with gold,
While wisdom’s embrace maps a future more bold.
They carry in pockets what we too could claim,
Values that flourish, igniting the flame.
So rise, South Africa, from shadows of doubt,
See the wealth in hard labor; let the spirit sprout.
Success isn’t stolen; it’s built and it grows,
On sweat and on tears, the determination shows.
In unity’s strength, there’s a chance to thrive,
Let’s learn from each other, let the best of us drive.
In the heart of our struggle, let’s sow seeds of trust,
For in every challenge, there’s power discussed.
Rise up and awaken, let visions collide,
In the next Zimbabwe, let our hopes coincide.
Wild Irish sea pounds spray ashore,
its white teeth gnaw the stone down,
each tide returns, bites as before
wearing away the brown cliffs.
The wind flattens salted bluegrass,
while gulls wheel up in the sky
soaring as on an overpass
hang gliding over the crags.
Breaking waves surge up the sandstone
Falling back as white foam veils
stroking the old wounds to atone
for the endless scouring blows.
The strong swells drum through sea caverns,
blow-holes spray up in the sky
bringing cheers to seaside taverns
for the pipe, fiddle, drum songs.
Irish seals dive through kelp seaweed
silver backs, flash through foam spray,
twisting and turning at high-speed
laughing at angry sea grasps.
O Irish sea, carve deep tonight,
let your foam and surge shape me
for rugged crags are a highlight
on our weathered skin and shores.
O Irish sea, carve deep tonight,
let your foam and surge shape me
for rugged crags are a highlight
on our weathered skin and shores.
Desertion is a way o' death
That language of darkness loop
the babe of Seth
Sparked within confines o' wood
Coffins of Being misunderstood
Expression became a way of breath
Solemnly consumed
too many times revived
For darkness ousted that once filled fear
Inside a lonely spirit drowned in tears
Glasses fulI cried at night
In silent devillish angelic flight
Melody promised to voice concerned
Untill in clubs bars taverns a dream was churned
Yet empty pockets remain the start
Of more yearning within the dark
Of night and silent wish
To succeed even more
To reach and break the lease
Of poverty bestowed upon
A dark curse one night
wrong choice a soul forlorn
To let my inner desire soar
'twas of untimely concern
I wanted so much to learn.
Doors seemed shut in silent reproach
Gone are dogs cats plants all ghosts
Taken by the hand of loss
To the wind happiness was tossed
And turned into an empty hole
Where nothing else resided
But death over turned
Past fulfillment
my replacement for love
Untill no feelings reached out to above
The level of where the hole reached earth
There in the hole the darkened fear gave birth
To a spirit wrought in flamres
The product of spirit yearning games
totally lecherous, yet talented Damien
TG4 plays providence to his vocals
Tomboy Irish call him a treasure
today’s leprechauns use singing to entice
talented neophyte criss-crosses the Isle
tenors flounder copying his Irish flair
truly dolorous, they smolder because
their bombast like hot air is way hyped-up.
tunes, Celtic songs, no inhibition, we know
taverns love Damien, he brings in the gold
June 1, 2019
John Hamilton's contest: Eight Word Free Verse Challenge
FYI:
TG4 is an Irish free-to-air television channel for Irish-language speakers. It launched on 31 October 1996. TG4 is also available to watch online live and to view previously broadcast programmes from around the world through the TG4 Player
I’ve heard it said that poetry is dead
But I don’t believe that’s true.
It runs in our veins like water to rain
Somewhere inside me and you.
It’s up in the air, in circles and squares
And oceans, rivers and tides,
In cats and dogs, bayous and bogs,
In taverns and tall rocket rides.
For life is an ocean of poetry in motion
Though we can’t always hear its rhyme,
As it twists and turns, beckons and yearns
Throughout our lives and minds.
Poetry lives in the love we give
One another from day to day,
Intrinsic in nature like Ursa Major
And all the music we hear and play.
While tilling a garden
Or gazing at stars,
Poetry is in motion
Wherever we are.
In photography, paintings
And all manner of the arts,
That move our minds
And stir our hearts.
And while some may deny
The plain simple truth…
This life is a poem
That needs no proof.
© Terrell Martin
09/08/2024
It's a new day as the hot sun starts,
here reporting on the cheese battle.
Overnight the wine and cheese taverns,
moved in for the cracker spread.
The cider & charcuterue shacks,
were not having any of that.
They are fighting back hard,
with hard salami and cubed cheddar.
Looks like they will not let some wine and cheese taverns,
win this cheese battle.
As the sun sets,
both sides are very tired.
The wine and cheese taverns,
did the unthinkable.
They let loose the wine,
and drowned the other side.
This reporter from String Cheese City,
is signing off for tonight I'm Sharp Slice.
The days so few and far and in-between,
Loneliness I never knew has captured my soul,
The sweet smell of her hair I remember so well,
But even with her, I was never quite whole.
My nights too are lonely and blue,
Memories fading into the distance again,
How do I abide when all my youth I have spent,
In taverns and bars with occasional friends.
Nobody warned me I'd be sitting alone,
I guess I always figured, life just goes on,
So here I sit contemplating my fate,
Wondering all the time where did I go wrong.
Interpreting meanings that make no sense,
Floundering my time in various places,
Never seeing the light that shines so bright,
When I look into the mirror I see different faces.
There is a spark but it will not ignite,
There are steps but they have no spring,
Lost in the ocean just one of mankind,
Like a prayer that cannot sing.
/|\
Mrs. Holloway polishes her poetry dimly,
Regaling herself with the accoutrements of
Selected poetry, cluttered and less jinxed
By way of satanic slamming by famished,
Idle critics who read The New York Times
Just once in a sugared year.
She chooses her stanzas locally.
By that I mean her stanzas nurse patience,
Drifting from gossips to loose, impotent
Talks held when midnights ail.
She digresses from north’s steady arrow
To the rump of the south, where watersheds
Of a nation’s difficult history are published.
Chances are that her poetry would win a
Contest in a fortnight, but the era of romance
Is jaundiced, which is her constituency and
Her background for coloured matters.
Her abbreviations for the names of her old
Suitors are carved from pillars to posts – reposting
Caryatids as common sentinels on a poisoned bank—
Losing the Greekness required of such adornments.
O Holloway, read, read, read,
Her acolytes pressure her.
Time loses sense of time in its own timeness,
They warn.
That, to me, is the commonest blandishment.
I should never have sipped from her potsherd
Such stale beer as she offered on the day her
Poetry was reviewed by a proscribed newspaper.
But her urge for anything dead and horrid,
Egged me on, especially when she narrated
The murder of seven sisters by seven creatures that
Very Sunday morning when the taverns closed
Before they opened.
Holloway shocked me with the gory details.
Oh, I forgot to tell you she hankers after things
Truly, truly hebdomadal.
I call her Mrs. Holloway the Hebdomadalist.
Seven churches, seven trumpets,
Seven seals, seven heads, seven horns... and now
Seven sisters murdered by seven creatures.
That’s why her poetry is cluttered.
Full of nerves and airs of salutes,
Mrs. Holloway’s poetry thunders.
She presumes that time will, like the morning
Dew, settle on the sinews of her poetry.
(And I agree with her) .
And smoothen it —yes, time, the masseur of
All time.
Smoothen it.
Oil it.
Massage it.
And level it.
At least to street level.
(And I agree with her) .
I laid in my bed
Blankets wrapped around my ankles
My mind wondered why should I awaken
I was living in that world between sleep and reality
My mind takes me to places I always wanted to see
Lands lost to time
Brightly lit cities millions of miles away
I meet people who I never would have met
If I were in the real world
People of legends
Told of in long lost ancient tongues
They sit with me and we talk about the meaning of life
Sharing their wisdom in marble temples
Looking around it is an entire world
There are valleys lush with tropical plants
Their skies filled by deep green leaves
Birds of red, blue, violet and yellow
Fill the air with a symphony of sounds
Notes melding into a perfection of music
Mountains, blue and snow-capped
Unexplored and never seen
I can see women whose beauty is beyond compare
Share a drink with me in dark taverns
They tell me about their feelings
And, occasionally they give me a kiss
It is a world that I know well
It is a place where I am accepted for who I am
Then I awake
The lands, the music and the women
Fade into the morning light
My eyes focus
My mind sharpens
The real world invades my thoughts
But I remember that when the sun sets
My eyes will close and once again
I will be in a world of my own creation
And I tomorrow morning
I know I will not want to awake
And I will ask
Why can’t I stay asleep