Long Turret Poems
Long Turret Poems. Below are the most popular long Turret by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Turret poems by poem length and keyword.
Hot sand… hills of hot sand; I feel cold,
The cold powder through my toes,
And the air is quietly travelling its path,
A meandering river, it flows.
Then, before me, the oasis, the answer to my pain,
The answer is a sugary glow.
And my hill becomes a dusty road of a single note,
That leads to where I go.
I walk in the memory of then,
I walk along a forgotten path of eyes that stare.
I walk inside the pillbox of a broken turret,
A broken turret mistaken for care.
But then she rescues my all, she throws a rope,
And drags me to memories when life was tame,
She saves me, she says she remembers,
She remembers my lonely cup dancing, my flame.
This one’s a castle; that’s a customs-house.
They’re stolid, listless, just a little dull.
The sky supports an arbitrary gull.
The languidness of Liszt, the style of Strauss
are wholly absent. Colours are metallic.
The eye sweeps over cornice, turret, steeple,
then it dawns on us – there are no people.
Clock towers, mountains, minarets, all phallic,
are void of human life. Stark, empty chairs
adorn each arid, motionless interior.
As we apprise, eyes sneeringly superior,
we note acerbically his love of stairs –
A Will to Power, ever pushing up.
One daub there is, however, gives us pause:
it dates long before Enabling Laws,
before he dreamed of Kesselring or Krupp:
a bridge that’s quite impossible to cross,
going nowhere, has never carried traffic.
With a boy sitting on it. Startling, graphic,
without a hint of Schadenfreude or Schloss.
Self-portrait, this? What features may we trace?
What’s here vouchsafed? Incipient racist brute?
Hardly. A disarmingly awful suit,
and most revealingly of all – he has no face.
Abreast in tank top
Seeds deflower battle myths
Red lace lingerie
Under shadow of turret
Flowing combat above doubt
Garland of poppies
Sword unsheathed for wild conquest
Guns orange roses
Heavy metal for comfort
White flag intimate cover
Make love and not war
Coronet for a bouquet
Tiara of peace
Sweet surrender in motion
Wreaths for a renegade cause
18th February 2020
Contest Let the Pens Flow Tanka Poetry
Sponsored by Jenish Somadas
Syllables checked howmanysyllable.com
Traditionally a tanka does not have a title, but I have to give one to submit the
poem. I hope that Exposure enhances more than it may distract.
I'm a forgotten home whispered the old house,
and I stopped walking down the street.
On my right was a decaying old Victorian home.
I heard her sigh and deeply breathe,
her former grandeur pale.
She had peeling paint and was covered with green moss,
as though nature was reclaiming her ~
she was crying, don't cry, I heard myself tell her.
I looked beyond her broken windows
and sagging porch.
Love your ornate cable trim, turret and wings,
such intricate architecture, I told her ~
Oh yes, once I was beautiful that is true,
once children played in my rooms,
many families have called me home,
until the last one passed ~
I can still hear happiness echoing.
Closing my eyes I imaged the interior,
of this home frozen in time.
And I am standing within ~
I could smell the rot and decay in each room,
dust and cobwebs, mold, and dripping water,
spiders, and shadows, holes in the floor and roof.
I weep for this forsaken, forgotten beauty,
her sorrow is seeping into my soul ~
reluctantly, I turn away . . .
The Musician and the Poet-
See the playing of the musician
I think he's angry at the admission
He finds it hard to see the concert
Overshadowed by the kind turret
She is but a clever poet poetess
Admired as she sits upon an acquisition
Her lab top she writes verses like tapping a tambourine
typing out sounds runs of ole clementine
She's not alone she brings a drum
A pet dog a flamingo, that quite a forum
The flamingo likes to chase keys on piano
especially one that's with Diana
The musician shudders at the delightful pencil
Sheet music leaves but it wants the bensel
Poetess Diana needs music theory lessons
4/4/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019©
It was a good day, a Sunday going to church day.
The sun was a brilliant glow.
The weather was agreeable, a welcoming change from the brutally brisk weather we been having.
True Vine Baptist Church looked magnificent under the strength of the sun. It's red bricks gleamed and the turret with a white cross on top crowned the gray roof. Beautiful rainbow stained glass windows were both consoling and inspiring to me.
The interior of the church was opulent, yet simple, as contradictory as this may seem.
So much fellowship love greeted me at the door, and I felt at home.
Being a creature of habit, I sat in my usual chair in the back of the church.
As a deeply entrenched introvert, not the type of person who like to be noticed or called out, although the holy spirit, which is a constant tenant there, often makes me out of a liar.
I opened the program and was glad to see that Pastor Sherline Melvin was delivering the sermon.
Women are heavily designed with complexity and deep emotions, and I am sisterly connected to this wonderful woman who had allowed herself to be a willing vessel of God.
The divine message ; how to kill your Goliath was spilled fluently from her lips unto the congregation with clear metaphors, that gripped the conscious. Powerful, pounding and personal testimony was incorporated into her sermon and it left a bruising effect on the encephalon.
Oh how clear it is that her faith is unfaltering and steadfast against afflicting storms.
It was an Alegre moment.
It was a good day, a blessed day a Sunday going to church day.
Author Mary E.W. Stephenson
Written as a church dedication and documented.
I was up on deck of the USS Arizona doing the morning chores,
When another plane came along, so I just passed it by, gores,
Because they landed at Ford Island all the time, but this time,
It was strafing me, attacking me repeatedly as I was the prime.
So I ran forward to get under cover, and I did not get hurt,
But then another plane came around the same way, girt,
But again, nobody got hit, so I proceeded to go inside,
Back to my battle station, when a bomb hit where I did hide.
It knocked me out, ruptured both lungs, all lights went out,
And I awoke and picked up where I left off, with no pout,
Pearl Harbour was rank with warfare, bullets flew all around,
And I don’t know how long I had laid there, but I was bound.
I was intent on opening the water-tight door, not allowed,
In battle conditions to be entered, but I managed proud,
I made my way to the turret to assist there, and one said,
“Boy, you’re a good boy Carson,” they just needed me red.
There was no panic down there or anything, but much water,
And smoke, and they don’t mix, and then a commander
Told me to come on deck and help, but we were at a loss,
The ship was beat, and we then had to abandon and toss.
But just before I did, I ran into a friend, crying and dying,
Burnt, skin dangling off his body, very openly just hanging,
So I took his arm, but there was nothing that I could do,
So he died later, and its bothered me all my life through.
So they gave the word “abandon ship” and so I stepped off,
Not knowing how badly I was hurt, so passed out, did turnoff,
I went down in the water and it was peaceful and nice,
And then I saw this bright light, but something saved me, ice.
I got back up to the water’s surface, but burning oil,
Surrounded me in a complete circle, but, no more toil,
The next thing I knew was somebody’s arm on mine,
Pulling me out the water, and then I knew I’d be fine.
I made it to Ford Island sick bay but saw another there,
Whose intestines were in his hands, holding them bare,
And who said to me “War sure is hell isn’t it, shipmate,”
So I replied and just got up and walked out, straight.
Died January 14th 2001
Shadow of Dreams
Look at this HOUSE – shadow of dreams
Of hands once strong with hope –
This empty shell echos
Dreams once dreamed
Where promise once sat
On a PORCH decorated
With swings sheltered by FERNS
Hung from a ROOF and eaves
Of gingerbread trim
Surrounded by a GARDEN
With a gate – a DOOR with a glass ROSETTE–
A WINDOW into a life
Discarded like a broken jar
Preserving faith like rows of jams and jellies –
A windowpane framed by shredded lace
Of shattered wishes
Littering a desolate STAIRCASE
Leading up to barren emptiness -
Where cobwebs ensnare careless visitors
In the turret named despair – my newest friend –
Trapped as a prisoner of shame –
Lonely sorrow and regrets –
Living in desolation -
Bones bare to unforgiving waves of heat
Ragging wilderness hurricanes -
All I see is life flowing out of me
In my poor dwelling place
Yet,
A new breath of WHISPERS
Calls creaking footsteps -
Seek out a musty cellar corner
Set on a foundation unfailing
Where the heart beats - a steady rhythm –
A single lantern light still lives –
Holding the key
To restoration
Of this old home.
7-15-20
Decaying Old House Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance LaFrance
The turret view tells of looming onslaught,
of grievous weapons our enemies brought.
The petrary and ballistae amongst the worst.
May their soldiers and their kings be curst!
We are outnumbered in bodies, not spirit.
Our will is strong, our resolve with merit.
We stand against what the battle may bring.
Together we fight for country and King!
Arm yourselves with long launchers and bows.
Archers to the bailey, ready the throws.
Armor yourselves with gambeson and shield.
Die standing, take no knee, nor otherwise yield!
The battle won, our praises to God we sing.
Today we rebuild for country and King!
Each day I climb the fleshy
stalks of your love to perch
outside your castle in the sky.
I watch the currents ebb and flow
as clouds are carried away
downstream. I lay patiently in the
sun's warm arms for a glimpse
through your turret window.
As the sun readjusts her body
the glare from your window
is telling me to try again later.
Night comes on fast, slinking
it’s way through the sky,
prying me from the sun’s embrace
and the sweet earth rushes up
to catch me. It leaves me breathless
as a glimpse through your turret window
and I scrape the earth’s blood from my knees
to prepare for my ascent tomorrow.