Turrets Poems | Examples

Days End

Gentle lapping waters
roll sequentially onto shore,
like tiny crystals sparks, highlighted by the shining sun.

Blackened tree stumps 
stand 
like soldiers on watch.

A pelican,
skims the surface of the lake,
in search of tasty morsels lurking beneath murky waters.

The lazy dog basking in the sun
lifts an eyelid;
Undisturbed, 
he resumes his peaceful nap.

Camp fires send spiralling smoke puffs upwards,
carried away with the wind, 
followed by another smoke signal.

The sandy banks,
with mounds of trodden turrets lay in wait,
for creatures on dusk patrol
seeking nightly nourishment.

The setting sun slowly sinks, 
sending sliver shimmers across the lake.

Again, nightfall descends.
Another day closes.

Museum of my Mind

I would make a museum of my mind
Fill these musty halls with all my people
Every girl who has walked my corridors 
To write her piece and paste it on the walls. 

Every plaque together, a mosaic
Of all personas, memories, and thoughts 
Together an image, reflected back 
Informative of me, an auto-school.

Blowing out the dust of unused ballrooms
Broom cupboards and and the back stairs, each its own
Room for machinations, revelations, 
Fed by all those who reside within me

My lonely people, aimless wanderers
Floating through the corridors room by room 
Their homes are these clustered, open cloisters.
Endless is my palace of passages. 

I am dissected in a thousand cuts
Each slice a living, pulsating breather
Warm and soft against my cobblestone floors
Balance of life and rock, they people me.

Voices low and laughter cheerful, I hear
My population all internally
All beings that are me, graduated
Notches on a scale, all playing their part, 

Like cogs and wheels they move in tandem drifts
Here in this exhibit they gave me, of
Balustrades adorned and turrets revived 
I transformed: a museum of my mind.

painted ladies

painted ladies

over the years i have forgotten her eyes
that her smile was soft
and her hair like chiffon on a wednesday morning

we walked along stanyan street
celebrating the colors of a fall morning
listening to simon and garfunkel
and watching steam rise from beneath the street 

the majesty of the painted ladies 
on steiner street came alive as they stared us down
two lovers hand in hand 
looking for a place to lay a blanket 
in alamo square park

we must have looked bland
compared to their flamboyancy
queen anne archetecture—fancy and flashy 
combinations of bay windows 
from which lovers could be watched  
jutting turrets and ornately decorated rooflines

even then, when i saw the brilliant pink
of a lady, i saw you, your lips, your smile
and of the blue, i saw your eyes, the sparkle
the laughing way they looked at me

yet i have forgotten the colors
and only the painted ladies 
on steiner street remind me
of that morning 
looking for a place to lay a blanket 
in alamo square park

tolbert

Architecture of anthropological anteaters

The day the hour,
The meat the shower,
Show no oscillating octopus to an octagonal obelisk and eat a Greek tortilla upside down in a second. It is wiser to tread lightly in a miller’s abode. Round and round the turrets go those turtles so mind your footing for shells can be slippery really.
When shopping for an Aberdeen Angus bull it is wise to carry an umbrella as showers can occur from any lengths of tail thus rendering talismans useless and a fruit fly would remark that a plate of steamed rice is simply not that exciting really so now after all that information you can leapfrog over the dandelions wearing a cotton pair of anglers waders and a fish hat with or without fins.
X anthropomorphic creatures X

The Sandcastle

We ask if there be merit in the sand
Conformed from heart and hand on summer’s day?
However well the moat and turrets planned,
The lapping of the sea’s not far away.
O, that the tide shall come, we know too well:
Then dream and substance shall together fall.
A Babylon for which no tongue shall tell;
The sea, the settling sea, shall settle all.
And that shall come, but yet, it is not now,
And all of time is moments such as these;
Before the fall, there is not need to bow;
The sea shall come, but now, the warming breeze.
And if it soon shall end, as so it be,
There’s yet our moment still, before the sea.

On Kissing the Blarney Stone

"There is a stone there, that whoever kisses, OH! He never misses, to grow eloquent" Author not mentioned at link to Blarney Stone - Blarney Castle

I walk the path amid the trees 
Where footsteps even now are tread,
where ancient stones of Blarney please, 
and lips upon the stone have wed.
 
 Enchanting are the turrets here
 bedecked in autumn's vines of red, 
the little stream that wanders near, 
and steps to where I'm being led. 

The Blarney stone at last I see, 
so bending backwards now to kiss 
the stone, my friend is holding me. 
That’s not a mark I want to miss! 

I have a thought;   I now can say
my mouth has touched where many more
have touched upon this stone of gray. 
How many thousands came before? 

Inside the marrow of my bones, 
I feel a thrill . Will eloquence 
be mine from having kissed this stone? 
I feel a chill of reverence!

Dream of Yesterday's Wishes

My life was a river, and I was a willow twig, 
Bobbing on a creek toward the sea.
Strong, fast, lively children tried to catch me and failed.
The greatest sports hero, I dreamed I'd be.  
A boy and a lovely girl held hands and gazed on
A river that once was a brook,
And I wished I'd have the most beautiful girl
Whereupon the bright sun did look. 
Floating along, I came upon a charming cottage
With a window-box filled with flowers.
I dreamed I'd have the grandest mansion ever built
With balconies, turrets and towers.  
As the water grew wider, and the sea grew nearer,
I saw young willows, healthy, and green.
I wished I would have all of the health and vigor
Of a strapping boy of fifteen. 
At last, the grand river emptied into the sea,
Where beachgoers could hear the sound
Of surf.  I heard it too, and I was still dreaming,
As a wave crashed and I drowned.

Jousting Part Ii

Flags
Miniature standards
Plunged by
A child’s hand
into turrets
Of a castle 
of golden sand
Long washed clean
By rolling tides.
Sometimes
A bugle plays
On 
Omaha Beach

Twinkle, Twinkle Legos Star

Legos Nursery Rhyme

(Verse 1)
In a land of bricks so bright,
Lego wonders, pure delight.
Tiny blocks of every hue,
Building dreams, both old and new.

(Verse 2)
Yellow heads with smiles so wide,
Lego people side by side.
Castle towers, turrets tall,
Legos stand, and rarely fall.

(Chorus)
Clickity-clack, stack 'em high,
Legos reach up to the sky.
Snap and play, all through the day,
In Lego land, we all will stay.

(Verse 3)
Spaceships soaring, rockets red,
Lego adventures lie ahead.
Underneath the plastic dome,
Creativity finds its home.

(Chorus)
Clickity-clack, stack 'em high,
Legos reach up to the sky.
Snap and play, all through the day,
In Lego land, we all will stay.

(Bridge)
Brick by brick, the world's a stage,
Lego stories, page by page.
Imagination takes the lead,
In a world of endless need.

(Chorus)
Clickity-clack, stack 'em high,
Legos reach up to the sky.
Snap and play, all through the day,
In Lego land, we all will stay.

(Outro)
So let's build and dream and play,
In Lego land, come what may.
Clickity-clack, the joy won't end,
With Legos, forever friends.

A Religious Affair

Turrets are turning,
behind the tanks
exhausts are farting death clouds,
barrels, like angry dicks,
are hot, erect and spurting,
buildings erupt, climaxing
on TV screens.

On both sides of these yonder hill
where the redline bleeds,
blank-eyed children,
play their video games,
while trying to overhear
a merciful God at His prayers.

An Uttering Fire

they go
into the uttering fire
enter
- no more talking

the rubble is piled high
higher than the high houses

men in turrets
crush
they lick their dry lips

they listen
to the flames

ash falls within an oily rain

a dead face in the flames
begins to talk

Castle House

In the middle of a street
In a nice suburban town
Sits a house unlike the others 
And deserving of renown.

With some unexpected turrets
In the way it was designed,
Just one glance brings times medieval 
To the forefront of the mind.

For it looks just like a castle,
So all passersby will stare
Wond’ring maybe if some royalty
Somehow’s residing there.

I would love to see if inside 
It retains that cool allure,
But from visiting some real ones,
There’s one thing of which I’m sure.

If you don’t have many servants
And you’re living in a castle,
Cleaning towers topped with turrets 
Must be quite a major hassle!

Isle

A blind flight
above a brooding sea.

Dawn levers the darkness.
Ireland rising.
Whitecaps, bright tumbled cliffs.
Briny turf, moss-rooted walls,
wind-havens and cottages.
So green!

Tidal meadows run to dewy swards.
Patchwork pastures knitted to bogs.
Then the sodden towns,
oyster shell gables glisten like new peat.
Verdant hills raise rocky turrets.

In only minutes the far coast appears;
goose-gray Muir Eireann;
the land sliding westward.

Ireland will always be like this;
a gull bobbing between high waves.
now seen, now lost.

Magical Mud

First, build a big castle,
sculpting turrets like pros.
Mounding, turning, and working that dirt
with hands deft and facile,
dampening with the hose,
squished through fingers, a warm oozing squirt.

Together, thus, they played,
delighting, questing went
to faraway lands, magical mud,
imagining they payed
with rocks for gold they spent,
buying and selling fresh dragon’s blood.

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A 'Blood Quill' of two stanzas, 6a:6b:9c:6a:6b:9c and 6d:6e:9f:6d:6e:9f

London Bridge Is Finally Down

Those shrunken grey turrets throw 
Their distraught shadows to the wind;
And in the grey twilight of ancient 
Beinn Chìochan...
Hear you the droning sounds of 
Muted pipes retreating far back and 
Away. 

Albert heaves upon the old grey 
cairn;
When woken from his immortal sleep,
Laments beside the darkening waters
For that which, despite all its 
Eternal majesty...
He knows can but never come again.

Over grey skies, glowering like the 
Grey dawning,
Spanned the rainbow to briefly flicker
Before the remaining day;
But with the grey night will come the 
Weeping...
And London Bridge, reduced to nought 
But Her, laid finally down.

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