"cobble" poems
her voice
tripped over cobble stones
drifted through waves
her voice
echoed in empty rooms
cracked through walls
her voice,
stays knotted in her throat
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 5:49 PM UTC
Métis, Themis, Ma’at, their banter was for naught.
All the tides and tithings wisdoms and their teachings, Daemonium forgot!
But the heavens cry manna as Nix cried out reprieve!
An act that loosed the flood, the chaos of her sea.
Her pain arose a champion to tend to all her needs,
Formed of Celestial Ocean he bore down on the freed.
A giant wave of madness, thrusting mist of sadness eradicating gladness... One led the ruthless breed.
Opaque in their beginning, formless shapes in twining.
Conjoined but not together, accompanied the weather.
Thalassa’s stringy tether wrapped them all forever.
Come or go in seasons, live or die in age.
No Spring to Fall in reasons, travailing of the mage?
Black tentacles the streamers, rooted into wave.
Witness the all-wise and snaking phantom phage...
Chiron watches while he prances, his dressage on the shore.
Arising liminal of beings wettened ambiguity of yore.
Even Iblis is impressed, such black rotten to the core!
Merkabah or egg, mountain, belly, tree they squabble.
All elements do I cobble, such are actions of the wobble.
Jul 16, 2016
Jul 16, 2016 at 7:28 PM UTC
You'll notice him in the busy streets of Peru, dodging vendors and laughing like the sun.
You'll notice her at a small diner past 2 a.m, lost in thought, melancholy notes on their smile.
You'll notice him on a cobble corner wearing bold colours and singing about the lives he's lived and the fools he's loved.
You'll notice her on mountain peaks, soaking in the wind with twigs in her hair.
You'll notice him weaving flower crowns and writing in his journals, squinting into the hot sky with dew on his lips.
You'll notice her kneeled on the side of the road, comforting a small animal with the voice of sweet honey.
You'll notice them, dancing at sunset, colours streaking across their face.
You'll notice them running through meadow fields in the early hours of the morning.
You'll notice them laughing like the wind, smiling like velvet, with whispfill sparks in their eyes as they sit by the waves at dawn.
They are the sun and the moon
The sky and the sea
Fire and the ice
They're not likely to tell you who's who,
In fact they're not likely to tell you who they are at all.
But even without the spoken reveal
Even without the clarity of meaning,
When you see them.
You'll notice
Dec 2, 2018
Dec 2, 2018 at 1:47 PM UTC
I fear that a woman so queer
Brought to bed in sin my only kin;
To shame, Lorraine,
For my lover lies cold beneath cobble and stones
with my Rose only a bud, never to bloom past her gravel tomb,
and you.
Mercy a third to join your gravel grave,
I gave your husband his own far from your stones
and buried him in my thoughts, buried him alone.
A lifetime plus decades have since passed and I inhabit an empty home,
collecting dust on my bones.
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 5:11 PM UTC
Semi-permeable
translucent vibes;
rhythm through
a château door
into neon nights,
and lanterns like
red-eye photos
look down on us.
They look down
on me, and they
see me shaking
the vibes out on
cement cobble-
blocks. I got the
cancer / excess
disease, we say
I'm the new-old
where the auto-
focus is good
but around us
is gaussian blur
forgotten future.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 6:25 PM UTC
I think things like "weigh my belt"
That weight dowth felt thy girly wirly smell
hand made
sew maid for two plums pie
I cry I cry I almost pass away
way to the future down
down to below. Oh
how can I
be so
naïve before the summer glow
a basement bash of feet below
below a hazard haggard waist
wasted on the belt loop of his father
a potter
plain before your very eyes
a seismic ray of disbelief
a cobble stone of sticks and leaves.
No
I could be a sailor man
and I could eat things from a can
and inching toward a rubber band
Damsels in distress
they're not impressed by you
or shallow deeds
deeds begin to play
beneath my skin and things that float away
and inching toward the silos of
a tribal super plane
a racecar a racecar
I'm ******* erasing it all
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 1:15 AM UTC
crochet me a heart
well a heat cozie if you dont mind
i know that mine could stand to be more warm
it could beat faster too honestly
it wouldnt become faint
oh
stitch me a liver too
while youre at it
mines wearing out
bleached one too many times
thanks
**** my ear darling
i listen earnestly
but often dont hear
cobble my feet
that i am nearer
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 3:17 PM UTC
It was the muse that kissed the *********
And turned his inner pain into happiness.
A face that often frowns turns upside down when she comes around.
Clothes rain to the ground
And screams of pain and pleasure
become hard to decipher.
Its not insane he found inspiration in her
they found love in their pain.
****** bitten lips
Ripped out hair follicles
And hand printed bruised hips.
He grips her curves
Like wet tires when they swerve.
She grips his neck
Like she is trying to pinch a nerve.
He grips hers to make it feel better
to make them feel light as a feather
hoping that they die
And drown in each others nectar forever.
It was the muse that kissed the *********
And turned his inner pain into happiness.
She didn't need him to romance her much.
When their eyes meet its as if he's tranced her
When he touches her
Kisses her
and loves her she summons a flood.
As if she was a rain dancer.
The face of an angel with a heart
Of cold marble.
Their love could only be partial
Even though they get so close
Their hearts are separate like
Stones of cobble.
When she leaves to pursue herself
She traps his mind and heart in one grip.
Not for a moment but for a very long trip.
His inner pain returns and his invisible tears begin to drip.
In the form of flowing life
From his masculine wrist.
He wonders will he ever find love
As strong as this lust?
Will his inner pain allow him to generate trust?
Or will the pain cause his heart to erupt.
Leaving a more heartless being.
So when they want to know what happened
Just let them know
It was all an accident and
It was the muse that kissed the *********
And turned his inner pain into happiness.
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 3:33 PM UTC
Bluebell Lucy danced in fantastic flames, taught by shamanic figures
when the winter nights grew tiresome
and lonely boys ran passionately in village streets
She stood on ancient structures and sang her song with uttermost vigor
even after mild paranoia sets in, she stands statuesque
breathing harmonic, listening intently to the cloud's chatter
Her cobalt lashes flickered adroitly when she scanned the sky atop her locks
and let the coming rains wash through that azure mane
until the kiss of eternal gratitude arrived from a stray bird
On cobble stone paving, her heels were worn and dampened, she nimbly strides
how beautiful it is to see a spirit so free
and the obstinate world yields to her alone
Loosely, Lucy with a cerulean aura, gathers the injured and feral in alabaster arms
she is yagé and the world hallucinates because of her
a subtle enlightenment she gives to onlookers and thieves
Camu Camu sprouting from the wells she digs with bare hands in midnight moonlight
her compatriots, the beasts of lost tribes, look onwards
and she wails a verse on hemerocallis singular sensation
The flower that she is, a wild one that grows sporadically to enhance the beauty of existence
and everybody incomprehensible in thoughts when she speaks
because she is love when love had died so many suns ago
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 3:35 PM UTC
fem in isms,
i imagine Sapphic eyes:
bad *** advert coruscates elite
fairness sensing slavish blind
in gestate calm affirm
in genders More numerous of Windows--
Superior--for Doors--
O harsh judgement foiled,
as a foil, as unknown truth
foil-doubles in the brow,
abject symmetry to systemize
a fertile lack of sterile barrenness,
i am a mediatrix rend,
nirwaan, hijra wonderment aside
from transemotion's ground swells
demeaning to be understood.
i celebrate and face the same
to be what paperwork tests being
normal being, freely chosen
atom each belonging moves
an asterisk of paths
of mutate art of nature social darwin maze.
i imagine Sapphic eyes,
ginko soft they pile up all cobble
memories themselves concretely
cloistered fame
spray of salty waves,
macho screams symbol
for dismissal ease
for tearing at an inner unsaid war
with lists offense of proper taste
to what posterity intends
an undulation womblike seeming nourish safety sounds.
i imagine Sapphic eyes
past
debauched
meanderings
where hyster-clarity rejoins its titular
and reliable escapisms curl the lips
of maleness found
here and there smile sneer love
i imagine Sapphic eyes
linguistic pirouettes
congest that wisdom nonetheless
the moment passed on to a
feigning truth in pretty rhyme
ornamenting time with fine meter fine
vernacular chimes peter in
to juggle perspectival paradox,
redichotomize the twilight idols,
resolve the conflict like a dawn
Aurora,
i imagine Sapphic eyes
running plastic with Alaskan wolves,
toga floats to snow
to let us see the purest fairness form
a ****** circle,
Hypatia ascends from tenebrous grave,
Impregnable of Eye is pregnant now
with Wollstonecraft revered
in liberation's fount
families held exemplar gaze of
Taylor, ****** Cady,
Anthony resanctified
to vote entitlement's
empathic origins, waxen mold
of nascent categories,
narrow hands spread wide to panoply anew
the manifest evolve in true unknowns
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 11:56 PM UTC
In the old part of town
There are still cobbled streets
And at one time
These streets were surrounded
By living working mills
Marking the towns heartbeat
Twenty-four hours a day
Seven days a week
The machines hammered the air
As the flying shuttles were cracked
From side to side of the weft
On more than a hundred looms
It sounded like a battlefield
And some would say it was
But that was long ago
And now the mills are dead
The buildings still stand
But inside they are broken
Housing many more
Modern endeavours
And in one of these old buildings
Within the same crusty bricks
There's another world that lives
In the dark hours at least
There's a night club that throbs
To the sound of bands playing
Different rhythms for the town
And the neon lights outside
Shine on the same old cobble stones
By Phil Roberts
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 11:02 AM UTC
My sweet angel I fear with the stones I shall remain,
I am doomed to repeat this unhappy existence,
Where my memory lives on when the vines and the leaves are gone,
And I become inhuman, merely an energy
My love the warmth of your skin and the melody of your song,
Will haunt my being while I haunt the living,
These brick walls, this concrete jungle, this manufactured light
From where I come I shall return
And I may never ascend in this lifetime
I may never leave the next one
My summer seraph who guards the one who wears the crown,
Who smiles at the trumpet Gabriel plays as she makes her way back home,
And gates open, pearly and golden, and to those trapped in this cycle unknown,
I shall be caught in a never ending story when my ability to speak has gone
My sweet angel, soft voices, feather hair, and love,
I only want to hear what is better left unsaid,
How can I know that when I die, my body, my blood
I will not become a ghost, still with desire to touch you?
And my memories live on imprinted in stones, and cobble walkways, and iron-wrought fences
When I wish nothing more than to be forgotten, and to forget
I may never ascend in this lifetime
I may never leave the next one
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 12:34 AM UTC
Shall I march into the sea tonight?
The lighthouse-keeper asks.
The light is lit; the wind is wound;
I have no other tasks.
The rains have cycled fifty times
Since they last turned on me;
Shall I bar the windows shut tonight,
or march into the sea?
Who will find me lost at sea tonight?
The lighthouse-keeper thinks,
When shepherds turn their flock indoors,
And the barkeep turns to drink.
I am the lighthouse-keeper, but
I do not have to be;
They'll find another keeper when
They find me lost at sea.
And if the sea won't take me, love,
The lighthouse-keeper sighs,
No candle on my windowsill
Is watched by no-one's eyes —
No shadow's crossed my threshold's bounds
Since I was thirty-three —
With stones inside my pockets
Let me march into the sea.
Give me no pauper's funeral,
The lighthouse-keeper sings,
Though scant be the inheritance
You'll cobble from my things.
If my debtors come a-calling,
Tell them, forfeit every fee —
Or, if they are truly greedy,
Let them find me lost at sea.
Nov 6, 2020
Nov 6, 2020 at 9:54 AM UTC
The boulevard knows I don’t care
My hair’s messed up sometimes
These cobble stones remind me
That roughness has its charm
I turn a corner, find myself
In a whole new street of dreams
The fountain whispers to the wind
That nothing stays the same
As I wander unknown alleys
Each junction poses questions
Every showcase I walk by
Displays what life could be
Each passerby’s a promise
A sample story to be lived
The hilltop view reveals all
Of the possible paths to take
Strolling squares and avenues
I am searching to get lost
To find what I could never find
Where shortcuts are the norm
The cathedral proves to be the x
On my worn-out treasure map
The stained glass lays a mosaic
Of nuances on my heart
The arches paint perspective
Into my constricted reference
Their majesty lifts up my head
Compels an upward glance
The wideness resonates a truth
That shakes me to my core
The carillon sings an anthem
That accompanies new strides
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 5:25 PM UTC
Little Dutch girl
So plainly dressed
In white frock and apron
And cotton cloth cap.
Feet made for walking
The hard cobble streets
Hands that will carry
Provisions bought.
A life of simplicity
Quietly led
With homemade toys
A wooden dolly's bed.
You hear stories from
Maids in the house
Kitchen mischief
And musical mice.
When you're a woman
What will you choose
A life of domesticity
Or another route.
Love Mary ***
Mar 3, 2018
Mar 3, 2018 at 8:42 AM UTC
Rain died on the cobble stones.
A warm soul escaping as scented steam,
rising to the fading heavens
of a long Paris eve.
Muted velvet shadows deepen and
soften the edges of everything.
Lovers kisses, whispers and laughter
mingle.
Half drunk
and one more bottle of wine.
Eyes dance and share their dreams.
Across a private table hands meet.
Making love like secret poems of the deaf.
Subtle exchanges of body movement
compliment the symphony
of this tiny world magic.
Breaking bread from a wicker basket.
Full on night descends,
closing its curtain on the day.
Internal prayers to heaven
chase each other,
They wish this night would never end.
Dark red stains on pure linen.
Count the glasses.
Time elapses,
but it's never getting late.
Roosty
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 12:37 PM UTC
The street was dark and so too were my eyes
I walked down the cobble under darkened skies
I walked down the stone, ankle breakers sets
Gamblers in the alleys watching on, making bets
The buildings stand guard on the night for their lords
keeping them safe, open their mouths; in filth pours
Light poles, with dim candles, give hope for safe journey
Dark alley ways steal eyes, make nervous muscles in our sides
Window light, guardian ports, fly catchers, laundry holes
Shines on the street, waiting for me, with it meet
Footsteps creep around edges avoiding sight
But it’s easy to see, all this going on in the night
Out of law exchangers making changes in pocket stuff
50 for the things, that make pigs squeal, illegal deal
Children's eyes are shut, in bed, not here with us
Tucked in warm and tight, not here with the people of the night
Street sweepers weep, we drink, bottles broken at our feet
Bar tab one too many, stumble, mumble, home on the street
Pickpockets delight, puts up no fight, pockets empty when drunk
Bourgeoisie snobs make prison demands! Lock them away tight!
The street, is ***** I know, I do
But this is o.k, with wary watch
For indeed
In the absence of the light
Come the People of the night
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 11:35 PM UTC
heated flavors and
icy noises, up in the
high strata with
a singed mind of
transcendent swallowed thoughts
your molting feathers
fall down to the cobble stones
proclaiming the words
of your mind
up in this planetarium of
a passing breeze
you replace the stars
with gleaming clumps
of barb wire and broken wings
that rattle through the night
screeching frequencies
of your lost-in-precipitation mind
you see the dreams
of the masses
devoured by green,
which clash with
the medley of floral souls
within your grey matter
you breathe out a brink-filled
sigh of infinite--
all those emotional droplets
in that spiderweb mind.
perhaps one day
they will see with your eyes
or even the eyes of your eyes
but for now you are stuck
shouting at them to love
a love greater than that of Lady Black herself
but their ears are stopped up
with the spoon-fed lies of how
to live and they settle for
contentment, and not
passion
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 2:23 AM UTC
Cobble stone streets wind into beautiful beaches
warm brown crystals submerge my feet with each step
all is silent but the whoosh of the rolling waves
cool waves replace the feel of warmth
Thoughts swirl through the clean air as whispers become truth
seeking another mind to pursue
Misconceptions are legitimate
Fiction become fact
Lies are truths
May 17, 2011
May 17, 2011 at 4:24 PM UTC
Olive and Orange
From the years of 650 and onwards Andalusia
Was a tolerant Arabic province, which even tolerated
the Jewish tradesmen pushing their handcarts on
cobble stones and the Christians with their infernal
bells ringing on Sunday mornings.
The three religions lived side my side in relative
harmony, one can say the following 300 years
Andalusia and part of Algarve was an oasis of peace.
The Arab architecture is still there and in music
one can still hear the Arabic influence not to forget
the poetry inspired in beautiful gardens with running
water and cooling shade, where love was made and
in Yasmin scented afternoons.
Nothing lasts forever the Christian horde came with
their swords -the ISIS of the time- heads rolled in the sand
Andalusia became a Catholic nation, yet the echo of more
a contemplative time lingers on.
This story was told to me by the oldest olive tree in the world
that lives in a valley of orange trees.
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 7:31 AM UTC
walking along
the cobble ****** street
i drop pieces
of my shattered dreams
to be swept up
by the street cleaner
and deposited
into a pile of *******
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 4:31 PM UTC
Have you ever heard in your mind
the sounds that silence makes
the silence that spreads like music
as in splendor a dewy morning breaks
silence that clings to a Florentine fog
as lone cyclist a cobble street snakes
the silence that hangs heavy
after a heavy down pour finally ends
or await with it for the moment
when heaven its pearly reward sends
they sound so different and surreal
like life’s ethereal myriad bends
the silence that weighty dwells
in wisps, rises from vacant eyes
the silence that fills to the brim
dole, of a beggar’s ripping sighs
silence that hangs like a sword
on fears of unsaid distant byes
silence o endless tormenting silence
you play on a piano’s dusty keys
from a chair that rocks in howling wind
on a lifeless verandah, distant sees
from a score of such like mends
wherefrom one has drunk to ones lees
it speaks no man’s earthly breath
yet heard in shattering numbness
in ache and blight so steeped
in rustle of a long gone worn dress
in raucous merry gay proceeds
or the mirth of a child’s bless
in the time of a frisky bloomy day
or gnaw of a long starry night
the lullaby of distant streaking trains
or the gondola’s reflective sight
the cavort of journeys done together
Echoes the hush of a soundless blight
original
saadat tahir
22nd July, 2k13
Islamabad.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 11:59 AM UTC
Sneezing transitions in mass transit routes
Tram rocks underneath the black and blue sky
Ahead of me is infinity
Behind me the past, sticky & stagnant - inescapable
Smells of cat food unintelligible *****
Passed on hopes & forgotten dreams
Cackling whistles of worn out break pads
A man coughs as another rolls up his socks
Next to me a man slumbers dreaming of home
His wife in bed alone, his son's and daughter's
Hide under thin white sheets, waiting for Him to phone
The door creaks open, he'll wait for morning to speak
Hazy recollections across glossy wet cobble stones
Solidarity is the only way to work sometimes
The sting of smoky nicotine flows up my nose
Pushing past the marker of ill-received news
Nights out drinking, talk and talk and talk
More of the same as I frame the outcome summarily
Atop the page is where the life is
A rainfall of experience to purge this ****** emotion
Labeling oneself does not mean defining oneself
That is what the whiskey is for
I hide behind a wall dripping with insecurity
I fear, I love, I live, and one day, I will die
Shuttle to a stop, bewaring of adjectives
I have the urge to stay, but am the last to leave
My eyes adjust to the soft orange glow of the streetlights
And into the night living rather than dead
So in place of the hours I believe I need
Staying awake looking at these pen marks
I need nothing for something only brings more worries
Anxiety being a killer - I try to rid myself of the poison
Humming up the stairs I attentive & aware
There in the elevator savory sweet hickory perfume
Another year away from an old place I called home
Time passes slowly, as I slip in between the folds
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 3:02 PM UTC
Let me whisper you a world spread in open-palm
and lay you wide-pictures etched in cobble-stone
till your feet find their way in the wake of alt-time
Let me grow you orchards on margins of probabilities
and capture breezy-smiles to place upon your sleeve
till illumined-steps of afternoon crumble before angels
Let me turn the planets on fingertip high upon wheel-rim
and show you matte mirror-lakes of superb-chances
till the evening-sky feels the shy-tiptoe of moon-kiss
please… let me….?
S T - 4 dec 13
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 4:48 PM UTC