"cobbled" poems
The napalan man in a violet cape
descended the stair with a lopsided gait
a wretched procession, subscribers in cue
rattling off as they stream from the pew
sounds and smells from a shadowy place
a catholic priest to gin up base
lanterns strung from bolted doors
cobbled streets and wooden floors
stepping stones and iron bell
fortified by the citadel
hallowed halls and sepulcher
dragon cane for the horse drawn tour
castle turret, archer holes
centaur scribed in chamber bowls
garden columns in courtyard view
the blood ballet and hullabaloo
ancient tombs on warrior grounds
gods and saints who made their rounds
goliath still with battered scythe
knelt in prayer and mummified
battle fires and crowds that roar
gallows, caves, abysmal war
gargoyles flock the terraced slope
pearly gates to bring on hope
serpents, snakes and burning ash
lava bombs and trident clash
mariners drift in absentee
as neptune rises from the Tyrrhenian Sea
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 9:20 PM UTC
My father walked me down the aisle,
But my mother held my arm.
He went with me,
But we went not towards the altar,
But towards the door.
My father walked me down the aisle,
And the ***** rang through the church,
Humming through the elaborate crown molding,
Carved by my ancestors.
He went,
Not beside me,
But before me,
And I watched,
As he was illuminated by the bright,
Overbearing,
Texas sun.
My father walked me down the aisle,
But I did not wear white.
My father walked me in silence,
And I shed tears not for a man standing at the altar,
But for the one I would never see again.
My father walked me down the aisle,
And no veil obscured my face.
All eyes were upon me, but not for my pristine beauty,
Instead for my clenched jaw and furrowed brow,
Severe and fierce to distract from my glassy eyes.
My father did not leave me at the end of our walk to sit beside my mother.
She clung to me for support and sobbed breathlessly,
Loudly,
Unavoidably,
And I carried her with one hand,
My sister the other,
And walked towards my future.
A future family,
Not one person more,
But one person less.
I walked,
One final time,
With him.
My father walked me down the aisle,
And I will never forget it.
Hundreds of eyes isolating my family from the crowd,
Slow and muffled sounds drowning in the deafening beat of my heart,
Blurred faces staring,
Black heels clacking against the cobbled path from the church,
The anguished wails of my mother,
The whimpering of my sister,
And the wooden box that glided before us,
Pulling,
A string tied to our patriarch,
The pin key of our family,
Pulled taut and then snipped with the slam of the hearse doors.
My father walked me down the aisle,
Before I had a chance to grow up.
He walked me,
Out of the church,
Away from the altar,
Never to be walked again.
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 5:17 PM UTC
A labyrinth expands before me,
Its only prize, the truth; reality
Awaits the shrewd of mind.
At every turn lie misdirections,
One wrong choice and I am
Lost, for perils lie ahead;
Webs of lies lie waiting for their prey.
I pray for wisdom that I may not fall,
Misguided by a ghost I thought I saw;
My own illusions turn me from the light.
The path ahead is cobbled from the shadows,
Bits of truth among them shining gold,
The only light to guide my weary feet
As Darkness beckons me with gentle hands.
Temptation offers respite from my search:
“Sit down and rest, poor ragged
traveler, you search in vain
For worthless lies. I tell the truth;
One as beautiful as I is honest, sure.”
I pay no heed. The truth is rarely beautiful or pure.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 12:37 AM UTC
Once I undertook a journey,
upon the very face of our entire world.
To view for myself the many pictures,
and written descriptions in all the geography
books and History Classes, National
Geographic magazines and movies seen.
A Quest to see with my own eyes what
I had only experienced second hand.
In my mid twenties, like a dream,
one foot in front of the other,
I went about exploring.
I sniffed and tasted the scents of foreign lands,
Incense, Sage and Frankincense, fish curry,
fried snake and even monkey brains.
Walked in lush Jungle Bush and Desert sands,
Along the shores of Islands and the coasts
of many lands.
Heard the voices of 30 divergent Dialects
and cultures, smiling and laughing with
the families and children of all of them.
Set beside the fires of primitive tribal men,
heard their chants to their gods above, the
moon, stars and the sun, the ocean, the land.
Clapped my hands and moved my feet in
their ancient mystic dances.
Drank their tea, Kava or whatever they shared
grateful for their offered unselfish brotherhood.
Stood on the flanks of the tallest Mountains
in the world, on my toe tips, to try to see the
face of the God of my youthful teachings,
disappointed when I did not see him, or Her.
Found instead an inner tranquility, imparted
to me by Red robbed Monks from within their
chants of Peace and wise earthly enlightenments.
Strolled the cobbled streets of two thousand year
old Cities. Walked among the ruined remnants of
nearly forgotten once great Civilizations.
Explored Modern European Citadels' of wealth and learning.
Over time rode on planes, ships, buses, backs of open trucks,
Horse pulled carts and human drawn rickshaws, taxis, subways,
rented motorcycles and cars. Walked perhaps 1000 miles.
In all a journey of the mind and heart lasting three years.
And why you might ask, "What qualifies you as a pilgrim
of any kind, to travel so far, and wide?"
"What was I looking for, what did I hope to find?"
All indeed, fare questions.
When a boy, I read a simple five word line,
“Seek and thee shall find". Curiosity and
Horizon Lust compelled me.
The next obvious question you might
ask is, after all that; “What did you find?”
That answer is very simple,
I found myself.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 7:14 PM UTC
Unmoved by your arrival from the west coast,
ten thousand little things are different.
It’s October and the trees are on fire:
a forge that you won't notice, 'til you're gold.
Your Kicks don’t leave footprints on these cobbled streets;
even the children have old, leathery hands.
Try to paddle-board the Eno and the bass go belly-up:
that river’s for scattering ashes and making moonshine.
All they sell at Aldi is ethnic shampoo,
so now your hair twists like the roots you’ve lacked
'til now, because all you’ll ever need is two hands:
for prayer, and work.
Life moves on like a cigarette’s drag,
while somewhere Hope’s fiddle strums;
Take off your headphones and
go put your ear to an oak.
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 9:27 PM UTC
Someone said my monkey's dead,
But confusion hit their head,
Made them think that this is true,
I'm in a funk, what can I do?
Then they soon told my neighbors, yes,
Put my monkey to the test,
Called the papers just long enough to say,
Yes, my monkey ran away.
I searched high, and I searched low,
Dropped a rock upon my toe,
Hit my head on a doorway hard,
Couldn't find my monkey in the yard.
Traveled to the mountains nearby,
Looking for monkey made me cry,
Saw the clouds come floating by,
A speck of dirt flew in my eye.
Checked the traveling circus troup,
For details on missing monkey scoup,
Learned that he had traveled through,
What am I supposed to do?
Boarded a boat set for the Indian Ocean,
Got sea sick from the crazy motion,
Tried to eat, but it all came up,
Couldn't drink the swirl in my cup.
Once in Africa, deep in the jungle,
Searched for monkey and took a tumble,
Found a panther hiding in the bush,
Felt flat hard upon my ****
So, no monkey, not anywhere,
Does the world so truly care?
Waited patiently in a Star Bucks shop,
In came monkey and my coffee I dropped.
Called him by his first name, Charles,
Saw him stare and then he snarled,
Ran so fast for the door, he did,
What a silly and audacious kid.
Ran pursuit down a cobbled stone road,
Saw my monkey drop his precious load,
Screamed at him to stop and say,
Where he goes on this very day.
When my breath was heavily panting,
Stopped my call and my ranting,
Figured if he so desperately was going,
No more to care and no more knowing.
Monkey, monkey where are you?
Are you hiding in the zoo?
Will you ever be around?
You're a silly, slippery clown.
Feb 19, 2011
Feb 19, 2011 at 5:33 AM UTC
Mud is good,
Its dead good mud,
It's in me blood,
But where not understood,
Us people of mud,
In the shadow of a gas tank and born on a Mersey bank, I lived on cobbled streets dark and dank,
I played on a ship that sank, and for anything else I wouldn’t thank....... you
On king street docks, girls in cheap frocks, curly locks, time tocks, the boat rocks,
The tanyard smell made life hell for all that dwell, under the bridge,
In Garston L19, it’s the scene, its clean, it’s where I’ve been, it’s not obscene or green, if you know what I mean.
Its community security sincerity and every other word that ends with erity,
But it’s fallen apart,
Don’t lose heart.
I go into town when I’m down, it clears me frown,
I don’t go in me jarmies or me dressin gown,
There’s men with round bellies, toddlers in wellies,
Posh ladies gather in their marks and spencer swagger,
There’s scouse brow teens, sunbed queens,
Hunks and punks, lonely drunks,
Suits in boots forgetting their roots and hens in *****
Big issue sellers, statue fellas holding golf umbrellas,
Coz of all the rain,
But it’s all good, coz we come from mud,
Let’s cheer, why?
Coz I’m here,
I’m me, me names T, and me hubbys P me best friends she..... lagh,
I like coffee and toffee and Roger Mcgoughy,
I like statistics logistics eye shadow and lipsticks,
I like bags and wags and cigarette **** but not beer,
I’m fine on wine if I take me time,
I don’t do a line, unless I’m hanging me washing on it,
I work in a bar, not far, I don’t drive a car, and I don’t say Lar or kid or lad or lid or mar,
I’m proud and loud, don’t live on a cloud, and I don’t follow the crowd,
I’m a mum to some, I’ve got a big round *** but I’m me you see,
I’m not square, I dye me hair, I swear but you can take me anywhere,
Coz I care,
I’m good,
I’m mud; it’s in me blood,
Understood
By Christina Ford
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 7:23 PM UTC
I sit
Oh Lord in wonder
Within Your temple pine
And as I sit
In awe of it
I see Your great design
The slate grey clouds
Form arch and roof
The pillars
Rugged trees
The courtyard
Cobbled with grass
And leaves
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 1:49 AM UTC
Orange skylines with
Copper inconsistencies,
Cobbled pavements
Converging, at odd angles,
Stepped on
By fairytale homes
And tourist feet,
Almost, just almost,
Drowning out the violins
And the voices,
Almost making me forget
That Europe isn’t home,
Somehow.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 10:19 AM UTC
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 2:07 PM UTC
Meandering like its canals
Venetian streets sing underfoot.
Who wore away the stone cobbled streets?
Who walked down to the shore?
Who gazed out at the Adriatic?
Who's dreams were lost in Venice's stream of streets?
Licentious lovers loved in Venice's streets, kissed on her bridges,
Crossed under by gondola and over by foot.
Proposed at the piazza San Marco.
Kissed, while the Grand Canal wound her way down.
Down into the sea,
where the menace that is the world, Venice shuns.
Rialto, Doge, Basilica, St. Marks, pigeons!
All evoke that lagoon city of streets.
Originally refugees, incolae lacunae ("lagoon dwellers")
Venetians, gave not only a place for the dispossessed,
but a place for the world to see, feel and taste.
Art, war, politics, commerce, spice and silk.
Venice with her ribbon of streets, alleyways and bridges
saw the Renaissance, the crusades, and the Black Death.
Glassware, paintings, sculptures, religion, refugees all
synonymous with that floating city.
A city returning to the water she arose from.
Subsiding with grief as she drowns in elegant decay.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 2:56 PM UTC
Ta-ta Norma Drainpipe
Though I never shagged you at all
You ****** the rhythm to ******* yourself
While those around you ate crow
They schlepped out of the cleavage
And they ********** into your crumpet
They ******* you on the rowing machine
And they copulated you **** your three *****
And it seems to me you tasted your *****
Like a cigarette lighter in the diarrhoea
Never knowing who to stick it out to
When the ooze congeal from the top drawer
And I would have liked to have had carnal knowledge of you
But I was just a twit
Your cigarette lighter exploded spew out long before
Your whiff never blewout
Stiffness was sticky
The gristliest fat part you ever nibbled
Hollywood cobbled together a wizzofrog
And ******** was the corkage you greased
Even when you conked out
Oh the lubricator still molested you
All the skeletons had to jabber
Was that Marilyn was ***** flashy the starkers
Ta-ta Norma Drainpipe
from the virginal wombat in the twenty—second ghetto
Who smells you as meat as above par than scatological
Olé! than frank our Marilyn Monroe
Apr 1, 2010
Apr 1, 2010 at 4:17 PM UTC
Beneath,
I amused fear,
drowning immersed in faith.
Near my final breath I mused Latin,
the etymology of 'entertain'.
*Tormented;
by mistake.
Entertaining fear,
over entertaining faith.*
In the quiet silence of revelation,
I took stock,
&
looked up,
180° degrees,
poised
&
compassed
my flesh,
to
unbolt
the chains
of misdirection
bound to the recess of my soul.
Unleashed!
Now to hike the proverbial mountain,
cobbled
in the boots of Wisdom.
Contemplative.
Afloat,
aloft its height,
coiffured
safe
by the proverb,
transfigured,
by wisdom of consciousness.
© Qwey.ku
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 9:57 PM UTC
i can no longer understand how now,
this sleeplessness at night,
when the world is waking in other places
so far away from me,
to the ethereal powders of the breeze,
that paints the morning with its poetry,
as the phantom of the love i love,
causes me to awaken with a cry.
It's going to rain, rain, it's going to rain,
those sleek-silver drops will take me back again,
to those cobbled, winding streets,
the raucous, song-filled pubs,
and the green, the green, the red-brick,
granite and oh! the green,
the steaming Earl Grey tea,
of which i love with a yearning need,
waiting, waiting for me,
on that precious island on the sea.
Jul 10, 2010
Jul 10, 2010 at 4:46 PM UTC
Once upon a time was a girl named Candy
Sweet as a flower and loved all so much.
She was granted a wish by a fairy named Mandy
that turned into candy all that she touched.
The town was filled with the sweets of Candy
the rocks and the houses and bicycles too.
Candy would say that the world was just dandy!
parading the streets in her candy suede shoes.
But everything ends and also for Candy
when all that she touched would turn into sweets.
Realising a candy-lover's not handy
she walked alone on candy-cobbled streets.
And loneliness came like a night over Candy
crying skittles she soon went insane.
She cursed the wish she was granted by Mandy
as she crumbled and cracked like a candy cane.
For the rest of the year the children ate candy
the rocks and the houses and bicycles too.
The children would say that the world was just dandy
and the last sweet they shared was a candy suede shoe.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 6:01 AM UTC
There's an architect designing the world from the skyline downwards, as he believes himself to be a God
The paraffin lamps on Victorian cobbled corners are as dry as the seraph in dust bowls over some arid sea
A portrait exists, of a town covered in mist and the orange cliffs are a thousand bloodied wrists
Somewhere music plays to ghosts, obtuse reverberations of some cave on a mountain... or something
and what a useless skill it is to be a poet, flouting fanciful words as if a single soul cared or could possibly muster anything more than unadulterated apathy
What a lonely life it is, to spend entire days watching *********** and reveling in dissociative stoicism
Watching cam girls for hours on end, swept up in conversation yet never taking part, only watching
They seem as lonely as anybody, holed up in crimson rooms as anonymous DJs play through laptop speakers
Fielding obscene questions with a smile and renting their body in timetables to the highest tipper
and some days the depression becomes so heavy that ************ seems impossible, though it's possible to blame such scarcity on the anti-anxiety meds that have ruined so many-a youthful folly
Is there a more flattering notion, than a story teller being commended for honesty when every word is a lie
Fictional accounts of melancholic lives told in a pulchritudinous verse or a prose of the most regal purples
Using nothing more than psycho-stimulants and a smeared bedroom window for inspiration
There's a writer sat at a desk, typing ridiculous lines of text, as he knows himself to be human
and in that humanity he strives to create a realists interpretation of existence through scattered memories
and derivative styles of his favourite authors whilst using educational texts as footnotes in imaginary diaries
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 2:10 PM UTC
Symphony of Silence throughout the night
Doors and windows latched and locked tight
Sleeping softly as dreams ******
Troubled times when morals where subdued
We’re shoulder to shoulder with the **** or the ***
Look at themn's with the same eyes, not down the barrel of a gun
The pasts only purpose now, Make the blind clearly see
The mistakes they made with their ****** corrupt legacy
It’s quiet in the cities cobbled streets, the birds pick at first light
Emerge from their nests, Like our generation glimpses first sight
The new formed world from the rubble of this war
No emblem or flag can heal wounds this vicious or raw
Brick by Brick, The walls of Peace rose to keep in hate
There’s no more guerrillas in the street, Only as heads of State
The Family divided, A Birds clipped wing
This Island, Our home,
Shared together
or
Squandered Alone
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 2:40 PM UTC
A River
In Madurai,
city of temples and poets,
who sang of cities and temples,
every summer
a river dries to a trickle
in the sand,
baring the sand ribs,
straw and women’s hair
clogging the watergates
at the rusty bars
under the bridges with patches
of repair all over them
the wet stones glistening like sleepy
crocodiles, the dry ones
shaven water-buffaloes lounging in the sun
The poets only sang of the floods.
He was there for a day
when they had the floods.
People everywhere talked
of the inches rising,
of the precise number of cobbled steps
run over by the water, rising
on the bathing places,
and the way it carried off three village houses,
one pregnant woman
and a couple of cows
named Gopi and Brinda as usual.
The new poets still quoted
the old poets, but no one spoke
in verse
of the pregnant woman
drowned, with perhaps twins in her,
kicking at blank walls
even before birth.
He said:
the river has water enough
to be poetic
about only once a year
and then
it carries away
in the first half-hour
three village houses,
a couple of cows
named Gopi and Brinda
and one pregnant woman
expecting identical twins
with no moles on their bodies,
with different coloured diapers
to tell them apart.
~A.K.Ramanujan
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 12:57 PM UTC
None but the cobbled Hackney will accept
Their Postcards sign this Doveling Bond, betwixt
So both decide a Limo; And dated Theft
Of many Soul-Chasers which do not Exist
From there both Virgins took a Scandal-Plate,
Wrapped in Hookahs only the Wise could see
Goodbye, First Perfume! Not from what will sate
The Photographed Script of what they should be
From this a Problem looms. In such Stone-Bowl
We become the very Thing we disgust
Hearts still cry out for the Thunder they stole
And baste their Image on the Throne they must.
Realise, just now, the Name of this Theme
From Enlightenment whose Founder they blaspheme.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 6:50 PM UTC
sat on a cobbled street
concealed from the prying eyes
i take a guilty drag of my cigarette
though i know you hate me smoking
i talk to myself aloud
and pretend you're here with me
whilst the smoke flows from my mouth
though i know you hate me smoking
i haven't seen you
in a while, four days to be precise
and a tear falls from my eye
because i know you hate me smoking
i miss you
every day and i miss you with all i have
if you were here you'd say i shouldn't be so sad
though you really do hate me smoking
all the times when we were high
discussing travelling through time
and the defnition of comfort
and how much you hate me smoking
now you're far away
and i'd give just about anything
to hear you one more time
to say how you hate me smoking
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 1:51 PM UTC
This year, Spring has been stopped in its tracks.
Incessant rain has driven life underground,
so as a diversion, we're putting on a play.
It's not the real world, rather a representation of it.
The director is a control freak, so her role is perfect-
she can dictate without having to act.
Rehearsals take place in the Philharmonic Hall where the local
band used to practice. But the young have all gone to the city
looking for work, so the drum kit in the corner stays shrouded
in a black cloth and the unplayed snooker table supports our props.
On the stage, the backdrop is dominated by a church.
Its steeple points to God only knows where, aiming to instill pure thoughts.
Impossible to believe, its true aim is to inject fear into its people-
depending on your point of view.
The main player likes to be different. He turns up.
A vain attempt to give some structure to his life.
Late as usual, he's unshaven, and drowsy with wine.
No one can decide whether he's in character or himself.
Waiting for our cue, we stand on the narrow balcony,
flicking damp cigarettes into the river of rain below.
Eventually, we all change, put on our monstrous armour,
become the same curious creatures following the same script.
Except one....
who refuses to change, deciding in his own mind where he will play his part.
So he pulls on his proofed coat and heads out for the bar.
Outside, the power is off.
The streets are silent. Even the cafes have closed earlier than usual,
tables and chairs left out in the rain chained together, like prisoners
crying for release.
He slips along the cobbled streets, chanting his lines in time with his own footsteps:
'There are more dead people than living....the living are getting rarer.'
Even he's not sure if he's quite himself or still in character.
Briefly, the clouds part to reveal the cold light of the moon,
the only thing in which he has absolute faith to guide him on his way.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2013
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 1:07 PM UTC
On the cobbled stone streets you lead me,
as I walked with disbelief.,
on how beautiful this world I am seeing
its your world, that's where I've been.
Raised our voices, made our point,
cursed in my sleep, I felt alone
you were suddenly someone I despise
until you changed your mood and made it right.
Time passed by, some would say too short
but I found out about all sorts
of your craziness, I argue with my mind,
I slept unhappy I even cried.
I already saw that something in your eyes,
Something's unstable but I said " well, I should try"
I saw how you don't let small things pass
sometimes you're happy sometimes you're mad.
then you stepped into my floody world,
***** streets with sewer openings uncovered.
Yes you did walked those streets with pure disgust,
so opposite of the world you have.
there were times when I felt we're far apart
when spending time together was a job.
your standards reaching past the treshold of all standards
I should try to understand that you're a prince in a pauper disguise.
Though hard I still wanted to see
if you'll stay or run away from me.
I know its hard for you but you tried
I am so happy that you tried.
your patience lost, my soul is hungry
was it supposed to be like this?
these little crumbles feeds my uncertainty,
I beg you please stay high with me.
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 11:47 AM UTC
*The old cottage over the hillock
Winding and cobbled road to the top
The teak and mahogany in splendor
Vintage style overlooking the modernity
Lion door knockers awakes the silence
Surrounded by antique furniture
In retrospect, says about its eloquent glory
Giving competition to modern architecture*
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 1:38 PM UTC
I'll tell you a story about two young brothers.
Like fire and smoke, that's what was said.
Always together, laughing and singing,
Sharing adventures, sharing their bread.
One day these two brothers both became lovers.
Yes! They both fell in love at the very same time.
Though always before they'd shared all their secrets,
This was a secret they would not confide.
Each of the brothers went into the garden.
One picked a red rose, the other a white.
They rode off at sunset, not one word between them
In opposing directions, into the night.
At the balcony window of her father's veranda
Rosa is anxiously scanning the street
Pablo is late now, soon Hector will ride up
This cannot happen! They surely will meet!
Rosa hears hoof beats from different directions,
Riders approaching along cobbled streets.
Each bearing a rose, and a heart full of passion
Brothers no more, but two rivals that meet.
A challenge is offered and is quickly accepted.
Their swords are both drawn before Rosa can speak.
She cries out to stop them, their blood's screaming louder.
They fight like two madmen and fall at her feet.
Their life ebbing from them, they lie there before her,
Rosa is sobbing, "Oh what have I done?"
She kisses their lips, so cold now and pallid,
And sheds her tears on them, so soon to be gone.
Bending over her lovers, they whisper to her,
"Take these two roses, and plant them tonight
on each side of your window, they'll grow up together.
Our love will be with you, though we die in this fight."
That's the story he told me, when I was a small boy,
When I asked my papa of that house on the right,
With it's balcony window grown over with roses,
Twining together, the red and the white.
And each day at sunset, Rosa goes to the old church.
She kneels at the altar to say her long prayers.
Lighting two candles before the Mother of Mercy,
One red and one white rose she lays gently there.
Nov 26, 2010
Nov 26, 2010 at 4:39 PM UTC
Above cushioned wall seats,
Where locals sit with dogs
At their feet,
Hang photos
Of footballers
Smiling still after near-forgotten games;
A farmer stands beside his blue ribbon boar;
Horses tethered to carts,
Near soldiers smiling with
The Republic's grimmace of war.
Outside cobbled streets
Lead to stone bridges
Walls and houses,
Near the shade of umbrella trees.
Turrets stop whispers
Wrapping their heights.
Black, white and fading.
Nine o'clock arrives
And pictures shake
From laughter
And music,
The click of dominoes,
And clink of pints,
In the pub life.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 10:05 AM UTC