Best Bard Poems

Springing free from glistening 
Fronds
The summers heat leaps for 
Height;
Whilst drifting obscurely far
Above 
A distant lark now hangs in 
Flight.

Floats down his sweet trill,
Accompanied by joyous and
Uplifting revelry,
Over the black crows nasal 
Calls;
Whose draped shadow,
contemplating devilry,
Flaps and furtively falls 
Into ripening bean fields 
Planted in...

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The Raven and the Bard
-Daniel Henry Rodgers

The Raven's quill drips shades of blackest night,
Its haunting words, a melody of fright.
The Bard's natural lines, like "Evangeline's" fair hair,
Shed history's warm light to chase away all care .
From shadowed chambers where dark ravens shriek,
To hearthside tales that...

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(The Merry Adventures of Robin Good)

Sherwood's Forest legendary, leading man 
up, down, tricking eggs between branches
slender, slander, his voice is growing thinner
twisting, turning heads 50 shades of green

Master of disguise reaching for the top archers spot, 
A bard, with uncanny precision, ROBIN nonstop
Splitting his opponent...

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Awakening with heart and mind a-spin,
methought midst some psychotic malady.
"What hellish afterlife am I now in"?
Yon passerby said "2023".
Eyes fixed on "mobile phones" with no regret,
here, plays are viewed at home on a "TV",
events viewed from afar by "internet",
and almost no one reading poetry.
In thund'rous...

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(Honor Sent To Great Bard, Alexander Pushkin
Second Tribute Series, Fifth Poet)

(1.)
Poetry Gave Its Deep Rich Brilliance Unto Thee

Bard, what bright Light graced thy soft serenades
In late midnight hours, moonlight streaming down
Alas! With Time's fleeing flight, thy fame fades
Yet thy verse treasures gave thee world renown.

Bard,...

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A lonely bard can paint and write more songs,
Which birds loftily warble all day long,
Every note taps the heart of each flower,
Sprinkles dew drops while silent wind meanders.

Her ballad - a gem of all creations,
A home, hollowed not with admiration,
Chasm within draws perfect harmony
For stars...

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The Bard 

In a small cottage high upon the windy moors
There lives a bard with authentic romantic rhymes;
A master poet who lives within present times.

Enchanting stanzas written to beguile, confuse.
His poetry sometimes enigmatic, you see,
Can be a challenge with a bit of mystery.

But this bard...

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Here, I pray, is a sonnet he may have written upon his passing on, ironically, his 52nd birthday, April 23rd 1616...

The Bard Bequeaths

'Twas two and fifty years of mortal worth,
This twenty third of April owned thy fate.
Thy soul commence and hence departs this earth
In midst...

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......for Clark



Thoughts are more sure-footed at
Low tide, those he meets along the way
Are often stationary....sometimes stuck,
With a helpful curse, a hand reaches out,
Feigns retreat, chuckles and spares another
Mucklucker from the landsharks,

Towards sundown, God provides,
A daily dose of thanksgiving squeezes between 
Epitaphs, well earned....

No bearing, the...

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Someone had to weave the tale of how the beast was slain,
to paint in valor all the scars and make it worth the pain.
A knight disfigured, charred and gaunt, returning from his quest
employed a bard’s convincing tongue to tell it to the rest.
The townsfolk were...

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My favourite poetry form is rhyme
Love to write in rhyme at any time

My aim is to try and make you smile
If I succeed it is all worthwhile

I work hard to dispel the rumour 
Brits have no sense of humour

In my eyes there’s nothing worse
Than a...

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Attached to the trees,
...of his mind’s fascination.
Caressing virgin pages 
With a borrowed pen.
Trapped in a time...
...of being owned by someone.
Where freedom was only, 
for the birds in the wind.

He’s heard of New York,
He’s heard of LA...
These are the thoughts,
He shares with the moon...
The humid day...
...blows...

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It is our bard's day
The eighth of May
Nay, actually
The world’s day for the second bard
For the subtle web of light and shade
Blades of grass for our mind’s eyes
The boundless sky of our psyche
Sort of haikus from the sparks
Of pains and pleasure
Of the everyday life
In amity...

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In this coursing, crimson river 
of my blood, you float. 
There is no end to this, our eternal
amorousness.
Nay, not even human death can 
remove us from Eros's moat.
Nor our touching hands' total
peacefulness.
So let's on, to the minutes as
they, like arrows, swiftly...

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Inspired by the painting - Jealousy
by artist Edvard Munch, 1895
*+*+*+*
I considered myself bard of your heart
Now I feel as if we're falling apart
I saw you standing half nude by a tree
With your scarlet dress opened shamelessly.

For delightful Tulla, love of my life
And friend Edvard, it's...

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