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 neatly sowed rows:
Nourished in darkest till,
Enriched by pedantic verse of
Gaelic odes.
Do now these gentle Slopes
Pause to yield
Where secretive song,
Bursting forth, is much concealed
inside the plain of Aidhne;
For here the great rock of the
Burren,
Whereby so implored upon,
Revealed its grey stones...
To rebuild ancient and deserted
Thoor Ballylee.
Sweeping briskly past a tors
Grassy island busy in bloom,
Eagerly cramming under four
Crouched arches,
Skim the borrowed waters of
Thee immortal Cloone;
Dappling currents
Dawdling around squat stanchions -
Staunchly carrying the quiet bridge
Over the old concourse:
Momentarily loitering -
Wantonly begging to coyly swoon...
Now, joyfully sporting in gushing
Discourse,
Gleefully courting elusive and
Glimmering enchantments:
Mirrored reflections enticed to
Enter -
To be forever trapped within a
Burbling rivers sacred rhyme and
Tune.
Higher and higher the spiraling
Stairs of de Burgo
When through airy woodland
Glades
The towering shadow sought;
And higher and higher the spirit
Of an ageing poet...
His crowding thoughts
Roaming freely amidst these
Fabled legends of Gort.
Harken then to the feathered
Herald -
Tis Gods design that calls on
Ye!
For few men know of what he
Sings...
He sings of the forgotten paths
Forever lost within Innisfree.
(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 LIKE A BOSS!
Aiming arrows, where broken women sit
Creating fantasies, for his band of hypocrites
A serenade, of jealousy and mayhem
A poetic outlaw, generously taking what others earn
Wearing black tights, the hottest profile, sipping wine
A lust beyond Dorthy's Rainbow, a venomous poem
Somewhere, covered in leprechaun's gold
His chest is cold
- Yet warm from all the hands caressing this bard,
He is the best, gravity has no weight on his pen,
A soundless soldier having his way with his sword,
Executing those who challenge him,
Breathing life into many empty accounts
Giving voices and self-encouragement
With no time to drop down this bard from cloud nine
A dissipation of air fresheners and hello's
Painting pain just to pretend it hurts the person
A fragile voice whispering in the shadows
Slithering Secrets;
From this hooded bard who carries no face,
A mask of lies, taking what belongs to others.
Robin of honor, graveled by his peasants
MISUNDERSTOOD in every fashion, yet he preys
Pipping dreams away, down an infested rat's path
Shoving Little Johns hopes down the list
Robin is no common criminal, just a bard
Wearing a dark cloak, when in disguise
taking from the greedy --- giving to the needy
Thank you for enjoying my story
Robin Good and his network of Merry Men
2-3-16
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 flight, huge metal birds (bizarre!)
at heights and speeds not for the faint at heart.
A carriage (with no horse!) they call a "car",
and huge emporiums they call "Wal-Mart".
One thing unchanged from 1594:
a tyrant's greed still thrusts men into war.
Written 13 Jan 2023
(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, thy prowling ship upon open seas
Delivered thy Art, to this sad world please
Fate, its dark hand did thy youthful life take
For thy wife's honor, thee would not forsake!
Bard, from thy glory this poet now feels
Pains of sorrows at thy early demise
From thy fruited verse, this world so oft peels
In its beauty, words so precious and wise!
Poetry gave its deep rich brilliance unto thee.
As thy muse sent thee magnificent melodies.
Robert J. Lindley, 11/23/2019
Sonnet, 10,10,10,10 (Closing verse 12, 12 )
Second Poets Tribute Series, Alexander Pushkin
(2.)
New Dawn, New Life, To Heaven Rose My Cry
Pray I, to One that made ground and blue sky
Giving us earth's beauty for Heaven's sake
With bounty that mankind can not deny,
Thus fallen on grassy greens so, Pray I.
By heavens, Life caresses soul in me
Yet in blackest blackness of darkest night
In my wayward youth, this I sought to flee
And into black blackness of darkest sea.
Pray I, for salvation before I die
And true to His grace, faith was reborn true
With promise of dear life a bounding tie
Thus dark went away and sweet thanks, Pray I.
New dawn, new Life, to Heaven rose my cry
And soon I heard an angel chorus sing
Into its sounding midst, I did thus fly
With sweet teardrops that fell from misty eyes.
Pray I, others this blessing from blue sky
And Love and Peace such gift, God truly brings
Dastardly road took, I shall not deny
As bowing my head and with joy, Pray I.
Robert J. Lindley, 11-22-2019
Rhyme, ( When Darkness Lost Its Wicked Grip )
Alexander Pushkin Tribute
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 pass.
Your mistress awaits you in cobalt,
lace blue, summer gown!
Upon the kiss of morning dew on
this orb's verdant grass!
Let us do partake of vintage wines,
glorious breads and cheese till
God's sundown.
Let us dream of the children we
will create!
And weep tears of joy and blessed
happiness.
We revel in each second, so
divinely, and magically intimate.
To share with all humanity our
immutable, loves' holiness!
July 13, 2019
Sonnet One
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 to play a perfect symphony.
With knowledge and love, ink surges so deep,
The feather outshines the wind on its tip,
Lifting up dry leaves lying underneath
Every tale is treasured by golden sheath.
Lonely bard pens the lyrics of our hearts,
Where weary souls can find their road to start.
Aug 9, 2013 11.50am
By: Leonora Galinta
“I am a lonely bard
I have no song to sing.
This empty ballad is my home.
A feather against the dying wind-
-my only expression.”
-by my dearest sis, Poet Destroyer from her poem, “Umbrella”
Note:
This poem is a loving dedication/ homage to my all time greatest & most favourite poet, my loving sis & friend of mine & my number 1 inspiration.
Fourth Place
Contest: Pick a line, any line from a poem of fav. poet
Judged: 9/11/2013
Sponsor: Richard Lamourex
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 teaches as he shares intriguing rhymes.
Intelligent lexicon, aberrant in ways,
Have us searching his words with Google, in a daze.
He bathes us in bright colors of the rising Sun,
With majesty he paints a picture of the moon
With such impressive stunning sights it makes us swoon.
He expresses with winsome wit and fantasy...
He spills his ink in rare colors of every hue;
Endeavors to relate both life and death anew.
Isn't that what Great poetry is all about,
To open minds to endless possibilities
And savor as fine wine such sensibilities?
Hooray! I say we celebrate his poetry...
A bard with talents that may lie beyond the rest
Inspires us to make learning a sacred quest!
12-30-18
Contest: As easy as ABB ~N/A~
Sponsor: Nina Parmenter
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 of spring as summer's passions wait.
Those passions drip from quill like dagger's tears,
The blood of inspiration spake and writ,
Like life itself, upon the stage appears
Until, at last, a poison potion sipped.
Though ne'er a day begets where peace doth dwell
There, hidden in the chaos is reward.
Though, like the Queen of Scots, there was no knell,
Thou tarry not, before the henchman's sword.
Mine heart doth pray that thou hath left behind,
Conception's want that cannot be confined.
......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 sea, nor desired, but the gems
Left behind sparkle forever,
Mental health central,
A
Moveable
Feast
10/4/14
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 a fickle lot; naught kept their love for long
until the wordsmith cleverly described it all in song.
Young maiden hearts were often won by tales of chivalry
of shining knights, and deathly fights for love eternally.
Who better could express to they, the champion’s desire
or stoke the ember in her breast into a roaring fire?
Who but the bard, in gifted grace, could tell of blood and gore
and cause all those who saw the knight to marvel and adore?
Thus we see that though they wore no armor and no helm
that poets, not the knights of yore, were masters of the realm.
For had they never sung their songs, nor wrote their epics down
the knights to all would strangers be; mere beggars in the town.
05/24/15
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 half rhymed attempt at verse
If it's forced and doesn’t make sense
To me this a poetical offence
We all enjoy writing in a different style
I’m learning new forms all the while
What suits one may not suit another
I still have so much to learn and discover
The most important thing is I started writing
Reading poems by others is so very exciting
10~30~15
Contest - what is your favourite poem form
Sponsored by Nayda Ivette Negron
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 dust on his face.
His father runs over,
“Get ta pickin’ boy soon!!!”
The freedom has silenced,
Reality...came back to mind.
No one’s ready for the truth he uncovered,
Not even the land...that he proudly calls home.
Freedom does exist...
Within the mind of a poet.
Not just in the sky...
Where the freedom bird’s flown.
At his father’s request,
He starts pickin’...pickin’ inspiration...
.. on desolate plantations of lies,
...of his father’s 40 acres and a mule.
Shackled to his dreams,
The wind whispers slavery’s sorrow...
Hummed by the workers abroad.
Lord, this boy’s not a cotton pickin’ fool.
Uneducated...his creations are sketches,
Poems in pictures of young boy dreams...
In the midst of slavery...he’s only a slave to his art,
And only...on the page can he run and play...
His music...is the worker’s song ...pickin’ cotton blues,
The rhythm of chains, and whistles of security afar.
For now...he sneaks off to his muse...a shade tree,
Hiding from the hot Georgian sun at bay.
While American kids ride their bicycles,
His recess is confined to his mind.
As the whistles grow farther into the distance,
It’s time for his imagination to play and run.
With bloody hands...he hums aloud,
Cooled by the un-racial breeze...caressing virgin pages...
...sketching his poems with a borrowed pen,
Under the very tree...where his forefather’s hung from...
________________________________________
Note: Inspired by the work of Christopher Higgins
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 and strife
That Rabindranath Tagore served
In a tremendous verve
Through his lyrics and libretto
Are intense and touching to any sensitive mind
The coloured bubbles made everlasting
The supple music enchanting
And all dappled in cultured sentiments
Of sorrows and merriment
Of rain and sun
Of tales done and undone
Of days begun and gone
Every nuance finding aesthetic expression
In rhythmic dance of words and phrases
From the blue water
To our dear ledges
To be enjoyed by all perceptive intellect
And in effect
Regardless of nation and culture
Loving freedom from bondage of habits and beliefs
Relief from boredom into what is handsome
With its sun-lit door
Always open towards the river
And from there
Leading you back to the shore
___________________________
May 8, 2016, Kolkata
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 a terrible vice
How could you deceive me this cruel way
I've trusted you with my heart for always.
Tulla you took an apple from the tree
Enticing and juicy as it could be
It's alike looking back in history
The Adam and Eve fall from grace story.
Had to turn away, can't stand anymore
My soul is done for, my heart is too sore
I need time to decide what I'm to do
Yet I will never stop loving you two.
A house isn’t a home when one’s love has flown
Cannot imagine being on my own
Tulla I love you and I always will
To lose you and Edvard is a sour pill.
Edvard, jealousy has caused friendships end
I can no longer trust you as a friend
Tulla, I’ll write poetry for you still
For you light the muse that pushes my quill.
I had no one to comfort me
While I was going through anxiety
The sun is setting upon my rage
I am released out of my wretched cage
Freefalling into the abyss
Falling short in helplessness
Hopelessly calling your name, for I feel blind
You burn on like a furnace in my mind…in my mind…
I've been hard on myself honestly
I'm an alone bard on my own sadly
You scorch me like a flame of unbearable uncertainty
You regret, treating me wrong because of insecurity
I've been hard on myself honestly
I'm an alone bard on my own sadly
You churn like an ocean against a ship of pirates
Endlessly overcoming my fears and keeping my wits,
Trying to find some sort of satisfactory outlets
I've been hard on myself honestly
I'm an alone bard on my own sadly
I had no one to comfort me
When I was depressed and lonely
The moon is bright tonight with gladness
Will I ever be happy? Who will mend my distress?
Freefalling into the abyss
Falling short in helplessness
Hopelessly calling your name, for I feel blind
You burn on like a furnace in my mind…in my mind…
I've been hard on myself honestly
I'm an alone bard on my own sadly
You scorch me like a flame of unbearable uncertainty
You regret, treating me wrong because of insecurity
I've been hard on myself honestly
I'm an alone bard on my own sadly
You churn like an ocean against a ship of pirates
Endlessly overcoming my fears and keeping my wits,
Trying to find some sort of satisfactory outlets
I've been hard on myself honestly
I'm an alone bard on my own sadly
I had no one to comfort me
While I was in bittersweet captivity
Well, God sets me free…
He will see me through
But, an alone bard – I am meant to be…
He will lead me to you