Best Clashed Poems
Fighting mid the strong and bold,
His eye and blade were keen;
Marching like a thund'ring storm
On foes of Faith, his queen.
Now returned in victory
Upon his mighty bay,
Set he off to Langley Tow'r
Her summons to obey.
"John the Squire," the footman called,
And held the oaken door;
Faith, it seemed, had gleaming eyes
Like never once before.
"John! 'tis good to see thee hale,"
The queen exclaimed, and rose:
Tales have sped to Langley's gates
Of many broken bows."
"God has saved me whole and well,
By prayers, I ween, of thee;
Tell me please, my lady Queen
What service I may be."
Saying thus, the squire bowed
And doffed his burnished helm;
Struck in awe by Faith, his love,
The queen of Arthur's realm.
"Gilbert saith," rehearsed the queen,
"That deeds of thee are done
Greater yet than those of Wat
Or even Henry's son."
Tears bedecked her youthful face,
And glistened in the light;
John the Squire, as she had hoped,
Had done her favour right.
"Nay!" the humble squire cried,
"This word is not so true!
How could I, the meanest squire,
Perform the deeds they do?"
"Hush!" It was a firm command;
"I'll hear these lies no more;
Kneel before me, Squire John,
A knight shall leave the door."
Down before the queen he knelt,
He pledged his knighthood true;
Swore her ev'ry small command
With cheerful heart to do.
From his side she drew his sword,
She struck the accolade;
"Thus the greatest knight," she said,
"Is from a squire made."
From her hand the sword did fall,
It clashed upon a stone:
"John, if battle claimed thy life,
How could I be alone?"
"God has prospered all my ways;
My Queen, I praythee, cease!
Soon these wars shall claim our foes,
And Britain be in peace."
Faith remained there by her throne,
With light upon her hair;
Not one maid of Camelot
Was even half so fair.
"God be with thee evermore,"
She bravely said at last;
"Guard and keep thee from the foe
Until the very last."
John the Knight farewell did bid,
And swiftly rode away:
When the wars were hammered out,
He'd be a king in May.
For the Famous Art contest. Inspired by the painting "The Accolade" -1901 by Edmund Blair Leighton.
~ This poem is written in the 8686 syllable count style of one of my favorite Emily Dickenson poems, 'I Felt a Funeral in My Brain.'
'pon roiling sea a fierce storm brewed
waves crashed within my veins
fueled by heady winds, they pursued
to drown my life with rains
With tympani beat, thunder roared
bold lightning flicked and flashed
we pulled, we pulled, oh how we oared
with nature's ire we clashed
Then came a clamor from astern
our ship had split in two
in my veins, swells still pound and churn
until the moon breaks through
Calmed now, the vile tempest from Hell
sky riveted with stars
Man holds no power to dispel
nature's wrath when she spars
~ For Chris
You’d think a dog named Lucky,
Would lead a decent life.
But Lucky had his troubles,
And they followed day and night.
One day Lucky ran away
In search of greener pastures
Just to find a field ablaze,
Thus the start of his disasters.
Although Lucky didn’t die that day
And no limbs or parts were broken,
Lucky smelled of smoldered hair
And you’d swear he kept on smokin!
And Lucky liked to chase the cars,
Till the day he lost his nerve
When Lucky met a big ‘ol bus
That couldn’t stop or swerve.
I’m not sure just how it hit him
Or how he’s here today.
But he’s never walked straight since,
And one eye veers away.
My Lucky always clashed with cats
And was leery of their paws.
Until a “Tom” of forty pounds
Let Lucky feel his jaws.
Hair and fur balls filled the air
Like Cottonwoods a bloomin.
Poor ‘ol Lucky lost an ear,
And now looks twice as stupid.
I confess, I named him wrong
And why he stays, I’ll never know.
I guess that I’m the lucky one,
To have Lucky here at home.
Vera Lynn's, "There'll Be Bluebirds Over, The White Cliffs Of Dover",
Keeps streaming through my brain like a wafting zephyr over and over!
'Tis a poignant reminder of sad and cheerless days during World War Two,
Yet, the Cliffs themselves were a beacon of hope when things were looking blue.
What a beautiful sight for weary bomber crews returning from flak-filled skies!
Seeing those venerable Cliffs, thanking God for their safe return with joyous cries!
Brave young men would live another day to carry on the battle with wings of flight;
On the 'morrow some to live, some to die to rid the world of tyranny's blight!
Royal Air Force pilots clashed in battle o'er the Cliffs - so very few, the very brave,
Defending Britain's shores as enemy planes flew from France in wave after wave!
Alas, many forfeited their lives on The Altar of Honor defending precious liberty.
They placed national destiny above their own that their countrymen might live free.
On a clear day the Cliffs could be seen gleaming from across the Dover Straits.
'Twas surely a beacon of hope for those across the sea facing uncertain fates.
They placed their hope in God praying that their comrades from across the way,
Would come to carry the Torch of Freedom to their shores one glorious day!
The magnificent South Foreland Lighthouse above the Cliffs today stands tall,
And brave men lie in hallowed graves awaiting Gabriel's clarion bugle call.
And Vera Lynn's "There'll Be Bluebirds Over, The White Cliffs Of Dover",
Yet streams through my brain like a wafting zephyr over and over and over!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
A dry and barren moat
around historic tower, London’s pride
for many years in restful dormant mood
dreaming of days gone by
when swords clashed and armour creaked;
the yells and screams of battle filled the air.
Testament of courage and pain;
did those who fought there die in vain?
A dry and barren moat
now back to life to mark Remembrance Day
with a gushing flow of poppies dressed in red
reflecting thoughts of Flanders.
Who dedicates these scarlet blooms,
to souls that rest in earthen tombs?
A dry and barren moat
its open bleeding heart that drips with recollections
of destructive devastation and needless deaths.
Governments rise only to fall;
cries still trapped in the tower's wall.
A dry and barren moat
where visitors now see the red carpet
in place to praise bravery.
Haven't families of lost soldiers
earned a red carpet too?
Let them saunter somberly
above the moat, across the fields.
Such is the costly price of war;
buried loved ones we'll see no more.
A dry and barren moat
encases the historic tower,
a silhouette reminder at sunset
that no one wins a war.
A lone bugle plays taps;
it resounds through the crisp air.
A sad family walks away,
leaving tears on a floral spray.
---------------------------------------------------
Paul Callus & Carolyn Devonshire (Nov. 2014)
I am the environmentalist in love with wine,
my shoulders carry and reside in the cutting edge side of life,
the establishment craves to be the human race
while I stroll the memories of “Sailor fields”
amongst ancient Jurassic stone.
Is this! The only way for me?
My saline tears run freely now a days,
it’s time that governs one’s sentiment,
no doubt the plague of waiting relates to this.
What! Of the future,
hey , i want to forget about futuristic wars,
may be the media are in gross error of judgment?
I’m told I’m only a little man, at last now I know why I’m the
one that society chastises every day,
Why this mortal flame in constant combat becomes
life’s tomb stone around my neck.
To feel freedom, another swig so my lacklustre eyes again become stimulated
as the view overcomes my immobility and bids farewell, to the great lady
that glides portly on the outgoing tide.
Curse this elemental wind
that curls in from the east,
“Mother” i cry
“Is this the clarity of our beginning.” the start of all this crap,
as astringent thoughts flow through my urban bucolic mind,
seeing or feeling nothing of the moment, only a repeat of the actions of many insensitive men,
those that flourish, those that sentiment cannot stain those that walk tallest amongst men;
because they were hungry for appurtenance.
I remember well , in the far off lea of my mind,
down on the farm thousands of miles away across the Pacific,
where enamel clashed against concrete
there , where foolhardy dreams were dashed,.
when the heart pursued
the warm flesh , she that gave her
reflection to the swan song
of an innocence.
Alas should one be compelled to expire
as one would, a chardonnay basking in the hot sunshine?
Should one fall foul of a politically correct society
that , outside of one’s comfort zone,
because one feels , want , in choleric veins?
Even the sullen white cross, dotted upon the highways
become burning embers, a constant reminiscence,
an emotional monument to many inhibited memories.
Yet I beg this deportment shows me a realization,
that death is imminent,
so why this perpetual waiting, this constant urge,
for this vein dependency to be infringed upon ???
© Harry J Horsman 2012
in the bright light of day you appeared...
a gilded angel with falcon wings,
you rose up out of the desert sands
and your gentle beauty struck me dumb -
sending a tremor through my soul...
marvelling, pretending an air of studied uncaring
i watched you through a veil of wind-blown hair
and tried to ignore the yearning sighs of the
blood in my veins,
and the keening of a heart that was broken -
that, seeing you, healed briefly -
only to fracture again every time you turned away
you were fatal...
i knew this in my marrow, even as i stared,
riveted, at your cherub's innocence,
suffocating, slowly - sweetly -
in the decadent gold-striated hazel of your
hawk's eyes
you were a killing blow out of the blue,
and once again i was lost...
"angel" i wanted to cry, "angel, ask my name..."
but, naive as Adam, you lost yourself in the bustle
and sand-blasted clamor of your clawed companions...
bereft i hovered, a lonely kestrel riding the chill wind
of your ignorance...
a single tear slid down my cheek;
oh i would have impaled myself on a thousand spears,
if it would only make you run to my side
and scoop me into your bronze embrace
but time slid by and planets shifted -
the day's end drew near...
desert dunes dissolved into the hazy purple of night,
and i was forced to say goodbye;
to pretend love at first sight was just a giddy adolescent joke,
and that your image wasn't tattooed on my heart
in blood and fire...
only then, as my soul swelled with the bitter bile of
disappointment, did you turn and behold
the torment of your beauty written on my face...
boyish, innocent, your eyes clashed with mine -
and melted my core to lava -
and gave my battered heart wings;
clipped wings perhaps, but wings nonetheless...
you smiled, a saccharine-coated admission of acknowledgement,
even as your eyes stabbed cruelly, violated my bruised soul,
and the sun set at your back -
gilding you in demonic flame...
and in a blazing flash, that was it, the die was cast,
reeling, bleeding, i broke our searing gaze;
'angel you may be, my oblivious love,'
i thought as i walked away
'but devil you are for wounding me this way -
and never even knowing my name'
*Image of Kaihalulu Red Beach by Pinterest.
The Painted Islands
The beaches brushing Hawaii's sea blues,
in and of itself are impressive track,
perceptive picturesque color-filled views.
Like some isles, Punalu'u beach is black.
Elsewhere here, famed Kahena, sandy scene
aloft cliff's vista that aligns its back.
Punalu'u nears southernmost, you've been
in the whole USA, there lies a spread
called *Papakolea ... fanned sands of green.
Though, appropriate they're olivine, said
by officials. On Maui isle, clashed sights
of gorgeous Kaihalulu bursting red.
Truly tourist ere and now, best grade cites
isles to isles, and A-Plus our sandy whites.
2022 July 21
FIVE STANZA TERZA RIMA
~~L MILTON HANKINS
*HMS 9/10 - Spelled Papakolea is pronounced with an emphasis on ending "a" (Papakole'a).
10 syllables per 14 lines = 140
Three Year Old….thinking
that potty training thing was over rated
and that “big boy” thing - quite overstated
now I can pee on the ants
thank goodness for my “big boy” pants
my feet are cold
I miss my “footies”
my “wuzzie” – mom had to boil it
just cuz I washed it – in the toilet
tried the cat’s food this morning
now I know why he licks himself
I’m kinda like a sunbeam
I can’t sit still
dressed myself this morning
who knew – colors clashed!!
wonder what the cat would look like
with a new hair cut
I wonder what it is I’ve done
when mom says “Dad, go get your son!”
why can’t you guys leave me alone
and let me enjoy my ice cream cone
got hold of the remote last night
they’ll never find it
I like bugs – mom doesn’t
thought it was funny – it wasn’t
6/22/2017
Submitted to – Three year olds thoughts – Poetry Contest
The colors she wore clashed in confusion.
One sock grey, one sock blue
as her mind wandered ... where?
She never knew her name
called out of the fog.
The blouse buttoned wrong
with sleeves too long
and she didn't belong ... anywhere.
When the fog settled in,
she stared out, turned around
full circle to a stop.
Very foggy now walking into a room
not knowing what to do there.
So, she sat in her coat and hat going ... nowhere.
Later from a hand come into view,
she is led to a closet to take things off.
Faces came and went, strangers all
even those who called out "Mom!".
She couldn't say who she was talking to
and that voice ... was that Her voice?
Who was Her?
Better not to speak at all,
let silence take her ... (everywhere).
Let the fog drape around her soul.
Perhaps tomorrow,
the curtains would close
and she would know
what was waiting in the wings.
I stand tall and proud upon this ship
Never have I wavered on any trip.
If you listen you will hear me in the wind,
speaking to you again and again.
Stories of a ragging sea,
while the fisherman worked below me.
Lightening and thunder clashed in the sky,
but I held firm against the tide.
Sometimes the sky was so blue,
and we would sail straight through.
Yes I am the Mast upon this vessel it’s true,
Sail with me and I will protect you.
JSergi
As dark clouds dashed and clashed in the sky
Thunder began to boom and rumble
Sensing an impending rain, frogs started croaking
Cows stopped cuddling and began to moo
Soon pitter- pat came down the raindrops.
landed on roof tops with a heavy thud
they broke and cracked into tiny droplets
gurgled and gushed through canals and drains.
And joined the brooks that babbled,
merging with waterfalls that whooshed.
Along with the rain, came the roaring wind
as it passed, the bells clanged
windchimes whispered, wires on poles whistled
doors slammed shut and windows creaked
grasses swished and leaves rustled.
Birds fell silent and stopped tweeting
When the pouring rain came to a sudden halt,
The rattle was over with everything falling silent.
Like bullet holes in a starched white shirt,
they prop the gravestone in the dirt,
a ruby stitch across the face
of veined pale marble carapace.
They held my gaze that winter day,
beneath black clouds with streaks of grey,
the wind howled for the distant dead,
ice crystals bit the greatcoat thread.
Stiff cards bore words upon each stem,
five mourners and the names of them,
each severed bloom, blood red and still,
clashed colours with the graveyard chill.
Five flowers and a funeral done,
alone stand I the wayward son,
and no one cares that I'm alive,
imagining six instead of five.
I hate myself.
I hate myself to the extent where I avoid looking in mirrors,
In fear of the ugly monster that's hiding behind it.
The deformed smile that dares to even grow over its face,
Even though it knows it doesnt deserve it.
The lies of happiness that it goads me into believing,
Only to lure me into a trap that I knew waited at the end of the road.
A pit filled with the unbeckoned rage,
That hides behind that disgusting tilt of the lips.
I hate myself so much that I welcome the imperfections that it graces my skin with.
I hope that one day I’ll return home painted in blacks and blues,
That will eventually fade to ugly yellows and greens.
I welcome the copper that overflows on my skin,
Bright like the steel that it told me to draw with.
But no matter how many times it tells me to do it again,
To cover my canvas of imperfect skin with my beautiful artwork of reds and pinks,
The blemishes and extra folds that I desperately tuck away never leave.
I hate myself enough that I weep with joy when it pulls me into a cold embrace,
Fingers ghosting my eyelids and pulling me back,
Blinding me so I can’t see the way it destroys me.
It intrudes and violates my every pore,
Sinking into me and flooding my senses,
Making it hard to breathe in anything but the vile stench of bitter disgust.
All the repulsive and sickening marks and extra space,
Only intersinfy as it deepens.
And so now I don't just hate myself, I hate It too.
When I look in the mirror it doesn't stare back at me like it once did,
Instead it’s vulgar form looms large behind me,
Draping itself over me like an unwanted blanket on a blistering day.
It directs the madness,
Feeding off of my starved need to be rid of it,
That violently clashed with my desperation for it to stay.
Its want for my pain only grew alongside mine,
And I found solace in its hunger.
I was a successful, fashionable florist, in mild green days of elegant gardens,
When an orange sun beamed its pleasure, like locales where lavender begins.
I formed arrangements for many occasions, drawing beauty lovers from afar,
As pretty planets arrange for a meeting, after wild rumors of the newest star.
And crowded hours were filled with summer, like pearly dews crowd morning,
Until ruby butterflies are playing tag, and gemmed damselflies are swarming.
Friends felt I might always be found, in some area of flush bloom fragrancies,
Like raven midnight's march to daybreak, with its warm, varicolored agencies.
Fond family held festive feasts, in fading hours of sparkly, fuchsia sun falling,
As whippoorwill songs clashed with red robin's, midst magenta stars gawking.
I lived in the house of tangy, saturated noon, when flowers were in full glory,
Like the most beautiful day of a woman's life, when a bride she's come to be.
Scarlet, saffron and other hues glittered, within the soulful sector of summer,
As starlings sang songs along my street, and sun rose and retired, a stunner!
Neighbors were nomadized at times, as honeydew moon nestles in new night,
When visiting me on eves of silk and satin, when fresh June was at its height.
Silver clouds were saddled with summer sun, in suddenly days of sweet rose,
Like grey encumbering smoke from autumn fires, when in plum mists it flows.
Raven noon was in green treetops, as the inarticulate ravens were squawking,
And fading time seemed to stand still, but ephemeral moments kept walking.
One day I woke to a gorgeous view from my window, daisies pink and yellow,
In the wide field right next to my house, glowing in the rich, sunshine mellow!
It put such a smile on my face, oh my! Like flocks of pretty blue jays going by,
And I kept seeing daisies everywhere I went, like a pearlescent moon on high!
I beheld African daisies and shasta, and pom pom-like chrysanthemum ones;
Along with fine lustrous gerberas, in all colors found, in wild green kingdoms.
I wondered at my strange, good fortune, in seeing beloved blooms anywhere;
Like the young, butterscotch days when Mother said, 'We're going to the fair!'
For awhile, I saw sweet daisies by day, and it seems I dreamt daisies at night;
Like a brief mystic spell of rapture, when hidden beauty's freed from its plight.