Best Courtiers Poems
As the never world awaits me,
The lord darkness, his cloak now draped.
Haunting images that appear in dreams,
Invade the subconscious, till again I wake
Complative thoughts well before the dawn,
I walk the morning shore,
How many have stood on these same sands,
Reflecting the echoes of those no more.
And still the waves they pound the shore,
Relentless in their quest,
As they crash on the rocks with deafly roar,
White tipped and foaming zest.
Dawn breaks with gilded cotton clouds,
Waiting like courtiers to their king.
Gathering round the sovereign sun,
Bestowing his warmth on everything.
Would that life compare to the shore,
All worries get washed away.
Cares thrown to the four winds,
As on my knees I pray
© N A Windle 2009
I once shocked you
by my Queen Maud Fromage poem,
remembering a time
when the good Queen Maud
choked on the heavy stuff.
Her courtiers were
about her suddenly,
and Queen Maud was
thumped on royal back
most thoroughly...
Thoroughly, yes thoroughly...
I have it on good report.
A doctor would not lie to me
about Queen Maud, now,
would he so?
The event put Queen off
the cheese for life
and she forbade it in the larder
or else her staff
taste strife.
---------------------------------------------
10/13/2016
Contest - Give Me Your Best James Tate
Sponsor - Space Cadet
4th place win
There is music in her hands;
The graceful gestures of a different time,
Courtly manners and a black lace fan...
A hundred shaded meanings
In my daughter's eyes...
Mysterious, sibilant laughter without mystery
Without guile
Say so many things young and beautiful.
And the dance begins inside her smile
In the middle of her first kiss
That needs no translation...
While the chandelier in a debutante ballroom
Reflects flashes of joy
In a swirl of shining silk
And a trace of elusive perfume
Warming her skin for the first time.
There is such music in her hands;
She is my princess, unawakned
Surrounded by a future beloved,
And dissapointed courtiers...
There is such wonder...
I love you, Daughter Mine.
Perfidy
A hollow laugh reverberates
Through the empty chambers
Of a lonely heart
Love's labours lost.
Stolen. Thrown away.
The echo continues.....
To penetrate through
To the very soul
And render it bare
Yet still. Yet still
The tears of sadness, joy and fear
Roll down the cheeks
Of the harlequin
Standing stolidly on the courtroom floor.
Providing those all around
With profound, meaningless pathos;
Mirth and enlightened insight
To this conjurer of fools.
Yet what do they know?
Only those who have heard the echo.
Scrambled aimlessly
In the unforgiving void
(Caused by themselves
Or someone else...
Does it truly, really matter???)
Only those who've been there
And watched their world torn asunder
Will appreciate the jester's plight
A hollow laugh reverberates
Through the empty chambers
Of a million broken hearts.
Clowns and kings and courtiers
Bow lowly to your show
For those who will never understand
There's no need to let them know.
So let them watch and be there
Play kindly to them all
But despite the whispers, taunts and gibes
Never falter, fail or fall
Stand proud, alert and happy
Use those echoes as your tools
To use when in the public "court"
Allow the fool to fool the fools.
Brutus Iulius Trois page 02
Where Trojans are there will be Troy
In Hesperia the elder cousins the new Dardanoi
the sons of Silvanus Dardanus shall inherit
and Lavinia's bloodline shall dwindle down
caught by a curse not even Anna Perenna can protect
as the very last drops are given to wolves
Thus purified the Dardanoi become a great nation
As for the house of Ascanius and the true Trojans
Two bright stars that flame and fall
Troy is lost, Trojans are lost
a matricide, a patricide an orphan child
shall escape his curse and rescue Creusa
who cries all alone in Troy's ruins
Where Trojans are there will be Troy
Ascanius did not weep or cry in anger
Ascanius did not try to stop what was to come
doing such things had never helped his father Aeneas
Ascanius placed his faith in older prophecies made
and his trust in the protection of grandmother Venus
with peaceful prayers sent he pleas to the Parcae
Nona spin your finest threads for my son.
Decima give him a full cup of life leave him not wanting
Morta keep your knife idle until after my time.
Ascanius paid the Auger in silver coin
one eyed Merlinius bowed and left
To his soldiers Ascanius said slay me this soothsayer
but the mage Merlinius staged his own suicide
drinking a draft of false death
disappearing some said into the west
Silent stayed Ascanius, keeping secret his son's fate
In time Silvanus Trois inherited his fathers crown
and wedded Julia Dardanus his close cousin
tying the Trojan grafts tighter to their newly Latin roots.
Julia Dardanus died in birthing a beautiful son
she breathed her last even as he breathed his first.
In sorrow Silvanus lifted his son aloft to show the courtiers
as he hefted the babe, he named his heavy burden Brutus.
In true Trojan fashion Ascanius had raised Silvanus his son
In such fashion Silvanus in turn raised Brutus Iulius Trois
Eagle
Dalliance up above in the stratosphere,
Sailing stead in the smooth creamy cloud
Like the Almighty Angelic machine in Azure,
Like the beastly Griffin running missive among
stars.
Here is welcome to paradise!
Right through your phantom ushering
To a lounge that’s closest
To your favourite armchair in mind,
By some Damsels courtiers who truly have you in
hearts
And with courtesy courteously pamper you like
urchin.
Relax on board is the lullaby of the Nightingale,
Feel the elevating excitement like an arrow
Right through a warrior’s grip,
Throw over cumulus, air borne
Settle in and view over our victuals,
Mouth watering delicacy will find
Your appetite, not to mention the inducing
Aperitif,
We are on a journey to Bell Air,
The destination is to Xanadu,
We will arrive in Utopia
With connecting flight to Los Atlantis,
We trip the galaxies, but not the way to abyss,
Fly, fly,and fly into your widest dream
Fly aloft like an Aeronaut
Dream of an expedition to the moon
Discover shinning gold and crystal diamond
And when you have gathered a fortune
Land in ambience, accomplishing comfort,
Then taxi home
The experience is like you are just,
Right out of a bathtub.
January.
I now perform the annual alchemy,
my purpose :
to capture Spanish sunshine in a jar.
Seville :
white fragrant flower to bitter orange sphere.
Childrey :
sugar, water, shredded peel to liquid gold.
Now attend
and carefully stir the boiling cauldron,
Shakespearian
witch-like, the transmutation is complete.
Scottish myth.
Her courtiers cry “Ma’am est malade”, forsooth,
Mair’s headache
cured with orange confiture, a royal preserve.
At breakfast.
The early morning sun aslant the glass,
light shining
through shredded peel makes goldfish in the swim.
Marmalade.
The bitter-sweet tang melds with buttered toast.
Marvellous
flavour. What better way to start the day ?
Connor the baby dragon went to see the queen
He knocked upon the palace door insisting he was seen
The courtiers and the equerries on seeing the little tyke
Told him to be off at once his kind they did not like
They ushered him outside the gates and told him, go away
Said that he should leave at once for here he could not stay
He begged of them, he pleaded, to let him take a look
The palace staff were adamant and said “now sling yer ‘ook”
Not one to give up easily he tried another tack
Walked around the corner and sneaked in round the back
He wandered through the corridors the Staterooms and the halls
Until he found the largest room where the Queen holds all her Balls
He gazed at all the splendour, mouth agape in awe
Till something made him jump, and guess what Connor saw
The person that he’d come to see was sitting at the table
The object of his visit, Her Majesty, Queen Mabel
“Your Majesty“, he mumbled “It’s you I’ve come to see”
Then remembering his manners dropped down on one knee
“Get up, dear boy” the Queen replied “come here and sit by me
Tell me why you’ve come here, sit down and have some tea”
Connor told her of his travels from his home so far away
Of how he was an orphan and how he’d like to stay
The Queen, touched by his story summoned each and everyone
And let the people know at once, exactly what she’d done
“This dragon” said the Queen “is going to be my mascot
He’ll accompany me tomorrow when I go to Royal Ascot”
From that day forth young Connor was at the good Queens side
When walking in the gardens or going for a ride
The pair were both inseparable and never would they part
Though just a lowly Dragon he had won the monarchs heart
the spouse of william jefferson bitten
i.e. hillary clinton
appears tub bee foster ring ill fit ten
for tha role of president - cuz, she z currently hit n
objections viz potential intelligence violations -
no mo' trust dose heart melting con vince lion eyes
faw catapulting her vaunted term
as n impeccable secretary of state
earning in vince able kudos via fostered trappings
donning stern stance sparring with a mitten
over each hand, while her doth go a knit n
resolutions to global conflagrations
though now, the public at large
(myself included) nada sit n
so comfortable per recent traction less record smitten
via questionable activity encompassing sensitivity of email
thus, she may see duff feet written
as primary elections draw candidates at bat
thee aforementioned democrat
sharp and whip smart -
though responding to queries
somewhat mechanical and flat
tis understandable (to me) -
how media hounds buzz like a giant gnat
she generally maintains
(in my opinion) steadfastness
indicating strengths to grapple
with worldly wide webbed woes
without tossing in/out figurative hat
n might be regaled with courtiers unfurling a tartan scottish mat
while tight security maintains vigilance
against bad company, who could spat
or risk hurling little rocks
and/or vials of corrosive acid from the white water vat.
Take off your pants
This is no romance.
It’s a stick up.
As Woodie said
They can rob you with a fountain pen
But I don’t your money
And I don’t take prisoners.
What I want to take from you
Is your turn to talk.
You see
This gun which I use in my trade
Is always pressed against my brain.
Its fatal touch
Doesn’t come with bullets
But with my words
That always it their mark
But drift into a deaf wind.
If all my friends learn to listen they’d
Hear
"Je suis avec les paysans car je suis l'un d'entre eux.
Et laisser ma langue devenir une guillotine
Donc je peux couper à travers les absurdités
De tous les courtiers immobiliers
Dont les lignes viennent comme théâtre bon marché.
I want you to
Bury my heart on the Upper West Side.
I want the beat
to
Sing the SRO tenants’
War song.
To drive all landlords back across the Hudson or the L.I.E
And ebb the flow of
Those who are just visiting
And who speak the tongue of their nameless towns."
La Civilisation – Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal’s “Civilization” by T. Wignesan
Nous qui sont arrivés en retard à la civilisation,
Une lacune des siècles que nous ait laissé tomber,
Lors de votre arrivé à nos terres nous vous admirions émerveillés
Mais nous ne nous sentions pas effrayer.
A l’époque nous n’avions rien d’autre que le don d’être heureux,
Chaque jour un jour férié
Car nous étions des humains avant d’être des citoyens,
Avant d’être redevables aux impôts sur le revenu,
Et locataires, consommateurs, employés, paroissiens.
De quelle façon pourrions-nous comprendre
Les stratifications de l’homme blanc, toutes rigides et sans appel,
Vos totems sacrés, de Seigneurs et Dames,
Altesse et Sainteté, Eminence, Majesté.
Nous ne pourrions pas comprendre
Votre étrange culte de l’uniformité,
Cette adhérence totale à la ponctualité, discipline comme à programmer le travail.
Confus, nous nous doutions
De l’importance pour vous de l’urgence et de la signifiance
Des cravates et des gants, de cirage, de l’uniforme.
Des prisons et des orphelinats étant des nouveautés pour nous,
Des locations et des impôts, des banques et des hypothèques.
Nous qui possédons quasiment rien hormis les choses essentielles,
Nous n’avions pas des policiers, des avocats, des revendeurs intermédiaires,
Des courtiers, des financiers, des millionnaires.
Ainsi ces choses-là, tous ces merveilles nous avaient rendu abasourdis
Valeurs mobilières, le marché d’immobiliers,
L’intérêt composé, des ventes et des investissements.
Si nous avions pu nous en profiter et de nous faire élevés
Avec des telles connaissances nouvelles peut-être un nouveau monde aurait pu nous accueillir.
Absorbés de jour au lendemain dans de façon à vivre de l’homme blanc
Nous voilà acceptions avec résignation tout avec joie et reconnaissance,
Puisque c’est la voie de l’inévitable.
Mais souvenez-vous, Homme Blanc, si par contre la vie est faite pour atteindre la joie de vivre
Ne vous aussi nul doute éprouveriez grand besoin de changer.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
Enea, at the Scottish Court
The critics claim that this is far the worst
of all the frescoes. Enea the star? No
inkling here. Can that be James the First?
And that’s the Clyde? It looks more like the Arno.
A spartan Stuart court? Or is it Bourbon?
Less Edinburgh in feel, and more Locarno.
Whoever saw Scots courtiers in turbans?
The ceiling is salubriously embossed,
more like the Vatican of sainted Urban!
Perhaps Enea’s Latin can’t be glossed,
for no-one’s listening, that much is certain.
One wonders what the marble columns cost.
And wrapped in that red robe (looks like a curtain!),
he seems to lack all gusto, all scintilla.
For this he braved the Beauly and the Burton?
There’s nothing interesting in the villa.
Less Donatello, more like Damien Hirst.
It wasn’t worth Charybdis, much less Scylla.
Enea Receives the Laurel Crown
Not only is he with the Emperor:
he’s kneeling to receive the laurel crown.
His deeds will be preserved in tempora,
his poems printed, bound and handed down.
What more can man achieve in life than this?
While many live and love, and toil in vain,
Enea’s standing on the precipice:
rewarded for that fine, well-nurtured brain.
So why am I uneasy? Read the signs.
And eagle savages a hapless duck.
The building seems all wrong. Wrong size, wrong lines.
And what’s it meant to be? Are you not struck
to see the woman on the loggia, being raped?
Pandora’s Box is open. Hope’s escaped.
Form and Matter
It all comes down to this, don’t you agree?
The Court of Charlemagne, the Holy See –
there’s Thought and Thing: idea, reality.
We’re in the presence room, but some are free
to stroll the colonnade at liberty.
Unyielding marble throne, lapped by a sea
of flowing silk: that’s how it has to be.
Enea kneels between eternity
and actuality: the Papacy
against the Empire. Physicality
abuts against the realm of sophistry.
Chandeliers glow beneath golden cherubs
Highlighted arches; adorned the great hall.
Paintings of cupids by masters of old,
Watched from the ceiling as people stood tall –
Debutantes fluttered their lashes and fans.
Pastels reflected on floors and shone bright.
Shadows of elegance followed each beat.
Beautiful dresses adorning the night.
Gentlemen lusted as fragrances wafted.
Music was muted by instant desire.
Sconces on walls softly lit up the room.
High cultured guests dressed in formal attire.
Lords with their beautiful ladies soon waltzed.
Black tails and ties danced a rhythmical pace.
Crinolines swirled to the beat of the drum.
One, two, three, one, two, three, gliding with grace.
Bachelors entered the room through arched doors.
Holding their passions impertinently taut.
Glancing around at the ladies in white.
Acting like gentlemen as they were taught.
Courtiers sat on a couch near the door.
Necklines, sufficiently high, covered breasts.
Sharing their hopes as they giggled and smiled.
Lips ripe for kissing remained tightly pressed.
Magical moment when two young hearts met,
Waltzing to music the orchestra played.
There in the palace flirtations began.
Dancing all night there, new joys were made.
December 2, 2014
Originally Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: Ballroom Delights
Revised (slightly) March 23, 2015 For Poetry Soup Member Contest SCREWED
Dream of you always
Can’t stop thinking about you
We need to meet soon
Let us explore each other again
Between those fine satin sheets
© Copyright KC.Leake
10th April 2015
All Rights Reserved
A nice young man in a nice crisp blouse is rifling through papers as we speak. Somewhat undisturbed it is imperative that he reaches the halls at the correct time. For all is structured and nothing is made out of toleration born out of stagnation anyway. Under a identified roof a role is preplanned and preordained in a curtain duty. So please don't throw a pan away. Or a kettle into the net on the court. Courtiers are embellishing a primed print. In many a turret. But turrets can eventually topple so don't place the mountainous ironed towels and sheets in a bundle and derive not a shred from a seed. Merely the combination platter from a ambiguous frogspawm. Reduce to a simmer then yawn in a dawn emblematic yarn.like spin. Like sap. Like spit. Xxxxx no ha. Interesting insectivorous institutionalised iguanas. Lovely. Wooden woods weave weather. Xxxxx globalization zzzzzz