Best Crossbow Poems
Don't cross swords with A Poet Destroyer,
pretentious jousts really do annoy her
Her weapon of choice: a crossbow or a saber
she'll Cupid your mind, turn your rhymes to confetti paper
Dedicated to Poet Destroyer for being the first one to welcome the Romantic Warrior to the Poetry Soup community. Much love to you.
These Limericks were written after playing a card game called Poo Pocalypse... don't ask or I'll blame it on Jan...lol
History recorded leaders in wars
Great men and women: their whys and wherefores
Napolean Bona-fart
A short French dude, a sweet tart
Whose stinky stench exuded from his pores
A female consort weighed too many stones
From scarfing down ice cream in waffle cones
Mary, the Queen of Plops
Upon her butt she flops
In the castle, her toilets were her thrones
There was a barbarian, years ago
In battles much blood was sure to flow
Nasty crap from the buns
of Atilla the Runs
More deadly than arrows from a crossbow
King from the Plantagenet dynasty
was not given time for his toiletry
That was terribly absurd
for England's Richard the Turd
It was an invasion of privacy
Troubled was the one who made great magic
There was one known to have gas... how tragic
The Great Harry Poodini
Had powers of a genie
But subduing farts, he didn't know Jack!
Peeking in windows is an evil deed
One pervert, whose weakness he did concede
He's known as 'Pooping Tom'
With coolness and aplomb
Watching people crap is his craving need
A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!
Wast penned by The Bard of Avon of course!
Richard's steed Surrey lay dead
Slain by a crossbow 'tis said
Dick pled for another 'til he was hoarse!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
(Not for the contest)
The ex Soldier An Allegory
A foul furtive fellow,
came a knocking at Joe's door,
what doth thou want,
thou craven knave,
Speak up else I put thee in thy grave,
I mean no harm my master
The ill looking creature moaned
I ask for but a bite of bread
and he turned away and groaned.
A pox upon your body
and a curse upon your soul,
Have I been put upon this earth?
to feed the likes of you,
A beggar and a vagrant
and perhaps a cut throat too,
Be gone before I fetch my whip
and tan your hide to blue.
The beggar looked at Joe,
and something in him stirred,
Just now I called thee master,
But thou art nothing but a turd,
You treat me like a dog thou cur,
I will not leave your sullied path,
Until you call me sir.
Big Joe could not believe his ears,
and one step forward did he take,
The beggar now to action took,
His sprightly frame belied his look,
and from beneath his ragged cloak,
Pulled a heavy wooden stave of oak.
I may, on hard times, have fallen,
Swallowed pride and not been outspoken,
Twas before my soul had been broken,
for I once was a soldier a good one to boot,
With crossbow I could any man outshoot,
Accoutred with short sword and pike,
I could hold my own with anyone you like.
Although not afraid Joe
looked at him wry,
Perhaps his harsh words
had been hasty,
He looked at him now
with a new look in his eye,
Wouldst like a taste
of wife's new baked pie,
I am happy good sir
to try thee at quarterstaff,
But prithee refresh thee
with some pie and some ale,
And you can regale us
with your soldierly tale.
The soldier looked up,
a new light, bathed his face,
I thank thee master
for thy most kind words,
They show thee a gentleman,
full of fine grace.
I pray forgiveness, if I,
offence to you have given,
Your words inside made me cry,
By them was my temper driven.
I am now the me, that I used to be,
I accept your offer most gratefully.
Have I ever told you?
I was smitten with you then
when we first met.
A quiver ran down my body
by your single look.
Your fine archery
couldn't have missed the shot
as your crossbow-eyes
aimed at me
and your piercing sight
like an arrow wounded my heart
with venom of your lethal love.
I couldn't have survived
your fatal attack
if you didn't aid me
with your skilful nursing
infused with adoration.
You almost healed me
with your romantic treatment
and medicines made of love
but residue of that venom
still runs through my veins
in my blood and fills my heart
with unruly passion for you.
I was too ignorant
to know then but I know now
that I am captivated by you
and your tricks forever.
You know how to make me
suffer for your love.
You are the one to make me ill
and you are the one to cure me.
Darling, you are my malady
and you are my only remedy.
I am still smitten with you
and will be forever.
Date: 11/12/2017
The keys rattled gently in his pocket.
Gradual jumps like the ocean,
Peaking with every heart
Or every step.
The music was in sleep
Allowing silence for thought
To contemplate on the sun,
Of this clean, clear October.
He sunk his eyes into the core
Of pale and fresh above,
Ember, his numbed head rocked from
Slow and forced breathing,
Suppressing the smell of deep,
Deep purity
Yet conscious of the high brick wall
Where the wind taps
Like a faded voice sighs through a lost keyhole.
He was greeted distantly
By early-anthem families,
Walking the dogs
Or singing with linked wrists;
Sipping at the last, smoked bowls,
And the circling of the roads.
How they would pass,
With a stranger’s recognition
And mutter as they retreated;
“His hair is thinning!
His eyes are fixed, like
The bolt in a crossbow.
His arms are depleting
For slow, heavy breathing...
Yet his eyes are fixed.”
And sometimes they pass alone;
A little too close
With their gaze separate.
Their tight coats
And pocket smokes,
While they sway to poisons.
How a smile can turn damp
At the thought of past brothers.
And how a passing car can sigh,
With misunderstood pity.
The lamplight’s warming,
The Gutter dweller’s dawning,
The dented camber’s pouring,
The rugged throat with it’s sweet inhale
For the decisive steps
And the vivid gold Yale.
Dream in encumbered times,
Where the destination is a home to rest.
And you walk a shadow amongst the binds,
That break the folds of your armoured vest.
For my ear is a raven,
For my feet are hooves,
For I make a thousand strides,
Within these tightened shoes,
And my arms are not depleting,
And my slow and heavy breathing,
Is only the product of the season,
And will soon falter for my reason,
And my hair can never thin,
While the lamplights never dim,
And my strides will form the door hinge,
That stands so high across the fringe,
And I find lavender in the bins,
While I...search my empty pockets.
Pursuit for elusive prey
teases yours truly
into treacherous catacombs
dangerous mentally
challenging pitfalls,
sets small hairs of back
on camp creeks edge
of night, where dark shadows
evoke outer limits
of twilight zone
prompting me constantly questioning
purposefulness, qua hair raising pursuit
embarking these modern roman times
all for naught,
nonetheless I chide self
failing to heed
emotional, mental, psychological...fallout
in sum re: springing Jack in the box reflex
to sally forth and earn kudos,
asper potential Prince Valiant.
Thus situated with blank computer screen
capacious external Lenovo for myopia
(and incessant squiggly floaters to boat),
this literary glutton for punishment
feverishly fixates to plumb depths
measuring mor'n 10,000
leagues under the see
ming lee impossible mission
to ensnare nearly extinct
fluttering, lyfting, shutterflying...
smarts to outwit unsuspecting
beak henning quest
tendering, tasting uber victory
quivering crossbow
targeting yawping
zoological discovery - channeling
primed with taut fletched arrow
on high alert for stool pigeon
cautiously optimistic kickstarting
another futile attempt dagnabbit
experiencing prestige,
oh...and by the way...,
no animal harmed
regarding made for video poem
gamely capturing quarry scotched,
nor gruesome scene
synonymous quasi abattoir
representative bird den sum
bloodless coup deeming
endeavor par excellence.
Fingers madly scramble
to poach skittering idea
fry day most ideal
omelette ya know,
aye feel yolked to defeatism,
one after another faux
promising brainstorm egging
quickly flitting inaccessible
potential flash in frying pan
just as fast dashing
into bajillion pieces
shell shocked scrivener
scribbling lame as duck
goose laying golden egg...
dropping immediately out of sight,
maybe best resigning forlorn
inchoate never albumen,
albeit quite linguistic stretch for
(all be human success story)
prospects beyond reach
ova this wretch
New York Times
bestseller author jinxed
forever dooming yours truly
grinding poverty my ill fate.
The Maid of New Orleans
A teenage cow girl who couldn’t write
Was told by God to front the fight
the hundred Year War against the French
And cut her hair in trendy wedge
Six centuries later it became the rage
She donned male clothes to further enrage
Raising a flag along with the others
To battle by a regiment of brothers
Without a weapon, she could not kill
But controlled her men with fiery will
She took an arrow to her shoulder
Her actions by now becoming bolder
To liberate the French from English reign
And continue with her tough campaign
In Orleans with some success
But Paris was a failed attempt
When a crossbow bolt hit her thigh
She maintained her strength and did not die
The English caught her in old Rouen
And gleefully put her in their prison
With seventy charges, then down to twelve
For hearing voices, wearing masculine clothes
To face a life long incarceration
She assumed male garb in desperation
To avoid rape and intimidation
The Godly voices, she confessed
Tied to a stake, she acquiesced
With celestial eyes but consumed by flames
Thus canonized to saintly fame
T
2 600 years ago
3 Schizophrenic? Voices in the head, seizures.
4 Led French army to some victories in the Hundred Years War (Charles V11) against the English
5 Seen as a mascot in battle she brandished a flag instead of a weapon
6 Took an arrow in her shoulder during the New Orleans campaign and a crossbow bolt in the thigh
during a failed attempt to liberate Paris
7 Volatile temper. She kept the troops in check. Ridiculed by her male counterparts and taunted about
her French dialect, she always quipped back in humiliating tone
8 Fell into English hands in 1430 in Rouen (English Stronghold) and tried by an ecclesiastical court.
70 charges were made against her. Whittled down to 12. Wearing of male clothes and hearing God’s
voice when she was threatened by possible rape and intimidation while in prison
9 Burned at the stake in 1431
10 Emulated by imposters even after death
11 Pioneered the popularity of the bob hairstyle. She was told by voices to cut her hair in manly style.
With accurate placement
aim and precision
take your pick
an advanced weapon system
a marksman
staring down
keeps his eye
on the target
judging distance
will take his shot
The ultimate assassin
for two lovers touch
with a bipod arrangement
is accurate as such
holding aim
sweetly releasing
from the chambers
firing emotions
The L115
will do the trick
the poms little boy
the lovers heart it will hit
burning inside
blazing feelings
one hot target
exploding fireworks
An M107
the Americans toy
it'll take you down
into lovers joy
in rapid fire
burning lead hot
pulsating desires
An Aussie Tikka M55
a one piece machine receiver
it's grooved drilled and tapped
a love it can deliver
finger upon her trigger
warmly spitting flames
radiating flashes
gunpowder explodes
with golden bite
falling down
in the face
of her beauty
But the true weapon of choice
out of cupids locked safe
Is the Middleton DTM SS 415 Crossbow
It gets true lovers in the right place
crosses over an arrow
piercing into
the softest spot
a passion hunter
preys in delight
blood within lust
You see Cupid's an Angel
he doesn't use guns
he has arrows and bows for choice
he is the ultimate sniper number One
silently holds the wind
shooting swiftly
ends quickly
quivering taking one's breath
a piercing tip enters
falls down dead
enters the heart
one lonely
head hunter
dips in
loves blood
Twas the night of the Ladies League Final and the atmosphere was tense
Only two teams were competing, no loyalties allowed on the fence
There could only be one winner, the team with strongest will
And if you lost you were losers, and losing meant you were swill!
The teams were made up of eight players, all with an aim straight and true
Each woman stood there determined and each with their own point of view
Still arguments were frequent and blood was often shed
Only last week Blackout Bertha got smacked in the gob, now she’s dead!
The marker called all to order, and with a toss of a coin they were off
The Fiddler and Firkham Ladies verses the Wenches from ‘Th’owd Pig N Trough’
The Captain of the Firkham was called upon to name
the player who was starting this dangerously ill fated game.
She shouted ‘Hot Legs Hilda - will play for the Firkham pride’
she was the one who’d smacked Bertha, you know, the lass that had died!
Well ripples ran though the public and scowls came across from the Trough
But they sent out their best in ‘Fat Freida’ and suddenly the game was off!
Hilda set a steady pace, with a one and a two, double three
As she stepped back off the hockey she gave Frieda a stab in the knee
But Freida was not to be mithered she went one, double two, double five
And folks sitting round the ale tables thought, ‘We’ll none of us get out alive!’
It was plain to see from the offing that this match was doomed from the start
As each woman rankled the other with poke or cough or a fart!
Eventually the pair of them, understood that the game must be won
And Frieda left Hilda three Arrows – her Captain said, ’This’ll be fun!’
Now Hilda was a psychopath who hated to lose, yes it’s true
But what she did next took all by surprise; it came totally out of the blue
She ambled across to her handbag and pulled out a crossbow of size
And with that she let loose an arrow that hit Frieda right between eyes.
You could have heard a pin drop as Freida lifelessly fell to the floor
As her Captian straddled the bloodied corpse her face took on a look that was sore
She turned to the Firkin’s Captain and said quite resigned and all meek
‘By Heck June not another – Oh well, same time, same place next week??’
This is the tale of young Polkahontus.
She lives in the forest; her aim is to taunt us.
The squeezebox is ancient; it’s lacquered and red;
she communes with the spirits and plays for the dead.
She gives the accordion a little squeeze;
the raspy sound out of it’s more like a wheeze.
She dances and prances and plays in the wood;
I’d drop a tree on her if I only could.
At dusk she gets started down there in the vale;
I’ve fingered my crossbow with thoughts to impale.
In the rain, in the snow, even bitter and cold,
she’s playing that polka; Good Lord, it gets old.
I’m at my wit’s end, so I get down the rifle
with murderous thoughts of a squeezebox to stifle.
I aim through my scope with the polka red dot,
but I won’t pull the trigger, ‘cuz that polka girl’s hot!
Here's the story of Hansel and Gretel
But, again, not like they said
Their's was way too humdrum
So, here's my version, instead
First, their father wasn't a woodcutter
He worked at the laundromat
He took quarters from the scrub boards
To make change and things like that
Hansel and Gretel weren't children
They were midgets from the Wizard of Oz
But this wasn't their first story
They first worked for a guy named Claus
Anyway, the witch was really a witch
That part of the story is true
But, this next part will be a surprise
And this, I promise you
Hansel and Gretel had been casing the joint
To rob that poor witch clean
They were the meanest two kid-lookin' midgets
That anyone had ever seen
Now, the witch was planning on eating them
Well, cause, that's what witches do
You really can't blame her for her cravings
She's just tired of pork rines and stew
She invited them in, they played some cards
It was time to execute her plan
She asked Hansel to check the oven
And she pushed him in the pan
Gretel was watching and knew what to do
As she jumped on the witch's back
Hansel pulled out his crossbow
It was time for him to attack
This next part is weird, you may not believe
But one day, maybe, you will
For while the battle was raging strong
Thru the door walked Dr Phil
"Can't we all just get along?" he said
As he proceded to stop the fight
It took him only a minute or two
To determine which one was right
They agreed to disagree
And go their separate ways
For Dr Phil had come to the rescue
And, again, he saved the day
intensely seeking my furry boots today due to the snow
looking every possible hiding place, both high and low
did you look where the fairy lights glow asked my curious husband Joe
I had to move a broom, two rakes and an old green garden hoe
Found an undelivered Christmas present almost given to a foe.
an Oster bread maker with tiny flecks of hardened tannish dough
not terrific fun to look in the garage with mice running to and fro
I found lots of old things including my daddy’s killer crossbow
found an tarnished copper trumpet, but it no longer would blow
discovered rusty trimmers I use when I am forced to mow
And a broken antler and broken leg on a spotted porcelain doe.
did you find your boots asked my only husband named Joe
no, however, I found many wonderful other things though.
there were many bags and boxes, and a faded red tow rope to show
hey! said husband. What's the black feathered thing in the next row?
his offer to help me hunt mousey garage was notoriously slow.
he was elated to find his great-grandmother's hideous afghan throw
it was a stuffed one-eyed crow, nothing enjoyed by the status quo
are those flowered things starter kits to allow seedlings to grow?
not being a gardener, how in devil’s name would I know?
as for losing boots and mittens though, I am the pro.
If Cupid has an arrow let him put it's down and reach for a gun to slay me like prey let him have an iron fist to put me on a list of those who come to past relevance instead of wings let him have daggers for my deep wounds a crossbow tipped by venom for my deep wounds have no cure let it be poison that consumes my body
A stem sprouts leaves two
Holding cute bud new
Grows free
Unfurls charming hue
Makes a flower blue
Blooms glee
Unframed scene sticks to
Pleased plant, shines with dew
Silky.
Bridge the two banks see
Standing on strong knee
Crossbow
Structure so crafty
Makes closeness lovely
Somehow
Bonding seems to be
River’s sole trustee
To show.
Longing two hearts grow
Desires in spate flow
Find clue
To bloom life nouveau
Paired love’s floral glow
Debut
Dear link two lives know
Living brings rainbow
In view.
_____________
March 18, 2023
Syllable count checked at HMS
Contest : Write Me A Virelai
Sponsored by : Kim Rodrigues