Best Guinevere Poems
I hear girlish laughter beyond the bagged onions.
Imagine her swimming naked among green ripples.
Her white arms are lily stems, hips as sleek as an otter
flow in a neon moonlight.
A sound system promotes discount cookies.
Visions of idealized females fill the dairy product section.
A courtly love of grapes spreads to the potatoes.
In the toy aisle, Avalon, Camelot, and Tintagel
appear in plastic miniature together with rainbow painted ponies.
Between the crisp covers of Guns & Ammo and Cosmo,
Annales Cambriae, Historia Brittornum,
and the writings of Gildas shimmer in periodic reality.
I should turn the old legends off, but the Kimble audio
keeps me walking with Malory and Tennyson.
In toiletries and cosmetics, I find her.
A teenager shyly laughing as she texts a boy.
My imagination reaches for the forbidden,
a fruit that was fresh this morning –
a thousand years ago.
I hear girlish laughter beyond the bagged onions.
Imagine her swimming naked among green ripples.
Her white arms are lily stems, hips as sleek as an otter
flow in a neon moonlight.
A sound system promotes discount cookies.
Visions of idealized females fill the dairy product section.
A courtly love of grapes spreads to the potatoes.
In the toy aisle, Avalon, Camelot, and Tintagel
appear in plastic miniature together with rainbow painted ponies.
Between the crisp covers of Guns & Ammo and Cosmo,
Annales Cambriae, Historia Brittornum,
and the writings of Gildas shimmer in periodic reality.
I should turn the old legends off, but the Kimble audio
keeps me walking with Malory and Tennyson.
In toiletries and cosmetics, I find her.
A teenager shyly laughing as she texts a boy.
My imagination reaches for the forbidden,
a fruit that was fresh this morning –
a thousand years ago.
Lady Guinevere decided to follow her passion
By finding employment as a hired assassin.
She practiced technique
On her cousin Monique,
But found the guillotine to be out of fashion.
Whence, the Bitter Chill of December cometh
shall not the glowing embers, of thine heart
crackle within the depths of thy soul
for but the withered flower upon the mantle grows
Thine eyes glisten as does crystal in a Chandelier
whence, the subdued rays fall upon it from yonder fire
radiant is thy skin, soft as is the pedal of a rose
of which is new born in the very bosom of Spring
Come hither, mine Guinevere, entrance me, seduce me
I shall beg of thee for thy mercy before the end
I shall be under thy spell, as if bewitched
for thou art a Witch of Great beauty and power
For thou art in possession of said Power over Men
Mine Guinevere, cast thy spell upon me,quickly
for I am become blinded by mine own Lust for thee
the taste of thy kiss, is bitter sweet to me
Quickly, Mine Guinevere, for I weaken for thee
the spell of which thee cast upon me has taken hold
wrapped round mine heart, it's grip tightens
Mine own soul is for thee, Mine own Lust is for thee
Were it possible, I would kill for thee
yet, I am become weakened by desire for thee
to late for mine own self,thou hast taken me
hence, from the intense passion, forth to bitter cold
Thine own Bewitching Beauty, has but taken another
Mine Guinevere, thou hast done me
Mine own life is all but withered away, bitter cold
Hence, mine flower on yonder mantle, shan't ever grow
Whence the Bitter Chill of December Cometh !
copyright Rd Pickett 2011
Eyelids gently drooping,
drowsing on the porch swing,
eighty-three years old and feeling grand,
reveries of cherished times
when he was a lad in Merry England.
In his hands the uniform
that he wore in childhood,
when he was a knight upon his steed,
a champion in his armour,
boldly defending damsels in dire need.
Ruler of the Empire,
everyone his subject,
all, that is, except for Mary Jane.
She made him blush and stammer,
he flushed like crazy when she spoke his name!
She was his Guinevere,
he her brave King Arthur,
she was six years old and he was too,
he loved her with a passion
and promised that he'd be forever true.
In later years he worried,
tried to do the right thing,
his wife was right beside him all the way;
he never had to wonder,
her faithfulness grew stronger every day
He had a fruitful life,
simply could not complain,
all his needs and pleasures were forseen
for he shared it with the girl
who'd once portrayed King Arthur's lovely Queen.
Eyelids gently drooping,
drowsing on the porch swing,
eighty-three years old and feeling grand,
reveries of cherished times
when he was a lad in Merry England.
In his hands the uniform
that he wore in childhood,
when he was a knight upon his steed,
a champion in his armour,
boldly defending damsels in dire need.
Ruler of the Empire,
everyone his subject,
all, that is, except for Mary Jane.
She made him blush and stammer,
he flushed like crazy when she spoke his name!
She was his Guinevere,
he her brave King Arthur,
she was six years old and he was too,
he loved her with a passion
and promised that he'd be forever true.
In later years he worried,
tried to do the right thing,
his wife was right beside him all the way;
he never had to wonder,
her faithfulness grew stronger every day
He had a fruitful life,
he could not complain,
all his needs and pleasures were foreseen
for he shares it with the girl
who still portrays King Arthur's lovely Queen!
Eyelids gently drooping,
drowsing on the porch swing,
eighty-three years old and feeling grand,
reveries of cherished times
when he was a lad in Merry England.
In his hands the uniform
that he wore in childhood,
when he was a knight upon his steed,
a champion in his armour,
boldly defending damsels in dire need.
Ruler of the Empire,
everyone his subject,
all, that is, except for Mary Jane.
She made him blush and stammer,
he flushed like crazy when she spoke his name!
She was his Guinevere,
he her brave King Arthur,
she was six years old and he was too,
he loved her with a passion
and promised that he'd be forever true.
In later years he worried,
tried to do the right thing,
his wife was right beside him all the way;
he never had to wonder,
her faithfulness grew stronger every day
He had a fruitful life,
simply could not complain,
all his needs and pleasures were foreseen
for he shared it with the girl
who'd once portrayed King Arthur's lovely Queen!
Oh, my darling Arthur, this euphoric feeling what is it?
Is it something from sensual pleasure?
Or something in my dreams?
Is it perspiration glistening on a manly chest?
Or when I have rivulets of perspiration running between my breasts?
Is it lying on a beach somewhere when bodies meet as one?
With waves crashing rhythmically a thrust with every one?
Is it when one runs a hand up and down my body with such a careful touch?
Hardly touching my skin at all, but it still seems to burn so much.
The glistening of thigh beneath a gown, that catches my dream just briefly.
Or the décolleté so smooth and soft when lips caress so sweetly?
Oh, my darling Arthur, this euphoric feeling what is it?
Is it something from sensual pleasure?
Or something in my dreams?
Lying with you on the riverside regaining control of gasping breath,
the ripples down the spine, the dampness I feel on your back.
The tenderness and trembling, as I can feel the weight of you,
but you’re not heavy you are my lover so true.
I welcome the feel of skin, the muscular stomach so smooth and tanned
the cupping of my breast in your large hands. The sweet caress
that sets me on fire the look in your eyes strong with desire. The waking,
but I want to feel more, when will it be my turn? You are the man i adore.
26/6/2020
Entered into Silent One’s
Sensuality poetry contest.
it's not enough Guinevere,
or should i call you Morgana?
unless you, too, see me
like a novelty act, with your shiny wizard.
you're always against everything anyway.
the cliched apples,
the nudes i draw,
the fig leaves your nerves cover them up with.
but you don't cover everything.
only you pretend you have to
with me.
you're the mother of my name...
the forest where i form my rocks.
but there's more things us men can give you,
than things you can't touch all at once.
you can touch it all at once,
but you don't need to;
when you don't even try for what you want.
evil,
the longer you strive to be queen
the better. the moment you succeed,
dark ruler,
it all goes up in smoke;
all smoke.
you say we're all the same.
but there's more i, myself, have
to give you, than smoke and mirrors.
you hate the taste of wine,
but you're not a Lilith that sucks,
or a witch that feeds your apples
to other women;
as much as you want the sky to be clear
like the nights when you and i would walk,
you can't breathe without the fogs of London,
the sick harvest burning of zombie weeds at that.
you're too worn to be a queen,
and drinking from my fountain of youth
makes you shiver in heat, in fear,
and talk like a child.
you'll always be a princess either way.
my illness will keep me young for years
to come. that's my magic.--
but you're not afraid of that are you?
you're afraid of all that's not magical,
not powerful, not immortal
unless bought in zombie fog.
you can only be a queen if you can pick the brain,
and remove the heart without breaking it
or touching it;
it's hard to love someone that you can't hate even for a moment.
I long to meet a Guinevere
So many poems I'd pen
Like Guinevere by the Azure Mere
Or simply, My Sweet Gwen
I taste the sound of Guinevere
Tis salt upon my lips
Perhaps she'd be my Gwenhwyfar
Sweet wine of Arthur's sips
Smooth and fair my Guinevere
Of her so many songs be sung
I'd love you o'er and o'er, my dear
Tomorrow I'd have ye hung.
r ~ 4/22/14
Eyelids gently drooping,
drowsing on the porch swing,
eighty-three years old and feeling grand,
reveries of cherished times
when he was a lad in Merry England.
In his hands the uniform
that he wore in childhood,
when he was a knight upon his steed,
a champion in his armour,
boldly defending damsels in dire need.
Ruler of the Empire,
everyone his subject,
all, that is, except for Mary Jane.
She made him blush and stammer,
he flushed like crazy when she spoke his name!
She was his Guinevere,
he her brave King Arthur,
she was six years old and he was too,
he loved her with a passion
and promised that he'd be forever true.
In later years he worried,
tried to do the right thing,
his wife was right beside him all the way;
he never had to wonder,
her faithfulness grew stronger every day
He had a fruitful life,
he could not complain,
all his needs and pleasures were forseen
for he shared it with the girl
who'd once portrayed King Arthur's lovely Queen.
Guinevere
Was King Arthur's darling dear,
Once day, she said, "I'm sorry M'Lord,
I gave your nephew, Mordred, your sword".
Mordred was not a man one should entrust.
King Arthur was a bit more than nonplussed.
Guinevere said, "Don't sweat it",
But the king would regret it,
As the weasel dispatched him with a thrust.
The Knights of the Round Table all missed him and cried -
Were Lancelot and Guinivere sorry he died?
Well, Sir Lance furrowed his handsome brow, and said "heck,
We should legislate a sword control background check."
In this hell you hold the hand of our Lord.
Deep inside my heart troubles towards doom,
If I could cast it upon my own sword
And if I could request for just one boon.
Fear to accept what my heart proclaims true?
With no reasoning and poisoned with lies
My ambition can never be with you
I am haunted by your beautiful eyes.
There’s no profit from the promise we’ve kept,
Which cannot be honoured to ours above.
Denial and deceit we must both accept,
We must from our good lord both hide our love.
And inevitably darkness draws nears,
Discovery will realise our fears.
Misted, as some enchantress
A mythic age haunts
This Autumn's country; this day's.
Morn, noon. And beyond.
All the dazed while, what desires
Marvelled at, to be
Do get that sense of. And how!
Speak; I wont respond!
Eyelids gently drooping,
drowsing on the porch swing,
eighty-three years old and feeling grand,
reveries of cherished times
when he was a lad in Merry England.
In his hands the uniform
that he wore in childhood,
when he was a knight upon his steed,
a champion in his armour,
boldly defending damsels in dire need.
Ruler of the Empire,
everyone his subject,
all, that is, except for Mary Jane.
She made him blush and stammer,
he flushed like crazy when she spoke his name!
She was his Guinevere,
he her brave King Arthur,
she was six years old and he was too,
he loved her with a passion
and promised that he'd be forever true.
In later years he worried,
tried to do the right thing,
his wife was right beside him all the way;
he never had to wonder,
her faithfulness grew stronger every day
He had a fruitful life,
simply could not complain,
all his needs and pleasures were forseen,
for he shared it with the girl
who'd once portrayed King Arthur's lovely Queen.