Best Lances Poems
With the end of days upon them
Nears the time of final battle
In the halls of high Valhalla
Asgard senses its death rattle
In the forest crows the rooster
In the sky the sun does darken
In the cave the hound is howling
To these signs the Aesir harken
Heimdall blows the Gjallarhorn
Dark the rainbow bridge is turning
Vivid lightning cleaves Yggdrasil
Then the central tree is burning
Aesir watch in fascination
See volcanoes spew like fountains
See the heavens splitting open
See the oceans climb the mountains
See the continents convulsing
See the forests burn to ashes
See the sons of Mim awaken
In the fatal lightning flashes
As the winds consume the wasteland
From the south Surtr advances
With his minions tearing corpses
Bright his sword and sharp his lances
Aesir then prepare their weapons
Eyes are clear and arms are steady
The Midgard serpent Jörmungandr
Upon the battle plain is ready
With his heavy hammer Mjolnir
Strides the mighty god of thunder
To do battle with the serpent
And to rend the world asunder
June 30, 2014
N.B. This poem is an Epyllion, a brief narrative poem with a romantic or mythological theme. It is written in trochaic tetrameter, like some of the ancient Eddas.
Glossary:
Ragnarök - Final battle and death of the Aesir
Aesir - The Norse gods
Asgard - one of the Nine Worlds and home of the Aesir
Valhalla - a majestic, enormous hall located in Asgard, ruled over by the chief Norse god Odin
Heimdall - A Norse god who blows his horn to signal the beginning of Ragnarök
Gjallarhorn - Heimdall's horn
Midgard- Middle Earth, or the world of humans
Bifröst - the burning rainbow bridge between Midgard and Asgard
Yggdrasil - The sacred Norse central tree that holds the Nine Worlds
Mim - an Asian renowned for his knowledge and wisdom who has been beheaded. Odin carries around Mím's preserved head and it recites secret knowledge and counsel to him.
Surtr- a fire troll with a flaming sword who sets the world on fire.
Jörmungandr- The world serpent or ouroboros that surrounds the earth and grasps his own tail. When he lets go, the world will end. Jörmungandr's arch-enemy is the god Thor.
Thor - The Norse god of thunder
Mjolnir - Thor's hammer and principal weapon
Categories:
lances, weather,
Form:
Epyllion
Panagiota is a whirling Galaxie
with her blue thunder words
a spirit like black diamond lightning..
She bruises the clueless and ignorant
not out of hate but of love
not with a brass knuckled fist
but with pearled wisdom
layered around grains of
life's relentless grit.
Her words are not fanciful or minty...
their always stained with the talon of truth,
She crushes the weak-minded and the oblivious
with her Olympian soul and rose scented boots -
She fears nothing and never spares the rod
while weaving a spirited ink to her parchment heart.
Atop enchanted moonbeams
she lances pit vipers and tangos with God.
Categories:
lances, courage, poetess,
Form:
Free verse
Once upon a time
In a land far away
A Baby was born
On a bright winter’s day
He was a happy baby
His laughter quite the treat
He was perfect from his head
To the bottom of his feet
He was born a Prince
So they wanted a regal name
The Queen called on her subjects
“Please come join in our games.”
“The winner will choose
our young Prince’s name.
To be spoken throughout the land
to bring the Prince fame.”
They brought their lances
Their armour and swords
In their search for Glory
and to win big awards
But the greatest prize
to select the Baby’s name
The winner so honoured
would gain great acclaim
They fought upon horses
In matches on the street
All manners of combat
Many foes to defeat
At the end of the week
One winner was proclaimed
The public all cheered him
For the Prince would be named
The winner was a man
Who, had not a name
He’d lived all his life
carrying that shame
So he thought for many hours
What name might be best
He searched all manner of books
So the Prince would be blessed
Alexander or Richard
Maybe Demetrius or Hobbs
Perhaps Matthew or Vincent
Or something simple like Bob
After hours of research
His choice was revealed
Written on a Silver Scroll
The name was unsealed
Queen Harleen was ecstatic
Dressed in a gown of gold
The Baby Prince in her arms
She did affectionately hold
King Matthew took the Prince
Introduced him to the crowd
“His name is Benjamin
Of him we’re all proud.”
Dedicated to our son Matthew, our daughter in-law Harleen and of course the star of the Tall Tale, our new Grandson Benjamin.
Categories:
lances, beautiful, birthday, child, family,
Form:
Quatrain
I turn to my girl highlighting Mayday is near
A day of spectacle that the whole village views
There's Jesters of folly and Knights without fear
Witnessing lances and jokes, always going askew
To view such we can venture along different ways
We can stroll by the river listening to many sounds
In awe as we walk amidst most wondrous displays
That on any given day beautiful vistas abound
Decisions, decisions, as we contemplate which way
It's such a special day wondering what to wear
Beauty personified will my Olive be on this day
Knights or Royal Princes, all they can do is stare
So tomorrow we've decided to be our chosen route
Two hearts in decision, declaring what's their suit
Mayday morn now greets as I turn next to me
She my guiding light as beautiful as the dawn
Excitement illuminates for into her eyes I see
Onto my back I lie, that feel she's now upon
Into this day we go heading along the river
Crystal clear translucent such serenity in it's flow
Under greened canopies cooled shaded deliver
Wafting leaved dress in delightful fanned throw
We sense the clearings near for scents we sense
Sporadic clusters in capture of welcoming eyes
Mayday games have started, distant heard suspense
Knights on horseback mounted, now in espy
Now we're in amidst encapsulated we now are
She's here to cheer, her Sir James, soon to spar
Balcony she now awaits, white steed he's now astride
Blinkered pairings gallop towards intended foe
To win this Mayday he, to fight for her his bride
Eliminate his enemy, witness his crimson flow
His lance in now connect, thrown metal disperses
Petals of beauty hurled of rainbows selected
Images of we, now thinking marital rehearses
To know on this day, her intended she's elected
Moments of their previous now in recent past
Knowing they're now free in kaleidoscopic stream
Spectrum of feelings now in view full cast
In colourful extremes, fight for your dreams
.
Categories:
lances, beauty, class, fear, history,
Form:
Sonnet
Picking up the pieces,
Of her shattered life,
Every joyous memory,
Lances through her, like a knife.
Time's slipping between her fingers,
Like sand through an hourglass,
The turmoil in her mind,
Never ceases, doesn't pass.
Vicious words were spoken,
Jagged scars remain,
No amount of alcohol,
Can ease the searing pain.
No more sorrow,
No tears left to cry,
She's picking up the pieces,
Her resolve will not die.
Categories:
lances, heartbreak, heartbroken, lost love,
Form:
Rhyme
I’ll tell you a story you won’t forget
Of deeds of valor and fame
Of battles won and forces met
While distant seekers watch with fear
And armies flee in shame
What news travels home on the wings of birds
Of loved ones gone out to war
And of enemy horses spurred
Great battles foretold by the oldest seer
They march from tales of yore
Far off by the scouts was sighted and seen
Armies led by elven kings
With golden helms and lances keen
With faces sad and wreathed in tears
Of them this tale will sing
Great honor was won on that fateful day
And heroes rose and fell
But cold and still the elves did lay
The elven armies did disappear
Now no longer ring the bells
A tale of sorrow for a saddened world
In which we live today
A legend of blood and tears swirled
A song that to our hearts is near
As elven riders speed away
Categories:
lances, books, conflict, fantasy, lost,
Form:
Rhyme
beauty, blessing, January, magic, moon, sunset, winter
A SEASON’S GLOW ©
‘Bastille’ winter-lodes wait anticipating the reserved and affected invasions of the sun’s setting rays, to lay its' mark upon her surrounding ice-capped winter hood---
Fortifying ‘arms’ now stand saluting at attention to the expected deluges to carnival delights from the setting sun….
Applause from ‘knightly’ lances carry a shadow-display, when brought to arms;
'toe-elbowing' their stances to a light bright multiplexed review….
Eventide’s soon to reach cosmic nighttime ceilings and is brought momentarily to stands aside, to hushed warnings off snow iced platforms gaining cheery fire-light at each kissed by-pass retreat….
At devotion ‘arms’ stretch their winter façades 'drawing' close their 'painted' ‘four o’clock’ shadows; that mark out each stance---
Alas, the playhouse ‘adieus’ end with sad commendations; when staged dimmed lights snuff and flicker out to blackness.
Nighttime slants and an interval is at hand, for waning sun’s rays, to dismiss their stationed sentinels over to moonlit beamed doom---
Night plagues with harmonizing rhythms; as ice-tinkling ‘icicles’ from branches high salute the night time, sky-faerie's lite and dance upon a new stage!
Categories:
lances, beauty, blessing, january, magic,
Form:
Ode
Hour ago raised the morning sun
The eastern army outnumbers the hussars fifteen to one
The battle has began
Hussar horses with thousand thundering hooves begun their run
Eastern army cannons and muskets will discharge
As the hussars push forward in awe inspiring charge
Before the muskets and cannons can recharge
The front of the hussar left wing is at large
The lances pierce through musketeers like a storm
The hussar charge starts spread far apart then single column like a spear it will form
Into one group of two different colors two groups previously separated will transform
The hussar charge is deep in the musketeers’ ranks the each commander his king will inform
The sea of lances comes down like avalanche or volcanic rain
The furry of battle is insane
Impaled warriors sometimes six all at once cry in pain
How could things look so bad for musketeers at those odds is hard to explain
It is the horses of hussars that caused musketeer breakdown
The horses that were mixes of Mongolian blood with that of the once bread by the crown
Mesmerizing is the speed with which hussars their enemy have cut down
And despite of larger enemy force it is the musketeers that in the blood would drown
It is those magnificent horses that hussars have bred
It is the speed that enemy would come to dread
Some horses were chestnut almost red
Some were colored like a puzzle white patches yet black head
Some white and some black like the night
Like hybrid horses hybrid number defines sun’s morning light
Normal horizon is destiny of Gods that mage would incite
So with hybrid number as horizons just imagine power of its sun’s light
But that power is mind not the soul
And it is black stallion with visage as deep as the soul
Dark means deep and stallion is black as coal
He represents the deepest essence of free unbound soul
Categories:
lances, fantasy, horse, war,
Form:
Rhyme
When I get tired of the concrete and tar
there’s a place I can go, and not travel far,
that hasn’t been touched by progress at all;
nature stands still beneath gums growing tall.
And in amongst shadows with sprinkled light,
there’s rippling water and birds taking flight,
a sprinkling of colour amongst shades of green,
there’s burrows and scratching where something has been.
So I give you a picture of Billycan Creek
where flora and fauna are all quite unique,
and nothing is spoilt where I sit on a log
with my video camera and terrier dog.
A single stem orchid stands better than stark
with a deep purple flower that closes at dark,
and a coprosma tree with red berries quite sweet
is a pleasure to find with its bounty a treat.
In mistletoe weeping from a host in disguise
I video drifting jezebel butterflies,
and sitellas who cling to an old stringybark,
then high on a limb…the nest of a mudlark.
So I give you a picture of Billycan Creek
where flora and fauna are all quite unique,
and my camera is ready, with eyes like a hawk
where now with my dog on a casual walk.
Here the undulate water it constantly flows,
diverting ‘round logs and where overhang grows,
a haven’s provided for what could be prey
and in the shallows there’s a freshwater cray.
Some red brow firetails flit down for a drink,
there’s a burrow that’s new with no reason to think,
for a wombat has scratched out a hole and a mound;
but a wombat’s nocturnal who lives underground.
So I give you a picture of Billycan Creek
where flora and fauna are all quite unique,
and I’ve only a second to capture a scene,
so my camera is ready to help me convene.
The scent of boronia hangs heavy and strong,
lances of grass trees are a seed clustered prong,
white ants have covered an old stump with mud,
and Christmas bush bracts are now starting to bud.
On a hazel bush branch a grey fantail sits prone
in a nest made of cobwebs, to a tapering cone,
and a chattering chough tells me that I don’t belong,
now my camera has died so I can’t say it’s wrong…
So my battery is flat and I’m back at the log
with a film full of nature, and my terrier dog,
and you’ve read my picture of Billycan Creek
where flora and fauna are all quite unique.
©2011 Lindsay Laurie
Categories:
lances, nature,
Form:
Rhyme
Henry VIII's Last Joust
When darkness descends and all is bleak,
When the strong run and leave behind the weak.
Where, throughout the land, people cry for relief.
Who shall arise? What devil will compete?
Clothe me in armour and toast to merriment.
Fit my hand with the lance to tilt my opponent.
And to those in the stands, relax your apprehension.
(Stand back squire!) This is beyond your comprehension.
Upon the steed, in a joust of peace, I challenged destiny
And would bravely sacrifice my life for God and country.
Down the list I charged, but my horse stumbled and fell.
And they wept as for one dead, but I arose alive and well.
Let it be said when jest pervades memory of the King,
“He had grit, but maybe a little touched in the noggin!”
***
Note:
Henry VIII was born Henry Tudor on June 28, 1491, and died on January 28, 1547, at the age of 55. On April 22, 1509, he was crowned King of England, and reigned until his death in 1547. Henry VIII was athletic; standing at six foot and being an accomplished jouster.
On January 24, 1536, at Greenwich Palace, aka “Palace of Placentia” (located in Greenwich, England on the River Thames), forty-four year old Henry VIII participated in what would become his last joust. As the steed charged down the list with him at the reins, it stumbled, and fell upon him. Henry VIII lay unconscious for two hours but survived. The injuries received from the accident are believed to be the major reason for Henry VIII’s ensuing mood swings and violent temperament.
Jousting was known as the sport of kings. Two types of jousting matches were engaged in tournament jousting during the medieval ages, joust of war and joust of peace. In a joust of war, a solid, pointed lance was used to knock your opponent off their horse, and in a joust of peace, hollow lances with blunt style tips were employed, meant to shatter upon striking the opponent thereby reducing injuries.
Categories:
lances, england, history, humor, sports,
Form:
Sonnet
Be still...a garden dances
Pollination’s lush ballet
Find your Zen with gentle glances
The stage abuzz, new life advances
Grand jetés in jaundiced sway
Be still...a garden dances
Succulent as new romance is
Nectar sweet - a frail buffet
Find your Zen with gentle glances
With fickle fervor, pollen prances
Bloom to bloom in roguish play
Be still...a garden dances
Astute design, no theory lances
Sacral treasures time parlays
Find your Zen with gentle glances
Ponder all the fragile chances
Life stirs life then flits away
Be still...a garden dances
Find your Zen with gentle glances
15 Sep 2019
Categories:
lances, nature,
Form:
Villanelle
Slant light lances
stabbed through clouds
of thick grey,
Wetness fills the sky
And falls on all.
Categories:
lances, spring,
Form:
Free verse
The summer sky suddenly turned into a zealous stadium.
Sun like a raging bull inside the ring of fuming helium,
full on fire with flaring flames coming out of its nostril.
Fidgeting in the middle with flickering rays like horns, until --
A set of dark clouds like toreros entered the bull’s realm.
The annoyed sun took a charge towards the cloud with helm.
The one who was waving the cape of shadow from the front
had to bear the stroke of a light beam, the attack’s brunt.
Soon the stormy winds like picadors riding on the horses
came in with their piercing lances full of dust with force.
A powerful thrust by the stormy winds exhausted the sun.
Diminished spark, broken light but the bull was not yet done.
Silver lining could be seen dispersing from the sun’s core.
The bull was ready to score but weakened with gore.
Came in the murk suited in shades of gloom like banderilleros
and made a fierce attack on sun with heavy rain like banderillas.
The thwarted struggling bull faced severe brutality in serial,
making its way through the overgrown dark doom so surreal.
By then, a bold entry made by the zapping thunderous matador
with a flashing lightning bolt like sword, struck hard the sun’s core.
Oozing out the dark crimson blood smeared all over the sky.
Dying symbol of positivity shattered my heart and made me cry.
Either its a battle or a sport like this ends with loss and gain.
Spare me the horror...I don’t want to experience it again.
08/16/2016
Note : For the contest (Wordscapes) by John Hamilton.
*Placed Third*
In this poem, a thunderstorm caused by low pressure in summertime especially in tropical regions resulting in the battle between sun and storm is described as bull fighting sport scene. Excuse me for putting in a few Spanish terms.
Categories:
lances, allusion, metaphor,
Form:
Rhyme
Medieval times
A time of splendour
With gallant Knights
Ladies so slender
Jousting tournaments
The ladies all squeal
Exploding of hoofs
The clash of steel
Enter the Black Knight
To a round of jeers
The Red Knight enters
To resounding cheers
First pass no foul
They try it once more
The Knight in Red
Slumps to the floor
They carry him off
And tend to his wounds
A Blue Knight appears
The ladies all swoon
The maidens favourite
Known far and wide
Lord Richard of Leeds
His lance by his side
They ready for battle
Shields are in place
Masks of armour
Covering their face
Towards each other
They gallop full speed
Lances held high
The snorting of steeds
The Black Knight falls
The hero wins out
Blue Knight celebrates
Victory in the joust
Approaching the King
Horse and rider bow
The people go wild
Allegiance they vow
Medieval times
Hail to the King
Jousting tournaments
What glory they bring
© Jack Ellison 2014
Categories:
lances, fantasy,
Form:
Quatrain
“That girl’s going nowhere; she’s got socks to clean!”
The Black Knight did answer, he really was mean.
“If you’ve come here to get her I’ll give you a kick,
And knock you over with my big pointy stick!”
“So be it,” said Archie, “I’ll give you a chance,
To beat me on horseback, with sword or with lance!”
The Black Knight closed his visor and climbed on his horse,
A steed known as Twilight (he was black too of course!).
They rode at each other as fast as they could,
Both aiming their lances as all good knights should,
Sir Archibald’s lance hit the Black Knight square on,
He fell off his horse and our hero had won.
“Oh please do not hurt me!” the Black Knight did cry,
“I’ve grazed both my knees and got mud in my eye.
You can take the fair maiden. I’ll look after my health,
By not picking fights and doing housework myself!”
The girl was so happy her eyes filled with tears,
She had been locked in that tower for years and years.
She’d been there for so long her beautiful hair,
Had grown longer and longer, it lay everywhere.
The poor maiden cried, “I may have to stay,
I cannot escape here. My hair’s in the way!”
“Don’t worry my dear; I’ve got something for that!”
And he scooped it all up in a big purple hat.
And so ends our tale, just as it should be,
With hero and maiden both safe and happy,
And the evil Black Knight, whom we mustn’t forget,
Is now whiter than white, and owns a laundrette.
Categories:
lances, adventure, children, funny, humorous,
Form:
Ballad