Best Minstrel Poems
Serenading me with vivid poetry
Her pen extends thoughts so lovely
Weaving words into graceful birds
heart-felt phrases deftly placed
Feeling is conveyed in lines well displayed
stanzas of emotion perfectly painted
Beauty not contained in just script on page,
Her eyes search kindly smiling
Lips pursed to quench kiss thirst
Welcoming as only sincerity can be
Empathy radiates in the care she demonstrates
Angelesque pursuit of nourishing soul
........................................................................
Where prose meets pose...she models from either side
touches with words, caresses with sentiment
Inspires my writing by supportively guiding
This lady's both Minstrel AND Muse
Categories:
minstrel, dedication, thank you
Form:
Free verse
The Merry Minstrel of Mickleover
I strike this chord without a sword
For I am not so brave
Whence came a knight with armour bright
Who vowed princess to save
The wicked sire of the shire
Had seen well to kidnap
The daughter of the king and bring
Much wealth into his lap
Handsome he thought the ransom
The king was sure to pay
For fear his precious princess dear
The wicked sire would slay
From his abode the knight he rode
Through wind and rain and storm
O’er hill and dale and muddy trail
His quest to keep him warm
The castle wall it looked so tall
Impregnable in height
Banged on the door and yet once more
His iron fist with might
The surly sire quoths to enquire
“Who raps upon my door”
“Tis mystery, now set her free
Or death you’ll lay before”
With lunge and slash with swords they clash
Upon the open plain
Died his desire there in the mire
As evil sire is slain
The princess freed from needless greed
Sort knight to gift reward
“Place in my hand just thine hair band
If this please thy accord”
( The minstrels song lived large and long
Was sung all o’er the land
Where ‘ere he been could still be seen
Rebec ‘dorned with blue band )
Rebec; A medaeval violin type instrument
Mickleover; A village in Derbyshire, England
Though now a suburb of the City of Derby
The residents still refer to it as ‘The Village’
For Medaeval Idealism Contest
Sponsor, Isaiah Zerbst
Categories:
minstrel, history,
Form:
Rhyme
The minstrel and the rubbish
To a homeless in N.Y., who had a guitar to keep him company
But he that is greatest among you shall be your servant.
(Matthew, 23, 11)
The rubbish was blown aside
by the arid marching of the wind
leaving the whole street clear
for the minstrel who was crooning
his latest composition
to the street’s dream-recipients,
while the voltage of the wind
was going down at intervals
under the burden
of the unexpected stave.
The night was watchful
- you’d say she dreaded –
lest she bumped into the chords
and crush their solitary waving.
Breastfeeding music the minstrel
was opening up new pathways
to the question marks
of his melodies.
Me, what was I then
I still haven’t found.
Wind, rubbish, onlooker
or something else?
The minstrel ’s mute audience,
the rubbish, transcended its nature
at Time’s attendance register
and, after all, it would not
have always been rubbish
and some of it would have had
its own illustrious past, too,
and it must have known
what it means to have
eyes that leave Love
as a map to find them back
and warmth that has left,
as a memorial,
its fleeting past,
with Hope
as its one and only stamp.
All alone the minstrel,
homeless with his homeless guitar
housed his trivial dreams,
under the yoke
of the obese city’s wind,
in his Heavenly Melodies.
(translated by the original ‘O ???a??d?? ?a? ta s???p?da’, by the poet, from his book of the same title.)
Categories:
minstrel, allegory, faith, hope, philosophy,
Form:
Free verse
The Minstrel
In a doorway, squatting, strumming out of tune
There sits a minstrel, gazing whilst he plays
A string of chords, discordant in their mix
Combining all his thoughts of better days.
Unshaven, threadbare, clothed as once he did
Before some unexpected fall from grace,
So now he plays life’s thoughts for all to hear
As passers-by avoid his careworn face.
A flat cap holds a few small copper coins
Reflecting those who understand his plight
And so I cross and place a token too
Acknowledged only by a nod so slight.
His eyes look through me, seemingly to say,
This could be you who's sitting here today.
Categories:
minstrel, people,
Form:
Sonnet
There's a dream I've had, now and then through the years,
And I wonder if it could be true.
The vision is vividly etched in my soul,
Of the places and people I knew.
My home was the road that I rambled each day.
A traveling minstrel my trade.
My pockets weren't filled with much silver or gold.
My wealth stacked with friends I had made.
I'd sing and I'd play for the working class folk;
Whose smiles and tears were sincere.
They'd feed me, and house me, and show me respect,
And share family stories and beer.
But, The lords and the ladies, kings and the queens,
Would compete for whose bard was the best;
So, they stole me away from the people I loved,
And displayed me at royal behest.
And all that is left of the dream I have had,
Is a lonely, enslaved troubadour;
Who cannot remember the joy he once knew,
Or the friends that he'll see, nevermore.
Categories:
minstrel, dream, sorrow,
Form:
Rhyme
No bird perch on high boughs,
Merrily are straggling they,
As Spring invades the bay.
Across the azure sky,
High and high the blithe birds fly,
Nowhere a cry or sigh.
Now at dusk they glide fast—
Lo! Even the sun is tired,
And down the West he mired.
The trees are strong upright,
‘Midst the lissome cloud and clime,
They kiss the moon at night.
And when the ocean roars,
Fidgety waves play around
The pregnant shells earth-bound.
I hear that hollow sound,
As night with its thick, dark shroud
Smothers the sea and ground.
Categories:
minstrel, sea, spring,
Form:
Haiku
Whatever happened to the twelve o ‘clock rambler,
nocturnal venturesome brushstroke sort,
they paint sound and city pastel,
never at a loss for inspiration,
weather neither bar nor barrier,
in the face of whirlwind snowfall,
freezing ice, torrential downpour,
within themselves, he, she, they plod on,
hardship is adopted, never cast aside,
while others brazenly squirm,
wallow in uproarious denial,
wilt before the slightest storm,
taking flight in arid comfort zone,
shelter is their first convenient port,
not for stoic diarist this threadbare exit,
exodus of the half-hearted humbug,
but ironclad ilk stubbornly remain,
eyes and ears are substitute antennas,
alert does not begin an ample portrait,
of this wilful dwindling genus,
genus, genie, genius, glow worm ghost,
peaceful prowlers with pen on queue,
they capture worlds sidereal,
under velvet moon imagining bespoke,
crescendo of cathartic bonhomie,
icy night frost punctured by high drive fog horns,
deft nib from dark ink manteau nomad,
who engross themselves in light and shade reflection,
how magical their canny weave lexicon,
for us timid souls to relish evermore,
as we balk at the eerie life we revel in,
vicarious the kismet, excitement from afar,
drama under bridges, shadow figure chinwag,
river stream babble, blind alley gust,
eavesdrop on historic past teaser,
litter swept aural gossip whoosh,
eventide mournful dog bark heart tug,
darting elfin’s sly mind peep thereon,
yet the vagabond minstrel has to comb,
each backstreet, zebra crossing, sprawling suburb,
for inert sleepy after hour dozers,
who crave eye candy fodder as humdrum sidestep
Categories:
minstrel, art, beautiful, beauty, celebration,
Form:
Free verse
medieval monsters
mischievously meander
in the mind of the mad minstrel
like maggots in mazes
his mysterious muse
masterfully mining for misery
melting in molten memories
of macabre mirrors
ministering malicious mistakes
morbity mottled
with the maniacal matchmaker
who masquerades with malevolence
masticating the meat
milking the marrow
the minstrel's music
a maddening march
motioning to the murder
of mental mortar
mashing morals
his mouth moving
malignant music
marked by madness
Categories:
minstrel, angst, confusion, music,
Form:
Alliteration
The Minstrel
Sweet opiate flavour from the minstrel’s voice,
Will lure the depth of emotion to waft allure.
This same melody will strip the kingdoms astir.
When the singer decides to singe our creases in sinuous,
The last time you blared,contentment remained unmade.
I learn the song-mill has trailed the south,
Where the sparrows are twittering in style.
At the clasp of the sought,the North will sprout,
And only the laps of tenor can do the forte content.
Behind the reels of strings will accolades ring.
The brass and the bass compete for mood,
And the mass of praise,alas! Compels the move.
Per occasion, you will knot the sounds as though,
The percussion were there to merry the tango,
And the rhythms unfurling rolled out in tannoys.
We have learnt to wait upon your leisure,
When we burnt the gait of youth logger
Among the flavours of life,you reign especially.
Only the favours of your lyrics are rife amidst,
And the concert is alert as the tune exudes.
As the tides of the ocean cart the galleon along,
The waves of your gem bestows garland aspread.
O fig of melodies; let the days revel above,
And the league of choreographies do relics demand.
Sweet opiate flavour will do the minstrel attune.
Categories:
minstrel, fantasy
Form:
Imagism
My heart erupts like a volcano
bursting with scathing songs,for
the lobes of tyranny,fattened
by the deceptive lyrics,from
sycophantic lips
My tongue,a molten kalam,shall
consume the valve of fear,preaching
caution to frustrated souls,now
my music must rise ,from
the din of ancient sighs,remixed
in the swelter of pain and anguish,rehashed
in the gurgling sound,of
blighted bellies
My anvil honed labial,shall
spin arrows to pierce,their
stubborn ossiccles and
invade the cosmos of haughty drunkeness
My strident cry shall spin a noose,for
the drooling neck of despotism,hawking
chaos on our conflagrating land,where
swamp dwellers bath with spittle,and
princes pawn peasant's heritance
My touching tune shall rouse,fascist
minds to the scent ,of
our brewing anger,and
restless impatience
I shall continue to sing until,this
gathering storm harvest hearts,and
stir furious fists,to deal
deathly blow to the cenotaph of tyranny.
Categories:
minstrel, angst, social, visionary,
Form:
Free verse
Behold the Pied Piper has tossed his pipe belatedly in the trash
Having led folks down some garden paths he trousered wads of cash
Dollars, pounds, euros, rolls of wallpaper - the currency didn’t matter
He gathered countless cretins, enchanted by piffle and patter
From sound suburban Ruislip to Henley-on-the-Thames
This piper sprinkled magic dust and never made amends,
His tunes were quite eccentric but they made the voters dance
Cycling round the capital his prospects to advance
Now the pipes have fallen silent (I wish this event came sooner)
Though he tried many instruments, he never bought a tuner
Cast-off from the orchestra, a wayward minstrel now unseated
His lies have all been rumbled, and on radio repeated
Considering his record, he enjoyed a lengthy stint,
While friendly foreign editors found his comments fit-to-print
The piper told his followers, “Pack your bags and let us roll
It might be a path of brambles but we’ll be taking back control.”
At last his pipes are broken, there are pieces in the bin,
We count excuses and denials that with hindsight look so thin,
People run-for-cover as they see their hero beaten
Coping with defeat is not a subject taught at Eton.
Categories:
minstrel, confidence, dance, devotion, hyperbole,
Form:
Rhyme
Paper rustle of your lips
is not needed to her really,
You're a knight, but your heart weeps,
You were brave, why are you thrilling?
You would strip your zealous sword,
But there are no foes in moment,
It would sing and say a word
loudly-loudly without torment.
And your ballads have no sense,
You're not worthy for the beauty,
All your deeds don't give a chance,
Take it easy, slave of duty.
Because love does not take out
sword that's frozen in the scabbard,
Hear, how useless pure souls shout,
You are hero in worn tabard.
No one's happy to your flags,
Courage now must be forgotten,
Ballads die, they lie in wrecks,
Paper burns, the flame is gotten.
All will pass, they're angry, rude,
There's no point for her crying,
Drown out tubes, put on your hood,
She won't answer to your trying.
And no matter if heart weeps,
Here are many who're no thrilling,
Paper rustle of your lips
won't confess: I love you, really.
Categories:
minstrel, fantasy, hero, longing, love
Form:
Lyric
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Categories:
minstrel, art,
Form:
Salutations!
Are we all just a figment of GOD's imagination?
Or just a simple angle of schematical equation.
Perhaps, we’re just a footnote in God’s mental thots?
He’s gotta BIG BANG Universe to run, does He not?
Are we all flashing back on one of God's holy hallucinations?
Walking on water, EGGSHELLS! Raise Cain! Raising you know what and who!
Are we all just a spark in God’s expecting spectacular speculations?
Or a One-time ticking timebomb from nuclear annihilation.
Are we all just a coat God puts on His “quotations”?
Keeping us in order with anti-inflammation.
Rambling hypocrisies, babbling Biblical prophecies.
Or are we all just simply subjects of our own bad inventions?
Subjected to the whims of fanatical sabbatical radical intentions.
Getting lost in a crowd, getting lost at Sea, Dead to the world.
What’s to become of me? I’m only one but I’m not alone.
I’m only one... one amongst millions and millions of Billions!
Who all call Earth HOME! Don't we all call Her home?
Billions who just aren’t me! Yet sorta look like me. But do they think like me?
Do they love life? Do they seek out the truth, new life and Lady Liberty?
Peoples who wanna share, peoples who wanna care, peoples who wanna dare
To have a positively positive outlook on life!
Wanna little betta Light to Sunshine on, you, see?
Wanna betta lifeboat just to stay afloat, indubitably?
Are they capable. Of being civilly chivalrous, acting responsibly?
There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be freee!
Free from the scrutinizing eyes of oppression and tyranny
Free from the sympathetic lies of social suicidal tendencies.
Are we all just a sing-along of one of Gods’ songs unsung?
Justa tryin to figure out whatta hell is going on.
Or are we all just a song in a Godsong sing-along?
Just tryin to figure out what da hell is going on.
What if ...
We’re NOT all just figments of God’s imagination
But possibly, there's no other possible rationally obtained explanation
For all the misconceptions and misinformation ordained!
Are we all really looking forward for this final absolution?
Over population, crime, world domination, slimed, improper pollution
Best to jest to keep on singing songs
And just keep on blindly playing along
With God fearing reindeer games.
Oh my, time flies ...
The Dreamer never dies!
Categories:
minstrel, celebration, life,
Form:
Spoken Word
Diving deep into the depths of soul
Floating upward towards the light
Surfacing on the horizon of my mind
Words have flooded like the expanse of sky
Pouring out of me like torrential rain.
At other times I take cover in the
bunker of my mind
When as dry as a desert I draw a blank
Were words get buried in quick sand.
This is where I shut out the world and rest.
Sometimes writing with invisible ink
Like scent that evaporates leaving a heady smell
My senses following like a rivulet
filling each and every gap of my soul
Poets travelling like wandering minstrels to each
and every corner of the mind and soul.
27.11.2020.
Where do we poets go?
Sponsor-Silent One.
Categories:
minstrel, perspective, poets,
Form:
Free verse