Best Noblemen Poems
I always had this fascination with the English language.
Ever since I learned to read and write,
it captivated my interest, beside my own native tongue;
Opening for me a whole new world different from my own -
A world of kingdoms, of princesses and princes, of queens and kings,
of knights in shining armor, of noblemen and the common man,
of many innumerable things.
A child who found such joy in a second language or third
would feel like a traitor to her own when deep nationalism
is rooted in her bones. It was not easy.
And yet the fascination remained – despite being inculcated
with heavy ideas on love for motherland and in the words of Rizal –
“Ang hindi magmahal sa sariling wika,
Ay higit pa ang amoy sa malansang isda”.*
To a child who secretly preferred reading in the foreign tongue,
These words were damning. So much so that in my mind
there was always an ongoing war while growing up
with the king’s language and Rizal.
Looking back, mastering both languages would have been a lot easier
had somebody told me: “Go ahead, do what makes you happy,
as long as you do not forget your identity.
Be proud of the color of your skin.
You can be unique and world class at the same time,
there is no need to feel guilt, find your own rhyme.”
And so today, I tell the youth who have their own native tongue:
Enjoy the journey, but do not forget you are a child of your land
while you discover many things, using the language of kings.
Dr. Jose Rizal – Philippine National Hero, who ironically have mastered different languages including Greek, Latin, Hebrew ,Sanskrit, German, French, Italian among others, aside from Spanish and the now commonly used English language
* "Anyone who does not love his own language
is worse than the smell of a rotting fish."
26 July 2015
The Doesn't Fit Contest
Sponsor: Carol Eastman
Venice, the daughter of the sea
Winding paths, waterways or cobblestones roads
Rulers of the renaissance, noblemen would be
Her navy full of conquests, her triumphs all would see
From nobility rose, a woman fair
Her life a whirlwind, with her share of despair
Banished from Venice, for daring to speak
Her desires and wit, did many a man seek
The golden rose the pope did give
As she fled to Florence, so young and deceived
Her strength in spirit and a mind so refined
Her friend Marco, the captain, with whom she dined
He parted his wisdom as best he could
He sailed victorious, for Bianca he should
His secret was safe out on the seas
Which is why he and Bianca, could never be
Her royal blood would keep her in stead
As nobility in Florence would turn their heads
Francesco indeed would commission a palazzo
For Bianca his mistress, in waiting, his queen
The Grand Duchy of Florence, all powers bestowed
A seeker of knowledge, of wisdom composed
His Austrian wife, alone, cold and barren
Could not compete, with his love yet to be
They danced, they confided, in each they held
A love of intellect, beauty and lust to be feld
And sadly, one day, the enemies of Venice
Plotted and schemed to bring about a demise
The poison was swift, and an era did end
In a villa in Florence, Francesco was dead
Bianca his love, her beauty unblemished
Fell by his side, and whispered to thee
My dear, my love, it was meant to be
Bianca Cappello (1548 – 17 October 1587)
Note: OK OK I invented 1 new word, that's what poets do
I am lost
I can feel no presence
I know of no human or animal that has a measure of significance alike mine
I have a teacher
A teller of all there is to be known of the world
She has bestowed upon me the gifts of a magi
I have sailed deep oceans with noblemen and written great works with worldly scholars
All of this I owe to her, my "teacher"
But through all her wisdom I have heard or seen of no such creature
The one of whose value is as mine
I looked upon the oracle and many great libraries with scriptures overflowing
I still have read or seen of no such monster
I've heard witches speak ancient incantations
and I have sung songs with the sirens
Out of the monsters and spirits that came none of which had a significance as is mine
Upon my dreariness and woeful thought came the final place
A painting of life and death
A tale of heaven and hell at war
The purity of truth blackened by man
I saw upon them a thing of which is mine
Not upon the dead who will be missed
Nor the skeletons carrying away the dead, the ones with purpose
Not even of the severed limbs and broken bones discarded at random in the field of chaos and confusion
No, I saw my equal upon the shadows
A black being darker than silence
A causer of mischief and misfortune
A wielder of pain and sorrow
My equal is hated by all for all he has done
My equal is upon the wicked and the damned sadly he is to dumb to care
My equal of such tresspasses is a demon
My equal is a man who dressed in black kills and dies and is born again through his ashes of filth
He sees his crimes
It is because of this he wept upon his hands
His hands
The hands stained my children's blood and scared by the scratches of the innocent
But I was wrong
I am not equal to a demon, for these are not the acts of a demon but of man
That is my equal
My equal is man
My sins are everlasting
My transgressions are in stone
Man is the cause for the failure of men
Man is the cause for the failure of many!
Posted by Haley Melton at 3:37 AM
Email This
BlogThis!
Share to Twitter
Share to Facebook
Among the cries of lonesome gull
A crude cross-slash, grinning skull
Below the tattered crimson sail
Those that did weather the fiercest gale
Noblemen fearfully bow
Seamen kneel before its prow
Quiver before the pirate`s might
A vision of ivory, dark as night
We slowly conquer waves of teal
All eyes follow the steady keel
The ebony ship, its purpose grim
The treasure hoard hidden within
Like a glittering blade, swift and sure
Cursed to never dock at shore
Remembered in forgotten lore
Not even the bravest Mortal knave
Shall escape the wrath of the grave
So we sail forever-more
this enchantment
it cannot be measured
it cannot be weighed
it cannot be told in time
or days
yet here it is as i'll describe
tis in my riding
tis in my play
tis in my working
each and everyday
my worship has dwindled
my real prayers are sinful
and my god is a genie
who's bottle is covered with sand
my love is the maid
Dane Anne
and thousands of suitors
have ask for her hand
all dressed like princes
in gem's and furs
lined with red and purple silk
armed with jewel encrusted stilleto's
and gold belts
capes with gold and silver
tapestry all with original designs
of family crest
Noblemen and boys
riding every kind of fanciful horse
smooth, brushed and well feed
but their confidence
is all but drained
by shear number of similar suitors
but beauty and prize
will not let them leave
and such as i but in
much lesser degree
of nobility
a commoner, a peasant, a spoiler
one who would pluck the flower
before it was meant to be plucked
one who's eyes have been challenged
beyond lust
one who's faith has come to believe
that this fair maid Dane Anne
belongs to me alone
no man has suffered
as much as i
to be over looked as a suitor
a sore in one's eye
yet no one can care more
or even try
for her hand i give all
and perhaps i'll die
for all my waken moments
find her haunting still
this magic over me
it must be her will
can such beauty cast
such an evil spell
that if thinking for
myself; i cannot tell
or is there a cupid
a godly spell
one that takes my willingness
under his own will
perhaps possessed by a spirit
who through love
can only live
empowered by my weakness
demanding that all i give
but such this state
i am
and complain, i do not
for such a gift is love
that will never be forgot
Purple faced pansies,
Majestic mountains, too,
Ripe, luscious grapes and plums,
Fragrant wisteria all in purple hues.
Color of kings and noblemen,
Only they could afford,
This rich, lavish color,
That I so adore.
2/29/12 Kim Merryman
for Russell Sivey's the Colors Have It contest.
An interest in past life and extinct culture became her passion
Led her ultimately to take up a research project in Archaeology
After studying the course of early history of world civilization
She decided to delve into the obscure subject of Roman pottery.
Of the discovered shards of many motifs and various forms
The class of ‘terra sigillata’ pottery fascinated her the most
The ceramic table wares had an exquisite finish and gloss
Their possession could have made Roman noblemen boast.
Her research demanded she should understand and learn
How potteries of this kind in recent times are made by hand
After a long search she found an artisan in a remote town
Who in his home made the ceramic wares of his own brand.
He set the wobbling wooden pottery wheel to slowly turn
The lump of shapeless and sticky clay between his palms
Started to take shape in curves of the designated pattern
Replicating the rippling contours of his moving strong arms.
As she watched him work sitting for many days close together
She felt fluid love creeping in and taking a shape in her heart
Like the clay lump being molded by his deftly moving fingers
She wished them to caress the curves of all her body parts.
So she wanted him to teach her how to turn clay into a mold
Wrapping her around he guided her hands and nimble fingers
Taught her how to make for uncontained love a vase to hold
She wished the romantic grip of his hands would last longer.
The touch of his bare skin sent in her waves of sensuous signal
She looked into his amorous eyes in silent acknowledgement
Like clay shaping on the turning wheel their lives would spiral
Pottery research forgotten on Roman honeymoon they went.
September 30, 2017
one said that some cross the river paying the fare to Charon
the blunt old bearded ferryman, while others cross the waters
with no money but the faith alone
it’s so simple and easy to step on the sands of dismal river Styx
because men of humble class shall die
the monarchs and the noblemen die as well,
because when the evil minded go the good conscious heart also has to go, because man dies the god must also die and vanish
for no exception but all is to die
it’s so simple and easy to step on the sands of dismal river Styx
however, alas is the man with no money in his hand
or the faith in his heart, because the man has no means to
cross the river but to shiver on the bank on this side and to watch
the ferryboat going and coming without his soul
or else, to find the way back to the land and take a side-way
with the great risk for there stands Cerberus, the enormous vicious
three-headed dog, on the side-way guarding against trespassers
for he was never ceased wandering soul while on the face of earth,
he roamed around here and there to find a place to call his own
the place to dwell with the peace of mind, but unable to find one
only because he has no money or the faith,
though he spent his entire life as a wanderer on earth,
to abandon his weary soul on this side of the riverbank
and let him become a lonely wanderer again in the netherworld
by the river Styx, isn’t this an overly harsh punishment?
P Pass over, O God of Israel, the houses of Israel on this night
E Egypt, unsuspecting even at midnight of what was to come
S Smite, God of Israel, every firstborn Egyptian male
A Anguished Cries from every Egyptian household
C Children of Israel hurriedly exit the land
H Hallelujah! Praise the Lord, God!
S Spill ten drops of wine, symbolic of the ten plagues which struck Egypt
E Eat matso* and maror** to recall 210 bitter years of slavery there
D Dayenu***-- It would have sufficed us to have merely left Egypt
E Elaborate in the telling the story of our going forth from Egypt
R Recline at the table, in the manner of free people, noblemen
Wishing one and all a Happy Passover / Easter Season!
__________________________________________________________
* Matso is poor bread: thin, cracker-like, tasteless
** Maror is bitter herb: Horseradish root or even romaine lettuce stalks
*** Dayenu, it would have sufficed us, even had we not crossed the Red Sea...had we not traveled to the foot of Mt. Sinai,...had we not received the Tablets of the Ten Commandments at Mt. Sinai,...had we not eventually come to and conquered the Land of Israel
When they all walked away
and he was dieing that day
he never stopped believing
he never doubted
maybe i was there beside him
hung on my own cross left to die
without a crown of thorns
without a spear in my side
maybe i was a follower
a family member
someone from a past life
haunted by visions and memories
that i know are true but aren't mine
lies they tell me
stigmatism of truth
mirrors of deception
confusions of everything
but i watched
we talked
he told me more than everything
it was the kings he gave him his power i sometimes think
because he never said
sacrifice me to god
so i can become one
it was the monarchy who hunted him down for vengeance and fame
he never said
i want to be sacrificed to mankind
it was the royalty who said
he has died for your sins
of your conspiracies against me
now let it go
and as they all walked away
from the games they had played
from their riots and fame
of the kings paranoia and noblemen house fires and stolen sheep
Jesus said a few things to me
things no one ever heard
things of truth no one would ever know
i was there
and i watched for his soul to climb the stairway to heaven
waited for him to crawl off that cross
and all of the kings men
and all of the kings children and wives
were born again
maybe i was there
hanging on my own cross
eavesdropping
on a conversation between two saints
and i had done something minor wrong
but i am today haunted
with the truth of yesterday
and this lie
i cannot explain
You are like the myths of Avalon
where tales of justice reign like Kings
the counsels of virtue together rings
where impartial judgment does belong
but these are tales not so true
where those who rule afflict the poor
rob even crumbs from off their floor
malfeasance practiced what they do
What did the noblemen supply
but rape the peasant law his alibi
where starving children heard his cry
Noblesse oblige was just a lie
Where tyranny of rank did draw
class distinctions were the law
death and violence history saw
predators talons ripped like claw
Where the counsels of the court
were just aristocratic sport
where truth and justice did abort
peasants could not afford the tort
yet some would hold these fairytales
the myths of history that lies regales
fabrication cloaks and mindless fails
that these myths whats true assails
tales of myth and fancy
COPYRIGHT © 2011 C. Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC
In London Town, a girl was born
Who lost the crown, but won the scorn
Of Lady Margaret's deep disdain
For something free, she cannot reign
She had a daughter, Mary Grace
A maiden with a merry face
Who blessed the flowers that she grew
With tiny prayers and tinsel too
But when her mother kicked her out
To spite the lad she cared about
The hapless Mary lost her bed
And lost the chance she had to wed
For as the child within her grew
Her mother felt, as mothers do
That Mary's heart declined the source
That put the cart behind the horse
Though Lady Margaret's choice was bad
To sacrifice the love she had
She did not do the best she could
To spread the joy of motherhood
The charge of rape she did attest
Was worthy of a boy's arrest
The constable who Margaret bribed
Believed the charge that she described
When Oliver was brought in chains
To please the one who held the reins
He learned that fate is never free
When someone buys the victory
When Seraphine was sent to Earth
To show the world a loving birth
She fell between the great dispute
Of Mary Grace and Margaret's boot
They fought like enemies or foes
Where someone stays and takes the blows
To bear the shame but not the right
To share the blame another night
For Mary Grace, who lost the perch
A desperate race became the search
To find the place where strangers meet
Who face the dangers of the street
Their friends were great to share a meal
That broke a weary way to feel
But noblemen of great renown
Would pass them by with just a frown
Women in times gone by did not have much to say
In matters of importance or happenings of the day
If a girl or woman tried to give her point of view
It was considered unfeminine not quite the thing to do
Her job, if she wanted one, was to look her best
Some found this time consuming and have to have a rest
They seem always to be writing to a relative or two
Mostly gossip trying to find out who was dating who
Marriage was important matchmaking in vogue
The grapevine was essential to meet noblemen or rogue
Who had married well or recently divorced
Who had given birth was worth mentioning of course
The writer of the letter told of whom she met while walking
A man she thought was following her today we would call it stalking
She dropped her dainty handkerchief part of her clever plan
She was quite excited, being pursued by a man
The letter became interesting the reader was entranced
Did the man pick up the hankie or give it a casual glance
The man was a gentleman who knew what to do
Smiling, waving the handkerchief said "I believe this may belong to you"
Dear lady what a way to meet, I would consider it a pleasure
To walk with you along the street"
So you see not much has changed in matters of romance
Men who think they have it made with women, not a chance
Women are not stupid when they have their sights set
On a man who takes their eye don't take on any bet
You're sure to lose if you, they choose to live with for life
It is a certainty she will become your loving wife
Deep in the forest
Outlaws lie in wait
For well off noblemen
Their monies to take
They steal from the rich
And share with the poor
How long can they hide
In their forest so pure
This band of commoners
Go against the grain
The Sheriff of Nottingham
To have them slain
The followers who follow
These outlaws so bold
To introduce them
Your about to be told
There's Little Joan
A girl so large
She bowls men over
With the strength of her charge
Then there's Touch
The Miller's daughter
Who keeps doing things
She shouldn't off aught to
Willena Scarlet
Demanded clothing and a horse
If this never happened
Her language became coarse
Not forgetting
Nena the nun
Whose amazing beauty
Made the enemy run
And the last of the gang
Butler Bill
Whose amazing weaponry
Made this leader shrill
You've met her gang
Now meet their leader
She's Robyn Hood
An out and out heart bleeder
Dressed in black leathers
Low cut front
Cleavage guys die for
Which makes them grunt
It's not the poem
You thought it was
But why the change
Och, just because
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/humour.php
I’m screaming at the top of my lungs,
Yet no sound is dispatched
These guilty grazers are all culprits,
As my voice has been snatched,
It’s as if my neck has been tightly draped
By a never-ending string
Suffocation is the last thing on my mind
But rather, the inaudibility it will bring.
With no force or wind for lift-off,
It’s as if I was handed a swing,
Or it’s as if I was born a bird,
But someone mindlessly cut down my wings.
Now I’m left here thinking, why didn’t they take a limb instead?
At least then, I would have my only tool of communication, my tone imbedded.
The sound of laughter is not the same,
When you envy the very source.
It’s only cause you can’t provide the same amusement,
As much as you TRY to enforce.
Expressing yourself is the farthest aim,
When it’s a struggle to say your own name,
It’s then when you enter a mind state full of shame,
That your conscience is set on flames,
You start to reminisce about what you predicted to be, and what you became
You crave and ache for people’s acclaims
But you can never be an impudent lioness, unable to tame,
As much as it grinds your stomach in agony, you never declaim.
Just stare at the outside from your window frame,
Wishing you could mesh into their world, and just be the same.
You just want serenity, assured you’ll get a chance
That you’ll gain acceptance, holding this outsider stance.
But not everyone welcomes with open arms
Some remain wicked inside, and deceive others with their charm
But then there are those, who welcome with open arms and more
Those are the ones, who’s hearts are decorated with love; like a luxurious decor
The same dear ones that make you almost forget about your pain
Like a ferocious feline, your sanity is distorted; unable to train.
Day by day, you wonder how to maintain
This life your living, this epic game.
However, in this game, there are no winners
Just very few noblemen and many sinners
But in the end, it doesn’t matter what position you claim,
But rather how strategically you play this game.