Best Portcullis Poems
The whole of my life is rather mundane, endured only until those few minutes gained; Yes, granted reprieve from this daily drudge, and allowed for the nonce, even if begrudged, to hold a feather,very sharp, to write with the tip. Slow and steady like a man taking sips…from the water of life after a long weary trip.
When all the gears are lubricated, operating efficiently, and the needs of the world weigh on someone else, the mechanism of creativity connects with the crenelated cog of self.
Dominoesk works cause my hand to haltingly write. Heart to mind, mind to body, body to hand, hand to quill…okay, so it's a keyboard, alright.
Emotion, like sand after a beach trip, pours forth from places usually dark, not seen, unlit.
Using that water of life and the sands of emotion, I build my castle with words and notions.
Intricate battlements, portcullis, bailey , and arrow loops. Protection from arrows of interruption, darts of responsibility, and soldiers of the Soup.
Until, Inevitably the drawbridge is breached, the end of my time finally reached.
Slowly I surrender my feather sword, in this messy, mixed metaphorical world.
The oven timer beeps and the phone rings, bringing me back to my life of mundane things.
The words strut & rust can be derived from the mechanism of Trust,
Trust could not exist without doubt,suspicion and the possibility of failure,
would I desire Trust if I never had it,or couldn't have it,
many things to Trust such as creatures,currencies & concepts,
we can sustain faith in ideologies,instincts,and inspirations,
my first Trust must have been Mother,
second being invulnerability to death,
trusting the search and trusting the treasure of experience,
believing that if a man is a king for a moment then he is a king for a lifetime,
if courageous once,then gallantry can carry me again,
Trust is everything I have,it is everything that I've done
and everything that I will produce,
Trust is the morning rhythem telling me I can survive the dare of Day,
I can feel suffering yet surge,
the trustee of my Soul's account,
Trust delivers the itinerary of my intentions to the Eye of God's equity,
a warm water soothing the sting of society's satire,
bringing me to the tabernacle of plumb testimony,
trusting Life to give opportunity
and Death a passport beyond the portcullis of charity's charm,
finding gold in broken stones,
giving grief to the wicked & comfort to the confused & conquered,
to Trust that living a good Life is about developing strengths,
preventing stress from tresspassing upon your soul,
geological gusto on the rim of my religion,
I look at graveyards and say okay -
J.A.B.
The castle is a place where poets dwell.,
Where each can cast their wondrous spell.
From the turrets high to the dungeons deep
From each portcullis to the central keep.
Its powerful walls keep foes at bay.
They keep us safe from day to day.
The knights are brave and fight with zeal.
In armoured suits and swords of steel.
The poets live as all men should.
Side by side in brotherhood.
The magic of rhyme is all they seek
From modern tongue to ancient Greek.
The castle echoes with the sound of joy,
And haunting words from man and boy.
The maidens fair who live within
Pen words of love and carnal sin.
For each one here there is a place
To release the soul from its inner space.
With words of mirth and sorrow both.
And witches spells of evil oath.
The castle grows from day to day
And people come from far away.
But once inside these walls of grey,
They find that they are here to stay.
Their words are all that leave this place,
Their souls the castle shall embrace.
So in our quest for perfect poem
We call this place our sonnets home.
Your castle has a moat
to mark for the unawares
the point of danger,
the change of rule.
My fort has a juice box
Your castle has a drawbridge
to allow in only those
who pass the "Hark! Who goes"
test and cause the chains
to move.
My fort has peak roof
for peeking out
and, on occasion
for peeking in.
But only for the Lucky Few
and only in the Lucky Few
moments when all is well,
for a spell.
Your castle has
both balustrade and colonnade,
meurtrière 'n its parapets
for staving off the storms
and againststanding and
withstanding arméd swarms.
My fort has a
pair a pets:
this fluffster at my calf,
snoring and this stuffster
in crook of arm;
well-worn, with eye
missing but stuffed
animals see with squishy bits
inside, not these button eyes.
Your castle has barbican and portcullis.
My fort has a wittle wiccan. Jealous?
Your castle has both crenellation and machicolation.
My fort has an introvert's narration and ceaseless cogitation.
Your castle has walls of
stone, long-charred by dragon
breath. With dents by dint
of Minotaur and Harpy.
My fort is cotton batting,
linen for winnin'
battles with monsters
greater than your gods.
(sung – in a round pussy willow warble - to the tune of --
Oh Where Oh Where has my little dog gone)
With a flam boy hunt deft jais nais sais quois
firm lickey split tongue
and two bell yule yar pissant
little nappy ruck berry filled up paul ling sacks
viz peppy la pew doth not peter out,
and weathers clawed rained swipes
from hello kitty when faux pas gets swung
assisting climbing Jacob's ladder
(without pussy footing,
orb bing a putz like the president)
advancing quick to attain orgasmic rung
while heading into a slippery sloping sluice
(with prickly endeavor emitting cleat trill
smooth sailing along a ****
re coarse upon phallic shaped pung
crossing la brea tar pits (peppered
with lai bee ha tricky bridge over the River Kwai)
comprising ideal place de la resistance
to woo tang clan foreign nee Kate,
where two puckered rill lee fleshy ruffling rills
tinged pinkish lips overhung
a challenging escarpment,
where many a brave Tom, Harry or Dick get hung
up, particularly while searching for fabled “G” spot,
cuz portcullis hamstrung
even the most fiercely determined
Engleburt Hump per dink
necessitating the moist risky ski maneuver
as most studs know tubby gelandesprung
though booby prize wool worth any slimy setbacks,
where sticky gook gets flung
from angry cat,
who does not in the least find amusing,
and if further pricked with rage
not averse to hurl dung
gar (with) ease at snaky,
retractable hardened beastie boy twill clung
for dear life and limb (er, or twig and berries),
while applying crampons (bivouaced
within his maxipad), viz bung
gull low, essentially a ball peen size cove
hammered out by Dashiell Hammitt, where coiled,
kinked follicles strewn tightly inlet among
pheromone laced verboten fruit.
I wish I lived in middle earth,
With wizards and hobbits and elves.
Just give me a sword and a quest to fulfill,
Like the heroes in the books on my shelves.
I wish I had a dragon to slay,
A hideous fire-breathing beast.
Or a princess to save from an odious fiend,
Or a tall ship to sail nor’ by nor’ east.
I wish I had a battle to fight,
With archers and pikemen and knights.
Or be a sultan with a harem of shapely young maids,
In a garden of earthly delights.
I wish I had a magical lamp,
Or a walnut that would turn things to gold.
Or live in a castle with portcullis and moat,
In a kingdom a thousand years old.
I wish I had a windmill to tilt,
Or a brave army of champions to lead.
But alas modern life affords nothing like this,
So I curl up with a good book and read.
(20 lines)
© Copyright 2012 J.A. Stevens
Castle On A Hill
I saw a magnificent castle on a hill
Its towers up high piercing the clouds
Conical roofs with slight golden shimmer
Brilliantly covered with a sunny shroud
But the walls looked old and tarnished
And the big metal portcullis was rusted
The moat was definitely all dried up
And the ditch was grime-crusted
I wonder if anyone lives up there
If there is a princess on one of the towers
I'd like to be her knight and rescue her
If only I could climb above that flimsy bower
But this castle looked way too old
And abandoned as it lost its glory
My fairytales had a different picture
They did not look this profane in the stories
Instead it looks like one of those castles
They show in horror movies and cartoons
With a thundery night, full moon and a wolf howling
Housing a big frightening buffoon
Yes, that must be it
Its nothing but a scary old mansion
I'm glad I didn't linger there long
So much for a monumental attraction.
20/04/2016
Two and sixty days ago —
Two months, or so I'm told —
I wandered, wistful, without cause,
Through a memory of old.
A hall of walls I wandered, tall,
As tall as tales I could weave,
But none as tall as this regale,
A story that you won't believe.
I walked near endless hours,
My only friends the cobblestones,
Ringing in my steps the sin
That only time atones,
When upon that pallid plaster
I did spy a shocking sight:
Upon that place's rocky face,
The wall had turned to light.
"Curious," I cooed and questioned,
Calm as I could never be,
"Perhaps it might be that this light
Is rightly mine, I see?"
And as I pondered that hall I wandered,
A chilling change I never chose arose:
That light so rife with delight and fright
Began to open, and I froze,
For that particular portcullis I pondered
Put me in a vice.
I nary noticed that walls in focus
Had changed into a hall of lights.
Transfixed, the light engulfed me so,
As slow as my bewildered head
Could comprehend the candid land
I planned my final stand in dead.
I whizzed through spaces, unknown places,
In stasis from the faceless force
When finally I fell, the frenzied light
Still tight from an unseemly source.
All at once, those two months
Became a fraction of a wink;
The frost was lost as I was tossed
Among the lights of what I think.
And where else would I find myself
But in this courtyard we call love?
My journey never left my head,
Nor bed's unconscious dreamland hub.
Two and sixty days ago,
I heard these words so true,
And in the dark they were my light:
You told me "I love you."
The Ruba’iyat of Créteil Lake – Part Eight
At her feet gather daily plumage dark white to brown leather
Pigeons geese crows sparrows larks and wild ducks in sunset colour
And the resident owners of the waters by the fleet
The snow-white swan-lake ships gliding majestic in clover
Every day come older women with children or decrepit
With sling bags stuffed with golden crumbs of yesterday’s baguette
Some Berber women with sacks of semolina for couscous
All to seek good works at her feet where waves lap up and beat
Where the lazy louts of the spoilt winged clans wait on one leg
Pretend to keep an appointment though not to seem to beg
By rushing to providers with an air: hail dope well met!
Till some Labrador runs amuck just missing a juicy leg
Just then on that well-worn wooden bridge past the portcullis
Did Old Khayyam steal in a glance a wisp of a form bliss
Doe-eyed leaning on the rail in a gossamer negligee
The infinitely lamented thing that’s this lady all miss
Once more the Lass from Lahore lifts her dark diamond eyes
The breeze softly displaces the cowlick from vision’s disguise
Does she espy the Bard strain his thoughts fingers through his beard
While the Dreamer Dame of the lake leaves without much choice!
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Life like from a fish bowl, really!
Way ... encapsulated like above and behind, you know?
All those like gilded dado's of peachy-pink, gnarly puff, sweet aye?
All those awesome totally rad houses of
flannel-gray San Fran's Victorian Ladies, classic!
Life all sweet and wrapped in the ledges and overhangs, really!
Portcullis like totally frail, precious, half formed, clueless babes.
Really, half the town is like crazed!
Full of what-evers and dandy duds like newborns
each Lilliputian pop-up a sweet meat, smoked
stoked and toked inside their saccharin selves.
Life's a gay and grodie array of colorful buggers.
A,gag me with a spoon, side show of hard candy colored covers.
Really, like jujubes shaken from raspberry doors...
So take a chill pill, a coffee toffee, a licorice bit, a vanilla sucker
and get your most excellent self
with your killer looks and like surprisingly soft center
to sweet Ole San Francisco's scene.
*internal line rhyme [not end rhyme ;)]
** 1980's Cal i forn i a English
Contest: Talk Like That
Sponsor:Craig Cornish
Poet: Debbie Guzzi
Around this precious pulse
there is a moat
It has a raised drawbridge
of desires denied —
Wouldn’t emotions,
they be crave carved from the
mahogany variety
Splintered thoughts lowers with romantic apprehension,
verily very slowly
Rampart words, passion unspoken
Telltale sigh sign, mood vulnerable ...
body language says
this breastplate castle can now be breached
An inner curtain wall of solitary allure
leads to the Keep
Buried in grief from past hurts,
these formaldehyde feelings die daily
Sitting on a jilted throne of loneliness;
virgin vows of untouched love,
believed to be out of reach,
is now irrevocably breached
The iron gatehouse of solitude,
with courting siege,
is reluctantly being moved
And the battlement beneath the watchtower
is tear-blasted with tactile longing
Amorous arrows which pierce the soul,
vanquish the spirit afraid of belonging
to a worthy someone else
Or could it be an unworthy sense of self?
Fanciful oriel motives stay hidden
behind the bretèche parapet
Portcullis instincts run counter-intuitive to the
innocent tunnel of dream secrets beneath
Emerging outside the stony walls of isolated comfort,
into the wilderness of time
these pulmonary impulses flee
For the bosom castle of chastity has been breached
The faithful systolic sentinels of hope
couldn't safeguard the castle from diastolic defeat
Looking back at the silhouette figure
in the balistraria,
I oasis see
the other half of me
Smiling with conquering ease
08-14-21
Life from a fish bowl
encapsulated ..above and
behind the gilded dado's of peachy pink
and flannel-gray of San Fran's
Victorian Ladies
Life wrapped with the ledges and overhangs
and portcullis , frail, precious, half formed,
half crazed, oft newly born
each Lilliputian presence a sweet meat
inside their saccharin selves.
Life dawns, as a colorful array
of hard candy colored covers
shake forth from raspberry doors...
coffee toffee
liquorice bits
vanilla suckers
all with their surprisingly soft centers
to sweeten San Francisco's scene.
Shivering in silence
Fading in disgrace
I can not name this feeling
But I can recall this place
A kingdom in my nightmares
A vision as I wake
A broken, crying infant
On the throne of my mistakes
I stand outside his city
On the verge of stepping through
The portcullis then closes
Because I’ve denied the truth
Quietly I listen
For the price that must be paid
If I ever wish to enter
I must find something to trade
My sanity seems willing
So I release it into night
Again the vision’s singing
Burning through the light
This time I am crying
Deep within the walls
And in this empty kingdom
A child mourns within his walls
Shivering in silence
Sat upon my throne
With sanity now traded
I am left to fade alone
Fire's fickle flare falls down
Rosy cheeks
with violent wet streaks
of fury shattered against the
shores of tragedy.
Hair torn, grace forlorn
feigning futile fights from last morn
now rendered pointless
by endless scorn.
Free flows follow fine lines
between sorrowful and happy times
bittersweet empty crimes
unsustained lies,
times terrible truths held to roost
smashing boundaries juiced
like sour limes.
Green, with envy
no longer gently held
behind dry mascara recently welled
and screams, so gleefully yelled
at who?
The vast verbal vindictive void,
the nothing, the emptiness
You held so deep, that only
passion could melt that frozen keep.
teeth gnashing like a spiked portcullis
holding back your mortal lips
from words so venomous they bring abyss.
- A journey started by a single kiss.
I sometimes forget
That my words
Face foreclosure
When they run at the
Alabaster face of your castle .
And sometimes,
i dream that these words
storm the portcullis
Burn the barricades
bring the walls down
Camelot falls
But the truth Is
most days
These words, this heart, falls short
And drowns in the shallow moat
Outside your door.