Best Servile Poems
If you could relive one day of your life..
time lost, now retrieved for just a short while.
To thrust old scheming machinations knife,
or return healing to a lover's smile.
Such a fretted frittering those lost days,
though ones you and I will remember most.
Passions reared high in servile dewy haze..
soft breathe warm against skin from dearest host.
Moment waits untended a dreamer's call,
something I can never give you again.
Bodice caught on nail of new lover's wall,
though we may choose to return now and then.
Tarried too long look'g to horizon's edge..
promised heart unharmed, now pulled from a ledge.
Categories:
servile, america, day, dream, heart,
Form:
Sonnet
A contracted seafarer...concerning no servile rank,
kept e'er involved watch...away from menial daily tasks top deck,
while steadfast wary of...the diligent taskmaster's whip.
A dawn swift gust...brushes the ship from a rocky pillar,
duly rallies from rest...aids calamitous bellows from crow's nest,
witnessed by crew...rose an angel disguised with devil horns.
Seawater laps feverishly...against ship's wooden hull,
as panic over breed minds...once sturdy legs go feebly about,
cascading thoughts grips privately...every man for himself.
Another abrupt action...frees a churning sea expounds,
and an opening hole...devouring anything within its midst,
as desperation consumes...a ship has long met its doom.
A lone selfless soul of limited else...moved past the lost,
and hastily clutched a burdened javelin...and hoist it upwards,
with his petitioned combined strength...released the deadly blow.
Her dying scream...was drowned out by restored happy voices,
and a wealth of well-wishes and praises...honoring accolades,
as lone eyes of a humble sort...gaze a siphoning pass.
Categories:
servile, mythology,
Form:
Sijo
She opened her fragile eyes only to see a tensed face,
Anxiously staring back at her, as if in a daze.
She danced in her tiny frock, without a worry in the world
She was after all a four year old bundle of joy, yet to face the difficulties hurled.
Growing up wasn't as easy as she had thought, just another eight year old
Occasional fight with mom, still young and servile.
She was now thirteen, crying, breaking, struggling to cope
Unexpected quagmires on the way left her desperately holding on to a vanishing ray of hope.
She turned eighteen, the debris of her once beautiful life underneath her feet
Every fragment of the shattered mirror portrayed her sunken eyes, the pain was bittersweet.
Twenty now, and their callous words still echoed within the steel bars of her heart
When did it get so complicated?she whispered softly, as she saw her life fall apart.
She was twenty five already; with bleeding hands she slowly picked up the scattered pieces, but now she was sure
She would not look back, and for the first time act brave and mature.
She promised herself to never believe their cruel words again
Bullies will always be bullies, it's time to forget the pain.
She learnt to dance in the rain, learnt to laugh again
She learnt to throw her hands around and live like a child again.
Life is beautiful but short, so never say never
Live it to your fullest, forever and after
Categories:
servile, age, anxiety, bullying,
Form:
Rhyme
I read it so, the Bread of Life
without discourse, without contrive
did lighten, nourish, so arrive
that building up, to merit, live ~
That in my lines
I found your strife
did so surround with beauties hive
that honey of discourse revive!
This leavening of love's requiet,
that injured particle, that pride,
that unaccomplished effort's stride
that unforgiven song's abide!
That haste, that entry unrelied
were all a Godly plan, not tried,
that love unsettled so applied,
unmixed, unsettled faith ~ no bride!
Is love, thus meddled with denied,
pourous regrets hidden and shied,
how puffed up, spoiling shape's decried
this fatness trail, unholy mile!
Be waiting, like a homeless child
so love relinquished dies servile ~
to thee I give, last frenzied mile,
wherein thee walk, wherein thee . . . . smile!
Categories:
servile, friendship, love, time, love,
Form:
Monorhyme
It has the ringing echo of a bell.
The words at each line’s end must reconcile.
Oh, how I love the lovely villanelle.
Its quality is like a carousel.
Jean Passaerat of France defined its style.
It has the ringing echo of a bell.
Divinity inside this form may dwell
as one defines those things for him worthwhile.
Oh, how I love the lovely villanelle.
The message of this form one can foretell.
Its poets are to litany servile.
It has the ringing echo of a bell.
And like the terza rima or rondel,
this form through history has had its trial.
Oh, how I love the lovely villanelle.
This poetry, if it is authored well,
can capture hearts and make the spirit smile.
It has the ringing echo of a bell.
Oh, how I love the lovely villanelle.
For the Villanelle Poetry Contest of Nina Parmenter
Categories:
servile, history,
Form:
Villanelle
Sweet September, see how splendidly she shines!
Subtlety submitting seasonal splendour, she
swamps summer’s splendiferous sights,
by stealthily shrouding splendid scenery,
with suffused sensuous, sybaritic, scenarios!
Sublimely serene, she spatters and splashes
slivers of saffron, sepia and sienna shades,
slapdash over the sedentary summer scene, sending
sightseers silly! Soon, spooky spectres sporting skittish
shadows, surprise and startle singularly sensitive givens,
seeking soothing solitude someplace. Suspicious solo
sentient stalkers, suspecting solo sailors sometimes, shiftily seen
spying on sequestered sibylline, spectator savants, stay silent.
Such suppressed servile sophisticates, spotting smart
Seedy Senators, sitting sloppily slumped - some silently
supine - send sensual suggestive signs to sexy secretaries, as
subdued sartorial suitors stand speechless. Some, sober and staid,
state spasmodic spates of salacious, and sometimes sanctimonious, statements.
Seemingly superfluous, scores of servicemen and seniors suggest
specific superficial senile support services, should shut shortly!
Studious spokesmen suggest scads of spurious suggestions in September,
send scrambled signals, since severely symbolic sentence structure,
should seek speedy severance from sedulous speculative stricture, and
stimulating scattered sophomore senses and sensibility is senseless!
Since scathingly scanning this alliteration, it seems successful!
Hopefully a fun filled frolicking folio with ‘fin-esse?’
Rhymer. September 6th, 2016.
Categories:
servile, giggle, september,
Form:
Alliteration
At the end of Mercy Street
lies a forgotten wharf.
A single row boat is
moss covered.
The battered vessel is
moored and unwanted
like leprosy -
conducive to an invisible cancer.
Two splintered oars imitate antennae -
receiving distress signals
from no one.
The dinghy will not row towards God.
The boat will not sail past
Bergen-Belsen or Dachow
nor will it glide 'gainst Newton.
Mother wouldn't allow such a spectacle.
Tommy doesn't sleep on bottle caps anymore.
Tommy and Mother are content now.
(Tommy is dying)
Tommy's back is not broken
like a scarecrow -
(for he is good).
His leg is not twisted like a licorice stick -
(for he is cloaked in servile flattery).
Tommy doesn't skip like a river
nor shine like a sapphire.
Kevorkian wise and Barabbas blamed;
he grimaces -
he swallows Mother's red roses;
knowing when he sweats -
(in the afternoon funeral festivities)
he'll smell just like her.
The darkened sunlight -
(which Tommy cannot see)
throws itself between two clouds
marking a dramatic entrance!
Tommy's knees are broken yet
he still dances -
obviously dumb-founded
and matriarch approved.
Tommy hyperventilates and chokes.
Tommy eschews Mother's American beauties
and externally regurgitates the
memories he can't
(internally)
understand.
A single groove migrates
the needle into ambient static as
Tommy washes his hands.
Tommy simply washes his hands
and whistles.
(He simply washes his hands)
and whistles...
Categories:
servile, recovery from...boat,
Form:
Free verse
Our children are starving
We are busy fighting obsolete wars
The yearning of the infinite
One must flee the decay and connotations
Of stagnant self content
Running up against the wall
Of nonexistence
Afraid of being thrown back
Into the nothingness
From which we came from
The servile fear of unholy wrath
The filial fear of selfishness
For conscience is not easily silenced
Thus we must refrain from
Self endowed sovereign inalienable worth
And not assimilate
To our slowly dying world
And be inclined to change the world
For greater good
Categories:
servile, allusion, introspection,
Form:
Concrete
Of
splendid
thrones of
gold
Of
treasures
manifold
Of Sultans
and Shahs
Of Emirs
and Rajahs
Of
jewelled
caskets
or lavish
banquets
Of
sparkling
crowns
and
flowing
gowns
Of kings
and queens
Rulers and
emperors
Of their
subservient
stewards
and
obedient
butlers
Or the
servile
knaves
and
stalwart
squires
Of the
peons and
minions
pages and
pavilions
Of castles
and palaces
of
abounding
gold and
silver
in
ostentatious
regal
splendour
Ah the
fanning
maids in
waiting
Yet to me
one thing
worth
more
noticing
The poet
minstrels
who came
to sing
from afar
for the
queen and
king
For I'd
rather be a
poet for
kings
so to my
tunes
swayed
the
kingdom
than I be
the king
of mere
subjects
and be filled with regal
boredom!
So I could join ranks of
troubadours
and sing for the king
some folklores
For words are the heart of imagination
Inviting to poetic fascination.
(form Troubadour) Ars poetica
Categories:
servile, poetess, poetry, poets, song,
Form:
Chant Royal
She smiles
and considers the crowd,
all backward somersaulting
detached vagabonds, all,
serious soft smalls revealed -
marshmallows imbued
with the glee of writing
irregular poetry;
works of art thou art,
thou art, thou art, all indeed -
and what did Dickinson say,
“the Maples never knew
that you were coming -
I declare, how red
their faces grew” -
well, we all march on,
and by the side of our roads,
the righteous town criers
of prognostication, stand
their grounds for commentary,
like sensate servile monks
full of the base sound facts,
ringing their shellac bells,
like an exercise in pulling weights;
the waits inside their cries foretell,
of the things we do not know,
will never know,
like the bride we all are,
gullible, innocent of what is to come,
but we dance our dance
flirting with luscious life
beckoning come hither,
we still write our own vows,
and throw our skirts asunder,
spinning bottles, all undressed
half addressed half said,
punctilious lost in
wayward pentameter,
such bad whirling dervish
behaviour,
truth and dare
and Father Time
will kiss and tell
we poetically march on
we all march on
we think we know
which side we're on
Candide Diderot. ‘24
“All those Hills you left for me to Hue,
There was no Purple suitable -
You took it all with you.
Who knocks? That April.
Lock the Door -
I will not be pursued”
Emily Dickinson. March.
Categories:
servile, humanity, journey, poetry,
Form:
Free verse
Those New Gods
evacuate the violence
simulating patience
they were once created
to guide us, they overtook us
snapped our heads off
every time we thought of violence
Those New Gods
came to reconcile us
with the act of servile silence
we lay down let them take us
like we were beacons
hearts captitulated in black boxes
without god heads or sirens
Those New Gods
with voices like cured codex
placed us like cellos
between steel tight legs
we were smaller violins
our bows vaccuous and vain
crushed on Love
from the Tree
we were plucked
divineless
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Categories:
servile, humanity, science, science fiction,
Form:
Free verse
With glorious primordial certainty
the sun will rise, the sun will set;
likewise you languish knowing what you're about,
you know what is and isn’t so;
yet, ultimately, you don’t.
Chained to the chromium railings of
a sterile value system,
some terminal, addled suffragette,
hollow to the very core, quintessentially
punch-drunk by the ghost fists
of what you do not know;
sometimes you can dream, more often you won’t.
This is all you wanted, surely,
way back when Homer was a pup;
this thing you worked for, this cold material cocoon,
this anaesthetic cult to which you belong;
then again, maybe not.
All your wild beasts are chained and in cages
you painstakingly banged them up;
now you act surprised in a wrung-out
monochrome way
at the quiet death of your protest song
with the former self you have forgot.
Just as a virus will seek out a host,
just as water will find it’s own level;
you’re a schizoid, new age, careworn dolt
with no limits to how far your mind will sink
in unfathomable depths of self delusion.
Wrenched this way and that, going with the flow,
serving both God and the Devil;
but where now is the rebel heart,
the hedonistic happy fool,
the keeper of the demon drink?
no more than a crumbling memory,
the feeblest illusion.
Once burning with such crucial fire,
a quiver full of arrows shot with telescopic vision;
now all that burns no more, doubted by the rain
spat from black clouds of self denial;
no remnant traces of an ex-antihero.
Servile to the whims of children,
and an emasculating harpy
who regards you with derision;
you are alone your own executioner
self judge and juror at the kangaroo trial
self sentenced to figure less than zero.
Categories:
servile, life, philosophy, sad, social,
Form:
Verse
"The Pavane"
Autumn leaves
whistle nonchalantly
along the left-behind
paths of serendipity
hesitantly touch fingers
lightly for a while, tipping
lost in the wastelands
winter beckons
love unconditionally
magic listens
and arrives
in the laps go-lightly
of racing hares
tossed salad years
and marshmallow dreams
of servile tortoise
pleasantville sown seams
stitching singers sewing
covers over pea-soup ethereal
conquered territory unseen
the unconquered all-knowing, unknowing
misty consommé seas
the spinning reals
seasoning dreams
like sails
stitching the wind
of evergreen the forests
tightly held in
the in-between
dells, we dwell subservient
free becomes the
shield held over
motto lux vitae
foot to pedal
watching you
reading me
dancing the slow Pavane
fingers lightly touching
faces veiled behind screens
elaborate
clothing
autumn leaves
winter arrives
peacock moves aside
it parts the sees, in parts
lost in the wastelands
winter beckons
love unconditionally
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
lux vitae
Autumn Forest Ambience
[Music by Adrian von Ziegler -
Autumn Forest, Relaxing Celtic Music]
https://youtu.be/Ha0i6RUu_Hg
Autumn.
"The leaves are all falling,
and they're falling
like they're falling
in love with the ground."
"The first breath of autumn
was in the air, a prodigal feeling,
a feeling of wanting, taking,
and keeping, before it is too late."
Winter.
"Nothing burns like the cold."
"Winter is coming."
The Pavane/ Pavan.
A stately court processional dance where Elizabethan couples paraded around the hall lightly touching fingers. Pavane means peacock and the name of the dance derives from the sight of the trains of the women's gowns trailing across the floor like a peacock's tail.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pavane
Categories:
servile, autumn, muse, winter,
Form:
Free verse
In sang-froid, sass cords:
Sangoma dashes siren,
Thunder crashes trunk;
Sarky banters with lippy.
Spim for Santa maidenhead.
Categories:
servile, allegory, anti bullying, change,
Form:
Tanka
Freelance wanderer carefully navigating the vast expanse
Shadow warrior doth stealthily advance without
remonstrance
With bartered lance, pawned knife; abridged parlance
Shuffling in tantric harmony o'er unforgiving terrain;
nuanced eccentric
Camel cavalcade, entrancing spectacle across glistening
sands prancing
Shrouded by the frantic wind; each, cloaked itinerant a
tenured mantic
Trading the rationed provenance of open spaces for
gratuitous providence of flowering oases
Prudently forming each tribal alliance; deviously skirting
terms of compliance
Hearth covering from servile herd exacted; animistic
seams redacted
Burdened traveler in psychosomatic trance; by warming
flame, pyromantic
Each tenement provisioned by industrious wives; lofty
presentiment
Hospitality granted to imploring drifters; enmity shown
to extorting grifters
Categories:
servile, people
Form:
Enclosed Rhyme