Best The Bard Poems

Springing free from glistening 
Fronds
The summers heat leaps for 
Height;
Whilst drifting obscurely far
Above 
A distant lark now hangs in 
Flight.

Floats down his sweet trill,
Accompanied by joyous and
Uplifting revelry,
Over the black crows nasal 
Calls;
Whose draped shadow,
contemplating devilry,
Flaps and furtively falls 
Into ripening bean fields 
Planted in...

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The Raven and the Bard
-Daniel Henry Rodgers

The Raven's quill drips shades of blackest night,
Its haunting words, a melody of fright.
The Bard's natural lines, like "Evangeline's" fair hair,
Shed history's warm light to chase away all care .
From shadowed chambers where dark ravens shriek,
To hearthside tales that...

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Awakening with heart and mind a-spin,
methought midst some psychotic malady.
"What hellish afterlife am I now in"?
Yon passerby said "2023".
Eyes fixed on "mobile phones" with no regret,
here, plays are viewed at home on a "TV",
events viewed from afar by "internet",
and almost no one reading poetry.
In thund'rous...

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The Bard 

In a small cottage high upon the windy moors
There lives a bard with authentic romantic rhymes;
A master poet who lives within present times.

Enchanting stanzas written to beguile, confuse.
His poetry sometimes enigmatic, you see,
Can be a challenge with a bit of mystery.

But this bard...

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Here, I pray, is a sonnet he may have written upon his passing on, ironically, his 52nd birthday, April 23rd 1616...

The Bard Bequeaths

'Twas two and fifty years of mortal worth,
This twenty third of April owned thy fate.
Thy soul commence and hence departs this earth
In midst...

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Someone had to weave the tale of how the beast was slain,
to paint in valor all the scars and make it worth the pain.
A knight disfigured, charred and gaunt, returning from his quest
employed a bard’s convincing tongue to tell it to the rest.
The townsfolk were...

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Attached to the trees,
...of his mind’s fascination.
Caressing virgin pages 
With a borrowed pen.
Trapped in a time...
...of being owned by someone.
Where freedom was only, 
for the birds in the wind.

He’s heard of New York,
He’s heard of LA...
These are the thoughts,
He shares with the moon...
The humid day...
...blows...

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It is our bard's day
The eighth of May
Nay, actually
The world’s day for the second bard
For the subtle web of light and shade
Blades of grass for our mind’s eyes
The boundless sky of our psyche
Sort of haikus from the sparks
Of pains and pleasure
Of the everyday life
In amity...

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When an old fashioned poet named Will
wrote a sonnet he chose words to thrill,
in a metrical time
with a word perfect rhyme
fourteen lines gently flowed from his quill.

This William he also wrote plays
that reflected the life in those days,
from Scotland McBeth
then to Denmark for death,
that Prince...

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I travelled to Stratford today
(Crossed  the Avon on the way)
In search of The Bard
To give him my card
As I'd had an idea for a play...

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Once upon a time in a kingdom far away 
Lived the good King Eric and his good Queen Maggie May. 
King Eric stood at the parapet and waved down to his people, 
Gathering up their adoration as bells rang in their steeple. 
Just then the...

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Lights come up slowly to reveal a bare stage, undressed except for a backdrop on which is
painted the impression of an orchard; the painting is so light that it suggests a
water-colour. Two men enter, a young man dressed in a plain white robe, the BARD,...

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Then Keith snapped his fingers and spoke a mystical chant, 
“Grant us the powers to finish off the one that all others can’t” 
There came a sound of a moaning wind and a low and rolling groan, 
Then the ghost of dear sweet Barbara Ann...

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A tale told by an idiot? Methinks
thou dost protest too much. In brevity,
the soul of wit, yet I shall be a fool,
for there are scarce more things in heaven, earth
than are dreamt of in your philosophy
and as the night the day, thou canst not then
be...

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In this coursing, crimson river 
of my blood, you float. 
There is no end to this, our eternal
amorousness.
Nay, not even human death can 
remove us from Eros's moat.
Nor our touching hands' total
peacefulness.
So let's on, to the minutes as
they, like arrows, swiftly...

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