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 neatly sowed rows:
Nourished in darkest till,
Enriched by pedantic verse of
Gaelic odes.
Do now these gentle Slopes
Pause to yield
Where secretive song,
Bursting forth, is much concealed
inside the plain of Aidhne;
For here the great rock of the
Burren,
Whereby so implored upon,
Revealed its grey stones...
To rebuild ancient and deserted
Thoor Ballylee.
Sweeping briskly past a tors
Grassy island busy in bloom,
Eagerly cramming under four
Crouched arches,
Skim the borrowed waters of
Thee immortal Cloone;
Dappling currents
Dawdling around squat stanchions -
Staunchly carrying the quiet bridge
Over the old concourse:
Momentarily loitering -
Wantonly begging to coyly swoon...
Now, joyfully sporting in gushing
Discourse,
Gleefully courting elusive and
Glimmering enchantments:
Mirrored reflections enticed to
Enter -
To be forever trapped within a
Burbling rivers sacred rhyme and
Tune.
Higher and higher the spiraling
Stairs of de Burgo
When through airy woodland
Glades
The towering shadow sought;
And higher and higher the spirit
Of an ageing poet...
His crowding thoughts
Roaming freely amidst these
Fabled legends of Gort.
Harken then to the feathered
Herald -
Tis Gods design that calls on
Ye!
For few men know of what he
Sings...
He sings of the forgotten paths
Forever lost within Innisfree.
Categories:
the bard, memory,
Form:
Rhyme
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 flight, huge metal birds (bizarre!)
at heights and speeds not for the faint at heart.
A carriage (with no horse!) they call a "car",
and huge emporiums they call "Wal-Mart".
One thing unchanged from 1594:
a tyrant's greed still thrusts men into war.
Written 13 Jan 2023
Categories:
the bard, society,
Form:
Sonnet
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 pass.
Your mistress awaits you in cobalt,
lace blue, summer gown!
Upon the kiss of morning dew on
this orb's verdant grass!
Let us do partake of vintage wines,
glorious breads and cheese till
God's sundown.
Let us dream of the children we
will create!
And weep tears of joy and blessed
happiness.
We revel in each second, so
divinely, and magically intimate.
To share with all humanity our
immutable, loves' holiness!
July 13, 2019
Sonnet One
Categories:
the bard, love, romantic love,
Form:
Sonnet
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 teaches as he shares intriguing rhymes.
Intelligent lexicon, aberrant in ways,
Have us searching his words with Google, in a daze.
He bathes us in bright colors of the rising Sun,
With majesty he paints a picture of the moon
With such impressive stunning sights it makes us swoon.
He expresses with winsome wit and fantasy...
He spills his ink in rare colors of every hue;
Endeavors to relate both life and death anew.
Isn't that what Great poetry is all about,
To open minds to endless possibilities
And savor as fine wine such sensibilities?
Hooray! I say we celebrate his poetry...
A bard with talents that may lie beyond the rest
Inspires us to make learning a sacred quest!
12-30-18
Contest: As easy as ABB ~N/A~
Sponsor: Nina Parmenter
Categories:
the bard, creation, inspiration, poetry, teacher,
Form:
Rhyme
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 of spring as summer's passions wait.
Those passions drip from quill like dagger's tears,
The blood of inspiration spake and writ,
Like life itself, upon the stage appears
Until, at last, a poison potion sipped.
Though ne'er a day begets where peace doth dwell
There, hidden in the chaos is reward.
Though, like the Queen of Scots, there was no knell,
Thou tarry not, before the henchman's sword.
Mine heart doth pray that thou hath left behind,
Conception's want that cannot be confined.
Categories:
the bard, farewell,
Form:
Sonnet
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 a fickle lot; naught kept their love for long
until the wordsmith cleverly described it all in song.
Young maiden hearts were often won by tales of chivalry
of shining knights, and deathly fights for love eternally.
Who better could express to they, the champion’s desire
or stoke the ember in her breast into a roaring fire?
Who but the bard, in gifted grace, could tell of blood and gore
and cause all those who saw the knight to marvel and adore?
Thus we see that though they wore no armor and no helm
that poets, not the knights of yore, were masters of the realm.
For had they never sung their songs, nor wrote their epics down
the knights to all would strangers be; mere beggars in the town.
05/24/15
Categories:
the bard, hero, language, poems, poetess,
Form:
Couplet
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 dust on his face.
His father runs over,
“Get ta pickin’ boy soon!!!”
The freedom has silenced,
Reality...came back to mind.
No one’s ready for the truth he uncovered,
Not even the land...that he proudly calls home.
Freedom does exist...
Within the mind of a poet.
Not just in the sky...
Where the freedom bird’s flown.
At his father’s request,
He starts pickin’...pickin’ inspiration...
.. on desolate plantations of lies,
...of his father’s 40 acres and a mule.
Shackled to his dreams,
The wind whispers slavery’s sorrow...
Hummed by the workers abroad.
Lord, this boy’s not a cotton pickin’ fool.
Uneducated...his creations are sketches,
Poems in pictures of young boy dreams...
In the midst of slavery...he’s only a slave to his art,
And only...on the page can he run and play...
His music...is the worker’s song ...pickin’ cotton blues,
The rhythm of chains, and whistles of security afar.
For now...he sneaks off to his muse...a shade tree,
Hiding from the hot Georgian sun at bay.
While American kids ride their bicycles,
His recess is confined to his mind.
As the whistles grow farther into the distance,
It’s time for his imagination to play and run.
With bloody hands...he hums aloud,
Cooled by the un-racial breeze...caressing virgin pages...
...sketching his poems with a borrowed pen,
Under the very tree...where his forefather’s hung from...
________________________________________
Note: Inspired by the work of Christopher Higgins
Categories:
the bard, black-african amerfreedom,
Form:
Free verse
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 and strife
That Rabindranath Tagore served
In a tremendous verve
Through his lyrics and libretto
Are intense and touching to any sensitive mind
The coloured bubbles made everlasting
The supple music enchanting
And all dappled in cultured sentiments
Of sorrows and merriment
Of rain and sun
Of tales done and undone
Of days begun and gone
Every nuance finding aesthetic expression
In rhythmic dance of words and phrases
From the blue water
To our dear ledges
To be enjoyed by all perceptive intellect
And in effect
Regardless of nation and culture
Loving freedom from bondage of habits and beliefs
Relief from boredom into what is handsome
With its sun-lit door
Always open towards the river
And from there
Leading you back to the shore
___________________________
May 8, 2016, Kolkata
Categories:
the bard, beauty, dance, life, poems,
Form:
Free verse
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 Hamlet he had funny ways.
With Anne Hathaway he'd often spoon
an experience he used very soon,
to pen a romance
put Juliet in a trance,
the very first print, Mills and Boon.
Categories:
the bard, history, poetry,
Form:
Limerick
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 Duke and Duchess of Plouck called upon the King,
And he granted them an audience to see what news they bring.
“What tidings do ye share from your far and distant land?
What is it I should I guard against and what is now considered grand?”
The Duke of Plouck looked around then pulled the King aside,
“King I bring you warning lest in this place a fool might soon reside.”
“It is the truth your majesty,” the Duchess of Plouck agreed,
“Pay heed to this warning for soon the fool arrives upon his steed.”
The King surveyed the whole wide land and all that he was born to rule,
When Queen Maggie spied at the castle gates the arrival of the fool.
King Eric called to his errant knight that stalwart named Sir John,
And ordered his knight to toss the fool into a dungeon cell anon.
Sir John told the King that he would but he had a Lady who was in waiting,
And it was the favors of Lady Pam that he was anticipating.
So the King called out an order to bring forth the mystics from the wood,
The seer Mariann and conjurer Keith soon joined him where he stood.
Keith asked, “Good King what is it that you require from the two of us?
What has caused you to summon we seers and to raise such a royal fuss?”
“I need you to cast your spell and sit upon your sooth seer’s stool,
And conjure up the way for me to rid my kingdom of this fool.”
“I see.” said the seer as she sat upon her special stool,
“How is it we, the two of us, can rid you of a fool?”
Continued
Categories:
the bard, funny,
Form:
Light Verse
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 came before the throne.
“Who has called my visage forth and brought me to this place?”
They were all transfixed by her charms and by the beauty of the specter’s face.
“Spirit we have called you here to accomplish something that we can’t,
I’m Keith the conjurer and we have someone that we need you to enchant.”
“If I do this thing for you there’s something that you must do for me,
I can rid you of this fool but there’s no way that I’m doing it for free.”
The King agreed “Any payment that you require will be laid out at your feet,
Because I know that your spectral beauty will be impossible to defeat.”
“Then I shall go about this task where doth the fool reside?”
King Eric told her that the dungeon is where they tossed his hide.
“Then leave this fool to my methods and let none of you come near,
Stay away from the castle dungeon no matter what sounds you’ll hear.”
The spectral figure of Barbara Ann promised that in two night’s time,
They would be well rid of this fool and in a way that would probably rhyme.
And as it is with spectral figures Barbara Ann held fast to her word,
Two days hence and the fool was gone and though it might sound to you absurd,
All of the riches that she required to the fool she asked that they be paid,
For the weekend that she spent with the fool she should never seek to trade.
And what of the fool who paid the price By being hoisted upon his own petard?
It seems that he is no longer a fool, Instead he’s now become a bard.
The lesson that I offer to you is that when you make a plan fool proof,
Never underestimate the ingenuity of fools, Lest they steal treasures from beneath your roof.
Categories:
the bard, funny, beauty, sound, beauty,
Form:
Light Verse
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
Categories:
the bard, humorous,
Form:
Limerick
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, and a
considerably older man dressed in a robe of six colours, the DRUID. They walk slowly to
STAGE CENTER, the slowness indicative of the older man' advanced years and the younger
man's respect for him.
BARD: Must the actor always play a role?
DRUID: What is an actor?
BARD: Must the actor always play a role, even off stage?
DRUID: The apple trees look sore tired this season. I've no longer the strength to prune
them properly.
BARD: Oh. Aye, aye. (Pause) What of the actor's contention that we are all actors, that
all intercourse whether within the dyad, the community, or merely with ourselves 'tis but
an act?
DRUID: Who put the words in the actor's mouth? The 'wright?
BARD: I think it was extemporaneous, miLord. (Pause) It was an improvisation class.
Categories:
the bard, allegory, art, mystery, satire
Form:
Dramatic Monologue
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 false to any man, nor die but once.
We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and
our little life is rounded with a sleep.
To sleep! Perchance to dream a little dream -
and lo! what light through yonder window breaks?
The fault lies not within the stars, but in
ourselves; we know what we are, but know not
what we may be, and yet, what’s in a name?
The course of true love never did run smooth...
If music be the food of love, play on,
for all that glisters is not gold, and you,
dear sir, have loved both wisely, well indeed.
Rest easy, bard, for well thou wore the crown.
----------
Phrases from various works of Shakespeare in honor of the bard's birthday
Categories:
the bard, appreciation,
Form:
Iambic Pentameter
Somewhere deep in the recesses of one's heart
A tiny voice speaks of love and compassion
Of what one could be, if one chose, even now for a start,
But want it one must with an all-encompassing passion.
It needs not the urging of one's other self in the brain
Asking one to use logical thought and set on the path
Of pleasure and avarice and, in endeavoring, refrain
From the clutter of ideals, altruism and angst-filled wrath.
Between the two (the Yin and the Yang?) lies the pit
Of perdition resonating with the twang of irretrievable arrows;
Words once mouthed shape scenes which neither fit
With whatever the feeling or thoughts of the selves in their narrows.
Thus each, caught in one's own mix of the madness
Goes about creating individual worlds and carries out tasks,
Sometimes filled with elation, more often with undefined sadness,
Donning, as fits the scene, grotesque tragic or comic masks.
Did Shakespeare speak of the world being a stage, and, before exeunt
Players saying their things, acting out their parts, of seven acts,
I agree with the bard but to a limited, very limited, extent,
For a man creates his own world , his stage, with which he interacts.
Categories:
the bard, deep, feelings, introspection, truth,
Form:
Free verse