Best Troubadour Poems
'Course as a grim teller of tall tales,
(albeit poetic) reasonable rhyming
quasi roundelay I readily admitted to feign
cuz, stringing words together with
pride and prejudice plus
sense and sensibility, jocularity,
and conformity I dissed deign
(spoiler alert) iamb, trochaic,
dactylic, and anapestic metrical reign
jest your ordinary garden variety
dollar short day late dime a dozen
penniless citizen banker Abel and Cain,
yet mine mean mien blithely, daringly,
fatuously, ludicrously, nauseatingly,
pretentiously playfully urbane
many (if not all readers)
will coon sitter
yours truly harmlessly insane,
whose feeble attempts
to wax and wane
oft times falls flat (splat goes Matt)
as if dropped out plane,
without a parachute
instantly recuperating while lain
supine (winded, but...
none the worse) asthma brain
suffers concussion, confusion, contusion
actually, immediately, and unexpectedly
knocked fluent German speaking ability
within germane guy verständlich?
If ye really comprehend
trademark non Turkish gobbledygook
then explain (using
language of least familiarity),
but best to commence
with eye catching hook
impossible mission
apt lit pupils (mine)
to evade even momentarily
riveting, spellbinding,
and transfixing look
courtesy ingenious way
with word ye snook
cored me and took
wind out my sails.
Nor could I breakaway courtesy automobile,
cuz 2009 Hyundai Sonata
would not start... yea for real,
thus finding me ready to yoke
neck (think gibbet) each heel
dangling as body goes limp
blessedly, finally, happily
ridding me of any/all hangups,
one less goo goo gaga born this way
poker face cards for him to deal.
UNGABLUZUM describes this schlemiel!
Expose faster
your songs from limbo
of your soul and exposes
your bosom...!
Do it list and with tenderness...
May you sing them beautifully
and grace...!
cast them accurately
on your beloved balcony,
at the counter of your intended...
Do it with maximum promptness
and grace, because you're at risk
that she listens to the songs
of love from another
further agile troubadour... and
be enchanted...!
A troubadour came by my house;
beneath my window he did sing.
I had never heard such melody
or listened to like lyrics ring.
He sang a song I understood,
a song of love for me alone;
and , gazing through the latticed frame,
I knew that I would be his own.
The haunting strains, they wound their way,
even before I could resist,
my heart was bound by cords of love;
forever to his song I would list.
"I long to follow you." I cried,
"fair, wandering minstrel, gay and free;
I want to be your gypsy bride
and sing sweet songs of love with thee."
He bade me follow with a look--
a look my tongue cannot describe--
so tender that my heart leaped up.
"I will follow you! Oh, yes!" I cried.
And then I saw, just as I turned
to go with love forevermore,
what I had thought a laurel wreath
was but a crown of thorns he wore.
The robe which from his shoulders hung--
it had seemed spotless, white as snow;
but, then I saw it stained with blood.
yet, still with him I longed to go.
His feet and hands were bruised and torn;
"oh, who had wounded one so good!"
Just then I saw the lute he played
was but a rugged cross of wood.
"Oh, Love!" I cried, "dear, fairest one,
who dared to harm and hurt you so!"
and then I heard the song again...
"It was for you; did you not know?"
"For me? I do not understand;
for just today I heard your song."
He turned to speak what now I know.
"My love," he said, "I called you long."
We sing the song together now;
each day is but a new refrain.
Yet, still I marvel when I hear
a note of joy wrung out of pain.
I did not know when first I heard
his music calling to my heart
that love is not triumphant
till wounded, pierced and torn apart.
Copyright, 1987, Faye Gibson
John Denver Tribute 1-31-25
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Troubadour
Annie’s song rings maroon bells
Sung in gratitude by a country boy
As snowflakes celebrate alpine festivals
Where sunshine dances on shoulders.
Cowboy becomes mountain man
Letting melodies soar
High in the cathedral of the Rockies
Dance with dolphins on lyrical waves
Or serenade Blue Ridge mountains
Strumming lullabies for baby.
Perhaps love tells the story of your passion
For mountains, seas and skies and Shenandoah rivers
That dance in calypso dreams
On feathered beds by country roads
Home again.
Poet and pilgrim –
Troubadour gathering scraps of ordinary
Your melted wings brought you back to earth
Too soon
Leaving your song incomplete
Melodies unsung and rhymes unrhymed.
Starwoods still mourn
Where the eagle and the hawk fly in farewell
On the wings of your dreams
Beneath wild western skies
That echo your poems, prayers and promises.
Troubadour Heart
Your troubadour heart
diamond embers sows
through cloudlike
patches of blue gently
strumming wreathes
of feathered accords
and when sadness rears
its grieving head
your strings weaving
invisible threads
a simple melody lace
and a thousand
lifting notes rise
tied in a flow of
caressing waves
calling me back
from a dark and grave
soul stealing place
and I now bathe
in the dreams of tomorrow
as your troubadour heart
carries mine away . . .
It all began in a small Orange Room
Followed by the big streets of The City
In which led to the grand stage of the Madison Square Garden
From the many meager loose change
To the endless sleeps on sofas
His own words never stopped on reaching for his dreams
Songs about love and heartbreak
Lyrics about emotions and experiences
Melodies about the story of his or one's own life
From trials and tribulations
To transformations and triumphs
In those who listened to this troubadour singer-songwriter...
We have visualized the true message behind his music
STAR TROUBADOUR
Who in noontime blaze
Comes singing of left
right
above places
of reality time-frozen
moment of clarity
a moment lost but gained?
Star-troubadour
blessed with revelation
with Earth-blind devotion
Comes singing
I catch his song on the fringe
I love the songs of working people played
In cabins and at dances, and along
Highways where the vagabonds wander by,
Unchanged since days of early English song.
The English, Celtic minstrelsy can never die
As long as mandolins and fiddles cry
The ancient ballads of true love turned wrong—
Of God—and ghosts—and deaths and birth,
Wherever people and their folklore throng.
Out on the sea (or prairies) where the songs are made
Of people close to water, dust and earth:
Elements that give music its true worth
As folk song singers ply their timeless trade.
Noble troubadour making untrue verse,
while traveling from town to town on the dustiest roads,
reciting the lamenting lyrics to yourself,
and the echo is louder than words of folly growing within;
hold your anger inside, let it explode
in the castle's Great Hall, where all will listen, indeed!
Monarchy is an undefeatable fortress,
and below you seem not to fret;
enter it when the trumpets announce
the king's arrival in a golden coach
pulled by stallions who snort at your sight,
but you fearlessly follow them before the wooden gate closes on the bridge.
Noble troubadour decrying a denied liberty, making
your living writing undesirable, undeserved odes,
you're forced to lie and please your demanding king
who manipulates your behavior by tight strings;
should you offer no praises or allegiance to the crown...
you'll be charged with disloyalty and treason! See yourself in the torture room!
There's a limit to your patience bearing the guilt,
and be able to lift it off your chest...it will crush you under its weight,
until your reason turns into discernible madness,
and rising up from your sore knees, you'll relinquish your duty...
to regain your freedom from a kingdom built on obedience and vanity;
and what will be the the outcome of your refusal to bow down?...The peace of a free spirit!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
The Troubadour
Like water reflecting upward
To a canopy of trees
Like blossoms on cacti
In a red rock valley
The troubadour makes miracles
from words
Like meteors traveling
From distant silence
Like canyons carved
From deliberate waters
The troubadour makes magic
from sound
Like sunrises over mountains
On cloudless mornings
Like snowfall on asphalt
Like wind in daffodil fields
The troubadour makes songs
That sing my life
The troubadour paints the air
With dichotomy and wine
Like the wondering albatross
I'm airborne on an ascending scale
The troubadour is gale
The troubadour is calm
The troubadour is harvest
The troubadour is seed
The troubadour is nova
In earnest I would comb the earth
Through desert, mountain, forest, firth
Cross highlands, lowlands, rolling hills
Swim oceans, rivers, fjords, and kills
All to find out where you are
No distance is too great or far
That isn't worth the trodden way
To be with you at end of day
My love is with a passion quite
Enough to make the darkest night
As bright as daytime, all things seen
So clear, no thing can contravene
And though I walk now by myself
My deepest feelings on the shelf
They're all still there, restrained yet strong
Oh Bluebird, how for you I long
I have so much yet to unpack
Poems, love songs, none I lack
I write for you, it's easy to
My heart composes them on cue
Patience Love, sit, wait and see
In case someday she flies to me
Until such time that day may dawn
We'll roam across this world alone
Place your finger on my arm
Trace the outline of your guitar
Then take it up on to my chest
And trace my heart, you know it best
You think you don't but yes, you do
It's very beat belongs to you
And someday you may feel its peel
The pulse it has for you is real
I Am Troubadour...
I am troubadour;
the singer and the swinger
of ancient lyrical lines,
as I inscribe them with my pen.
I am traditionalist;
of writing down many thoughts,
inscribing them on parchment skin
the feelings of inner self.
I am the smith;
a crafter of dexterity
in using many points of view;
when putting down on paper.
I am storyteller;
the one likes to relate
and tell tales of the past,
when sitting at my post
as a new verse unfolds.
and as for all of this
I am the lover of many words,
I am troubadour
and the scribe of writing down,
which effectively
comes from within my mind….
Francis Cooper - Mac
Black who I be
Carrion my feed
Common is my flight
Hidin’ - still -
Back of my fellow
Raven’s roost
I’ll steal away your pain
If you’ll but allow me
Simple
‘Cause it’s also mine
All yea got to do
Is choose
Known your secrets
Can’t hide ’m from me
Does that make me
Your enemy?
Black
Who I be
Carryin’ away your heart on wing
Chargin’ your spirit’s battery
Requires your permit
Yea, black…who I be
Snatchin’ opportunity
Findin’ where they be
Known possibility
‘Cause Black that’s who I be!
Black’s in all souls
Don’t mean you ain’t got one
Black is who we be
Magpie’s make good company
Especially for tea
Especially
For tea!
Laughter frozen in time
Silent yesterday's trapped inside
Whispered dreams aching to be heard
Before layers of years and lessons learned
Buried the path to the child in my heart.
Traveling on a mid-summer breeze
A misplaced troubadour
With a suitcase of tears
Parting mists with gentle hands
Beckoning...
"Come out and play, before the storm
Don't fear the chill
Neverending fires are here to warm
As the child in my heart
Learns to dance with yours"
"Greet winds of change with open arms
Let it strip you bare
Open your eyes as the music swells
In every note, I'll be there
As your soul's voice awakens
There's nowhere to fall
Hear the child in your heart
Spirit remembers all"
The troubadour had traveled on
Changing winds have fallen still
Suitcase is mine now, gently reminding
When times are hard
Hold loosely to the truth you've known
You'll always find, remembered answers, just in time
A voice will whisper...
"Come out, come out, come out and play
Listen through the joys and tears
Through every smile and fading fear
Let it bring you home"
"Home, to the child in your heart".