Best Tunics Poems
I’m stealing through a twilit realm, the ancient pale of Whereis,
passing chambers of an Heiress
(though no need to feel embarrassed)
through a magic mystic mirror hanging curtainless.
A glimpse near naked alleyways (denuded by the moon) ex-
poses Ghosts in gauzy tunics
carving symbols, round and runic,
in distended dingy dungeons of uncertainness.
Down misty streets of cobblestone – ancestral avenues –
patchwork paths consume my shoes
(chasing foggy curlicues
twisting, twirling by in twos,
floating anywhere they choose),
leaving footprints that confuse
vagrant wispy retinues
of the threaded wooden sticks that stalk a Puppet wandering.
Condensed in drops of fantasy, distilled in evening dew,
shifting Shadows I pursue
(wearing faces I once knew,
slipping slowly from my view)
turn their backs to bid adieu
leaving stars to tempt me through
Awful Tower residues
mocking treasures time outgrew
in the birth of old from new
framing pageants in review
midst the visions of the painted past I can’t help pondering.
Contorted candelabra claw the skyline’s walled suspension
caught in twilight’s intervention
– still unlit (in stark dissension),
therefore seething with a tension
in the quiet apprehension
of the Watchman’s inattention
to the night-time’s bold pretension
to her power, not to mention,
to her hyperspace extension
(far beyond my comprehension
of the sundown’s bleak dimension) –
on exhausted beaten boulevards of foolish fretfulness.
Oblivion depletes me, voiding haste and hurried hassles,
me, a simple abject vassal,
trailing moonlit floating castles,
– fickle feet, but fingers facile
grasping straws and pendant tassels –
as I stumble through the rubble of forgetfulness.
I think I must be dreaming as I seem to see these things,
neath a sky alive with wings
(hear the Nightingale, she sings),
midst the whispered murmurings
soughed by Phantoms clad as Kings
pacing palaces in rings,
while their hapless footfall clings
to the sagging sinking sands of midnight’s splintered splattered ruins.
Entangled in the swirling leaves that spin in dizzy flurries,
(while the wind beside me scurries
as an ermined hermit hurries)
lurk my sleepy woes and worries
(glowing faint’ but growing blurry)
which, when plundered by the demon dusk, I’d left behind me strewn.
Continued in Part 2
Categories:
tunics, fantasy, me,
Form:
Rhyme
Page 4
They do not move a muscle
Nor give unto their fears
But contemplate their carnage
Have you even not, one tear
Had I known you like I do now
You wicked callous beast
I never would have shown you
That my heart was in your reach
When the first drop of precious blood
Impacts upon this ground
I swear I’ll not forgive you
And by the Gods I’ll strike you down
But could we not turn, this tide
And you and I once more
Find the love sent from about
And do, as we adore
NO, cause you insist to make my wish
Lie broken on the floor
And wear a glove while touching love
Just like a filthy whore
Don’t think the Gods won’t notice
You’re defiled and you’re sick
By using love to hide behind
To pull this dirty trick
Page 5
Ah, to one trick there’s another
And I possess my share
Be patience and I’ll show you
What can happen to your lair
With cunning and with cruelty
My counsel will evoke
A very cunning plan
That would make Poseidon choke
I will converse, with Apollo
To have the sun replace the moon
So therefore catch a tan
If it’s possible, by noon
Then I’ll call on my Seamstress
To sew me something smart
With these hand made silver boots
This is Fashion’s off the charts
Of course all my solders
Will be dressed up in their best
Tunics will be optional
And so might the rest
We will decorate the beach
With a bonfire and some torches
So the enemy can watch
While they’re lounging on their porches
Page 6
Send a ship down to the tropics
I think seafood would be nice
And one up to the artic
To fetch all some ice
I know some Greek dancing songs
We’ll get the band to play
And I’ll maybe sing a solo
To melt, their hearts away
Cause no one, but no one
Puts a party on like me
And makes the end to every war
A spectacle to see
When things start dieing down
Very late at night
We all crawl to our ships
And we’ll put out the lights
We give them the impression
We’re all drunk and going home
This should make them feel relieved
That we’re leaving them alone
But that is when we pull
The oldest trick, found in the book
With a sinister contraption
This deception’s off the hook
To Be Continued.................
Categories:
tunics, adventure, betrayal, funny, hero,
Form:
Epic
ESTIMATING NINE MONTHS FROM ESKIMO KISSES
TUNDRA tunics
tendered,
holding hot
homeothermic
sentient swaddling,
stirred with
warm waves of
cocoa cresting charm,
bathed in barometric
swoon.
sweetheart neckline
netted nefariously
close -
charm capitulated.
frowns forever forlorn,
as aromatics allure —
cologne colonization,
fever-pitch
of friendship,
not so subtly
sensuous —
harbored hashtag,
blue breath
below freezing —
frenetic, freeing
OF ovulating applause.
12/4/2017
Categories:
tunics, relationship, winter,
Form:
Alliteration
Castles
Medieval towns, the citadels,
as fortified large ornates fascinate,
Engulfed my flaming true passion
that still echoes inside huge walls,
Sound of glittering brave swords
that took to a cowardly deceit,
Condemned moonlight
as we met used to greet,
Midnight shadows over walls of castles
now are lost in ghostly fleet,
Like a horrid dream
that makes my heart bleed,
Castles are a history
as lingers my life in plead,
Silky pearl white gown stained in red,
Clouds of long hair left to shred,
Emotionless eyes that only stare,
Cruel men in hues of red painted scare,
In name of honor for the race,
My true love was called a disgrace,
Corpses these dominating walls could capture
as souls serene floated in enrapture,
In era of humanity I wish to be born again,
when race, color and religion castles will slain !
***************
That place, these secrets
Harbors more than a majestic face,
Captive, breathtaking enchanted beams
Silver light waits down each hallway
The eyes of men -prey- preyed on castle walls
Vengeance broke the silence,
as true love was met by fate,
-under a bleeding lune.
Loud wails come from despair
Dragon statues look up to the flames
Passion perfectly preserved
Blood feuds between villages
Tunics distinguished by color
Selfish toxins in the bloodstream
Confession of the sins
Green eyes full of dreams
Lanterns lead each path
Every page is torn until no more
Beauty ignored by the dark
Gems of honor, heal each plea
A love story paved with a wrench
light twinkles wisps through the rocks
Beyond enchanted blocks,
Coat of Arms rises to guard these ground
Love conquers all when united
~Poet Destroyer~
Written Sept 2nd and Sept 6th finally, 2015
For contest "Partner up" by Shadow
© Dr. Upma A. Sharma and The Poet Destroyer
Awarded 3rd place win
Categories:
tunics, lost love, passion,
Form:
Free verse
Flaunt
..-ing....
. ...Gucci...
. ________ ... bag......
.. .. striding on heels, ...
.. ... -------- glitters of chanel
................ and puff of Dunhill,
................ that glamorous
....Shop ... green scarf.. ....
....-o- ..... & swarovski ....
....holic .. rock, Give me
............ a reason why, why
....... I shouldn't shop
at shopper's stop.
..Killer Jeans are...
......... . tempting
and so are demin
shrugs, ..satin..
tunics, ....on a
spree. unplugged,
charms of a.......
genie.. beckons
through black....
harems bills soar
high..... depleting
balance. .............
Categories:
tunics, happiness, life, people
Form:
Shape
Brutus Iulius Trois Page 04
Venus hastened to answer Aurora
You still weep for Memnon but where is Memnon's grave?
the squalling Memnonides yearly honor an empty tomb
Immortal Memnon dwells in the hall of slain heroes
disporting himself among the Hesperides
the new guardian of the golden apples
To the sinister of Jove sat Juno
under her aegis her tunic shimmering
with all the bright colors of a peacocks throat
her raucous voice louder than its morning song
many promises were made said Juno
promises to Venus, promises to me
some were kept, some were broken
of those remaining which will Jove keep?
vows to Jove's wife or words to Jove's daughter
Should we ask after another judgment from Paris?
Minerva glared at the other Goddesses
and angrily gave advice to father Jove
Banish these unruly Trojan children
remove them from all the shores they have known
perhaps then peace can be made between us
and the Trojan wars truly ended
Jove stood and there was silence
The Trojans are our children but the Trojans are not children
Venus would you have warriors wear woman's tunics
and hide in their homes as barbaric anarchy reigns
Juno I keep what oaths I may but even I must bow to fates decrees
if life's tapestry were to be unraveled even we would be swallowed by chaos
The unsettled ones will be gathered and scattered to new homes in the wilderness
in the west well protected by wave
lies the isle of giant Albion, Neptune's son
he that was slain by Hercules
to this Isle shall Brutus bring his Trojans
To sleeping Brutus Venus softly came
Greece is no place for a true Trojan
though your cousins shall soon rule here
these last Trojans must begin wandering anew
When Brutus awoke he sent to the Trojans
sent them to hiding, in the deep forest
to houses of shelter, to caves in the hills
then sent he a message to Pandrasus the king
we'd rather die savage beasts than live as tamed pets
we are sons of Troy though Troy is no more
therefore Pandrasus we now take our leave
Categories:
tunics, history,
Form:
Epic
Out of Trenches (WW1)
Out of trenches, we met face to face,
A young Soldier, probably about my age.
With rifle in hand we quavered,
My head, urging me to engage.
Our tunics were muddied and damp,
The ground soft and uneasy underfoot.
Gun fire and screams in the distance,
Torn faces, pitted and blackened like soot.
Staring deeply, feeling pain for each other,
Crying inwardly but shedding no tear.
Silent, frozen, entranced and lost in time,
Dear God, please take me away from here.
I recall my Mother’s words, stay safe Son,
Has his Mother would have said to him.
Motionless and numb we stand,
The situation is hopeless and grim.
We stood there about sixty seconds,
Though honestly it felt so much longer.
Do I shoot first, or surrender and die,
Am I the weaker, or am I the stronger?
Rapid fire thoughts, pass through me,
This battle is futile, no one can win.
The Warlords sit safely in command,
Gorging victory with bottles of Gin.
Are you alright Smiffy, a voice shouts?
A shot; the young soldier lies dead.
With intense pain, I fall to my knees,
It’s over now, a bullet hits my forehead.
Standing by the gates as they open,
The Young Soldier and I wait in line.
Neither of us, could have shot the other,
I was killed by his brother, and he by mine.
Categories:
tunics, conflict, courage, death, feelings,
Form:
Rhyme
Guv, tell me, not without the reason
our Moscow in the fired treason
was burnt and left for French.
Oh, there were fights I see their splendours
so awesome and we have the embers,
No wonder Russia still remembers
Borodino’s black trench!
It was the time there were the people,
The modern tribe looks like some cripple,
They’re Heroes they’re not you.
Their fate is bad their fate is sorry:
Not many had returned with glory,
God will be done and our story
left Moscow beauteous view.
We were retreating long and silent
So sad we waited fight and quiet
The old men grumble so:
What? Winter quarters willy-nilly?
Can chiefs tear up strange tunics killing
with Russian bayonets and feeling
that French would have to go?
And field was found: it’s large and ample
There was the space to walk or trample
Then we had built redoubt.
We kept our head; it is warning,
The cannons lightened with the morning,
Crowns of blue trees were full of dawning,
The French’s right here; they’re proud.
I put the ball in cannon tightly,
I thought I will regale “friend” lightly,
Oh, little wait, monsieur.
Do not be cunning, soldiers. Action!
We’ll go as wall against their faction,
We will stand head and shoulders. Passion!
For Motherland, hell yeah!
There were two days of endless shooting,
I saw no point in this duty,
Third day we waited for.
The speeches were among blood splashing:
“It’s time for case-shot for the smashing!”
And night fell down on field of slashing
with shadow pausing war.
I lay to sleep near carriege boring,
I heard that French exults for morning
over the battlefield.
Our bivouac was very quiet
Some cleaned his shako after riot,
Some sharpened bayonet untired
Biting moustache and chilled.
P.S. This is my translation of poem by Mikhail Lermontov.
Categories:
tunics, anger, conflict, memory, murder,
Form:
Heroic Couplet
One sunny afternoon, I coiled
in the grass, and later wriggled
my way through the woods,
though scaly and limbless I am,
yet uniquely created and
outstanding among beasts.
My charming rhythmic
movement caught the attention
of the hunter, who though struck
by awe, yet desired my lurid
green scales.
On approaching me, the glitter of my
divinely adorned skin, revealed in the
pasture land by the scorching
rays of the tropical sun, calmed his fevered
nerves.
There never was such natural
beauty ever seen by him, in fact if he
were deeply inclined to his ancestral beliefs,
perhaps he would have numbered me with the gods.
Neither the lilies of the valley nor
the garden of roses
in their astonishing array of colours
could my beauty be likened to.
"What manner of creature?" said he,
"long beautiful belt-like features
fit to adorn the tunics of a goddess.
Yet he sojourns like a priceless
jewel in the midst of the thorny woods.
But who could he possibly be? A fallen angel?
A reptile with a two-forked tongue? A mermaid
on the terrestrial? Or even Lucifer himself,
the fairest of angels all?"
"But I for the thick woods went,
for fear of an age-old foe,
wriggling steadily, steadily along the path,
ready to vanish from
his dreadful sight".
Categories:
tunics, nature,
Form:
Prose
Green rolling ember sparks desire
Wrapping around broken clam shells on beds of dirty brown cracking leaves.
Roots slither down and out
Fingers clawing their way to the anti-surface of eternity’s chambers.
Feeling as if it was never going to end up the way it’s going to end.
Shame doesn’t cease the joy I feel wrapped in wooden scales.
Just imagine the naked freedom of wind touch on bare roughness;
cloud water on smooth and shiny.
Songs play from balding heads invisible to untrained eyes.
Eat the earth from start ‘til finish.
Until broken teeth crumble mountains and volcanoes.
Until oceans are swallowed whole into gaping mouth fountains of obscenities.
Eat thy skyward glancing blows of smoke stack coal love
Under ground fault plates of steel shaken with fear.
Eat my earth bound angel wings off backs of uninstructed elephant ears.
Still and listening for the change to come.
All of every under the sun dance ritual cleansing in pairs of wrathful tunics.
Wrap around myself, once, twice.
Please eat my earth.
Drink my raindrop ocean mist on the rocks.
Shaken and stirred
Until shaman brings the sleep over blankets of snow covered carcasses.
Eat my earth laced with hope.
Eat my earth under the flower bed of gloved kisses hiding from the monster within.
Within the earth.
Eat my earth.
Eat my earth.
Categories:
tunics, earth, earth day, nature,
Form:
Free verse
The dream when the moon sneaks in my room,
I feel it in my heart and soul.
I see the red string floating, guiding, leading me away.
I'm walking, searching, looking when,
I hear the ocean calling,
Leading me to a mystical cave.
I see it as I enter,
That one look takes my breath away.
All I see is red.
A beautiful woman in a red dress and,
She holds a red scarf in one hand and,
A golden crown in the other.
I see this mural on the wall,
Like a hidden secret.
Then I see another of soldiers kneeling in,
In white tunics with a bright red cross,
These Knights Templar raise their swords,
Offering their allegiance.
Who is she, and who brought me here?
I wake up seeing that red scarf in my chair.
I smile, saying, now the real mystery begins.
Categories:
tunics, destiny, dream, emotions, family,
Form:
Free verse
Some See
David J Walker
Some see sun
Some see none
some
see
the sum of
light and countable
luminations
Some see night
and fear
As the first creation
Falling near
Failing feint
supplications
Some see music
Dancing in bright hues
and tunics
tied to
what might be true
To flight
and memorization
Some see
the sea
in mountainous
waves
and crave the honors
of the brave
and celebration
Some see nothing
At the end
of every road
losing to infinite
Calibrations
Categories:
tunics, light,
Form:
Free verse
One two three pea leap. Wow. A slip knot is neither a sleep nor a striped strap. But stealing from an arsenal area is not a wonderful idea is it really? Well come on....is it? Best keep quiet then and sip on a buttercup ball. Oh how quiet simplistic and simplistic is good and carved from a singular form of an art. So bake a tart carefully then. Wisdom in a whisk. Waiting in a wish. And standing tall under a huge blooming canopy of personified petals whose playfulness can portray peaceful pianoforte to a breeze. Even the coldest winds can be mellowed by such charms. Amulets linking arms then. Good. Portray not a salad as a stew and a fortress created from several million potatoes is a potent power indeed. But not when baked. With or without chilli beans. Jump then. Go on. Jump up and down and wave the arms and legs around. Causing cake to care for cream. And legs on a train are the legs of the seats whose tired frames seat many a fat curdled ceo on a wild journey to an office. How rather exciting then for the many cups and glasses placed in front of a portly frame. Tickle a taste. And taste a tissue. Yum then. Oh look.....the right window is showing a pond and the left window is showing a sea. Remarkable. Oh no a tunnel tube duck then. But no quack. It is merely the antics of a rug that can hug the copper blue. And the throwing of one pebble can release a wind machine on the hill. Paperclip is not a paperweight nor is it a planed plank. Ok then. Understood. Uniquely. A sham is not a slam nor a spam. And the delicate floaty fish in a chiffon outfit can scare a shark if dressed in white tunics. So always adhere to colours in an oceanic ballroom. Wow. Vibrancy in scales and fins. Swoosh then swirl. Very nicely timed waltz that was. And equally effective is the whirring of five hundred rotary blades who sing the calling cards to the wings of steel at dusk. Surrounded by over a million translucent clouds. Iridescent beauty. And a clap to hear. And all whilst the tomatoes form a pretty pattern on the tabletop yard. Hahahaha salad singing shape song. Hahaha floors arriving mind your head. Xxxxx synergistic syndrome symmetrically symbolised syntax xxxxx crustacean Z z z z Z.
Like (1)
Categories:
tunics, age, allah,
Form:
The books they read were of the past,
of heroes charging to the last,
of native men in native lands
defeated by heroic bands
of horses, sword and flashing lance,
red tunics danced victories dance,
so when for them the bugle called
they had no fear of battles pall.
The great adventure lay before
these lambs, they flocked to go to war,
families proud to see their sons
in khaki ranks with sloping guns.
They thought they’d see them soon again,
a short sojourn to make them men,
"no man an island", stood alone,
comradery that bore them on.
with merriment and many a joke,
ever closer to death’s cloak,
then soon the rage of battles flow
engulfed them in their minion role.
A tiny speck of living dread
atop the pyramid of the dead,
the ground around them seething black
with blood and bone and pain was wracked.
The friends in arms who comfort brought
taken as death for each man sought,
the great machine of war rolled o’er
with splintering steel and deafening roar.
Widows wept and parents grieved,
lost their sons so sad deceived.
The fattened vultures in their nests
perch, profits from the dead to rest.
So singing anthems on your feet
be sure continues that deceit,
the leaders of opposing sides
wore crowns that still today divide
Don’t sing of justice, or of right,
there's nothing noble in the fight,
brave heroes all who sacrificed,
gave all they had in precious life.
Then if that multitude from death
could sing a song of the bereft,
certain would echo near and far,
“Never again friend go to war”
Categories:
tunics, anger, angst, soldier, war,
Form:
Rhyme
Then the guns roared!! and it was hard to distinguish the
Hush from the roaring; the two seemed almost
Indistinguishable.
Was it the roaring, I wondered, or was it the hush that was
The more fragile?
In truthfulness I was disappointed when I got home and
Watched more of the same on the telly.
The British army is not what it was I have to say; the
Gun-Salutes did not appear to be well orchestrated to my way
Of thinking -- left one feeling all rather...unsatisfied.
Gone are the days of bright red tunics, golden buttons and
Tall, glossy white hats; and gone the long stylish sideburns...
How magnificent those lads must have looked on the march.
Gone also the days of the glorious campaigns. The valiant
Battles. The desperate, heroic actions defending some hopeless
Situation or some far-flung outpost that was deserving only
Of camel dung and fleas...and certainly wasn't for the lack of
Thanks we only ever got! ...same now for the Yanks I suppose.
But glory fades along with the ages...just as our long-gone
Age sank, ages back, into the fullest, mellow glow of the
Whistling scythe's last Harvest Moon.
For I am unapologetically an English man; and will die as
Lizzie died...
As English as sausage, egg, chips and peas.
And to hell with those who decry Empire and Nation Building.
We saved the best of it, and created many a Sovereign State
Out of nothing but mud and straw.
Lately I have pondered, that perhaps we sucumbed to what was
A natural culmination of too lofty an ambition?
Or maybe it was nothing more than a simple case of
Over-acheiving?
And if so, how do we arrive by the 'Grace of God' to all that?...
Could it be an inevitable fate which was pre-ordained?
But for the fact we had good glue we should have come unstuck
Many a long year ago;
But good glue we got...and still more to come I might wager.
Tomorrow, no doubt, the crowds will line the hilly miles;
And later we will have our pomp and ceremony...
But what has gone comes but once.
Then the whole world will watch, gawking, when an entire
Race holds up their hands as a hurting child reaching up
For the comforting arms of their firecely protective Mummy.
Categories:
tunics, appreciation,
Form:
Free verse