Best Vassal Poems
Mardi Gras "The Medieval Story"
On a hot, heavy night in Orleans,
Joan and Jane were seen rubbing chest on chest
An inviting, intimate moment, to undress
Two pretty trimmed tops, eating like dames
They touched in ways, that drove those who make war insane
The secret spilled before the sun sprawled across the floor
Medieval England, banging on iron set doors,
All around men and women, wanting to witness the whiplash
Beads and beads of love, thrown at their feet
Joan' and Jane', having fun in front of, yesterdays courtyard
Sweet acts of flagellation were performed to stimulate the crowd
Screaming, and receiving, intense, brutal lacerations
In the eyes of endless nudity, everything wet in between
Left to right, a secluded society, dance in masquerade
Two men rise and ravage Jane, from hip to hip
Join-in, was a Jouster, and Lord Johnsburg,
They came in a little closer to claim, Joan
Closing, and inflicting as much damage as possible
Crestfallen forces of the unknown, -the audience grows
Remain firm and indulge this wet period of the Middle Ages,
The first crusade held stones in each hand,
Applauding to neck the beauty of friends
A noose hanging high held no head on this day
Yelling to feel the pain perils of anguish,
This was in reality the vassal of Jane
The King, ask to see them on their knees
Before he seeded, sending the Spanish tickler,
Fetching for the finest skin
At her end, Joan, watched Jane, spread like never before
Perfumed skin, rising up in smoke, -Joan's final stroke
Left burning at the Stake, In a Medieval World, from hell
The Siege of Joan and Jane did not end well
A lonely Bard, now sits and sings a sadistic tale,
A tale, of dirty deeds, -a dancing bloody masquerade
Joan and Jane, compensating for the Mardi Gras Parade
By: SKAT
Categories:
vassal, adventure, celebration, dark, death,
Form:
Dramatic Verse
So many weep from pleasure or from pain
and raise their invocations to the sky.
I watch them from the corner of my eye.
Their exhibitions I would likely feign
to match expression shown when masses cry.
My eyes, instead, might blur. I gasp or sigh,
and sometimes I despond when under strain.
But rarely am I vassal to the guilt
that others I’ve observed are prone to claim.
Of slower-melting metal I was built.
By keeping cool, I suffer less from shame
than those who feel too much. They often wilt.
A gift or curse? I rarely feel to blame.
For Frank Herrera's WHAT MIGHT THEY FIND THERE
(I've noticed I do not suffer so much from feelings of guilt as some of my friends do. I think it has to do with basic personality types)
Categories:
vassal, perspective,
Form:
Sonnet
The sun was setting, as it usually does
The town a ghost town, the main street all but silenced
The wind blowing leaves and dreams to and fro
The tension in the air was palpable
The few souls about all peering out shuttered windows
When in from the west, came a storm
Her name was Serena Storm,
They shivered in her wake, the poetess of dead lovers
Then over to the east side, riding in slow and steady
The grim reaper or so it seemed, hollowed eyes
Dead soul and dark mind, his side arm at the ready
The greatest duel in history, right here
In the town of Nowhere
The setting sun reflected of her dark long coat
The last tear drop, falling to its death in the dust
She stared ahead, face blank
Daring, with a glare, shoot me, shoot me, try
He dismounted his horse, called Heartless Soul
His eyes slits, staring down the curvaceous storm pacing untoward
His hand inside his coat, slowly pulling out a mickey
He belted down a shot or three,
In the town of nowhere
They both paced, hands at their side
Closer and closer, the saloon keeper
Not quite sure his bottle would be paid in full
Then as quickly at the sun set……
Vaso drew first.
The finest long black quill one ever saw
His other hand dropped his bottle
Magically a writing pad appeared
Serena drew second, pen at her side
The color of blood, and for good reason
She too tablet in hand, putting ink to paper
As they both furiously wrote
In the town of Nowhere
Hearts were murdered
The meaning of life was hanged not long after
Love was beheaded
The main street a river of blood
A storm of tears washing away crimson desires
An empty vassal, Vaso’s insides already dead
Dropping his pen, he pulled out his sword of mourning
The duel to end, as he lopped off his own head
She dropped paper and pen to the ground
She faced down the grim reaper, and it’s he who is dead
The only one to know, his name was Arthur
King of the dark, ruler of lost dreams
In the town of Nowhere
The poetic duel of the century
Both won and lost
Long ago
Categories:
vassal, beauty, dream, gothic, writing,
Form:
Light Verse
~MyTOPIA~
A sip of tea in my Magic Cup.
A fancy bowl for my little pup.
Faraway from a world corrupt.
I found reason and meaning to reconstruct.
By day I live under the perfect sun.
I relive a life where unhappiness~ is undone.
From the time I opened this door my life slowly begun.
I unlocked the purpose that unites us* all as one*
By night I isolate my dreams in my log cabin.
A pillow case made of, worry free feeling of satin.
My harmony keeps me from thoughts so devil-in.
My moon shines in the river with beautiful waves of medieval Latin.
My island based entirely on reason, of insanity hassle.
A sweet paradise entwined by the meshed flower tassel.
My own fantasy surrounded by a flawless pharrell castle.
Governed by my own golden state temple Utopian idea vassal.
by;p.d.
Categories:
vassal, fantasy, imaginationlife,
Form:
Couplet
With hands immersed in suds and water warm,
I stand before the sink, humbled vassal,
To plates and dishes, grease and grime the norm,
My task to cleanse this polychromed passel.
Each cup I cradle with a gentle pinch,
Their curves and corners, every angle blessed,
Rinse them speckless, my soapy palm a winch,
A chore completed, my service at rest.
For though this labor at face is mundane,
It's in the simple things we find our grace,
And so I wash each dish with grateful strain,
And let their gleaming surfaces erase
The chaos and the clutter of the day,
A small but satisfying task, I say.
Categories:
vassal, encouraging, humanity, perspective, power,
Form:
Sonnet
Where Now Shines Light and Love
Far, far, far away rejected darkened hate
now banished into its own gloom.
That black fog that did so dictate
the misery in my lonely room!
Pain, pain, pain was its desired fruit
I, a mere vassal to its decrees.
Finally found was its bitter root
hiding down deep as the seas!
Swift, swift, swift came the decision
to rip out one nasty, evil tree.
With deepest thought and precision
soul ripped the seed from me!
Hope, dearest hope now rests in that hole.
Where now shines love, always a worthy goal!
Robert J. Lindley, 10-12-2015
Note- A sonnet to remind me, darkness has a
seed that grows from within. Cut out the
seed--light and love comes back in.
Categories:
vassal, art, beautiful, creation, light,
Form:
Sonnet
From thought has risen
time-space warp prison;
so if we be still,
we regain soul’s will.
Poised in the void thus,
love and light fills us,
which was always there
but now we’re aware.
Vibrant nonchalance
ends fear dalliance
and as the bliss flame,
we play out life’s game.
Mind-body vessel,
is our soul’s vassal.
When both are aligned,
clear truth is divined.
Love as our thimble,
we stop thoughts nimble,
revealing our soul,
now blissful and whole.
26-July-2022
Categories:
vassal, life, love, truth,
Form:
Jueju
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:
vassal, fantasy, me,
Form:
Rhyme
My mind is yours
I think of you
As I stab away at your heart
I think of you
As blood spatters all over my face
I think of you
As the life ebbs out of your vassal
I think of you
As my hate grew into a flowing river of your blood
I think of you
As you stare into space with those dead eyes
I think of you
As they bury you in a poppers grave
I think of you
A childhood robbed
I think of you
The hand of god stealing an alter boys innocence
I think of you
Rotting piece of flesh in the ground
I think of you
A hateful cruel man of no honor
I think of you
No more
Categories:
vassal, allusion, angel, anger, angst,
Form:
Light Verse
The body is the vessel of the Soul,
the Soul is not the vassal of the body,
the Soul is the vassal of the Almighty...
*
Categories:
vassal, philosophy
Form:
Free verse
Cruelly full of slaves
The basement was used
Of Zong, the damn ship
Of the bloody transshipment
The coast of the tiny Island of São Tomé
On the shores of West Africa
At full throttle, to the island of Jamaica
Zong, the damn ship
Began its surfing
And the total of thirty-three
Was the throng vassal
To the Atlantic coastlines abyss
Most cruel captain sent shoot
Was it not the outbreak deleterious
Willingly, then
To the sea,
It fell down an angry ten!
With grilhtetas tied at the ankles
Oh God, how horrible and brutal
While the Atlantic, with its own eyes
Saw the deal man gave his equal!
Categories:
vassal, slavery,
Form:
Free verse
Oppressed is he, a coward in his house,
A cringing serf, to the despotic spouse!
Without a voice unless she's not adverse;
His meagre wealth kept deep inside her purse;
When friends advise she will demand to know;
He fears her tongue more than a Stygian foe!
By misfortune were she to be my wife,
I'd quell her temper, stop her wanton life;
Then tempt her with the buckle on my shoe,
Kiss her soubrettes, then flog the wayward shrew.
The Tyrant Wife. By the poet Robert Burns
Curs'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life,
The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife!
Who has no will but by her high permission;
Who has not sixpence but in her possession;
Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell;
Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell!
Were such the wife had fallen to my part,
I'd break her spirit, or i'd break her heart:
I'd charm her with the magic of a switch,
I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse *****.
Categories:
vassal, abuse, wife,
Form:
Rhyme
My guardian angel sleep how I honor thee,
Thy contrarian ways leave me breathless,
Thine art, the bearer of life’s synchronicity.
I am your vessel, a vassal on your highways,
Thou speakest in tongues, thy magic conveys,
Subtle shifts in the feelings of voluptuous days.
You speak to me archaically, sometimes not,
With ears I absorb your many voices,
Though my eyes are slow to know your every plot.
Faithfully you come to me when the shades are drawn,
Carefully you wake me with touching flair,
I am pushed to reconsider most every dawn.
A night without you is an adventure at home,
It is, to wit, but a journey to bed,
Better not to sleep if you venture not to Rome.
Your flavor spices my mind, with thirst I crave it,
Its abundance and magnitude move me,
I search the seas to find your shores to inhabit.
You surprise me, you recognize me, you see me,
The masks I use to cloak, your hands deface,
Uncovering my ploys with mirthful subtlety.
Naked I stand before you, your canvas to paint,
With strokes of genius you unnerve my life,
In depth you make my shallow ways seem less than quaint.
A weaver could not imagine the text you bear,
The knot you wind only a knot can know,
There is no metaphor that can describe your stare.
I will never understand how you do this trick,
Yet it is me who does it every night!
I am undone by you, yet you make my life tick.
If you are the eye of my mind who sees the truth,
Better to go, leave me to my devices,
To abide by your laws would be just too uncouth.
Yet I hesitate to cast you away stranger,
You are the god who lives inside of me,
I can not live without my nightly messenger.
Stay with me then my ritual marvelous friend,
I need you, crave you, in sleep I would die,
Without your visitations life could not amend.
------
Written 09.06/2014 By Jornjorn.
Categories:
vassal, dream, sleep,
Form:
Terza Rima
(Continued from Part Two - 1)
Nothing of the foisoning ageold homegrownwine
strained through Ol’ Kayyam’s ever draining ruba’iyat bowl
keeps vigil in their scelerosed veins
I will slap this officious reason
In the face with wine in hand
Who so bold to slap sense into the buttressed elus
But those drunk with common insolence sense
Darius the First built a confining wall
around the Greco-Roman Empire’s eastern front
a first wall of self-will
Gengiz Khan tore it down with his sabersharp teeth
after climbing deftly through the David Copperfield hole
in the Great Wall
See how Mao stemmed the tide with his Long March
Only to wall in his Zhong Guo
An Asia within an Asia
The Central Asian Crown
to be propped up again either by vassal states
or by tribute offering nations in return for health-giving largesse
while tough little Viets struggled without wailing on bare feet
to sling the Twentieth Century’s Goldorak down to an ignominious fall
while those that weep after twenty lost centuries at their Wailing Wall
wall their brethren in a closely policed jail
wailing at every television reprisal performance
their insecure un-Godly fate in the dead sea of faiths
at the bare hands of suicidal wall breakers
hemmed in around their waists
like those fencesitters
the Greater East Asia
Prosperity builders who
let MacArthur gird them behind an Ocean Wall
silent superior-thinking men and women
unable to wish their neighbours bonjour
even after the unhealed unhealing wounds inflicted
by kamikaze samurais
walled in behind obsequious bending backs
and mechanical smiling faces
What brews in quiet what festers in stealth
Asia’s white master race
a Botha-deemed non-apartheid equal
ONE of the seven rulers of this world
(Continued in Part Two -3)
Categories:
vassal, inspirational,
Form:
Dramatic Monologue
Two Beach Strolling Sisters Discussing Their Savior
This was his virtue; that with head and heart
He saw life sanely, from all mist apart,
and spoke with such assurance as he showed
our way as straight as an old Roman road.
This was His beauty, that with bird and flower
He loved the strange revealings of each hour,
from wandering stars, from waywardness of earth;
Fountains of poesy quivered at his birth.
This was his grandeur, that in all he saw
or dreamed, he bowed before eternal law.
Knowing his soul the vassal of the King
whose realm is established by our laboring!
Robert J. Lindley, 1-10-2016
Painting number seven
Poem number seven, Ekphrasis (rhyme)
Inspired by- the painting
( Twilight Confidences, by Cecilia Beaux 1888)
and Debbie Guzzi's 10 for 10 challenge
Ekphrastic: Writing on Art and Art on Writing [this site ACCEPTS reprints] http://www.ekphrastic.net/submissions.html
Categories:
vassal, art, beach, beauty, faith,
Form:
Ekphrasis