Best Wallace Poems
This poem has been removed for publishing on Amazon in WW II in Poetry: Veterans Stories in Poetry, including my late father's who was a Spitfire pilot in the Nigeria Squadron. As it says at the end, "For free speech".
https://smile.amazon.co.uk/WW-II-Poetry-Veterans-Stories-ebook/dp/B07DGLF33G/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1528537495&sr=8-1&keywords=Rhoda+Monihan
WILLIAM WALLACE
Blindfolding Justice, lest the blind might see,
what tyrany's been passed down countless years
by those who make the claim, nobility
are all the ties that bind through death and tears.
What manner of a man stands up to these
annointed to the reign passed down by name?
No archer known to anyone who sees,
could suffer all, lest freedom is his flame.
Do endings end it all, or just begin
the pure of thought, that life is meant to please?
Though he was dragged and naked for his sin,
are kings not lost, and fallen to their knees?
And yet, their holding on is all life shows,
Through centuries royalty still comes and goes.
© ron Arbuthnot
Sir William Wallace,
Regarded as Fearless,
Military Leader and Scottish Knight,
Who like all men slept at Night
As I gather them to the first class lounge
Surely we will calm down the throng.
Of mothers in shock,fathers at a loss.
Crying wee ones encased in their arms.
Lifeboats not nearly enough I hear.
And so we play together as one.
The piano and cellos,the violins.
Kindred spirits fighting our terror.
On we play as the air becomes frozen.
Horrific screams we play beyond.
Seven band members and I.
Wallace Hartley is my name.
Please do remember me.
The bandmaster am I and these
Are the last moments of my life.
And so I instruct the band to play
One last song to say good-bye.
"Nearer My God To Thee" reverberates
Across the splintering bow as all light
From this world is extinguished at last.
By Deb Wilson
for My heart will go on and on contest
sponsored by Tracie~Indigo Dreamweaver
I
Blades of grass slice past.
A striped assassin.
The tiger goes unnoticed.
II
Empowered by legend,
The tiger grows strong.
Eroded by greed,
The tiger grows few.
III
Alone, he stalked, hunting prey, days on end.
Now he lies still, a striped, tattered trophy, alone.
IV
Two men.
One tiger.
One fate.
V
I remember two tigers.
One is ferocious, cunning, agile.
Another is broken, malnourished.
I remember one tiger.
VI
His heart beats out his chest,
His soaked palms shutter towards his knife,
His eyes locked on the trees above.
The faint roar is deafening.
Yellow eyes stare back.
VII
Foolish house cat,
Traded power for comfort,
Traded the hunt in for cans,
Traded the treetops for couch cushions,
Foolish house cat,
Traded in your stripes.
VIII
Behold in all his might,
The secluded king of the jungle,
Hidden away by time,
We fear Shere Khan no longer.
IX
As the lines draw inward, excitement bounds,
The tiger disappoints none,
Truly shock and awe abound at the circus’ apex.
X
Bad luck will be plentiful,
If he pulls that tiger’s tail.
XI
Evil tyrant of the jungle,
Bouncy friend of a bear,
A boy’s stuffed ally,
The tiger has many stripes.
XII
Snow falls fast on the mountainside.
The goat stands, oblivious.
Camouflage works to perfection.
?
XIII
Darkness has fallen,
The silence deafens.
A mother, with her cubs,
The silence deafens.
A mother, with her fawn,
The silence deafens.
Nature ensues,
The silence deafens.
Wallace Stevens said:
"Poetry is not personal."
He tried never to divulge
anything about himself
in his poems.
So he said.
But the work is
self-revelatory: veiled confessions,
repeated choices -- water, sea motion,
weather, the sky -- introspective isolation --
those silences and descriptive phrases
that communicate and characterize.
Human, no one --
especially not poets --
can really hide.
I know what a poem
looks like.
I know how to make
my prose look like verse.
A little tuck here,
an indent there,
et voila! It’s verse!
or worse ...
a pale imitation of seem.
(can I have some ice cream?)
Fit like? Foos yer doos? How are you. How are you getting along?
Dee yer av the news? Have you heard the news?
Aye ! Woppin aint it? Huge, isn’t it.
Pitched a fit !
They sai e larst is ed
a noo, dun’t mik foon o the dead
Quartered to the Auxters armpits
‘ung as a tallyboggler hanged as a scarecrow
dee ye ken? Do you understand
Bloody houghin revolting, vomit inducing
Aye, the crown is on a shooglie the King’s position is wobbley
‘is erse is oot the windae he wont get far acting like that
© Oct 15 2010 Charles Henderson
6 th in Deb's Sistas contest
Here I lay my soul to rest
in life I fought to pass the test
In the end I failed you not
but your love was for another and cheaply bought
so many wrongs i righted with my sword
its edge dulled upon your word
my shield broke when you tore my heart
but i stayed and played my part
no armor or buckler made so strong
could ever right your unfaithful wrong
of that i lay here as proof
a fallen fool under love's deceiving hoof
Scottish crofters from Wallace's time,
trying to make a living of the land
committing not any crime.
With God’s grace and will to raise
a family keeping it simple, yet nothing
was going to be “run of the mill”
An English King, a tyrant so ruthless and
willing to invade. Reasoning was futile
it was impossible to persuade.
He rampaged with vast army's,
taking away the Scotsman's “freedom”
What is a life if you are not free
to roam the place you call home.
Sir William Wallace made a choice,
He stood up to be Scotland's voice.
Shining in courage strong for our
God given right “our freedom”
Wallace became the people’s champion,
put upon a pedestal, so he honoured
this with his battle skills.
With great courage and gifted in the
art of war. He defeated the English
upon the battle field, with his almighty
clamour sword.
Through the English army's impetuous
foresight. Wallace stood and watched
blood soaked as the remaining sasinacks
took flight.
Wallace “Wally” Cleaver
handsome, well-liked high achiever,
befriended Eddie, so unlike him.
Golly!* Wally wasn’t given to whim!
Eddie Haskell
was a neat, slick, conniving rascal.
With his flattery and pseudo-smiles,
he spiced up the show with his wiles.
Leave It to Beaver
*Wally and other characters use expressions like “Gee whiz,” “Gosh,” and “Golly.”
September 29, 2021
entered in the Clerihew 2 Contest Placed 1st
Sponsor: Joseph May
So proper and prim in my Brooks Broithers suit.
( I loathe that Obama! I much prefer Newt.)
Decorum at all times, when in public view.
( Dwelling on feelings would render one blue.)
An Ivy League background, a young trophy wife,
(I prefer peace and quiet, an absence of strife.)
Success at all costs is the rock bottom line!
( We keep cutting jobs and I think that's fine.)
All things in their turn and each in their place,
( That ***** they hired. I don't like his face.)
We must turn a profit. The public be damned!
(How dare they label our whole business a scam!)
How America prospers must be left up to us!
( If the gas goes too high, there's always the bus.)
Let them get here like I did- work hard and save!
( I have no regrets- save my untrod upon grave.)
I compose my poems like Wallace Stevens
by walking the streets of my town.
But unlike the esteemed Wallace Stevens,
I don't have to memorize or write my poems down.
I just turn on my cellphone's recorder,
then slowly whisper my word into it.
But instead of composing gems, like Wallace Stevens,
I tend to produce just a drivel of shhhhh~it.
As Wallace lay on wood and blood,
His own, his care he did not heed,
Thoughts of moors and springtime flood,
Purple glens, the heather's bud,
The truth he knew had been his deed.
The court had called him traitor thee,
Sentenced him, like pawn, an object,
Against all England, no dignity,
A traitor to Edward?
He was never his subject.
Again, he thought of heather's flower,
At peace, in quiet, he will pass,
When Edwards’ finished his devour,
With end coming and lest his power,
Scotland’s brave again to mass.
Again, to rise, cause future graves,
To tell the truth, freedom is what’s best,
Sons never live like slaves,
Clans will conquer all but knaves,
At the future King’s bequest.
To his freedom he now resigns,
Marching to heaven, regrets not one,
As tall as he stood, in his times,
Clans surround all in his mind,
Venture to the light, to the Son.
Death and Victory
O Wallace, I heard, and could not believe
Like the school days when things you conceived
Made us aghast or grieved
And anxious for the next thing up your sleeve.
You were our magician
Bringing humor out of no where
The apparition with which things disappear
And the brother I held dear.
O Wallace, can it be I see you no more, friend
The eggs in the fowl house stays
Cartoons with Huckles, relays
To Spain Town for raffles that never end
And stories that slant the escapades?
Chalky told me how you died
In that distant Texas place
Far from the frolics and our embrace.
O Wallace, it seems so wrong for one so young
To be already gone, some say
Genius never stays long, I hold nay
It's just like you to do it differently.
Rigor never was forte, and now
It's tough to believe in your rigor mortis
Not drinking beer beneath some bough
Beer drawn from cattle teets.
O Wallace, the noble Thame
Twickenham's child, scholar, savant, different
My heart remembers you and lament
Hard against your merry ways. Flame
A canefield somewhere for him
Ole Farmers let us honor
Our prankster brother, as he would
Swimming the pitch lake flood.
Too mortal are the dreams of men
More mortal our flesh
Too far from heaven ... a little wretch
In each of us ascend
And seem to never make the distance back
The longing heart to mend
O Wallace, I pray your end
Will meet us on faith's common track.