I sit on a throne of unfinished things,
wearing a crown of missed chances,
a robe of echoes and brittle stances,
stitched with the pull of quiet strings.
My mini palace is kept on my palm,
built from silent, paused goodbyes.
I spread my kingdom with quiet gaze,
ruled it with intent none could revise.
I am self-slaved by chosen remand,
My soldier thumb obeys each command
My courtier eyes chart where I land
Time kneels before my wordless stand.
I claimed the void they wouldn't dare
and named myself the nillionaire.
Lassie, pretty, invincible pleasure
The pride of a skilled crafter!
There lived on the landscapes a farrier,
By the ruins of Ottoman Empire.
His daughter, heaven's courtier!
A professional innkeeper;
Sometimes serving the Royal Jester;
Sometimes guardian of her.
That pleasant horizon for a dreamer,
That they sacrifice in the frontier
Of love, appeal and offence everywhere!
Where lassie's fragrance pioneer,
Torturing forlorns by means unfair!
Those clouds might dare
To split into colors of her;
But had never!
All that crawls on land and those travels in air,
And invisible hands are her tributer!
The fireflies suffer
Whilst she trespass the heart of winter,
Alone into those woods frozen by the touch of her;
Soft, legs of benevolent fur!
Lassie,the alluring chapter
Of course the forlorn's desire!.....
She's Turbulent like the wind,
Contaminated the land of hearts of men,
At night in the light like a shadow,
Words of such a fine recipe --
One willingly swallows,
You are the Perfect Courtier
Eyes bright of fire as the sun,
Sheds light to what's seen in the distance,
Yet burning those that lie close at heart,
Linen floods down your body,
Large heels, half shut eyes,
You are the Perfect Courtier
Now I find myself empty hearted,
Full -- with nothing valuable
Insides like garbage,
Cloudlike's your grey reputation,
In your frames train of thought,
Black and White in separate frames,
How neglect thy eyes --
to which I connect,
You are the Perfect Courtier
In my island of time
the dreadful reality bears like --
scarce fruits; unknown kinds
From the tree of knowledge,
I realize
You are the Perfect Courtier
Many have been afflicted,
by painful---pleasurable stings
of your whip...I can't resist!
However I, I, I must cut the string!
Farewell and Yes --
You are the Perfect Courtier
Parody Song for Lute and Harp
The cobbler who mended the princess´s shoes
Fell in love with her feet and declared his love.
But the princess was quite chocked, said…no.
Sad cobbler sat in his shop repairing waders,
Farmer clogs and polished officers riding boots
The cobbler who mended the princess´s shoes.
The princess had shoes to repair, sent a servant,
But the cobbler needed her feet to make a fit.
He fell in love with her feet and declared his love.
He mended her shoes touched her ankles to make
Sure the shoes fit and the princess´s was thrilled
Made him a courtier of her dainty ankles and feet.
Love blossomed in the darkest night
Morn's gilding beams to spite
Night Primrose preened by tender blight
Sphinx moth soft tips caress; sugary nectar slight
Perfumed aroma doth prating, intoxicated courtier incite
Glazed petals with dewy fans stream delight
Golden cup a succoring bosom from which passions alight
Delicate, cream veil eclipses pallid, stolid moonlight
With availing breeze your dreamy parasol on Cupid's wings takes flight
Mysterious mime or calculating creature
Misanthropic recluse or doting benefactor
Shallow Charlatan or discerning teacher
Obstinate hauteur or modest beseecher
Erudite miser or innovative vizier
Bridled subordinate or confident mentor
Repressed miscreant or extroverted courtier
Natural predator or nurtured fancier
Meager cipher or extravagant couture
Perennial malcontent or persistent pacifier
Venal provocateur or unremitting stabilizer
Wavering transient or steadfast accompanier
Pessimistic mentality or positive reinforcer
Incessant doubter or faithful believer
Opportunistic voyeur or resolute lover
Impulsive actor or objective personifier
Well...I wanted to do something silly as I did,
In writing a poem for this bid.
It took but a TINY HERCULEAN try,
All the while, I'm asking "Why?"
I thought of writing about the time,
When I didn't even have a dime.
But then I realized how silly it would be,
To write something, only about me.
SO, SITTING and SMELLING the SWEET SEPAL,
I decided not to write about me at all.
Instead, while eating my JUMBO SHRIMP,
I decided it would best to be an OVERGROWN IMP.
Writing about the CARNATION CARRIED by the COURTIER,
Who SANG his SONG SUCCESSFULLY to his SIRE.
Oh, the WORDS that he WOULD WARBLE WISTFULLY,
While the GREAT and GORGEOUS GREETED him GLEEFULLY.
His CANTANKEROUS KING COMMONLY CAROUSED,
Yet, only SONG SOOTHED him when his SHACKLED SEVERITY SEPIA aroused.
Thus, often abed the king would go,
His DARKNESS LIGHTENED by the SONG SANG SO.
And if this silliness be not a poem the rules will fit,
Maybe I should just lay down my pencil...and QUIT !!