The strings of my heart are pulled taut like a bow
A tension within sourced deep down below
Too many odd dreams, inside me it seems,
Their wretched whispers, a bleak audio
They reach out and grasp my heartstrings impure
Why do they all hold so much allure?
All of them mine, but there’s not enough time
To give to all of my thoughts so obscure.
My head starts to pound, my mind now goes numb,
A song of discord, my dreams start to strum
Upon my heartstrings, and sprouting black wings
Flitter the flutterbies; Wingbeat to the drum
Out the window, a fell wind on the chimes,
My dreams are ill-lit like a forest of pines,
Yet never unknown, for they are my own,
Seasoned and flavored with hemlock and thyme
The wind is now roaring in the twilight
I suffer the scourge each sleepless night
All the long while, my throat fills with bile
For flutterbies flit, the devious blights
My dreams won’t let go of heartstrings so grim
Plucking and playing, live life to their whim
I haven’t the strength to battle at length
Thus I hearken to their dissonant hymn.
Categories:
harpers, 11th grade, dream, extended
Form: Rhyme
Can you hear the whispers
brought on by the wind storming?
Carried true by the harpers,
the tale the howls are forming?
Came a knock at the farmer's door,
a mailed fist with a fate to turn.
A sob, a wail, a call to war,
a boy, a son, home soon to yearn.
Soon a soldier strode from youth,
to the beat of the king's drum.
A shield his hide, a sword his tooth,
his pack stood the night to come.
Oh for the heroes of men,
the ones who hold the line -
oh for the kin behind,
the ones who hold to hope.
Silence broke to a thunderous horn,
the battle joined with the savage horde.
On a bloody tide he thus was borne,
death he granted and fury he roared.
Silence returned with a blade's sigh,
sanguine as it was ripped away.
A keen, a dirge, a mother's cry,
a man, a son, home soon to lay.
Oh for the heroes of men,
the ones who hold the line -
oh for the kin behind,
the ones who hold to hope.
A place to rest he was given,
a peace he has not taken.
To guard, to serve he is driven,
his will, his resolve unshaken.
So when you see a warrior's mound,
shed not a tear to hear the bugle -
hark rather the marching sound,
for he yet walks the vigil.
Categories:
harpers, allegory, death, fantasy, military,
Form: Rhyme
O’er Harper’s fields the sun rises and stirs
Daybreak awakens, night is forsaken
In valleys low, dense fog occurs
The sun rekindles all that slept
Young fawns lay, white foxglove sway
Visions are absorbed, memories are kept.
Warm touches from the radiant sun
Bluebells have flourished, nature has nourished
Burrows were dug, webs were spun.
Abandon field’s bed down wildlife
Grassy slopes drop, no remaining crops
Straw banners cling, waving loose strife.
Pastures had excelled around and about
Hidden narrow creeks, fall foliage speaks
Thriving with vitality, now gone without.
Beaten paths appear, no machinery sound
View was splendid, now all has ended
Troughs lie around, starlings fly outbound.
History echoes the past, but fields will last
What lies untold, life will unfold
Creation is precious, second to none
Categories:
harpers, nature,
Form: Rhyme
Ned Kelly
DNA
Kelly DNA found
throughout the land,
and down around the
Dungle Bore,
Fred Layton had a
strand,
He had the Kelly
earmark, wore,
his descendants
Harpers, grand,
wore the Dan Kelly
type of ear-lobe,
that DNA had
planned,
If you look at Red
Kellys' brood,
they have the
lobeless ear,
distinctive breed &
trademark proved,
Don Johnson says
it's here,
Fred Layton he was
no wuss,
clean-skins they
needed branding,
the law of the bush,
a brand to push,
the T-Bones were
understanding,
100 Dan Kellys tried
to show,
that they were not
Red Herrings,
Alone Steve Hart,
Dungle Bore did go,
double cover in his
bearing,
bloody cunning
so-n-so:}
Traps they knew of
Steves' death too,
his cross in old
Calcutta,
Dan came home alone,
from the Boer War
zone,
as the Leather-heads
do mutter
{birds of the bush}
Don Johnson
Leatherheads have a
bump of meat on on
top of the beak....a
grey friar bird who
will talk to lonely
people in the
outback
Categories:
harpers, adventure,
Form: Ballad
John Brown, John Brown,
where are you now that we need you?
Bodies free, minds enslaved,
we need a spiritual terrorist.
Chains of ignorance,
shackles of racism,
handcuffs of dogma,
need to be smashed.
We need one like
a patriarch of old.
One that is willing to march
on the Harpers Ferrys of the mind,
one willing to hide out
in the Blue Ridges of the brain,
and then swoop down,
freeing all the slaves in the
surrounding countryside,
one willing to confront his demons
and failings and like
a saint of old,
willing to give up his life gracefully.
To all interested parties
seeking this position,
apply within.
Categories:
harpers, introspection,
Form: Free verse
a man dull in sence
music playing in fine tune
only to perish
Categories:
harpers, hope, loss, sad,
Form: Haiku