Long Bardic Poems
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The junk drawer of my mind processes MOMENTO, like golden Ark Dulcimer, Cimbalom that shatters the font of unfinished sound, into pixels of mime, song bound, PUZZLE PIECE orchestrated by the filter of Time
In swirling depths of thoughts refined, sorted, assorted, twine.
The junk drawer of my mind resides, to be found again.
A hope chest realm where memories find their place, in their proper chaotic order digest.
In fragments, scattered from venture, far and wide re deployed.
Like the land of forgotten toys, a painting of unfinished joy.
Junk drawer, lessons from God.
Mind processing synapse, synod.
Poetic lines of insightful mysteries
Unfinished thoughts. "-"
Why a kitten is so endearing.
Why a cat has its own chick as a plushy,
(it's very own rainbow Charizard, to squeeze obnoxiously, then capture the void, bon avengers within junk drawer, purr upon in wave of polar oid.)
Within this hidden, sacred space,
lies an Ark of sorrows and joys,
mysteries.
Dulcimer ABACUS, plucked with fervor
of background noise,
composes, comprises, compromises the melody life employs a place, not a junkyard,
but a station of honor and grace.
Cimbalom strikes, resonant and pure,
opens to unfold precious capture.
Drawer opend, creating ripples, echoes of the past, beckoning you back in naked allure.
Shattering the font of unfinished sound,
of a song of nostalgia cure.
Bardic STRING shows where you've been
and flashes like a CARD to bring you back
within its kingdom, labyrinthine idiom fragmenting
of lessoning vaguery.
A PUZZLE PIECE, intricate and profound.
Each memory a stroke upon life's canvas,
framed in rainbow, tornadic hope, victory,
touchdown.
Orchestrated by the filter of Time,
crafting back, story, poetry wondrously
open to assemble to my need.
As I delve into this harem,
emotions rise and fall like a symphony's tide,
cascade to the sea, mountain sides.
For the junk drawer of my mind possesses
a BAND that TIES.
The power to stir, position, place,
a fall into the hole to leave an imprint inside
upon the whole, preside of unveiling,
behold my wares, MISCELLANEOUS,
extemporaneously-
stare wondrously as it doesn't lie, as it lies there
about the truth of whose
belongings are shuffled nigh.
I think perhaps, there is no sadder thing to know
then many of the works of Edgar Allan Poe.
In reading those familiar bardic words
I find I could be scared
of death, dreams, bells and birds.
Aside the tomb of his most beloved “Annabelle Lee”
lie all the stormy raging of the deep Atlantic sea.
Loving and having once been alive and free
but lost in death to someone else’s coveting,
in the end, we all give in
to the strength and wild tempest of the wind.
There are lesson taught that remain unlearned
when life and liberties are too often spurned
and we lie down beside the gentler morning tide
to await our turn to touch the life and death divide.
In the dark shadows of oncoming night
I lit a candle to hold steady, soft and bright
to keep me safe when I was not awake
keeping back the angels from my soul to take
I drifted off to quiet pleasured deeper somber scary sleep,
within Poe’s “A Dream Within A Dream” i did creep.
In silent ponderings I read and clearly heard “the Bells”
awaiting each sound fill the air around which it swells
in the ringing, singing, tingling and clinging spells to tell
of clamoring steel and metal clashing, smashing, trashing,
while all the world is spent of cost within its own created loss
repeating non-jubilant rehashed bashings
that sing out and shout and scream for more
of hate and fear and pain and war
waiting to pounce angrily in the name of God
to perpetrate God’s will in some hidden fraud.
Then “The Raven” calls, causing all to be distraught
at the writings, its verbiage, the readings exceeding naught.
There softly stepping was a vision imbedded in indebting
that around me I wrapped the covers from my bedding
to no avail; the caw, the cries, the yells could not be stilled
and I lost the powers of my mind, my heart, my will.
as voices filled the air with shiver shaking chills four score
while in the shadows crept visions of his sweet lost “Lenore”,
and there I stand along some solitary shore
shouting to the wind,
Nevermore.
Whisper unto the Whispering Woods!
Cry it aloud!
Whispering Woods, for it doth seem that nature
Herself doth whisper unto me!
Beseeching reverence and respect
Whilst planting sundry creative
Fancies within my mind.
One needs to wander farther
Than the woods
To conjure
Endless realms of fantasy.
Knowing well that Druids
Do find their cathedrals
Amidst the forest.
Hark! The world awakened!
A forest of inward magic!
These poems be symbolic,
Playful, and brimming with fantasy!
In so grave a world,
Beset with manifold trials and tribulations,
I do wish to wander
The imaginative realm
To discover whither it may lead me.
Readers (listeners) are encouraged
To interpret these poems
According to their own understanding,
Finding therein many meanings,
For the verses may bear
Messages diverse.
Messages changing according to the life
And experiences of each reader.
In the bloom of my youth,
I was often enticed
Toward the muse.
By mine elders
Who didst dote upon me
With most tender affection
And bade me take up
The charcoal and quill.
They took passing great delight
In the parley of my humble
Sketches, and with open purses
Didst find the means
To set me within the halls
Of the academy of arts.
By their grace,
I am now firmly resolved
That art, in its every
Wondrous guise,
Doth hold a most noble
And rightful station
Beneath the Stars,
In the Cosmos.
On blessed Bardic journeys!
On the third level, the revelry had ceased,
there was a great peace,
here, in the communal gardens,
a calm, joyousness descending,
a few people already resting,
on the grass, they lay,
the Tigress,
here to meet the Dark Man.
such quiet solitude touched her,
the gardens, good for the soul,
all the songs of glory,
they reached this place of respite,
many started to leave the gardens,
walking down to level two,
most singing came from that vicinity,
the joy went on.
On the fourth level, almost silence,
very few voices could be heard,
the dwellers here, now at work,
they worked within the golden palace,
A few children were singing,
they did sing the old tales with gusto,
High pitched voices, almost lost upon the breeze that blew.
A few children were on the street,
dancing to the song being sung,
their laughter, a balm to the heart,
it was a joy to hear,
Alahsar, alive with gaiety, joy and love,
hearts were truly singing,
would that every heart would ever sing.
The golden palace,
atop the mountain,
awash with light,
The softer songs of Alahsar,
they come from deep within,
within each room,
rge sumptuous splendour of priceless jewels,
All but a few are happy within,
they all await the guest of honour.
Outside, the storm reaches its zenith,
the mother of darkness sings,
soon, from the heart of the storm,
the Dark Man and Turvehr come,
Many watch the sky,
alive with thunderous terror,
soon he would come,
The storm alive now,
the thunder booms,
the lightning flashes.
Once more, the mists of time fall over Alahsar,
once more I must have my horn charged,
the mead shall soothe the dry throat,
in bardic, melodic voice, the song shall sing again.
Soon we shall return to golden Alahsar,
the city of dream,
the words of elder songs,
they shall sing out in power and glory,
kike running waters the words shall flow,
painting their visions of wonder,
the glory of Alahsar shall live again,
your Bard giving life to antiquity's song.
To Be Continued..........
As dark canvas unfurls bit by bit
Randomly gulping down acrylic paints of dusk
To satisfy his own thirst, not for long, to sprawl
Into a magical cosmos - flapping his dark wings atop
Swirling soft fair clouds that rock and roll
Through gray-black, myriad dazzling stars so
Idyllic, and artistically spilt sparkling stardust
Charm the sky as if shiny pompoms and buttons;
Night sky lights up my gloomy mind:
In its artsy glory, I savour a tick of tranquil clock;
Glowing bright, stars and moon transmit rays of
Harmony. Aw! tiny drops of opals and diamonds
Thrown arbitrarily at pitch-dark canvas as if
Showcasing splash liquid art - so bright and brilliant;
Knitting a charcoal-black fabric of captivating stars and moon,
Yay! our night sky is shining, inspiring my bardic pupils.
Date: 01/13/2023
Lipogram Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Emile Pinet
"Before The Gates Of Alahsar,"
By,
Michael .P. Clarke.
Full Version.
Bardic style.
Chapter..........1..........Part..........1..........1.
Come now, my Lords and Ladies,
listen now to the tale I shall tell,
the ancient tale of the dreamland,
of Alahsar, I lay before you.
look now within your mind's eye,
look on the golden gates to peaceful shrine,
they stand in wonder,
before a city of joy and peace,
a most ancient jewel.
I, your Bard, stand before you,
my words, I am ready to sing,
my beating heart of truth,
it shall beat the tales cadence,
as my words, I do speak.
Oh, Alahsar, your dream forever sung,
I lay it forth, following ancient texts,
come now, my Lords and Ladies,
listen to the tale my heart shall tell.
Never, had there been dark, in Alahsar's jewelled kingdom,
the sky afire, with a golden glow, in a night of lightened twilight,
all night, this sun would lie low in the sky, a golden glory,
this light of love, ever touching the beating heart of Alahsar.
The sun did sparkle off golden pinnacles and minarets bejewelled,
the sun, kissed gold so gently, and golden light did live,
my Lords and Ladies, such a dazzling display of light effects,
forth did come the rainbows of dream's desire.
Upward, ran the virgin white, stone dwellings, of the city,
they did tower to such heights, they reached for the heart of Heaven,
open your minds to the vision, look upward, upward, ever upward,
atop the great city, a golden palace, how that glory did shine.
This was a golden beacon to all, that Alahsar did live,
the city of dream, in its golden coat, arrayed, it did sing dream's song,
from the golden gates below to the golden palace atop, peace and joy did reign,
Alahsar, sing dreams song in majesty.
On the first level, the dwellings of Alahsar's mighty armies,
of the most sumptuous furnishings, they were arrayed,
seem within your minds, soldiers dressed in such regal splendour,
those on duty, they walk proudly. from dwellings to the mighty parapet walls.
They all know nights of passion, in rooms of silken beauty,
primal passion, emitting sighs and screams into the night
communal wash areas were to the rear of these dwellings,
they were behind high walls, built into the rock itself.
To Be Continued...........
In a world ruled by gods and men,
who holds in their hand nature's pen?
When words are smitten to deaf ears,
dost one conclude their deepest fears?
Thy skilled soothsayer is portrayed,
as nothing more than a beggar paid.
A wandering derelict of the past,
his bardic tongue now shall avast.
On a park bench, he sleeps at night,
oft Poe's "The Raven" he does recite.
'Tis thy chilly nights he dreads the most,
so in his prose, he gets engrossed.
The birds doth come and hearken in,
as he weaves his tales and rhymes within.
This man was once like you and me,
so sad this world could never see.
Bustling Tavern, din of thieves,
prattles sounds, like mini battles
of Sorcery, at mosaic of vomit tapestry.
Endowing all sorts in your bosom
like sins-full abacus beads.
You gather them by lamplight and promisery
of Nightlife, bejeweled deeds.
Your dangle of jewelry,
imagery into the back
of the mind.
Cleaving to your cleavage, in gilded-underbelly.
Whispered confessions, aspirations un-tamed,
at the heart of game, plays.
A maelstrom of activity brews,
where thieves and dreamers carafe their craft,
by firelight, booze, and cut-throat utensils,
for stirring the plot and tasting it's ooze.
A symphony of mirth and mischief,
lies, woven into each swirl of word.
A den of vices, a theater of souls,
where desires become exhumed
jewels, brightly interred.
Sorcery of charming, bracing,
where shadows dance in dusk,
efficacing with the flickering daylight
exuding allure, a beguiling musk,
facery painting, fishing for trust.
Binding patrons, captivated by the dire-light,
broths to salivate for spitting in its flame.
Bardic stories, each worth half a codler of truth,
confess their lies amidst the clinking of wine.
Tithes abetting their cover, to mask the grape-vine.
As hearts chase fleeting pleasures true,
where fantasies intertwine,
the weight of the world measured, momentarily
subdued in fermented promise of unsealed
magic in held balance of bottomless opportunity.
So, come, dear traveler, lose yourself,
in the spell of atmosphere.
In the spray of this sacred mace,
lift of skirt, skirting of honest wage.
Panning for adventurers,
planning under-sway of sunder's way.
To be hardened like steel, in a battle of wits,
Or to sink without swimming, why call it quits?
Leading the charge, with no one to follow,
Bridging the gap between friend and foe.
These are the things that a Bard should know,
Riding solo between two warring armies,
Roaring out for the kings to heed,
Rather than fight, they should join in mead.
These were the duties of the Bardic ways,
Three sacred truths that remain today,
Three sacred rays of the Awen say,
Creativity, Love, and truth, above all else.
We have been in many forms and shapes,
Stood as trees, and flown with wings,
Swam as a Salmon, and fed with the Bear,
Burned as bright as any other star.
For we are all a part of the great web,
All connected to all things that are and are not,
But many don't seem to understand this,
Somewhere along the way they just forgot.
/|\
Once in a blue moon, in the circuit of the cryptic sky appears the transcendental fusion,
when the acquiescence of the sky emerges to display two heavenly bodies most exotic phases of union.
On those, mesmerizing venerated nights, the new moon and the wolf moon in juxtaposition,
supercede the perceived notion of eclipses; when the earth's shadow devours the pearly moon, its unparalleled companion!
Contrary to the credence, they recline and mingle, into one in secret paranormal amalgamation!
At that spectacular moment, the blood of the luna oozes, turns scarlet,
and the venerated Full Moon turns into Blood Moon in unison:
when the earth's umbra covers the moon in its arms, passionately to hide pains of her bunion!
They have clandestine agreement, beyond the mortal comprehension to fathom their cabalistic union!
Although, once in a blue moon, even the cynical corporals,
turn fortunate to witness the epochal communion!
Deluded and hypnotised, they come out with their finite, shallow persuasions!
Even waning, the luna in all her immaculate purity, maneuvers the blue planet, her matchless companion
in various alluring phases, in exuberant magnificent manifestations!
Those rarest phases in rotation connotes their cryptic indulgences in culmination!
The momentum of the earth-moon collision forms curious rarefied condensation,
causes in its beloved's bosom, the tidal ridges, the ebb and flow, a unique phenomenon!
When the luna grows from New Moon to Waxing Crescent, whispering the earth to cast its beams for illumination
in diverse evolving phases from Crescent, First Quarter Waxing Gibbous, Full Moon, Waning Gibbous, Last Quarter, Waning Crescent to the New Moon,
both the celestial- bodies embrace each other
in variant robes of orientations!
Their hide and seek, merging enigma, provokes the lunatics for musing bardic explorations;
as once in a blue moon merges the peerless pens to extol,
the unfathomed metamorphosis of earth-luna's metaphysical communion!
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