Long Bardic Poems
Long Bardic Poems. Below are the most popular long Bardic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bardic poems by poem length and keyword.
I've been a bit free with the vitriol with a couple of poems recently, and need to check myself. Some months ago I met a bard, Kevan Manwaring. In his book, the Bardic Handbook, he recommends satirising oneself to see how it feels...
With satire comes responsibility
Thus spake the bard, regarding cosmic law
‘Tis true that thought and act and speech are free
But heed the truth learned by the bards of yore
What goes around and round will soon return
To that dark human place where it began
And pain shall be the lesson he shall learn
Who points his pen in anger at a man
Lest he forget, we none of us shine bright
That are not sullied by some silent shade
And he who seeks another man to slight
May curse the pen that bore the words he made
For what we see in others, we have known
Some simple human neediness or greed
The weakness we perceive is like our own
Who knows a tree that has not seen a seed
So satirise yourself, so spake the bard
Before you dare another man to mock
And turn upon yourself a light as hard
As that with which you wish a man to shock
Unshadow your shortcomings, write them true
Or fall upon your failings like a sword
For this is what you would to others do
And thine own self hast thine own pen ignored
Now weigh the pain you draw like blood from light
With cut of blade, of swift and vicious pen
Look down upon yourself from lofty height
As you would fain look down on other men
What do you see, but merely flesh and fear
A naked frightened soul that cries for love
All sorrow bound and clothed in darkness drear
With eyes up turned in hope to light above
Have pity, spake the bard, for every word
You wield will have the power to wound or heal
Remember what you here have seen and heard
Think twice before you cause a man to feel
The lacerations of your jagged wit
The schadenfreude of your savage ire
Lest you be made to join him in the pit
Lest you be so consumed in that same fire
He snuffed the candle flame, picked up his book
And left the poet, wise from sorrow shown
An unveiled mirror’s face in which to look
At imperfection that was his alone
With satire comes responsibility
For what goes forth returns, of that be sure
And you are that which you in others see
The naked frightened soul the poet saw
by Gail
"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...........
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.
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!
All Rights Reserved © Silpika Kalita
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..........
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.
Sweet Just the Way I Like It
you're a genius she moaned
there can only be so much money in circulation
he replied halfheartedly fingering her abacus
the moon arose sharp as a razor
and they set about creating a dynasty
a master race of thumb sucking idiots
that arose from the dead at midnight
with pretensions of divine right
she was a plump desert highway waitress
with a mile of sunny cleavage
a beckoning oasis of hope
to every butt sore trucker
he was a cadre from the Cro Magnon bloc
raised by the Sisters of Inchoate Ire
in a constant din of prayer
a model of pedagogical endurance
a time of war ravaged the land
the grip of the Dept. of Antiquities was strong
wizards made the oceans boil
mystics buskered the street corners
will work for the contemplation of food
a few actually knew something
but in practice were a bit too bent
by the wind blinded by repetition
to be true in the rigorous mortis sense
nothing to be done except perhaps
another detached from reality ******
now that the past was in hot pursuit
but the leibensborn are clever
and they were smuggled to safety
in boxes of radio parts
he picked up the Bardic Hour
on the Welsh Luftwaffe Network
she was wired to the 220 dryer circuit
and clicked through the channels
Gamble for Your Soul followed by
Ladies of Leisure followed by
Nearly Inaudible the game show
which asked the same question
if the picture is perfect is it changeable
this is how they ineluctably became
the enemy of both sides
the rim shots were deafening
but histrionics had worked in the past
you'd think we were defending against death
rather than a better data set
so it is with surface addiction
a searching modern art piece
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
For all the night she trod the furrowed earth
As she has walked all winter in her wake
In seeking for the child she brought to birth
The maiden bride whom Hades chose to take
The gibbous moon is waxing to the bright
And shedding shifting shadows on the lands
One single moonbeam spills down through the night
Upon the rutted earth on which she stands
Made heavy by the weight of mother’s tears
The ground beneath her feet begins to yield
The imprint of a child’s foot appears
Emerging from the darkness of the field
The dawn is tinting grey the silken skies
The lifting mist moves gulls to take the air
She swears she hears these words within their cries
She comes, she comes, she comes, is nearly there…
Around the hill of Silbury swirl the springs
From many sources meeting there as one
Upon the fence a bardic blackbird sings
His songs of seasons ended and begun
The heron stands in wait down by the brook
The willows’ leaves weave rills upon the stream
The cormorant is fishing for the rook
Whose shadow shapes a fish from daybreak’s gleam
From alder trees drip drops of ancient dew
Like shining crystals, in to waters deep
The grey of morn becomes a brighter blue
New lambs are woken from the dark womb’s sleep
A muffled drumbeat pounds within her bones
Thrills through her feet and trembles in her chest
Draws from four corners people of the stones
To stand and lay the winter to his rest
Can it be so, she thinks, that she will come
And willingly escape the thrall of Hades
Be called by this fast beating of the drum
To dance among the wild lords-and-ladies...?
(See Part Two)
© Gail Foster 2016
I
Is that a poem you’re writing?
Do you know what you want to convey?
Have you set your ideas in a list with their peers
Ready to scribble away?
II
Is that a poem you’re writing?
Have you chosen your meter and rhyme?
Have you got the knack of trying to pack
The words in and make them keep time?
III
Is that a poem you’re writing?
Your pen poised over the page,
Praying that Calliope enters your muse as she
Has done with poets for an age.
IV
Is that a poem you’re writing?
Has God above roused you to thought?
Like King David at arms when he wrote his Psalms
Inspired but never taught.
V
It that a poem you’re writing?
Will the tale you scribe live on?
In Bardic tradition an epic rendition,
For centuries pondered upon.
VI
Is that a poem you’re writing?
Will words give your notions flight,
Or stay on the page, like Gibran’s “in a cage”,
Only revealed to sight?
VII
Is that a poem you’re writing?
Are you just going to let the words fly?
And leave the verse blank, like grass on the bank
Of the river ungroomed flowing by?
VIII
Is that a poem you’re writing?
Is sorrow or passion your whim?
Like me has desire ignited a fire
That bursts from the soul within?
IX
Is that a poem you’re writing?
Is the language you use esoteric?
Do elaborate words fall meaning nothing at all,
From your pen, but having no merit?
X
Is that a poem that you’re writing
Do you think that you’re a real poet?
Do you think ’cause a line, came out of your mind
It’s a poem and others won’t know it?
Now that you have got this far, leave a message and be a star!
Thank you