Long Courtiers Poems
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Since the elderly king greatly loved music, his court esteemed it, too;
As sun and moon smile on myriad colors, during the butterfly revue.
The king was well loved and jolly, with the queen, always by his side.
He ruled with caring. Like rainbow hued peaks, where indifference died.
His glorious reign had been lengthy, and the vast kingdom prospered;
Like the kingdom of regal, red lilies, blooming regularly as clockwork.
Fabled, flighty, fall days brought friends, on the spur of rare moment,
Often from faraway kingdoms, like night, after colorful postponement.
Fragrant night fell so familiarly, in the ashen shadows of flaming day;
As family arrived feelingly from France, like the heartfelt communique.
The king lived in the house of harmony, like ruby stars dancing in sync;
And green birds sang in its courtyard, under pink, lace clouds, indistinct.
Reliable raspberry sun rose rapturously, along King's Road of old roses;
Replete with robust raven cawing, like when confiding cricket discloses.
The king's musicians gave daily recitals, like the nectarine sun, shining.
Noble courtiers attended every noon, by windows of minty ivy, twining.
The 'orchid valentine beauty' fell in love, in frilly, red petals, cashmere;
As 'crown of thorns peppermint candy,' bloomed throughout green years.
'Miss Jekyll' blooms, sought places to Hyde, since all were colored blue;
While red 'spider lily blooms' spun silk, to be adorned in something new.
One day Old King Cole called for his pipe and bowl, and his fiddlers, too;
And they played as they never had before, like pink finch's sunrise debut!
All windows were open, green leaves quivering. Songs paused in the tree.
'Twas if nature were in hushed rapture, in bygone days, far from the city!
'Old King Cole was a merry old soul.
And a merry old soul was he,
He called for his pipe, and he called for his bowl
And he called for his fiddlers three.
Every fiddler he had a fiddle,
And a very fine fiddle had he,
Oh there's none so rare, as can compare
With King Cole and his fiddlers three.'
He's the King of the goblins and should you displease
He'll pickle your eyebrows and eat them with cheese
Or cut you to pieces then boil your head
And mop up the gravy with slices of bread
But should you avoid this nobles displeasure
He will show you his strong room with all its fine treasure
Then returning above from the dark dungeons gloom
To the marble clad walls of the stately throne room
He will smile to his courtiers and wink with one eye
And you know deep inside that you're certain to die
For no one's allowed to return and proclaim
The things that go on in the goblin kings name
Connor the baby dragon went to see the queen
He knocked upon the palace door insisting he was seen
The courtiers and the equerries on seeing the little tyke
Told him to be off at once his kind they did not like
They ushered him outside the gates and told him, go away
Said that he should leave at once for here he could not stay
He begged of them, he pleaded, to let him take a look
The palace staff were adamant and said “now sling yer ‘ook”
Not one to give up easily he tried another tack
Walked around the corner and sneaked in round the back
He wandered through the corridors the Staterooms and the halls
Until he found the largest room where the Queen holds all her Balls
He gazed at all the splendour, mouth agape in awe
Till something made him jump, and guess what Connor saw
The person that he’d come to see was sitting at the table
The object of his visit, Her Majesty, Queen Mabel
“Your Majesty“, he mumbled “It’s you I’ve come to see”
Then remembering his manners dropped down on one knee
“Get up, dear boy” the Queen replied “come here and sit by me
Tell me why you’ve come here, sit down and have some tea”
Connor told her of his travels from his home so far away
Of how he was an orphan and how he’d like to stay
The Queen, touched by his story summoned each and everyone
And let the people know at once, exactly what she’d done
“This dragon” said the Queen “is going to be my mascot
He’ll accompany me tomorrow when I go to Royal Ascot”
From that day forth young Connor was at the good Queens side
When walking in the gardens or going for a ride
The pair were both inseparable and never would they part
Though just a lowly Dragon he had won the monarchs heart
The King of Mythical Endurance
Ate curry with his gilded spoon
Whilst watching his court dancers
Perform the ceremonies of the moon
Four and twenty picked maidens
Each chosen to his taste
Each full breasted proudly
With an hour glass waist
The King of Mythical Endurance
Dipped a biscuit in his tea
While the dancers of the court
Moved in links of three
Bowing to His Majesty
Bowing to His Queen
Bowing to the courtiers
Making up that palace scene
The King of Mythical Endurance
Barely suppressed his yawn
For night had quickly passed
To fast approaching dawn
Dismissed those assembled
With a gesture of his head
And the master of his chamber
Tucked him tightly up in bed
The King of Mythical Endurance
Slept soundly through the day
While the attendants of his court
Cleared all the mess away
Labouring intensely
Until all was sparkling bright
For the next entertainment
That very same night
The King of Mythical Endurance
Just the latest of that name
Trapped in a life where
Every day was just the same
Bowed to his latest mustress
Bowed to his Royal Wife
And sometimes wondered about
The sheer boredom of his life
Enea, at the Scottish Court
The critics claim that this is far the worst
of all the frescoes. Enea the star? No
inkling here. Can that be James the First?
And that’s the Clyde? It looks more like the Arno.
A spartan Stuart court? Or is it Bourbon?
Less Edinburgh in feel, and more Locarno.
Whoever saw Scots courtiers in turbans?
The ceiling is salubriously embossed,
more like the Vatican of sainted Urban!
Perhaps Enea’s Latin can’t be glossed,
for no-one’s listening, that much is certain.
One wonders what the marble columns cost.
And wrapped in that red robe (looks like a curtain!),
he seems to lack all gusto, all scintilla.
For this he braved the Beauly and the Burton?
There’s nothing interesting in the villa.
Less Donatello, more like Damien Hirst.
It wasn’t worth Charybdis, much less Scylla.
Enea Receives the Laurel Crown
Not only is he with the Emperor:
he’s kneeling to receive the laurel crown.
His deeds will be preserved in tempora,
his poems printed, bound and handed down.
What more can man achieve in life than this?
While many live and love, and toil in vain,
Enea’s standing on the precipice:
rewarded for that fine, well-nurtured brain.
So why am I uneasy? Read the signs.
And eagle savages a hapless duck.
The building seems all wrong. Wrong size, wrong lines.
And what’s it meant to be? Are you not struck
to see the woman on the loggia, being raped?
Pandora’s Box is open. Hope’s escaped.
Form and Matter
It all comes down to this, don’t you agree?
The Court of Charlemagne, the Holy See –
there’s Thought and Thing: idea, reality.
We’re in the presence room, but some are free
to stroll the colonnade at liberty.
Unyielding marble throne, lapped by a sea
of flowing silk: that’s how it has to be.
Enea kneels between eternity
and actuality: the Papacy
against the Empire. Physicality
abuts against the realm of sophistry.
So Spake Simple Simon
Is it right and proper to treat us fools so bad?
We are but simple souls, not completely mad.
This world is but a complex place full of traps and snares
That can catch us all out if we’re taken unawares
Even Kings and courtiers find themselves caught out
So, what chance do we have who know next to nought
We are so often laughed at as we try to understand
Why it is that others have all the wealth and land
And when we ask for twopence for to buy some food
We are told we’re stupid and we’re not doing any good
And when we would go fishing so very far from sea
We practice in a bucket. It made such sense to me
And as for seeking plums for to make some jam
Whilst I was a searching, I was chased by a ram
That landed me in thistles; not pleasant you’ll agree
All that was in the larder was dry bread for my tea.
I could go on for ever about injustice and ill use
How those who care not for others avoid the truth
Who only see the world through their selfish eyes
People who are less fortunate are those they despise.
The mechanical bird covered with diamonds, sings only
waltzes until the insides give way, and the sound
of his craft is crowing. Whether or not
(my Ladies and Gentlemen, and the Emperor above all)
the mood is coquetry, gurgling as if their mouths held
sweet water, cheesemongers, chambermaids and courtiers,
lackeys and the Duchess, all try for a nightingale,
and the Chief Imperial Singer of the Bed Chamber.
The bird, wound up, wags its tail and sounds the same
tune (decided beforehand) times over, and the moment
of a thousand gold lamps, where the walls and the floor
are made of china is recompense for the title of "Cook."
Even the Emperor's heart is on the left side.
The writers of books insist the Black Art untrue,
but the kitchen maid waiting in the outside world
where the garden ends, finds the cow's bellow gracious,
and frogs croaking in the marsh are church bells.
She dallies for tickets to the court festival to see
the emperor dining, and the ZI-ZI-BI of the Music Master
charms the evil away though he fix on her the great
hollows of his eyes and jewels glare.
In the woods blue by the bay, a small grey bird among
branches believes all that is written, watching
maids and their men grow merry on tea, their forefingers
in the air as they dance.
"Though I live alone,
my song is not stone,
Neither rubies, diamonds, nor pearls,
And the world is a place.
There the actual grace
Will tolerate waltzes and whirls.
Where the loud drums sound,
Both upside and down,
The sword strikes, the gold banner flies,
But porcelin takes care,
I sing as I dare,
And tears are in the Emperor's eyes."
Form:
the spouse of william jefferson bitten
i.e. hillary clinton
appears tub bee foster ring ill fit ten
for tha role of president - cuz, she z currently hit n
objections viz potential intelligence violations -
no mo' trust dose heart melting con vince lion eyes
faw catapulting her vaunted term
as n impeccable secretary of state
earning in vince able kudos via fostered trappings
donning stern stance sparring with a mitten
over each hand, while her doth go a knit n
resolutions to global conflagrations
though now, the public at large
(myself included) nada sit n
so comfortable per recent traction less record smitten
via questionable activity encompassing sensitivity of email
thus, she may see duff feet written
as primary elections draw candidates at bat
thee aforementioned democrat
sharp and whip smart -
though responding to queries
somewhat mechanical and flat
tis understandable (to me) -
how media hounds buzz like a giant gnat
she generally maintains
(in my opinion) steadfastness
indicating strengths to grapple
with worldly wide webbed woes
without tossing in/out figurative hat
n might be regaled with courtiers unfurling a tartan scottish mat
while tight security maintains vigilance
against bad company, who could spat
or risk hurling little rocks
and/or vials of corrosive acid from the white water vat.
As the never world awaits me,
The lord darkness, his cloak now draped.
Haunting images that appear in dreams,
Invade the subconscious, till again I wake
Complative thoughts well before the dawn,
I walk the morning shore,
How many have stood on these same sands,
Reflecting the echoes of those no more.
And still the waves they pound the shore,
Relentless in their quest,
As they crash on the rocks with deafly roar,
White tipped and foaming zest.
Dawn breaks with gilded cotton clouds,
Waiting like courtiers to their king.
Gathering round the sovereign sun,
Bestowing his warmth on everything.
Would that life compare to the shore,
All worries get washed away.
Cares thrown to the four winds,
As on my knees I pray
© N A Windle 2009
I thought it was enough I loved them all.
Yet love may rise, whilst lives about one fall.
In myriad hopes conceiving were I tasked,
Yet all the while, on balconies I basked.
For glory’s garlands shall it ne’er suffice,
To virtue honor and inhabit vice.
Till by degrees my kingdom fell to ruin,
And all its merits, by the winds were strewn.
I spoke when dreams were broke from Fortune’s stings.
“Let gloomy courtiers speak of gloomy things,
And here proclaim the Corronach of Kings;
For this shall be the measure of my sorrow:
That I shall live today, and not tomorrow.”
Thy wits didst fail, yet heart were well.
It is a greater grief I tell.
I found much folly on life’s stage,
And in the embers of our age,
I found myself a bitter sage.
Of those whose lives I could address,
I little thought, and cared still less.
My heart was on a distant shore,
And so their blood beat as before.
Though called by gods, I did not rise!
And where the honor I were wise?
Time pauses not for idle grief,
Of humble men, nor high sharif:
The past a current, life a leaf.
Time passes not for fools alone,
And wiser men, they must atone,
Before their wits decay to bone.
Decay is not the only thing
That Time’s companions ever bring:
And winters fall that summers spring.