Long Medieval Poems
Long Medieval Poems. Below are the most popular long Medieval by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Medieval poems by poem length and keyword.
In a stone-carved cell where shadows creep,
A Beadsman wakes while the world is deep.
No common Hermit in a lonely cave,
He prays for the soul of the fallen and brave.
His heavy cogitation drifts like smoke
Beneath the weight of a tattered cloak.
Within his walls, the space is cold and spare,
A narrow squint his only window’s glare.
A rough-hewn table and a pallet bed,
With a shallow pit where he will lay his head.
Through the alms-hatch, simple bread is passed,
In this stone-locked tomb where his lot is cast.
He feels the grey acedia of the soul,
A stagnant tide he cannot control.
Each prayer he whispers seems a hollow ambsace,
A luckless hand in a silent place.
Yet as the morning starts to broach the night,
The gargoyle grins in the creeping light.
To feign a hope is a weary task,
When truth is hidden behind a mask.
But dreams of Avalon, that emerald shore,
Whisper of peace and the end of war.
It would beseem a spirit such as his
To find the enchantment in a world like this.
He calls to his compeer, the rising sun,
The long night’s labor finally done.
For though the stone is cold and the air is thin,
The light of the spirit is where the days begin.
The candle flickers, a dying spark,
As he prepares to leave the dark.
No more the nullity of a life in debt,
No more the shadows where the sun has set.
His reflection ends, the beads grow still,
He yields his spirit to a higher will.
Above his head, the Eye of Providence keeps its watch,
While fingers fumble at the final notch.
It would befit a soul so worn and grey
To find at last the breaking of the day.
No longer bound by church or heavy stone,
He claims a peace he’s never truly known.
His consort calls from far across the mist,
A land of gold the setting sun has kissed.
Enchantment wakes, the old myths call his name,
And Avalon begins to fan the flame.
The Beadsman leaves his cell and shallow pit,
To find the light the heavens have unlit.
Note: A touch of the 13th century.
Sand scrapes my skin as I wake,
Warm water around my shoulders break,
Spluttering, I shake my head and open my eyes,
Palms and dunes to my surprise.
Shock constricts my body as I cannot register time and space,
The bar, the music, the fast pace
Am I dreaming?
What is this place?
Try to rise but there’s a heavy weight,
Body entangled in a putrid drape,
The marine meadow; a slimy constraint,
A sea tangle, I must escape.
Rigidly I strip away the remnants of the sea,
And drag myself to the water's edge to cleanse the whole of me.
Crustaceans, salt, an external coat of slime
Begone the foulness drying with time.
The pristine coastline,
White sand stretching around,
The cove overshadowed by palms and vines,
An escape, if invited, to relax and unwind.
Mangoes and coconuts,
But where is the wine?
The wine that blanketed my mind.
For somehow I have been transported to a time,
Of an unknowing adventure, that was not planned by mine.
Flashes of a yacht, bright lights and sound,
A heavy splash, to a sinking drown,
A sea coated awakening, a heavy frown,
I’d fallen over, but not shut down.
Heavy of heart, I wander through the brush,
Unforgiving terrain cuts at my thighs,
I seek the higher ground,
My body persists with audible sighs.
The top; a vista of incredible size
Without division between water and sky,
I feel lost and abandoned,
Overwhelmingly I cry.
A reflective sparkle from down below,
Catches my eye as a shape appears to glow,
My yacht, my friends,
My place in the world.
Scrambling down,
Excited and desperate,
I stumble, and crash,
My body too wretched.
The target is near,
life saving and clear,
But I cannot see the ground beneath me,
Anxiousness enveloping my all,
And I fall.
Fall, and fall.
The facade leans out, like a medieval pell,
As I descend into a violent chasm,
Torn and broken, a cry ringing in the death knell.
A heavy thud easy to fathom.
In the hive, she is so well attended -
thousands of workers, all pleased to toil,
hundreds of soldiers keep her defended,
all for her, and her palace of soil.
But when it comes time, my queen, I'm afraid,
it will be just me bound purely to you.
No castle with servants, no knights to bade -
and I'm hardly a king; I must speak true.
I do not drink ambrosial nectar,
yet, somehow, with God's grace, I shall become:
worker, warrior, provider, protector,
merely a man, yet an army of one.
I must do it all, such pleasure to strive,
for love of my queen and fate of our hive!
24 March 2023
A SIMPLE POETRY CONTEST Poetry Contest sponsored by John lawless
...Early the next morn screaming arose
when the servants found him there in the bed,
blood matter his beard, his tongue was swollen,
his face blue as he lay there, quite dead.
And right next to him the woman did lay,
also dead, though her face held a smile,
I learn closed and sniffed a peculiar scent,
a poison I’d not seen in quite a while.
She had smeared it all across her full lips,
then kissed the king and doomed both to their deaths,
I wondered who sent such an assassin,
but recognition hit and stole my breath.
It was the woman from that ruined town,
whose poor husband Malistare had killed!
She must have escaped, and not been enslaved,
Tten with a cold lust for vengeance been filled.
Had she known about such poisons back then?
Local herbs or such things, who can say?
All I knew is that it had been seven years,
she’d been planning a long time for this day.
Of course the people heard nothing of this,
they were told that the Gods had ‘called him home,’
‘struck down’ at thirty, such a ‘tragedy,’
all of Blenum wept loudly and moaned.
And with no trueborn heirs to take the throne
the whole lineage had died with the King,
all knew war was coming, so they blamed me,
said I should’ve saved him, should have done something.
I was, of course, sent into exile;
forty years gone, I am facing my end,
but truth should be known, that whole dynasty
was brought down by a mere peasant’s revenge.
The sleepy begonias undulating slightly so undisturbed
leaned forward to encourage and wish me good fortune,
while the apricot trees spread around their strong aroma,
a dazzling daylight was rising from the majestic mount;
a soft voice rose from the next room, it was mamma
calling me: I sprung from my bed in disorder without
feeling grumpy, the alarm playing Mozart's sonata failed:
pants and sweater were neatly ironed to enhance my figure!
Saddened neighbors waited outside with teary and sad eyes,
hugs were exchanged, my goodbye was intensely bitter and bleak;
Lucy, the girl next door, came running and embraced me twice,
" When you arrive in America, write me. I nodded, unable to speak.
The Autmn's shadows persisted, fighting the invading light with clouds;
each face I stared at reflected the profound sadness that stirred inside!
I glanced at the calendar: September 11, 1966 the day of departure,
fate set that date with my approval embarking me on that journey
to far America: stripping me of childhood's joys with little reward.
I departed from the house of my ancestors: a sturdy medieval castle
built for a price who rode horses through forests with echoing sound:
his name was never revealed, its a story dramatized with mystery.
I dare to challenge
the source that sustains life
to show a pure reflection of myself,
of a face not ravaged by time.
I may look younger and vibrant,
I may walk quicker than a teen
and put to shame a chabby one
who can hardly take a step forward.
Inside I have stored the great wisdom
of my ancenstors who lived in medieval times,
and with their genius made Europe
them come out of their gloominess and danger.
When northern Europe was frozen and desolate,
people came to Italy to seek warmer regions
and they mixed with the locals to create
an attractive race of strong men and sexy women.
It's the Italian genes that make me unique,
a handsome face and a gorgeous body...
a Greek god that is not ashamed of nudity
claiming his handsomess and physical attractiveness.
It's time I looked into the clearest water that reflects true masculinity:
the innocence that youth wasn't able to erase too easily,
and having hard muscles and the willingness to fight bellicosly:
I will not encounter an adversary who can challenge me and defeat me.
Medieval times
A time of splendour
With gallant Knights
Ladies so slender
Jousting tournaments
The ladies all squeal
Exploding of hoofs
The clash of steel
Enter the Black Knight
To a round of jeers
The White Knight enters
To resounding cheers
First pass no foul
They try it once more
The Knight in White
Slumps to the floor
They carry him off
And tend to his wounds
A Blue Knight appears
The ladies all swoon
The maidens favourite
Known far and wide
Lord Richard of Leeds
His lance by his side
They ready for battle
Shields are in place
Masks of armour
Covering their face
Towards each other
They gallop full speed
Lances held high
The snorting of steeds
The Black Knight falls
The hero wins out
Blue Knight celebrates
Victory in the joust
Approaching the King
Horse and rider bow
The people go wild
Allegiance they vow
Medieval times
Hail to the King
Jousting tournaments
What glory they bring
In my blooming brokenness,
I seek for a
clue of something meaningful,
but what if nothing of velvety value
ever lies within material items,
frozen in trembling time,
soaked in raining blood roses,
yet holds memories inscribed~
with blushing beams of blueberry glows,
drifting above hushed hills
sitting in the hollow hallways
in hallowed motionlessness.
Is it ironic that a golden mirror
emanates reflections
of more than just my
bronze silhouette?
It weighs heavy with seething secrets,
lost between changing seasons
and deranged emotions,
resigned in rhythmic requiems
of restrained freedom.
I remember the suppressed
sagas of silvery glass,
that stretched beyond my watery iris,
written with russet skin of fallen feathers...
and I whisper to the vermilion wallflowers
within my burgundy room,
of how I found the magical mirror
to my aching soul,
in a retail store, illuminated
by medieval chandeliers,
hanging in Victorian gloominess.
I used to sculpt crystalline chronicles
along the caramel-tinted frames,
that have seen stars of summer fade
into fragile springs,
while autumn arrived,
knocking on my conscience,
to cloak me in sparkling
champagne warmth.
But time is a relentless reminder
of how the garnet moon wanes,
and constellations of
glistening truth crack.
Now the mirror that heard
the unsung songs
beneath my marigold lipstick,
is reluctant to see the unspoken wounds,
leaving me stranded
in an accidental battle
with rhyme-less words,
for all that remains, untamed,
are hopelessly claimed strings
of familiar, once-upon-a-fairytales...
So it refracts, stands, unbothered,
like a forgotten ornament
left under a broken tree,
with weeping leaves and tainted twigs,
without a companion~
wrapped as a pleasant present
ribboned with riddles
of a weathered d r e a m …..
I have no desire to mindlessly
objectify an abandoned object
with mosaic metaphors…
Oh, how I swoon
in the ruby bliss of your sunset kiss -
your vibrant rays of maturity arouses my fire;
touching me with urgent rapture,
saturating me in sparkles of champagne light, then,
streaming through me in bold shafts of gold.
We embrace
in the broadening bloom of lantana skies -
our burning blend;
your western blaze my prismatic panes
telling biblical stories of love and pain,
bestowing rainbows into depths of dark -
our fervor cast like water-colored sprites
in far-flung illuminations
across dusky medieval arches
enlightening dim granite walls
gracing graceful curves and conscientious columns
in jewel-shades waltzing with your solar pulse.
Our vivacious union reflects our Gothic romance
in mirrored mirages dyeing the staid floor
with painted riches that richly rejoice
in plashes of splashy
orgies of light and glory
the appetite of holy ambiance whet
by warm and cool tones
pregnant with passions of the heart
and imbued with torments and ecstasies
of the soul -
cleaving humanity and divinity
in flaring flair; emerald, sapphire, citrine and garnet,
amid our spellbinding moments
of tantric twilight magic.
Our synergy electrifies
the night-falling quietude of this sacred space
before our enchanted euphoria
begins to wane… and as your dying flame
gives way to the rise of the shy crescent moon
I lose my orgasmic zest
to the evening’s ebon hue.
Mis Chakras No Tus Chakras
It’s too early in the morning to have my patience challenged.
Woosah _ kumbaya _ got to get my chakras in balance.
Hold back my tongue _ use small words _ set breath at steady pace.
Surely what needs saying is clearly written on my face.
Muscles in my jaw refusing to smile.
Being a lying phony’s never been my style.
Best effort to grin becomes a scary grimace.
Nothing else to do but quickly leave the premise.
After botching up the routine plans of my day.
“Have a Good One” is all that BLEEP had to say.
I bet that negative Nancy’s spine is perfectly in line.
He’s too comfortably pleased with giving me a hard time.
As I looked through my rearview, I had to remind myself.
Don’t overlook the sole purpose of that being called the “Elf”.
.....W09212019
[In this writing elves.... Image result for the history from elfmythology.net
The word elf is found throughout the Germanic languages and seems originally to have meant 'white being'. ... For example, a number of early modern ballads in the British Isles and Scandinavia, originating in the medieval period, describe elves attempting to seduce or abduct human characters.]... not good. With that said, one never knows what anyone is lining or aligning themselves up to be/become. Judge the actions, not the idea!