Long Vassals Poems
Long Vassals Poems. Below are the most popular long Vassals by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Vassals poems by poem length and keyword.
Placed third in :
Any Topic Any Form Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Sotto Poet
Death the Leveller
Icy are the palms of your hands,
You know neither enemies, nor friends,
You are the callous leveller
Of every living traveller.
Whether humble vassals or kings,
Whether abbots or emperors
All yield at the fence of your ring
All bow to your fearful terror.
You respect neither caste, nor creed,
You respect neither wealth, nor rank,
You respect neither age nor deed,
Everyone you pinch in his flank.
You proclaim yourself as victor
And as your kingdom`s emperor,
You roll terror on mortal`s mind
As you bring bodies to a grind.
But can you level a man`s soul
That is immortal, invisible,
Spirited and immutable
And aims to reach the Divine Whole!
Satan, the old serpent
A snake with blue eyes, won’t repent
Is the prince of the power of the air
To me there is no evil that can compare
I have usurped God authority on Earth
I tempted the Son of Man with an alternate birth
“You don’t need to go through the shame and degradation
Of the cross and all that humiliation”
“Do you really think God wants you to suffer this much?”
I have given lies their velvet touch
And I have taken a third with me
In my suzerainty
Every vassal and fief
I lead them to and through with my drum and fife
I conduct the confusion of the Middle Ages
I confuse the lords and the sages
(He maneuvers with his doubt
Those who move about
On his chessboard, (overall the board of the Lord)
He has bishops and kings fighting for the ring
The ring of sovereign authority over things
Over duchies and vassals who scowl
In the age-old dance of crown and cowl
I start the funeral pyres of all empires
And I delight in the aftermath of war’s destruction
And the smoldering of the ruins and all the corruption
And over the above ground open tombs I swoon
I laugh and unfurl my wings
Along with church and state I sing
(I am devoted to both sides
That’s how I ensure both sides collide)
I point the Lombards at the papal spire
And began the fall of the Hohenstaufen empire
I created the Investiture Controversy
To get to the bishops and abbots
To unrelentingly reveal all their bad habits
I’ve promoted the mote
By saying “the parchments are out of date wrote”
I have walked the holy stones in the garden of God
And where angels trod
And the Earth to and fro at any hour
Waiting for someone to devour
I honor the unholy trinity and the sinner in you and me
Cloaked in grinding whispers
Such inhabitants feel
Their way
Gallop the day
By thrusting, trusting
Emblazoned minds
Envious looks deflected
As the clan stays on task
The full-time preoccupation
And execution of self-expression
Daring risks trickling
The vacant gutters
Thirsty for adrenalin
And a satisfying gulp
Of shattered dreams
Fashionable product
Underserved and underappreciated
By the sanctimonious angels
Slinging hash in pits
Adjacent to the realm of man
Does thou hast remedies
For secrets and manipulations
Self-inflicted
The favored play of
Tenderlicious vassals
Who clamor for more
Than anyone truly deserves
The proven chorus
Decorated in colors
Beyond their years
Hum a distant buzz
Galvanized harmony
Textured strokes o' plenty
Count the measure seventy
Plus whatever is needed
No budget heeded
Because symphonies
Laced with street sugar
And turnstiles revolving by
The peeks and cheats
Sing the bling
And never stray too far
Given no better place
To go.
(8/7/06)
Vultures verify vulnerable villages,
Vacuuming value, venerating vaults.
Voters vilified, voices vetoed,
Votes vanished, victories volatile.
Visible villains veil violations,
Virtuous veterans victimized via vanity.
Vast vaults versus vacant vessels,
Value vaporized, virtue vandalized.
Vice validates violence, violence validates vice,
Vicious vortex, vicious vice.
Victims vilified, victors vindicated,
Verdicts valued via victory.
Vassals versus visionaries,
Veins vibrating, voices volcanic.
Volition versus validation,
Vital versus virtual vocation.
Verify every version.
View every veil.
Value verification versus verbal virtue-signaling.
Vision without visibility becomes voluntary blindness.
Vengeance? Vacant.
Virtue? Variable.
Victory? Valueless without volition.
Value lives via voluntary vision,
Verses vibrating with visceral veracity.
King Arthur had a lightning rod. Guinevere found him trying.
His vassals though profoundly odd were far more satisfying.
In martial arts he did excel. At other trades his plying
Could never suit his ego well -- one often found him sighing.
Whenever he returned from war, he was the day's sensation;
But evening found him sad and sore, insensate to persuasion.
Sometimes he tried, and tried his best, to rise to the occasion,
But instanter fell back to rest. His queen must feign elation.
The thing that made it all so strange, he thought himself a charmer.
The king, it seems, a bit deranged, was fearful he might harm her.
She tried to be a faithful wife, avoiding page and farmer;
But Arthur would not, on his life, ever remove his armor.
"Swift Arthur" appeared previously in Fantasy & Terror 9, 1986. It will be collected for the first time in my forthcoming collection The Ocean's Tryst and Other Metrical Tales of Heroic Fantasy.
"Point of no Return"
**************************************************************
Death is a "Point of no Return"
Labouring with his flagging wings to fly,
Like lame lark he soars above cotton clouds
During the day and night to reach the sky
As with invisible wings he`s endowed;
It`s his soul quitting his bodily frame
That lying abed for some woeful weeks
With sustained stretch of stinging pains aflame
Now to part away is yearning to seek;
Afflicted to very core with heart ailment
Rescue has reached a point of no return,
With his closest of kin torn with lament
And his spouse expressing deepest concern;
Half alive half dead, gazing at he sky
He appears living in another world,
Silent and speechless with no sigh, his eyes
Dipped in some distant dreams are nearly curled.
Death is implacable and knows no bound,
When knells for us our final divine bell
Like yellow autumn leaves we kiss the ground
And to smoothen its will no tale to tell.
Simple folks or monarchs, vassals or lords
At their journeys` end kneel before its shrine
And to cajole it just cannot afford
Nor to sidestep its smashing sizzling shine
Death, indeed, is a point of no return
It respects neither caste nor creed nor rank
And allows not to make any U- turn
Nor does it permit any playful pranks.
the boat is as weathered as his face
it is his life, his treasure
steering the prow to sea hours before dawn
and in that darkness, the nets are set
small talk meanders the ponga
time to catch up on some sleep, other times
arguments erupt between brothers
keeping everyone awake watching stars
once dawn has passed the nets are retrieved
to pay for the daily bread
it was in that uncertainty two perished
as nature's fury rolled from the darkness
those red skies of mourning
son, brothers, husbands, fathers, friends
headstones never say it all
the funerals have come and gone
sitting upon the late morning shore
watching the fishermen, boats lie tethered
their hands are honest, scarred
their knives sharp, scarlet
as they gut the fish above roars
a maelstrom of pelicans, magnificent frigates
in serious air-shore warfare for entrails
and small fish these men toss
there is laughter in those eyes
brothers sharing the plunder of the sea
once the fish are sold they share a beer
stories of the sea, repair nets
clean pongas and more than i will share
by early afternoon they are gone
such is the daily bread here
where the demons howl the night
the angel's right to sing dawn's glory
these are the patron saints of cantinas
vassals to the sea, nature's capriciousness
whose fate on the morrow
could be drinking in Neptune's Tavern
San Blas 91 The Patient Stones
for the fishermen of San Blas, Matachen Bay
a fairy tale of Camden Town
Clancy’s Gym, the same old sounds
a minute’s rest then two more rounds
I’ll jack this in (like Bobby Prewitt)
but where’s the one who made me do it?
He hasn’t come, he’s never here
by now he’s on his second beer
presiding in the Dublin Castle
surrounded by his navvy vassals
they’re calling me “the Tralee Tiger”
I coulda been … where’s my Rod Steiger?
the jolting jab, fast on his feet,
the bantamweight that no-one’s beat…
my bucket? Something-Saint-John’s-Wood
and scum from gumshields, spit and blood
I’ve learnt a word I like – “effete”
You don’t hear that on Albert Street
He knows I never wanted this. He
said he’d cure me called me cissy
he calls me Rocky. What a sham
why can’t I be the thing I am?
I want to dance like Nureyev
which might explain the fury of
the shellacking that this lad’s getting
Look at those losers busy betting
Sad old slobs with Patterson poses
ten-buck suits and flattened noses
come to think, though, who’s the fool
they’re not up here on this stool
back room Clancy’s Masculine Sports
blood on the gloves, shamrock on the shorts
The world subjects us to terror,
the world transforms our existence ...
It erases our ability to love:
the flowers, the people, the poetry ...
It makes us love consumption.
The world mixes everything ...
Emotions, feelings,
love, fear,
happiness,
joy ... everything is like
if it were merchandise.
So we think normal
all...!
Stratification rules us
we are ordered:
kings,
queens,
vassals,
employees,
bosses ...
The orientation of the world,
put us in disarray ...
The compass of the world,
disorient,
the maps are incomplete,
everything is prepared for chaos!
Policy mixes
with poetry ... economy
with art ...
Complete madness.
The world preaches us
nouns,
adjectives,
nicknames, prices ...
They label us:
white,
black,
yellow,
browns ...
They tell us:
bad,
good,
normal.
Tell us what we should be
or say ...
They make us bran,
dust, desert sand ...
We are everything for commerce,
nothing for humanity ...
We are everything for war,
banner,
flag,
password,
number...
Living like that, revolt ...
Anger is our weapon
against the domain ...
Anger is a vortex of poetry ...
Poetry can still save
this world... !
Earthen motte mounds and bailey burg
Sludge strongholds severed for siege
Norman castles cut of stone surge
Vowed vassals, the lords of liege
Round refuge tower of ashlar
Lured strums of Celtic cither
While they tend to tiers of mortar
Howling high waters hither
Gemlike blades grassy shades of green
Sailing seas beckon smartly
Hair to partly pare ployed the teen
Pirate Queen awaits Bartley
Homeland hush weave no words but mum
Forum flouters of gainsay
Dark Lady of Doona they hum
Legend of the Blacksod Bay
Fortress chieftain forges her case
Ní Grace unbowed by Bingham
Royalty rises face to face
Let them lie Ó Máille clan
Lyrate luck of her Irish pride
Aside vassal villeins sought
Herstory harmonized resides,
‘pon castles cloaked earthen motte