Lavender drifts along the castle road,
its scent rising over the castle keep.
Far off, the sun spills gold
across the armor of a passing knight,
A horn sounds from the watchtower,
rolling through the valley like a slow-moving tide.
Hooves answer the rhythmic trot of a rider
returning home after drinking too many tankards of mead.
And the whole kingdom exhales,
wrapped in lavender air and fading gold.
The cursing blank
pages held
traces of
knavish hooded
knights riding
forward for the
sake of
scum un-
godly kings.
593.
Learn History of Medieval Period!
Learn Medieval Period History
Invasions, religions, lordship & slavery
Rise of lords & kings, counts & barons
Knights & serfs, Christian & Islam religions
Monarchs among the English, French, Europeans
Conquerors among the Mongols, Ottomans, Persians
Crusades of the Christians, Caliphates of the Muslims
War & trade among different realms.
-12/12/2017
(Dumarao)
*WHN Poems
Guards are now needed to stop all people
Accessing what makes me need to go extra
Regularly
Down to the hole
Entered by nothing but piss & excrement.
Royalty keeps their dress unspoiled.
Outstanding toilets are sat on by
Bums only for the private
Eye.
In the heart of the whispering woods,
Where shadows dance with the light,
Lies a Child with a gentle soul,
Keeping vigil through the night.
Her Mother, a Witch of ancient lore,
Sits beneath the Mistress Moon’s empathetic glow,
Weaving spells of forgotten dreams,
In the world where secrets flow.
The child always tends to her mother’s heart,
A well of sorrow, deep and wide
For the father, a phantom of the past
Left before the baby’s first cry
With hands of grace and eyes of truth,
She gathers herbs with care
Brewing potions to ease the pain,
And weave hope from despair.
The forest hums with her magic song
A lullaby in the boughs above,
As the child whispers words of strength,
Bound by unyielding love.
In the flicker of the lanterns glow,
The Mother smiles, though tears may fall,
For in her child, she sees the light,
That guides them through it all.
Thus, the child of the witch remains,
In the woods where mysteries dwell,
A guardian of her Mother’s heart,
Where love and magic swell.
In yesteryear the wind was full of battles
Now the wind is still,
Only the ground is active, nourishing itself from the blood of countless sacrifices.
Wild flowers bloom around the spoiled spoils.
"Never again, shall I take up arms," he swore
To the sky, to his God, to the wind, whichever would hear him.
His fists clenched, he beat the air with his rage.
A rage that stemmed from thousands of conflicts,
Over countless millennia
From bare hands and to ultra-nuclear weapons
The results are the same:
The ground drinks fresh blood again from endless human sacrifices.
There are no winners or losers. Only the ground, the wind, the rocks will continue to strive long after we are gone. And the wild flowers will bloom once more in the light of our fading sun.
Winter withers all the meadow’s flowers,
and the frozen hours
paint the woodlands pale:
as the snowfalls thicken,
lindens cast their stricken
branches stark against the season’s whiteness.
Yet I mourn this barrenness less sadly
than I grieve how badly
Shame and Honor fail:
Honor’s stream runs shallow,
Virtue’s field lies fallow,
no heart seeks to cull the rose of rightness.
The spring restores the leaves and petals to the flowers on the thorn-hedge,
but the man whom wickedness has taken
and who has forsaken
Honor’s holy pledge
walks a path of sorrows,
nor can face tomorrow’s
gleaming dawn secure in manhood’s brightness.
— translated from the Middle High German
---------------------------------------------------------------
A lone knight slowly trudges across the snow-covered land
Shooting pain raced down his left arm, for nothing went as planned
Blood poured from a large gash on his leg that had expanded
Winning yet broken, he wished for a death that had felt grand
Approaching his stronghold, choking thick black smoke filled the air
Dancing across the Barbican were wild red orange flares
Realizing they marched not to war, but into a snare
Quickening his pace for there was not a moment to spare
Arriving to find nothing but death inside the fort’s walls
Wine colored land told of the violent fight for the fall
Fighting back tears, he wore each slain’s memory as a shawl
Vowing before God he will avenge the deaths of them all
Crashing loud noise informed the knight that he was not alone
Pushing aside the pain, he moved swiftly from stone to stone
Seeing his foe, drawing his sword, he soon would stand alone
Praying, he charged for the enemy’s woven fate was sewn
The fall of the castles, the siege on the Lords,
The day that the enemy’s melodies soared.
A victory waited ‘till the voices were lent.
Notes beat knives, songs beat the kingdom to its end.
The peasants smiled, but they wished to weep.
They could sow but they could never reap.
The bards saw the pain on their calloused hands,
And decided they deserved to take over the lands.
Thousands of drums began the war.
Violins made rumbles in the core.
The vocals struck the ears with their calls.
The trumpets meant there’s triumph after all.
The fall of the castles, the dawn of an era,
The power of rhythm, the Lords were in terror.
The trials with notation and the style of song,
Caused people to live the way they should’ve all along.
STRANGERS IN THE NIGHT
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
two strangers in the night met
no names were exchanged
no histories were unveiled,
only shared glances
wind sighed through gaunt tree branches
in each other’s eyes
a shared moment, communion
of sacred journeys
HERMIT’S FIRE IN THE FROZEN MEDIEVAL FOREST
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The wind, a teeth-chattering dirge
through skeletal branches,
finds no purchase on the small flame.
He built it low, a secret
whispered to the snow-laden earth,
a defiant ember in the kingdom of ice.
Years bleed into seasons here,
marked only by the shrinking woodpile,
the lengthening beard, the deepening lines
etched by firelight and solitude.
He remembers faces,
ghosts flickering in the flames,
loves lost, battles fought,
a life traded for this quiet burn.
The forest breathes around him,
a vast, indifferent lung.
He is a mote, a spark,
yet the fire persists,
a stubborn refusal to surrender
to the long, cold night.
And perhaps, he thinks,
as the embers glow,
that is enough.
Just to burn.
Just to be.
Once upon a time long gone …
The reigning queen let out a yawn,
And stood up from her regal throne
To trample down the hall alone
She ripped the crown from out her hair
And flung it out the window there,
It tumbled down the castle wall …
No knight or king did hear it fall
And off the ground it did bounce
The crown rolled out into a flounce,
Tumbling down into the moat
And thankfully it did not float
A queen no more and yet she smiled
Chuckling, whooping and skipping wild,
Saying goodbye to the castle rafter …
She'd found her happily ever after.
And if I were no more
than the brook that flowed
Neath' the azure of your skies
Would not the warmth of your heaven
Touch the surface of my waters
Be the season spring or summer
And if my lone voice
was lost upon the winds
with the whispering of M'lady's name
Would it not give pause to thee?
What of the grassy meadow
Where the blanket was cast
and the wine of your eyes
Drunk so freely
What has become of us, M'lady?
There be shadow where the tiny nightingale
once sung and such the cold dark heart
To have all that was undone
But I M"lady, I remember
All that was, now so foolishly denied
And I M'lady, still love
with fervent heart
That which you have taken from me
And I am forevermore
be thine
Agnes Sampson there you say,
As frightened even now as to the strong wind is to a blade of Hay,
But we forget what made her the same,
And what gave the evil fairy Maleficent-her name!
We may accuse Esmeralda of witchcraft-
Just because she loved Phoebus,
But we forget that we too can fall like her from the raft,
And then- get under the Wheels of a running bus.
Maleficent cursed Aurora and made her die,
If that is how they are; then how are we,
We too hide bitterness in our hearts when we do not get the piece of pie,
Then who are we and who is she?
You can hide your face,
But you certainly for long cannot win the race,
Blaming others and saving us is what we do,
Rather than thinking how to change ourselves and wait in the queue.
If I walk with a torn piece of cloth,
Which I wear as I walk like a sloth,
But then I blame a girl walking without it for having no shame,
And who am I to perhaps oppose her for the sake of fame?
The noble lady was full of ire.
Her drunken knight had pissed out her evening fire.
So now she sought warmth by his sleeping horse,
and indulged in some heated intercourse
with the knight's drop-dead handsome squire.
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