Not to cast the first stone,
we stood alone.
paladins of justice.
Just us.
I wonder how the trees feel when their leaves finally blow away,
Or when the baby birds nesting there grow old enough to give their mothers chase?
Sitting under her shade,
Do old trees feel pride when they’ve reached their resting age?
Patiently waiting paladins,
There’s thunder in my mind that contemplates,
Why is it that you can’t help but be selfless for all the rest of your days?
Maybe I could learn something from the trees as I hide from the Sun’s rays,
A slumber under your protection,
I wish I could thank you to your face.
I’m thankful for your creation,
I’m thankful you’ve never asked for your thanks.
I’m thankful for your patience,
I apologise for your brothers,
Memorialisised in the planks.
Tranquil,
I humbly offer libation.
I’m grateful for you,
Thanks.
Lying in her long veils on the calm black water
In a dream I shall feel lull them asleep among the foliage;
pours burning love the devil's paladins;
that by starlight! of black devils and black wolves!
The wind kisses her breasts by the wave.
- a nest of mad kisses, the star has wept rose-colour.
In a slumbering alder hemmed in by chimaeras.
- from violet forests: where the stars are sleeping.
Lying in her long veils, on the calm black water
embroidered with black moss her great veils rising
mount in my soul but endless;
I cared nothing for all, hurled of the hulks hurricane,
of sour apples pale-eyed realize in antique dramas
the scented twilight, devoured by vermin
Yes I am a towering fierce being,
Yet you still bring me down bleeding.
Yes I enjoy causing nightmares and battling paladins,
Yet with you my devastating powers have fallen under agonizing defeats.
Yes I have a scarred wounded face,
Yet with crayons you leave me with cherubic countenance.
Yes I have a deceitful evil laugh,
Yet you are able to read its honest and auspicious graph.
Yes I mostly plan to overthrow something,
Yet you jolt me back to sanity with your alluring humming.
Yes I need to be feared by people,
Yet with you I leave my heart to be tucked behind your conspicuous sepal.
Yes I do lack the sense of wrong or right certainly,
Yet with you I am wrapped around and engulfed conscientiously.
Yes I am not a monster,
For you have robbed my heart and I don’t need it back any longer.
Home of the Brave
The hero of the country
The soldier of the fight
The Excalibur of the story
And the phoenix in flight
The soldiers are paladins
The fights our salvation,
The sword is courage
And the phoenix is protection
The flag of the state
The marker of the tomb
The emblem of hate
And the badge of doom
The flag is evidence
The marker is tribulation
The emblem is a catalyst
And the badge is a profession
The water of the ocean
The sand of the dunes
The rock of the mountain
And the stream of the blue
The water is their passage
The sand is their solitude
The rock is their knoll
And the stream is their altitude
The home of the brave
The freedom of the land
The pain of the brothers
And the prayers in hand.
The home in our heart
The freedom of our mind
The pain in our love
And the prayers are allied.
I walk around in the
parks of Oslo
A bird scrapes
Ibsen’s ear with its
beak
The ash-colored
seagulls
Strut on the square
They resemble
unsightly hens
An ensemble from
South America
Plays music of the
Andes
With long violent
colored flutes
The summer night is
so generous
The day can’t fill
itself with
obscurity
For a long time
Here the greatest
paladins
Aren’t princes with
swords
But valiant scouting
navigators
Who gave other
dimensions to the
world.
Their unyielding
spirits
Are not in museums
They wander
unceasingly on the
fjords.
I'd almost forgotten what we were like
so many thens, so many "do ya remembers" ago
the days fat with warm summer
dripping off golden smiles
melting like wax in the sun
it was all just a race against time
each tick a heartbeat lost
each sunset crash'd like foaming waves
but we had it down
a rhythm method to laugh in the face of the moon
tearing the days off cheap dime store calendars
using Tuesday and Saturday to roll our stale cigarettes
it seemed so simple then
in my complicated now
smiles + lingering touches + silica crusted toes
= the sight of you in my peripheral vision forever
but now an empty divot in the bed
your perfume on a stranger walking past
the formula unraveled for
we made kingdoms from sand and sargasso
terns our brave paladins
wheeling gull the court's fool
your hair my burnished pennant
snapping in the breeze
I never wanted the earth to turn
cooling air can't turn to black
as shadows fell upon your face
and the sea stole our castle back.
White warriors battle in my blood and yours
Holy crusaders, a selfless, sacrificial corps
Sinister, malignant foes in red rivers quicken
Legions of paladins on the battlefield lay stricken
Now extend your scope, envision the whole globe
Behold this world wrapped in its rancid, rancorous robe
Dungeons, asylums built for the wicked, and culpable
Disuniting one body into the judge and the untouchable
“If a house be divided against itself, that house cannot stand”
This ancient, ancestral teaching we still cannot understand
Thousands of years have passed, the answer remains the same:
Nothing must be left in the shadows, forgotten, a victim of blame
Alone, bordeom creates devious, elemental fantasies. Giants' hands, jerky knives, leave moanig nmphys-opposing paladins quests rsign-stricen, tormented, useless; vicious warlocs, xenopus's ... *yawn*...ZZzzzz
Pick up the pieces, the remnants of
your folly, you few who shuffle the
decks of life. So few to guide ones
destiny, giving quality or lack of,
to your indigenous subjects.
Contesting paladins that manipulate
every move, each infinitesimal pawn
representing a million fold, facing
extinction from each perpetrating
venomous queen, masquerading in her
veil of respectability, whilst
threatening in all directions, just
seeking to intimidate before
striking the ultimate blow for her
player. A stalemate situation
giving both sides honour without
loss, but whom gives a through to
the mother’s, are not her losses the
nations also, are not her tears
programmed, her emotions computerized
into your warring brain?
Who! Are these unmoralistic
puppeteers, those ignominious players
of the ultimate game, those that
stand behind courteous expressions
of decency, love and respect?
“The kings of this game,” Them to be
written into the annals of life,
giving intent of emulation to
future disciples. “History has no
past, no future, just a recurring
theme, only the names change”
© Harry J Horsman 1990
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.