We've woven Samson's hair, into Emperor's clothes
From the tangled web, that enough of us chose
We try to find our way back, while the drawbridge is closed
As the portcullis crashes on the cry in our throat
If we could but match it, with sincerity's tear
We might fashion a shield, and a mantle to wear
But if we cling to the cloak of the silk that's been woven
By the dance of the golden hooves of the cloven
We'll be trampled under, that stampede of lies
In the gathering storm, as it darkens the skies
It won't echo and thunder, as our epitaph
But a death knell our legend, as history laughs
At the folly of thinking, "We're better than that."
Swept into the dustpan, or under the mat
Placed at the bottom, of a yellowing page
In some forgotten tome... of enlightenment's age
IT STARTED WITH A BLANK CANVAS
Come lay your paint on me, it pleaded
I’m here in this garret, naked and cold
So what could I as a sensitive artist, do
Except comply, dabbing shades of blue
Reaching for indigo, as if I’d been told
Then pausing, to hear what it needed
Canvas relieved it was no longer blank
Stood there proud, and eager for more
As if formally bloodied in its first hunt
And so pleased, I almost heard it grunt
To win this creative battle, if not a war
For every new daub, the muse to thank
Coloured layers, streaks and a smudge
To which even a rainbow might defer
But now an abstract image has its day
It now had a life of its own on display
And for myself, expression is the spur
Unpainted areas still bearing a grudge
Both the brushes and I played our part
The canvas with a coat of many colours
With a final flourish, it is finally signed
And now it seems to have its own mind
It’s access for all, with raised portcullis
Now a painting, perhaps a work of art
KEEP
All keep safe and heed my warning
Too late to escape by early morning
And surrounded as the day is dawning
The outer walls are thick and strong
But battered, they’ll not last too long
And our fate is solely in our hands
The keep is well protected by a moat
As those in armour will never float
Guards will follow all orders by rote
But access will be barred, it is true
With portcullis and drawbridge too
And our fate is solely in our hands
We do have secrets that we must keep
But if under attack, we will not sleep
As our dead will pile high in a heap
Yet we will certainly respond in kind
By killing them all and yet never mind
And our fate is solely in our hands
We’ll keep the true faith as crusaders
Even though we’re considered invaders
And none staying here are dissuaders
The Holy Land is our very right to win
And with never a thought of giving in
And our fate is solely in our hands
The door is closed
The shutter down
No voices heard
Now out of town
Portcullis, locks
A barricade
Small chance to rescue
What was made
The landing pad
A storm does seize
To wildest rush
From gentle breeze
Out to lunch
Back in five
Lost moments where
A heart did thrive
I missed a memo
No call to chat
Thumbs-up emoji
That is that?
A one-way street
Without reverse
A mystery
Perhaps a curse
What's done is done
Some may say
But heroes find
A better way
To rescue friendship
To seek the truth
It's old school faithful
Yes, foresooth
Place on the armour
Grab sword..Away!
We live to love
Another day
James Reaney ORACULAR PORTCULLIS
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\/\/\/\/\/\/VV
November is a thin needle under the shortest rib,
often it slips past your moat, your portcullis,
your castle walls unnoticed.
The fire in your kitchen splutters
and the wood is too wet to rekindle it.
Only then do you look through a spy glass
from your highest tower
see the wraiths churning in the sparse woods,
see the dervish dance of demented bones
resurrected from last year.
Chill November is here
and the guards are asleep.
The dark winter of your content
needs a new puffer jacket.
Call for the seamstress of your soul,
call for the mitten maidens.
Gather up the woolens
for all the wind soaked feet
that have to march on.
The portcullis skulked up and down, with incisors twice.
Welcomed in victory; treachery was his victor. He’d sink low.
Rose petals bow under carriage wheels of friend, now foe.
To kiss the crown, the betrothal princess, he paid the price.
To kiss the crown, the betrothal princess, he paid the price.
Rose petals bow under carriage wheels of friend, now foe.
Welcomed in victory; treachery was his victor. He’d sink low.
The portcullis skulked up and down, with incisors twice.
8/10/2020
MIRROR MIRROR Poetry Contest
Sponsor: John Lawless
Fire's fickle flare falls down
Rosy cheeks
with violent wet streaks
of fury shattered against the
shores of tragedy.
Hair torn, grace forlorn
feigning futile fights from last morn
now rendered pointless
by endless scorn.
Free flows follow fine lines
between sorrowful and happy times
bittersweet empty crimes
unsustained lies,
times terrible truths held to roost
smashing boundaries juiced
like sour limes.
Green, with envy
no longer gently held
behind dry mascara recently welled
and screams, so gleefully yelled
at who?
The vast verbal vindictive void,
the nothing, the emptiness
You held so deep, that only
passion could melt that frozen keep.
teeth gnashing like a spiked portcullis
holding back your mortal lips
from words so venomous they bring abyss.
- A journey started by a single kiss.
Your castle has a moat
to mark for the unawares
the point of danger,
the change of rule.
My fort has a juice box
Your castle has a drawbridge
to allow in only those
who pass the "Hark! Who goes"
test and cause the chains
to move.
My fort has peak roof
for peeking out
and, on occasion
for peeking in.
But only for the Lucky Few
and only in the Lucky Few
moments when all is well,
for a spell.
Your castle has
both balustrade and colonnade,
meurtrière 'n its parapets
for staving off the storms
and againststanding and
withstanding arméd swarms.
My fort has a
pair a pets:
this fluffster at my calf,
snoring and this stuffster
in crook of arm;
well-worn, with eye
missing but stuffed
animals see with squishy bits
inside, not these button eyes.
Your castle has barbican and portcullis.
My fort has a wittle wiccan. Jealous?
Your castle has both crenellation and machicolation.
My fort has an introvert's narration and ceaseless cogitation.
Your castle has walls of
stone, long-charred by dragon
breath. With dents by dint
of Minotaur and Harpy.
My fort is cotton batting,
linen for winnin'
battles with monsters
greater than your gods.
Stephanus Marcus
by
Alfred Laurie Berggren
Stephanus Marcus Book I Spenserian Stanzas
Canto 1
Verse 1
Behold the knight as prancing steed doth seek
to stray from line behind man's comrades brave.
With gentle rein he stays the gait oblique
and makes the dancing gelding know, behave!
Some people wait to see them leave and wave
as riders file toward raised portcullis gate.
Sad families pray for peace in chapel's nave
that Virgin might assuage Duke Morley's hate.
Lord's mind's been troubled by Duke Saint Charles sore of late.
I sometimes forget
That my words
Face foreclosure
When they run at the
Alabaster face of your castle .
And sometimes,
i dream that these words
storm the portcullis
Burn the barricades
bring the walls down
Camelot falls
But the truth Is
most days
These words, this heart, falls short
And drowns in the shallow moat
Outside your door.
Castle On A Hill
I saw a magnificent castle on a hill
Its towers up high piercing the clouds
Conical roofs with slight golden shimmer
Brilliantly covered with a sunny shroud
But the walls looked old and tarnished
And the big metal portcullis was rusted
The moat was definitely all dried up
And the ditch was grime-crusted
I wonder if anyone lives up there
If there is a princess on one of the towers
I'd like to be her knight and rescue her
If only I could climb above that flimsy bower
But this castle looked way too old
And abandoned as it lost its glory
My fairytales had a different picture
They did not look this profane in the stories
Instead it looks like one of those castles
They show in horror movies and cartoons
With a thundery night, full moon and a wolf howling
Housing a big frightening buffoon
Yes, that must be it
Its nothing but a scary old mansion
I'm glad I didn't linger there long
So much for a monumental attraction.
20/04/2016
I wish I lived in middle earth,
With wizards and hobbits and elves.
Just give me a sword and a quest to fulfill,
Like the heroes in the books on my shelves.
I wish I had a dragon to slay,
A hideous fire-breathing beast.
Or a princess to save from an odious fiend,
Or a tall ship to sail nor’ by nor’ east.
I wish I had a battle to fight,
With archers and pikemen and knights.
Or be a sultan with a harem of shapely young maids,
In a garden of earthly delights.
I wish I had a magical lamp,
Or a walnut that would turn things to gold.
Or live in a castle with portcullis and moat,
In a kingdom a thousand years old.
I wish I had a windmill to tilt,
Or a brave army of champions to lead.
But alas modern life affords nothing like this,
So I curl up with a good book and read.
(20 lines)
© Copyright 2012 J.A. Stevens
The castle is a place where poets dwell.,
Where each can cast their wondrous spell.
From the turrets high to the dungeons deep
From each portcullis to the central keep.
Its powerful walls keep foes at bay.
They keep us safe from day to day.
The knights are brave and fight with zeal.
In armoured suits and swords of steel.
The poets live as all men should.
Side by side in brotherhood.
The magic of rhyme is all they seek
From modern tongue to ancient Greek.
The castle echoes with the sound of joy,
And haunting words from man and boy.
The maidens fair who live within
Pen words of love and carnal sin.
For each one here there is a place
To release the soul from its inner space.
With words of mirth and sorrow both.
And witches spells of evil oath.
The castle grows from day to day
And people come from far away.
But once inside these walls of grey,
They find that they are here to stay.
Their words are all that leave this place,
Their souls the castle shall embrace.
So in our quest for perfect poem
We call this place our sonnets home.
Shivering in silence
Fading in disgrace
I can not name this feeling
But I can recall this place
A kingdom in my nightmares
A vision as I wake
A broken, crying infant
On the throne of my mistakes
I stand outside his city
On the verge of stepping through
The portcullis then closes
Because I’ve denied the truth
Quietly I listen
For the price that must be paid
If I ever wish to enter
I must find something to trade
My sanity seems willing
So I release it into night
Again the vision’s singing
Burning through the light
This time I am crying
Deep within the walls
And in this empty kingdom
A child mourns within his walls
Shivering in silence
Sat upon my throne
With sanity now traded
I am left to fade alone
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