It was a joyful Midwinter coronation
to celebrate the country's new queen.
It had been her destiny since birth,
that she should wed the young prince.
She carried herself regally to the throne
wearing a mantle of sapphire velvet
and a crown set with pearls and diamonds
atop her silken tresses of ebony curls.
Popping out from under time's ruffled sun
a regally vested, chit-chatty Robin.
Cheerily navigating the lemon lime grass.
Perhaps looking for a beetle or crumb.
He daintily hip-hopped into my ring
on legs of beige twigs and lute strings.
Gently tilting a Tiffany-kissed beak.
Offering a daisy chain of silvery peeps.
I thought him just another avian busker
hustling up a mate and something to eat.
I'd little to offer and vigorously apologized.
He just glanced toward his robin egg sky.
Then offered me, in pastels, a Basho haiku.
I volleyed back with crayon-streaked senryu.
Before gliding off to sweet memory land,
he gifted an orange gem from his regal vest.
I considered this day to be impeccably blessed
by Lord Robin of the lemon-lime grass.
A True Story
O, Merlin, you’re as white as the first snow,
prowl regally like feline queen of nine lives.
Wherever I go on my daily errand alone
I don’t feel forlorn, for you're always with me.
You have a cozy bed in my room,
but, every night you sleep beside me.
You climb softly, sit on my drooping shoulders,
or lounge leisurely on my tired thighs,
and caressing you, I feel your magical charm.
As I recline on the sofa, knit a sweater,
you play with the colored woolen balls,
tangled in strands you turn into a weird creature.
At night when all sounds subside,
I lie sleepless alone in the dark,
sense the rhythm of your cat walk.
As I stroke fondly your silky fur,
you respond with purring melodic meow,
I hear as the soothing lullaby tune.
I don’t like people call you my pet,
for you’re like my child, the magical one.
he is coming the birds twitted and tweeted throughout the meadow that day
their excitement was felt in the wind, trees, and grasses, every which way
although not in the loop, I felt an arrival of importance was imminent
royal cardinal flew in and landed on an oak that was a robin’s tenement
the faeries and brownies flew up to a high branch to listen and learn
What the cardinal was saying, I truly could not understand or discern
but he was regally dressed with a steampunk hat complete with plume
he had the attention of every bird and fey before he had to zoom
Autumn breezes in bright and bold
regally arrayed in red and gold.
my dog walks with purpose
regally like a monarch
he stares with yellow wolf eyes
a majestic marvel
his brother is a puppy
running and jumping from here to there
he leaps on King’s back
he is wild without limits or limitations
digging dog makes trench
big brother sits regally
two diverse puppies
The world lay in deepest darkness
As black as a raven’s wing
Bereaved by the sadness of sin
Awaiting the One who would save it
And cause the world to sing
It happened one Bethlehem morn
The hope of all men global
That a star bore witness to the birth
Of the King of kings so regally
In a feeding trough less noble
O come ye let us him worship
And forfeit to him our all
For he is that pearl of greatest price
That is worth more than we surrender
To possess him at his call
Eyes! Doleful and lonely as they quietly penetrate my soul
In their silence, I can hear clamorous rumblings of a tale that pleads to be told
Far-reaching and clamorous are these eyes
So much so that not even their beautiful abode can cover or disguise
Beautifully haunting, they are
So deep and so regally divine
I see them. I feel them.
Deeply,
Deeply,
Deeply, they touch
As they meticulously befuddle every morsel of my being
I awkwardly attempt to look away
But like a magnet, they pull me close, closer
Then they speak of many tales, from a whisper to the pinnacle of rising octaves
Sorrowful narratives of manipulation, deception, jealousy, ghosting, envy, greed, betrayal, hurt, sadness, and even the macabre
They speak of wondrous hopes and dreams in the dawn of life that were quickly and heinously turned to night
Candid and fully exposed as the theatre’s light dims
She stands poised, dauntless disciplined and statuesque
A stance both stalwart and defiant yet supple are her limbs
Mango hued flower, shoulder's thrown back thrusting her breast
He sits rapped by intrigue as he studies her movement
A silver fox and raven mane is neatly brushed regally back
To beautify him further would take divine improvement
Only to be bathed in her impassioned embrace does he lack
Swirls of sangria red fabric charge like El toro spark undulating trails
Laced in pearly white with azure blue print mesmerize and highlight
And flow about her generous hips in a rage of billowing canvas sails
Flamenco dancers firm legs are revealed in fish nets that boldly invite
Whilst her furtive glimpse ignites his cavalier bon vivant smile
She bewiles with onyx eyes that glisten and fingers splayed for effect
He connects in a flash with a performers come hither guile
Upon times eternal river this fiery night's tryst they shall reflect
A Thought stands alone; waiting, cold, and shivering.
Yay, succor from a Scribe, who against the slaughter of the innocent, and whose own thoughts are fair, places around the shoulders of the Thought a robe of ermine- this being a robe of magic- the magic and mystery of forefathers, and of footprints of children not yet born.
Now, Thought standing regally, spawns more thoughts,
And thoughts upon thoughts blossom like a tree with fruits;
Yay, tutti frutti, ample for a slice of fruit to be given to each one in the crowd.
And the crowd, eating the fruit, began to think,
And so more thoughts were formed.
Halt! Do pray.
While eating fruit one hears a rattle at the door.
Foreshadowing that the door has no lock, it opens furtively,
(my heart now pounding, inasmuch guests were not expected),
And enters with aplomb, a haughty trickster from the witche's lair.
The trickster grabs the ermine wrap from Thought,
And as quickly leaves the room with the beloved robe.
Once more, Thought stands alone, waiting, cold, and shivering.
Fall season is a favored time of year
when leaves irradiate their aurum cheer.
Custard colors cloak paths with brilliantine
while misty breezes tease the woods to sheen.
A couturière flouncing haute couture,
adorning the hillside with striped hachure.
Rich gemstones of ornate colors convey
an elegance to Her brilliant bouquet.
Wild winds blow briskly and bracingly strong.
High mountain tops lace in silver sarong.
Her splendent figure, festive femme fatale,
reigns regally pluperfect pastorale.
Her flamboyant panache is très chic.
Au fond, She's decisively magnifique!
Have its lobster claws times two pincered off
One way sticks of this crustacean’s underwater trap?
Eight leggedly it gallops off among arthritic, bulbous trees.
And waves its spiny tail to cover up its tracks.
Dogs have joined the spirit of the game,
Spaniels with foreheads as regally as high
As their master princess on a unicorn
And will play this pint sized monster-knight to death.
Undistracted by surrealistic fish camouflaged in dark,
Untempted by sea horses following her braid.
Never can crustacean hunts be lost
When hounds are hot upon a trail of lobster sauce.
Like the Sphinx
Igor lies regally
With eyes closed off
To the world.
He finds his zen
And feels the breeze
But knows not how much
He is revered.
Rooted on a moss-banked hill,
its branches spread far and wide.
By Summer's end, leaves veined gold and crimson.
Then, Autumn’s hand brushed them with russet paint.
Twas the time of year the elm tree despised.
Wind ruffled in their last days,
leaves danced as if burning flames,
until gales sent them tumbling to the ground.
Barren, as though in malaise, the elm stood.
Blame was cast upon harsh Winter weather.
Weeping for its naked limbs,
on a moss-banked hill it grieved.
For the change of season, it held loathing
and contempt for Nature's wrongful doing.
For surrounding its roots with drifts of snow
But on cusp of Spring's advent
tiny buddings will appear.
Branches will be clothed in fulgent raiment,
an umbrella agape, providing shade
for trilling songbirds in need of perching.
Reigning from atop the hill,
Ancient elm, regally frocked.
Sub Categories
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.