Scabbard Poems | Examples

The Conquistador

Conquistador your stallion is unbridled longing for
the company of an angel's            touch to brow
I see your breast plate armor has lost its sheen
but in your face I see the sign of cuts real clean
Conquistador, did you find what you were looking for

Conquistador, a vulture sits upon your silver shield
and though I searched for you inside a maze
I found no door ,no inner room
you were ready far too soon
Conquistador, did you find what you were looking for

Conquistador, there is no time like now so
raise your rust scabbard and take a newborn stand
I know your jewel-encrusted blade cannot lay still  
always ready for the action always ready for the ****
Conquistador, did you find what you were looking for

Conquistador, I came to jeer at you, with no regrets
and as the gloom begins to fall I see there is no, only all
I know you came with sword held high
although you came to conquer, do you want to die?  
Conquistador, did you find what you were looking for

mightier -

the bane …

of complacency
the enemy of apathetic ids
an all-consuming blade of inspiration
you, mighty weapon
have slain the fiercest dragons of
detachment and disregard that
humanity has brought against you
and I, a knight of notation,
wield you with an authority graced to me
by a vivid imagination
and a child’s whimsical heart …
oh, I do not take your might for granted
nor underestimate your license …
I remove you from your scabbard
in deepest consideration -
your hilt, I grasp with awe
your edge, I apply in deference and fear
for the wounds I affect
are deep and lasting …
you are the Excalibur of inspiration
pulled from a stone of indifference
by the grandest of acumens and spirits
long, long ages ago …
I take up your glyphic garland
with pride and honor
and an undying respect for
the numberless warriors who came before me
and whose names are a prayer
upon these pious lips …
a prayer for you …

my pen.








Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, January 4, 2024

Champagne and Caviar

Colonel Volkov would surely impress the lovely Anastasia
     His limousine driver pulled up at the Palace of the Czar

   Taking lovely Anastasia by her dainty hand
     Volkov would introduce her to champagne and caviar

   Bowing gracefully before his highness
     From his scabbard Volkov pulled his gleaming sword

   Unexpectedly, the Czar did the same, frightening the dame
     Blushing, she implored the mustachioed figure in haughty red

   "I thought to have a pleasant evening, dine to fine music
     Home to a bubble bath, and perhaps spread out in bed ..."

   "I see," the Czar sneered, and said, fondling his sword
     "You've both come this far, let's see your earn your board" 

    With a lunge at Volkov, the Czar pierced his skin
      Blood spurting everywhere ~ foretaste of 'the ugly Russian'

Thorns of Treachery

" ...betrayal begins with trust." Quote_ Phish  

Betrayal is the cold shiny sword
of stalking deception,
sheathed in scabbard of trust.
Its two-edged blade is 
honed to razor sharp,
ready to thrust, lunge and parry
a touche touch.

Betrayal is two-faced
and unreliable.
There's a switch blade in
the hand that reaches out
trustingly and faithfully
for more of you.

So as trust grows,
beware that it sows
the seeds of scorns 
in the thorns
of treachery
and bribery.

The Power of Poetry

I Climbed rocks winged with words, 
and paint beauties on my path, 
invade palaces unhindered, 
bearing arms welling from this frame.
I draw the sword from the scabbard, 
piercing dictators with a dagger, 
I cut their cables by this craft, 
and watched their fickle frame subdued. 
I soar like eagle in my thoughts, 
coruscating gleams attending, 
I see nature's beauty and hear voices,
I roam in firce shades in search of jewels,
The pulse of fear or grim assails, 
Yet capapie and undaunted. 
I see men entrapped in a race, 
oh! that they might see the filth,
and time, how short to pen, 
these vague and obscure moments.
Yet, poetry catches but a few.

Thrust and Slash

THRUST AND SLASH

A sword in a scabbard, hung from the belt
For the Teutonic Knights, it costs much geld
Heated and tempered but it does not melt
Most blades are l straight and double sided
Easy to draw as the long blade is guided
To the old Eastern mind, such is derided
The Moorish influence is in Toledo still
With a special steel that is designed to kill
For fancier guardsmen it would fit the bill
A cutlass is curved with cupped brass guard
Designed for slashing when stabbing is hard
But need sharpening if the edge is marred
Knives however, like most daggers, are hid
An arm for a lady to grip, and quietly slid
Ready for determined action, as many did
Some thin to a point, as a poignard will do
But there are other places to find them too
As for a Scot in a sock, that’s a Skean Dhu


'2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 19' entry, 03 Nov 2022. Sponsor=Mark Toney

Avast Ye Lubbers

Harsh winds, salt spray
familiar weight of bloodstained sabre 
hanging in a pilfered scabbard
one voice among the mayhem heeded
FULL SAIL - CAPTURE THE WIND
LEST WE BE O'ER TAKEN
BEWARE THE SHOALS!


6/25/2020

Time

Time

Thou mighty monarch of “eartherial” scope, 
the vicegerent  and the viceroy of all fickle frame. 
from thy womb lonesome vial sprung, 
and the cavalcades of torrents bearing branches 

Time 
ere that chaotic cosmos regaled in darkness found a cloth of light, 
Thou deccreest the bands and bounds  by thine unvoiced speeches. 
and when creation found a space in thy  vast gale.
thy space was not submerged or muted in all affairs. 

Time

As a conqueror, we see thy doings over man.
thy power over kings. 
and thy victory over thrones 
we stand aghast when arrogance is over. 
speechless at the remains of monarchs. 

Time, 

where is Rome, where is Assyria? 
Where is Babylon, where is Britain ? 
Like carcasses in the wind
they crumbled regaled in dusty past of forgone memories  
their days of Power are over 

Time 
Even now, thy watchers are in all cities upon all arms 
when in rage the sword is drawn from the scabbard  
some you kill.
other you  honour.
and others  you mocked.

May we  in Time, find our paths ere we bid this earth farewell

Coming of Age

In the chapel wherein he laid
His final moments here on earth,
Mirrored image of one’s boyhood
Stands he to claim his scabbard blade,
The chance to prove his manhood.
His mother chides him of his birth
Begs her the need to prove his worth,
His load is heavy the mist swirls
With sword in hand a stab he hurls,
Choice of opponent augurs well
For his father’s champion fell.
Mortal flame in constant bedeck
Life’s been a tombstone round his neck,
Needs the journey for which to trek.
His thirst for blood flows from many
Greed for gold and silver penny,
His ships glide portly on the tide
Needs to be by his mother’s side.
A man he thinks he has become
Yet all the folk at home had fled,
No one listens to his humdrum
When he returns to find her dead!

 © Harry J Horsman 2020

Seeking Honor and Rectitude In This Dark World

Seeking Honor And Rectitude In This Dark World

When pen was, a mighty razor-sharp blade
pulled from scabbard, made from bright-red blood
legion were deep cuts, its slashes once made
to separate true Life, from Earthen crude.

If these veins could again birth sweeter ink
no longer stain virgin paper with dread
soul renew, not further into dark sink
in caverns reserved for walking dead!

No longer can sorrows drive praying heart
nor grasp fortitude to seek hope's dreams
Life held, when poetry played its part
winning battles over mere mortal schemes.

Alas! Pen now finds its ink hard frozen
Death of poet's spirit Fate has chosen!

Robert J. Lindley, 8-14-2019
Sonnet,( Aliud loqui verum, seu silere )

Divine Beauty

I stand like an inverted portrait on your wall
Bollixed Like a lost wallet in a mall
I remained Glued to you all day and night
Like a scabbard to the waist of a knight

Your inexplicable uniqueness got me riveted
And leaves me feeling complete like a script that has been vetted
The sun is full of envy of your brightness
Even Your shadow divulges your uprightness

Your smiles makes me feel like the clock has stopped ticking
And energetic like a baby in the womb that's kicking
You are the moon, I am the night
In my darkness hour, you are my light

#PoeticLord#
(c) June 2019

Sword

Bar of iron cold black

     fire that Burns so very hot

water from rain clear and pure

     hammer of steel heavy and hard

 

into the fire till glowing hot

     sprinkle with powder so very rare

lay on the amble oh so old

     sparks do fly as it is worked

 

over and again to give it form

     careful work yet very hard

heat and work and do it again

     until it holds its final form

 

then heat in the fire hot

     and thrust in the water very cold

then file and file to an edge

     polish and shine and it is done

 

fit with a handle made of wood 

     wrap with wire to give a good hold

in to a scabbard place it now

     get another bar and start again

Thrive On-Hc

One must learn to thrive
Three years of perseverance
Two now pleaded lenience

Three bleeding hearts…. what about the scars, she could never discard?
Everything is fair in love and war; two swords do not fit into one scabbard.

(Thrive on-HC)

27/2/19

Charliekucoup Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: charles messina

Rustle of Lips

Paper rustle of your lips 
is not needed to her really,
You're a knight, but your heart weeps,
You were brave, why are you thrilling?

You would strip your zealous sword,
But there are no foes in moment,
It would sing and say a word
loudly-loudly without torment.

And your ballads have no sense,
You're not worthy for the beauty,
All your deeds don't give a chance,
Take it easy, slave of duty.

Because love does not take out
sword that's frozen in the scabbard,
Hear, how useless pure souls shout,
You are hero in worn tabard.

No one's happy to your flags,
Courage now must be forgotten,
Ballads die, they lie in wrecks,
Paper burns, the flame is gotten.

All will pass, they're angry, rude,
There's no point for her crying,
Drown out tubes, put on your hood,
She won't answer to your trying.

And no matter if heart weeps,
Here are many who're no thrilling,
Paper rustle of your lips
won't confess: I love you, really.

Satire

Wrap due attire
In stern satire,
Hold back hot fire,
Gaze steep and dire.


Drape the sharp blade
In scabbard made,
Cuts do not trade,
If you must grade.


Set your firm poise
With a clear voice,
Dilute the noise,
Spark your calm choice.


Be willing now
To fling endow,
Know not just how,
Spice a sure bow.




Leon Enriquez
28 July 2018
Singapore

• Short Scabbard Poems
• Famous Scabbard Poems
• Best Scabbard Poems
• Read Scabbard Poems
• Long Scabbard Poems
• Scabbard Quotes