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Best Poems Written by David Wallace

Below are the all-time best David Wallace poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | David Wallace Poem

The Death of Robin Hood

‘Come bring my bow of English yew and raise me from this bed
And let me look upon the wood where once I lay my head’
With fading sight and wearied limb through window rose he gazed
With summoned strength and trembling arm his mighty bow was raised
 
Sinews drawn to fullest test he let the arrow fly
And sinking back upon his bed he breathed a heavy sigh
‘Follow yonder willow shaft through forests darkened keep
For flighted by the angels, twill appoint where I shall sleep’

The stalwart oak tree caught the shaft, appointed by Gods grace
Beside a brook, in bluebell’d wood, there marked his resting place
In tunic Gold and Lincoln green, his sword upon his breast
Beneath the trees of Sherwood green was Robyn laid to rest

That mighty heart, its labour done, when stilled its Valliant quest
All England mourned its stalwart son who bore the Locksley crest
And through the silent forest, soft April showers wept
To wash that place from hearts and minds, a secret ever kept

One maid, one Friar, with little John, in sombre vigil stood 
In silent witness mourning, the passing of the Hood
On England’s green and pleasant land was played a Hero’s part
And Never more on sceptre’d isle will beat a truer heart

Details | David Wallace Poem

The Lady of the Lake Part I

Mirror silver clad she stood, upon the lakes dark shore,
A spectral icy vision , that chilled me to the core.
A vapour’d hand she raised to lead, across the sheet glass lake
With racing heart and awestruck eye, I traced its misty wake

A  cold dead air, that chilled my soul, now held my senses keen.
For there among the darkened  woods, I saw what can’t be seen.
Like unlit candles stood a host, of mournful waxen dead,
In decaying desperation, with the fixed stares of the mad 

My pounding heart so close to fail, beat faster at the sight,
As gliding ever closer drew, these sentinels of night.
What fearful power, what dreadful fate, hath drawn them from the 
grave.
Whilst  I transfixed upon that shore, my sanity I craved.

Then turned the lady of the Lake and fixed her steel grey eyes,
then pointed once again to where, the darkwood secrets lie.
My fading gaze could scarce suppose the horrors there replayed,
Whilst spectre ranks, in silence viewed with countenance dismayed. 

Upon my knees, through fingers splayed, and terrified  to see,
the horror there unfolding, between those witness trees.
I saw the bloody massacres, heard shocked and dreadful cries,
I felt their fear, and died their deaths, with terror in my eyes .

Each wicked deed, each evil act, each thrust assassins blade,
of every dreadful murder done, within that forest glade.
With screams of death, and cries of loss, the misty shore resounds,
To haunt my soul and flay my ear, upon that hell struck ground.

In faint I fell with senses lost, afraid to look again,
as words she spake in whispered tone, ‘Remember when you wake, 
these unjust works, these sinful acts, leave vengeance thirst unslaked,
thus you must tell of this darkwood, beside the silver lake.’

Details | David Wallace Poem

The Lady of the Lake Part Ii

Through raven’s eye, viewed I my fate, blood scribed upon the ground,
whilst shadows of the darkwood’s dead, stood solemnly around.
Accusing faces staring down, from purgatory’s stay,
those wraith dead eyes, that froze the soul, will haunt me till I die.

‘The Reaper with his sudden scythe, doth sever meek and bold,
his harvest ever incomplete, till all lie in his fold.
But thou alone are given grace, one chance to change thy fate,
recount the tales of this darkwood, ere ‘tis for thee too late.’

Those awful words, with trembling limbs, stirred me from the ground,
as thunder pealed, the heavens wept, below that fearful sound.
Stumbling in the fear of death, I fled that fearsome place,
In panic’d flight with senses lost, I ran at headlong pace.

Along the bank, across the bridge, where sanity divides,
the sanctuary of human kind, from Hells Gate gaping wide.
My wearied limbs and heaving chest, I thought would fail me soon
Full length I fell upon the ground, and cried to God a boon

The pastor drew me to his arms, his face close drawn and near,
‘I thought all knew, of that darkwood, all hallow’s night to fear.’
In distraught mind, and speech foregone, too faint to tell the tale,
He bore me to the chapel, beyond the darkwood’s vale.

His draught of wine gave sustenance, becalmed my racing heart,
Within the hour, with stuttered breath, my tale I did impart.
Deathly pale, he trembling turned, before the altar high,
in bitter tears he bowed his head, and groaned an awful sigh.

With granite jaw and head held high, he swore a dreadful oath,
that he should die that very night, or exorcise these ghosts.
His cloak drawn close about him, he knelt in silent prayer,
then turned without a backward glance and walked toward their lair.

His Bible held before him, like a shield before the fray,
The pastor strode into the night, his daemons to allay.
‘The time has come to face the past, to reap what I have sown,
These spectres of my debauched life, I must face alone.’

At morn’s first light, I ventured forth, and found him by the lake,
and whispering through morning  mist, to me the Lady spake.
‘Thou spoke the words and told our tale, the justice bell be rung,
For vengeance is exacted, and the guilty life expunged.
For thirty years, this wretched soul, turned evil from the good,
and bound us here, beside the lake, beneath the deep darkwood.’

Details | David Wallace Poem

Life Station

Pecking quick, a parting kiss
Pumping legs, a train to miss
Lovers waving, strangers pass
Tears and hugs a whistle blast 
Scanning papers on news stands
Pats on backs while shaking hands
Averted eyes and hurried walk
Can’t stop, won’t wait, no time to talk
Pushchairs, wheelchairs, screaming kids
Cardboard coffee cups with lids
Departure times on TV screens
Red light, amber, go is green
Somewhere, nowhere, never speak
Laughing, crying, faces bleak
Turned up collars, downcast heads
Business suits and tardy threads
Briefcase, suitcase, traveling bag
Folded papers ,glossy Mags
Hustle, bustle, teeming by
Oblivious to earth and sky
Don’t stop don’t look and don’t ask why
Ticket punched and journey paid
Click the stopwatch
Now you’re dead

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The Pen

The pen

The pen that hoards ten thousand words,
 seeks only guiding hand
To spill it’s blood on virgin page,
 like entrails in the sand
For thus the toil, at authors whim, 
drives quill to strive for gain
That readers eye, or listening heart, 
might understand the pain
The arteries of heartsblood,  
splashed upon those whitened fields
Bear wounds and scars of battles fought, 
where wiser heart would yield
No truce sought, nor quarter begged, 
the pen unlocks the word
That Wielded in the skilful hand, 
cuts cleaner than the sword
For wiser heads and stronger minds, 
have yielded to the might
That bursts in fountains from the heart,
 and bleeds with words of light.

Details | David Wallace Poem

Ungrateful Son

Self righteous there, he stands and preens, this perfect specimen
Due to Mothers nurturing, alive and prospering.
Forgotten are the years of toil, the Mothers care and love
The Brother  and the Sister, he keeps his head above
What  poison foul  infects his blood, and whispers in his ear
to Blind his eyes and turn his head from truth’s he will not hear
In judgement he declares the fault, forgetting what He’s done
Self righteous words and nasty mouth, deny the blame he owns
The bond he broke, the lives that spent, creating him a home
Are conveniently forgotten , he must have done it on his own
The years of dedicated Love, are foreign to his kind
The loyal years of Motherhood discarded in his mind
Oh that he could just stand aside ,and see what  he could be
Just take the look, review himself and see what others see
An arrogant uncaring fool who pose’s puffs and struts
fawning  Yes’s  on his cronies ,  and to his family But’s 
He’s lost forever, lest he changes temper tantrum’d rants
Grow from a nasty little Boy and take the real mans stance.
For many things in life don’t last, they’re transient you see
But a Mothers care and heartfelt love will live eternally
Or will he visit once a year for duty tend a grave
 A caring loving thankful son, for show he will be brave
Remember this you upstart, no matter what you say
The debt you owe your Mother, you never can repay
Next time you start your little rants and Put your Mother down 
When she is dead and in her grave forgiveness won’t be found.

Details | David Wallace Poem

Pollution Solution

Motorbikes and barking dogs
are driving me to drink
With the endless din of traffic
I can no longer think

I’ll have a little nip of Gin
Perhaps a beer or two
or maybe close the window 
That might help me too

Perhaps I’ll take my rifle
With the telescopic sight
And find a building with a view
Where I can sit at night

Those random noisy neighbours
Would swiftly think again
If metal jacket bits of lead
were winging toward their brains

Another little whiskey then
To keep the cold at bay
And steady trigger finger
As the targets weave and sway

I did this once before you know
And they kept me for a year
Psychotic  Paranoia 
Induced by too much beer

I didn’t have the rifle then
just a catapult I'd bought
T’was after several nips of rum
Because I thought I aught

It’s gotten so much quieter here
I nailed it bang to rights
and down below looks pretty
With those small blue flashing lights

I think they’re waving up here
I can see them scurry round 
Behind their little armoured cars
They’re kneeling on the ground

I hear the whiz of bullets
But my vodka dulls the sound
Perhaps I’ll have a pop or two
At those insects five floors down

I’m feeling kinda sleepy now
I’m tired upon my feet
And those noisy thudding chopper blades
could ruin a good nights sleep

A small nightcap, a brandy tot
Should calm my trembling hand
And then I think I’ll take a shot
At that choppers rubber band

I expect I’ll get a little sleep
In Broadmoor’s padded rooms
And get out in a year or so
As recessions lay offs loom

So one more shot and then to sleep
I’ll go out like a light
So just before I take it
I’ll wish you all goodnight.

Details | David Wallace Poem

It Wasn'T Me

This was inspired by a wonderful poem I read earlier today on the Forum 'Look what
followed me home' by Paula Swanson.

Hey mom it really wasn’t me, I’m not responsible for that,
Just because I’m the only one here, It could have been the cat.
Of course I went to school today, I‘m not inclined to roam.
Just don’t repeat awful words , ‘Wait till your Dad gets home’

‘So, someone must have done it, I don’t see what gives,
No I don’t know who it could have been, I can’t say where he lives.
It wasn’t me, it was like that when , it must have just fell down
Someone must have eaten it, when no-one was around.’

‘I’ll mow the lawn, I’ll paint the fence, I’ll tidy up my room,
I’ll take the garbage to the bin, my rescued  dog I’ll groom.
Your staring eyes and plucked out hair are scaring me now Mom
Oh please don’t tell and please don’t say, ‘Wait till your Dad gets home’

Details | David Wallace Poem

Leonidas, King

From Heracles immortal line sprang Kings of Agiad
The blood of Gods and heroes in mortal flesh thus clad
And such was Leonidas, half brother to the King
Cleomenes of Sparta, of whom the poets sing

When came the call to Athens aid when none would take the stand
Leonidas Spartan stood, three hundred by his hand
‘We will take and hold the field against the Persian hordes
At Thermopylae prepared to die, we greet them with the sword.’

Thespian and Theban heard and rallied to the call
Their phalanx in the narrow pass an impenetrable wall.
Xerxes watched the waves of men diffuse against the might,
as Grecian stalwart heroes held, until the loss of light.

For two full days the Pass they held, whilst facing fearful odds,
until undone by Ephialtes, betrayer of the Gods.
Across the hills by mountain path were the valiant undone
And Leonidas understood the rearguard shield was gone

He called the valiant to his side and marked his standing stone
Let thespians and Thebans turn, here Sparta stands alone
Three hundred stood in scarlet lines their valiant death to wait
and leave the field upon their shields as every Spartans fate

Thus fell Leonidas King, who stood when none else dared
Defending Athens and all Greece lest dishonour ensnared
Remembered in the halls of Zeus with victors laurels bound
Three hundred stood three hundred fell and sanctified the ground

And thus the Delphic Oracle’s foretelling came to pass
That all of Sparta be destroyed or else King Leonidas
One year upon Plataea’s fields, with the final battle won
Remembered every Grecian heart this noble Spartan son

Details | David Wallace Poem

The Man In the Mirror

I looked deep into the mirror just the other day 
But I didn’t really like what the crystal had to say
He looked right back at me in a reflective sort of way
So I didn’t wait around to long

Over my shoulder, I watched him walk away
For a while I thought of stopping, just to chase him on his way
But I know that he’d still be waiting there, every single day
So I’ll wave him adieu in the morning

They say that he’s my double, though I can’t see it for sure
He looks sort of menacing, and his expression is quite dour
I know he looks like someone, it could be Kenneth More
I hope he’s in a better mood today

Of all the times I’ve seen him, he’s looked quite pale and drawn
I wonder if he’s bored in there, or if he has already gone
I’ll wait all night just out of sight and see if he’s there at dawn
I know for sure that I’ll be there, and this time with a gun.

I know he copies every move and gesture that I make
So outwitting him will not be hard, now that’s a bet I’d take
I’ll pretend to blow my head off he’ll copy me for sure
except my gun is empty but for him there’d be no cure

or perhaps I’ll put one bullet in and spin the chamber round
behind my back where he can’t see, my tactics are quite sound
just one smart move, my genius ploy, can put him in the ground
and as the smoke clears  I will see, who’s still standing him or me.