Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Chris Saitta Jul 31
Here hang the wine-sotted troubadours of sadness and clouds,
~Having played serenas to paramours lipping at the cup of an evening bawd~
Like tethered donkeys now with their packsong of pastorela and alba,
No more musical mensurations of the ****** Mary, Cantigas de Santa Maria,
But slung over the railings of dawn-blotted taverns or courts of renown,
Here hang the wine-sotted troubadours of sadness and clouds,
Like drinking gourds, their stringed citherns dangle from their shoulders,
Leaking the strummed honey-wine of sound like the retchings of the nearby sea.
The troubadour flourished in France during the Medieval Ages (circa 1100-1350), primarily traveling from court to court.  

The “serena” (evening song for a lover waiting to consummate his love), “alba” (dawn song of a lover), and “pastorela” (song of love from a knight to a shepherdess) are all song forms.  

The “Cantigas de Santa Maria,” the well-known “Canticles of Holy Mary,” are 420 poems sung by troubadours, each mentioning the ****** Mary.  

“Citherns” are essentially the precursor to modern-day guitars.
Ray Dunn Jul 30
i brought my flowers
into the market square,
but when they all met the frost
they withered and turned bare.

i ran out of bread—
snow blocking my path home,
so i sold the last flower i had
and to god i must atone.
i just bought flowers for my garden and lugging them up the bath on a wheel barrow i felt like an old timey peasant it was so funny
Hsenura Jun 17
Lying next to me,
With your unclear vision adjusted,
Unknowing why you're still trying,
Don't kiss my salty lips.
Wishing I could love like you,
With no luck you stand punished,
Knowing why I push you afar,
Don't kiss my salty lips.
Striving without reason,
With words and deeds you near,
Wiping off my teary cheeks,
Don't kiss my salty lips.
Chase Parrish Apr 15
A slow rabble was the army tent
In the sense events commenced.
Lines lingered laughingly long

Senescent men intent in resentment
Furiously fighting fear.
Young men too, letting bravery ferment

Fools to the firmament.
Fate's Impertinent
Bent by torments underwent.

Who begged to be sent off to war?
Not me for sure; not anymore.
I won't ask why I was whisked away,
That I thought through though.
Wistfully waiting, I Inclined
To outline this old tale of mine
In the event I'm left behind.

So to whom it may concern,
Know you how my spirit burned!
Watch as I, while mortal
Fought foul fate, so much unearned
And how, with luck, I'll yet return.
This is the fifth poem in my The ****** Journal series, although I suppose you could call this the first poem in the set, as this is going to be the beginning of the narrative. Feel free to critique!
Ominous winds circled above,
And I laid my claims to rest;

Hooves trotted about
Upon the moonlit Eve
To entreat forth upon the darkened quarter,
A haze lingering in their hearts;

"Parley, hold the roses,
The daffodils and tulips
The rosemary and thyme
Gather o'er the courtyard,
And let my ballad be at peace -"

"Pardon all further suitors
Amidst this incessant masquerade
Hearts and Souls swirl in angst,
Amidst this ominous parade;

The well of hearts hath run dry
Remaining as bloodlust; misery;
Just younger for the courtyard ground -
Give a prayer, par the bouquet,
To each suitor, that may arrive,
May their destiny prosy -
Through tender clouds
Before they meet the graveyard mound."
Haylin Jan 20
My knight does not need to be
in shining armor,
nor blessed with prestige
or countless honor.

It only needs to be you,
someone who could wield
a sword, respectable enough
to be able to strike a heart of gold.
Next page