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Anthony Pierre Nov 2019
Every knight swords
A razor sharpened tip
To pare into the souls
Of their many subjects

Sir Very Special Naipaul
An august knight was he.
His felt-tipped glaive
Donned in ink stained valour

It cuts, this sword, above all
Deep into the mind
Bending, shaping its stream
Of understanding

Every knight who swords
A razor sharpened end
Must pen into our hearts
The most noble trend
A Free State is where I belong.
Sim Apr 2019
perhaps I was only a tribute to your pride
perhaps you sought refuge in moments of raw desire
perhaps the nobility of loving was too much to ask for.
bakunawa Apr 2018
Spare me your frostbite
If you can never scorch me
With your burning touch
Adell is a name that could mean nobility or an act of nobility, as a shortened version of Adelaide.
Seanathon Apr 2018
Nobility knows no ends
Just as moonlight know no bounds
Besides the will of shadows
Which stretches out beneath
And lies in the most familiar heights
Drawn out upon the ground
As our feet meet with shadows everyday, so you'll always step on them as you walk the path at night. It's inevitable after all. It's better to be in the night and to understand it, as compared to be afraid of it like a child.
Isaac Ward Oct 2017
On nobility and the grave,
Which bond as fire and flesh,
With no intent to mesh,
Against their match- they misbehave,
And were they each a path to pave,
The first road would refresh,
The other meant to thresh,
Yet man must choose but one to brave,

We ought mind this choice,
It may cast us in our roles,
And shall weigh upon our souls,
But to each is given the same chance,
When we hear His voice-
Will we stay seated, or will we dance?
First attempt at this specific type of poem. Can't remember what it's called though.
Divya Kaushik Sep 2017
Noble people question my identity
I am arrogant, not answerable
They say I lack human's entity
Something physical, sounds sensible
They are noble, I don't question

They do look at me with suspicion
Think I do not conform to the norms
Laugh at my unrealistic intuitions
Don't like my love for Thor and thorns
They are noble, I don't question

'You are more of a gawk' they say
That doesn't disqualify me from being exploited
It's saddening to see myself at bay
Avoiding my source energy to be safe
They are noble, I don't question

But my thinking gives me blast
Everything around, is just past
I am the truth, I will last
Who is noble, I need not ask
The one who exists
Brent Kincaid Aug 2017
Prince Charming farts!
It’s a little known fact.
He’s a human after all,
No matter how he acts.
His poise may be excellent
His skin as smooth as gossamer
He will retain his calm
Even if he views a massacre.

Image, to the prince, is everything
He really doesn’t care for truth.
He has refined every gesture
Every moment since his youth.

Prince Charming belches!
But he’s careful with his breath.
To be seen as rude or low class
He feels is worse than death.
You must live up to his standards
Not be déclassé or dense
If you with to enjoy the company
Of the oh so charming prince.

Image, to the prince, is everything
He knows just who to please.
Even whiffs of pepper will not
Make Prince Charming sneeze.

But of course the troubles
Of those not in his class,
No matter how much they cry,
He’ll give them a royal pass.
Because his time is valuable
Where lesser souls are not.
You got to spend time with him.
Be glad for what you’ve got.

Prince Charming is a paragon
As everyone can plainly see.
All must bask in his magnificence
And of course, so does he.
Lawan Nov 2015
I find that certain evasive
nobility missing in her character

She is a well polished diamond
that can never shine;
Abundant confidence, so little material

Wait, wait, wait you'll say
She'll wait wait
Then she'll fall in the end
Robert C Howard Mar 2015
Jerry Singing at his Lathe

Slim and mustached
Jerry sang his heart out
in overalls at his lathe –
the Mario Lanza of Kent-Moore Tools.

Curled metal gathered at his feet
as he cut hard steel into usable parts.
He glanced at the prints,
reset the turret to take a second pass
and belted out another chorus.

Jerry retro-dreamed of New York,
of lessons, certificates, Juilliard
and arias finished with outstretched arms –
visions derailed but unforgotten.

Global madness sent him to France.
With a pack and an M1 in place of scores.
Jerry helped set Paris free
yet never left a song on its stages.

Kent-Moore paid him well
and masked by din of colliding metal
Jerry sang and sang and sang all day
for rivet guns and turret lathes.
His voice would melt your heart.

*July, 2006
Included in Unity Tree - Collected poems
pub. CreateSpace -
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