Ma fine Muse
Je te jure passion indéfectible et courtoise
Vénération et totale soumission
Je suis vassal et dévôt chevalier
Prêt à guerroyer de tournois en tournois
Pour mon inaccessible dame suzeraine.
Tu m'as octroyé pour encourager ma flamme
Un mouchoir brodé de tes initiales
Comme gage de ton amour adultère
Et quand le désir de toi me ronge, me consomme
Et me brûle de jalousie
C'est avec extase que je presse
Contre mon front tes douces initiales.

Fais de ton fine et fol amant
Ce que tu voudras
Je suis ton esclave
Assermenté
Je ne cherche ni liberté
Ni affranchissement
Et s'il te plaît que je meure
Je mourrai de fine amour
En chantant la joie de ta beauté précieuse
Comme un troubadour et sa viole pieuse.

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.

A troubadour I be.
Playing my musical pen
for those who gather.

A balladeer be I.
One who parades cross page
to sing to readers ears.

A troubadour am I.
The minstrel of written word
who performs my hearts music.

A jongleur be I
gathering events from journey  
to birth a poem

I walk along edge here
and meld her electricity
with sunset overhead

then sing those songs
I write fore bed again
when she feels overhead

where such a plan ready
shines inside my mirth
those attitudes my own insight

when she's startlingly cute
faint in her cry
it dances throughout another night

As I drove through Vermont
where a ****** only south in Elizabeth
that I would come upon her scenery
and there it made me dream nostalgically

Where she was as divine by candlelight
and we both liked to chat at their In Corner now a pitch so shrill
that adulation was entirely blue,

She sits on the courthouse steps
Playing songs she herself wrote
Every word she sings she means
Her heart there in every note.
She sings of the pain she sees
In the world that passes by.
She sings to you and to me
Her music makes you cry.

(She sings)
We who have so much
Give little to the others.
We let our children starve
And do not help the mothers
And the fathers who work
To make their daily bread
While rich people won’t help
Keep a house over their heads.

She manages to choose chords
That sing of lonely suffering.
Her angelic voice softens up
The accusations she’s uttering.
She tells of squandered glory
In the wasting of our lives
While the overfed rich people
Go home to their gilded wives.

(She sings)
We who have so much
Give little to the others.
We let our children starve
And do not help the mothers
And the fathers who work
To make their daily bread
While rich people won’t help
Keep a house over their heads.

Few listen to the troubadour
Who tells us all our name.
They may drop in a penny
To soften up their shame.
But every day they pass her
And soon they do not hear
The wisdom in her lyrics.
They do not feel the fear.

(She sings)
We who have so much
Give little to the others.
We let our children starve
And do not help the mothers
And the fathers who work
To make their daily bread
While rich people won’t help
Keep a house over their heads.

Brent Kincaid
4/18/2015

This will be the death,
another forgotten poet.
No lamenting, just left to rust.
Words of the past,
cut a long story short,
for the remaining, the rest.
Attention spans diminish,
a dying language, I digress.
**** the conjunction, fade out with Pleiades
the rising sun.