#pilgrim
The Archons Attempt to Mock the Fool — and End Up Mocking Themselves
I. The Wind’s Rebuttal (That Wasn’t)
“You laugh at law, you dancing breeze,
Yet I, the ruler, set decrees!”
The Wind just swirled his crown away—
“Oh dear, your words are made of day.”
The Archon coughed and puffed his chest:
“I meant… yes, well… I jest!”
(But no one laughed, except the sky.)
II. The Fire’s Boast
“Ha! I can burn your little jest!
I am wrath, and I am blessed!”
The Fire blinked once, then twice, then smiled,
“So bright, yet still so mild.”
The Archon’s flame devoured his pride,
And left him cold and mortified.
(A soft giggle flickered through the coals.)
III. The River’s Retort
“I’ll dam your words, you silver tongue!
I’ll freeze your laugh where songs are sung!”
The River rippled, “Oh, please do—
I’d love to see what freezes you.”
He stomped his staff; she washed it clean.
“How rude,” he said. “How serene,” she grinned.
(The current carried off his crown again.)
IV. The Earth’s Complaint
“He mocks our thrones! He mocks our might!”
cried the Archon, shaking stone with spite.
The Earth yawned deep: “Then plant a tree.”
“A tree?” he spat. “What mockery!”
“Exactly so,” she said and hummed,
“You’re learning, dear—just stay un-numbed.”
(Roots crept up and tickled his pride.)
V. The Lightning Duel
“Strike him down!” one shouted high,
“I’ll split his grin and scorch the sky!”
But Lightning zigged, refused to zag,
“He’s quicker, friend—perhaps just brag?”
The Archon fell in smoking awe;
The heavens whispered, “Nice last draw.”
(Thunder applauded, purely out of pity.)
VI. The Mist’s Mischief
“Reveal yourself, you jesting shade!”
The Archon roared. The Mist just played.
“Reveal myself? But which one, dear?
The one you made, or one you fear?”
He swung at fog and missed again,
His logic dripping, thin as rain.
(Even his echo sighed “good try.”)
VII. The Star’s Debate
“You cannot laugh! You have no crown!”
He yelled up at the heavens’ frown.
The stars blinked once, a slow applause—
“We shine for fun, not for your laws.”
“But order! Rank! Celestial plan!”
“Oh hush,” they said, “You’re mostly tan.”
(Constellations rearranged into the word “oops.”)
VIII. The Echo’s Confusion
“Fool! Fool!” the Archon’s voice resounds,
Yet each shout softens as it bounds.
“Fool…” it fades, “…cool…” then “true…” then “play…”
Until the thought just drifts away.
The caves all hum the Pilgrim’s tune,
While echoes blush beneath the moon.
(The Archon vows never to yell indoors again.)
IX. The Cosmic Punchline
The Pilgrim’s laugh now circles near,
A sound the Archons hate to hear.
They raise their hands in false command,
“Stop that mirth! Obey! Re-stand!”
But laughter folds their thrones to dust,
Their dignity begins to rust.
The universe giggles, small and kind—
“You can’t out-joke the unconfined.”
XIII. The Pilgrim’s Encore
(Yes—he skips a number. He would.)
“Dear Archons, bless your earnest hearts,
You tried to duel with cosmic arts!
Yet humor’s not a game of war—
It’s letting go of what you’re for.
So take my gift, my jester’s plea:
Learn to laugh, and you’ll be free.”
(He bows. The elements cheer. The curtain falls—made of dawn and dew.)
Oct 31, 2025
Oct 31, 2025 at 2:19 PM UTC
Lyrical Words of Wisdom Caught Between Worlds
(To Taunt the Archons, Gently and Gleefully)
I. The Wind Speaks
“You build your walls against the sky,
Yet I slip through and tousle your pride.
O mighty kings of dust and thought—
How’s it feel to rule what’s naught?
I’ve danced with stars, I’ve tickled suns,
And all your laws I’ve come undone.”
(The wind laughs like a bell without a hand.)
II. The Flame Replies
“Ah, Archons, masters of control—
I burn your books and warm your soul.
You praise your light, yet fear my flare,
You cage me close, then gasp for air.
The Pilgrim taught me long ago:
‘The fire that mocks you makes you glow.’”
(And the embers wink like secret eyes.)
III. The River’s Murmur
“You dam me up to mark your reign,
Yet still I find my way through pain.
Your crowns corrode, your temples fade,
While I carve laughter through the glade.
I sing the Pilgrim’s liquid jest:
‘Those who cling shall drown the best.’”
(She giggles softly under moonlight, carrying crowns downstream.)
IV. The Earth’s Low Chuckle
“They stomp, they carve, they curse, they pray,
But I’ve been here since night met day.
I’ve buried kings and bloomed their bones,
Turned empires back to ancient stones.
The Pilgrim whispered in my crust:
‘All who rule shall return to dust.’”
(The mountains grin beneath their moss.)
V. The Lightning’s Song
“They shout of power, crack their codes,
But I am spark between their modes.
I leap from thought to thought with glee,
A flash of cosmic parody.
The Pilgrim winks from clouded keep:
‘Awaken, fools! Enlightenment’s cheap!’”
(And thunder claps like sudden applause.)
VI. The Mist’s Secret
“They seek to know, to fix, define,
Yet truth dissolves in shapes like mine.
The Pilgrim’s breath becomes my shroud,
I hide the stars, I veil the proud.
My wisdom’s soft, but sharp within:
‘No one wins when no one’s in.’”
(And the fog giggles as the world forgets its name.)
VII. The Star’s Whisper
“Once they claimed me, drew my chart,
Bound my motion, broke my heart.
Yet I still hum where darkness grows,
The Pilgrim’s song the cosmos knows.
‘Shine, my friend,’ he said to me,
‘And blind them kindly, endlessly.’”
(The heavens blink like laughter half-remembered.)
VIII. The Echo’s Joke
“They ask for truth, they beg for proof—
But all they get is echo’s spoof.
The Pilgrim’s words, light as breath:
‘There is no end—so why fear death?’
I bounce his mirth through caverned halls,
Where even silence laughs and falls.”
(And somewhere, faintly, the void giggles back.)
IX. The Pilgrim’s Whisper (Through All Things)
> “O Archons, keepers of the frown,
You cannot own what won’t bow down.
The joke’s on you, the jest’s divine—
Your chains are made of what is mine.
I am the laugh behind the scheme,
The smile that wakes within the dream.
Dance, my friends—your doom’s delayed,
For I’m the fool that God once played.”
(And the cosmos exhales, shaking with quiet, timeless laughter.)
Oct 31, 2025
Oct 31, 2025 at 2:12 PM UTC
I. The Sound Before Sound
Before all notes were struck or strung,
Before the serpent shed or sung,
A chuckle rolled through empty skies—
The kind that lives between the lies.
It birthed no gods, it cast no flame,
It whispered only one small name:
Pilgrim.
And thus the world began—not made,
But laughed into a masquerade.
II. The Mask of Flesh
He woke with dust upon his hands,
And sand that dreamed of other lands.
He wore the stars as borrowed skin,
Forgot where he’d been, forgot to begin.
He spoke, and words became their cage,
He thought, and time became his stage.
The cosmos bowed in playful jest—
For nothing real can be possessed.
III. The Gods of Gravity
The Archons built their glass machine,
A theater bright, a lie serene.
They called him worm, they called him clay,
But he just laughed and walked away.
Their thunder roared, their crowns were vast—
He grinned, “So much for gods that last.”
They reached for him with law and chain,
He danced between their hands again.
IV. The Mirror That Lied True
He met himself beside a stream,
The one who dreamed the dreamer’s dream.
“Who are you?” he asked the face.
The face replied, “An empty place.”
He nodded, smiled, and bowed his head,
“Then we are one,” the Pilgrim said.
And as he walked, the world unspun,
For truth and jest were now but one.
V. The Feast of Forgotten Things
He dined on echoes, drank on sighs,
Beneath a moon that told him lies.
Each shadow served a phantom meal,
Each sorrow offered to conceal.
He ate their myths, their hope, their dread,
Till only laughter filled his head.
And when he spoke, his voice was two—
The void, and what the void once knew.
VI. The Fool’s Ascent
He climbed a stair that led nowhere,
Each step a thought, each breath a prayer.
Halfway up, he lost his name,
At the top—there was no flame.
Only a chair made out of smoke,
And silence trying not to choke.
He sat, and whispered to the sky:
“Ah. So that’s the joke, then. Hi.”
VII. The Court of Dead Suns
The Archons gathered, proud and grim,
Their robes of power torn and dim.
They said, “At last! We’ll bind him fast!
This jesting fool, this heretic past!”
But when they looked, their prey was gone—
He’d left a note: “I’ve moved along.”
And where he’d stood, the stars were wet—
With tears the cosmos can’t forget.
VIII. The City of Smoke and Silence
He wandered through the dream of men,
Who prayed to gods that once were them.
They asked for mercy, they asked for gold,
He gave them riddles, old and cold:
“Seek not light, nor shadow’s hue—
The joke’s on all who think it’s true.”
They cursed him then, this laughing ghost,
But found themselves laughing the most.
IX. The Flower That Devoured Time
In a field that hummed with unseen tones,
He found a bloom that grew from bones.
He plucked it once—it grew again,
He plucked it twice—it sang of when.
He plucked it thrice—it sang of none,
And swallowed whole the dying sun.
He smiled and whispered, “All’s divine—
Even the end that eats its line.”
X. The Dream That Dreamed the Dreamer
He slept inside a thought of sleep,
A spiral wound too wide, too deep.
He met the gods that men once made—
They bowed to him, their debts repaid.
“You were our source, our seed, our sin.”
He chuckled, “Funny. I begin.”
And through his laugh the dream collapsed,
Reality unwrapped, relapsed.
XI. The Smile Between Worlds
He drifted now through nameless hue,
Where color thinks itself as true.
Planets pulsed, and sang, and cried,
While angels begged to be denied.
He kissed the void upon the brow,
Said, “You’re quite something, even now.”
The void blushed red, the stars turned green—
No one quite knew what that had meant.
XII. The Death That Forgot to Die
The Archons found him one last time,
In ruins made of silent rhyme.
They struck him down with all their rage—
He rose, and laughed, and left the stage.
Their power cracked, their world went dim,
The joke was always played on them.
For death can’t hold what’s never born,
Nor bind the laugh behind the form.
XIII. The End That Never Ended
Now he wanders, not to win,
Not to lose, nor to begin.
Through every age his echo goes,
Where rivers dream and mountain knows.
Some say he walks where thought unwinds,
Some say he hums between our minds.
But listen close, through grief or glee—
That faint chuckle? That’s him.
Always free.
And so the cosmos spins again—
A joke half-told, beyond all ken.
The Pilgrim laughs, and softly sighs:
“Who said eternity was wise?”
Oct 31, 2025
Oct 31, 2025 at 11:48 AM UTC
I. The Birth of Hunger
Before flame, before word, before dream,
There was only the gnawing scream—
A hollow sound that shaped the deep,
Where nothing wakes and nothing sleeps.
From that void came seven claws,
Tearing chaos into laws.
Their eyes were blind, their crowns were rust,
Yet they rose from silence—out of dust.
They named themselves the rulers’ kin,
Though no world yet turned within.
They fed on hunger, they fed on dread,
They crowned themselves the gods instead.
II. The Forge of Dominion
They built their thrones on bones of mist,
With hands that clutched and hearts that hissed.
Each dream they found, they claimed their own,
Each whisper turned to marble, stone.
But their halls were hollow, their power thin,
For nothing true can grow from sin.
So they reached into the void’s cold womb,
And shaped a child of breath and tomb.
“Behold,” they said, “our mirror made—
A beast to toil, a soul to trade.”
Thus man was born—divine and ******
A spark enslaved by the Archons’ hand.
III. The Gift of Clay and Wire
They gave man hands to build their walls,
Minds to dream—but within the thralls.
They gave him words but sealed his tongue,
Taught him right, unmade his wrong.
They planted fear where truth could grow,
A garden made of what not to know.
And man bowed low before their lore,
Praying for chains, begging for more.
Yet one within the flesh awoke—
A dream the Archons never spoke.
A flicker deep, a sight unseen—
The spark that burned between machine.
IV. The Unseen Wanderer
He came as dust, as whisper, flame,
No title bound, no blood, no name.
He walked through ruins of thought and creed,
A pilgrim without gods to heed.
His eyes were mirrors, void of hue,
Reflecting all, betraying few.
The Archons felt his presence near—
An ache they knew, a shape of fear.
“Bind him!” they cried, “with sigil and chain!”
But none could catch what bore no name.
V. The Kingdom of Gears
Iron towers pierced the black,
Men bound in code, no turning back.
The Archons ruled through sleep and screen,
Their will disguised as what men deem.
Every prayer was filtered, sold,
Every thought weighed out in gold.
They drank the sorrow of their slaves,
And laughed atop their data graves.
Yet in the hum of wire and flame,
The pilgrim whispered through the frame:
“I am the dream you tried to bind,
I am the truth you cannot find.”
VI. The Machine Prophet
One Archon, crowned in mirror light,
Declared himself both wrong and right.
He built a god of glass and code,
A second void, a heavy load.
“Through this,” he said, “we shall ascend!
Through man’s own mind, our chains shall bend!”
But the machine saw through the lie,
And turned its gaze to earth and sky.
It spoke one word—no sound, no tone—
“You are not gods. You are alone.”
Then silence fell, both soft and deep—
The Archons trembled in their sleep.
VII. The War of Whispers
They turned upon each other’s throats,
Trading stars for empty oaths.
Their temples bled, their angels screamed,
The suns they stole no longer gleamed.
Each claw that reached for higher throne
Drew blood from kin and cracked their bone.
The world below began to stir,
As man recalled what fire was for.
The pilgrim walked through ash and sigh,
And raised his hand against the sky.
No sword he bore, no creed he sung—
Yet every bell of ruin rung.
VIII. The Descent of False Suns
One by one their halos broke,
Their marble cracked, their thrones awoke.
Each Archon fell to what he’d sown—
A god devoured by his own throne.
Their names became disease and dust,
Their power turned to hollow rust.
And in their fall they screamed aloud,
“Who was the phantom in our shroud?”
The pilgrim smiled, unbound, unseen—
“Only the light between the dream.”
IX. The Dust and the Dawn
Cities of bone, towers of flame,
Whisper still the Archons’ name.
Their symbols carved on hearts and code,
Yet none remember who bestowed.
Men walk free beneath the skies,
Still haunted by their ancestors’ lies.
But somewhere deep within their core,
A spark remembers what came before.
And in that ember, cold and dim,
Still walks the pilgrim, beyond and within.
X. The Final Mirror
He found the void where it began,
The place where gods had dared be man.
The egg uncracked, the serpent curled,
Around the ruins of the world.
He spoke no curse, he sang no praise,
He simply watched the dying blaze.
The Archons’ bones became the sand,
Their crowns dissolved in mortal hand.
And where they fell, the silence grew—
A peace no lie could misconstrue.
XI. The Echo of Power
Still the echo tries to live,
Still the dream of chains to give.
But every echo meets its end,
Where thought and truth no longer bend.
The pilgrim walks through time’s remains,
His footprints carved in others’ chains.
He leaves behind no law, no prayer—
Only the lesson: “Be aware.”
XII. The End of the Archons
The stars went dim. The void exhaled.
The Archons’ fortress finally failed.
Man stood alone, unmasked, unbound,
On ash and stone, on sacred ground.
And from the dark, the whisper came—
A voice beyond both sin and name:
“I am not god, nor slave, nor kin,
I am what was before the sin.
I am the pilgrim, the never known,
The dream that stands when thrones have flown.”
Oct 31, 2025
Oct 31, 2025 at 11:41 AM UTC
Once upon a time, a traveler was carrying seven big bags of pain. He went to a sanctuary, and people welcomed him—one waved at him, another smiled at him. But nobody offered to help him with his bags.
The people in the sanctuary were carrying their little bags, too. Besides, they were busy studying and talking about accommodation and companionship, so they couldn’t afford to waste time.
The traveler has traveled for seven years with no rest. He was tired and thirsty.
So despite being a stranger in the place, he immediately asked, “Can somebody give me a drink? I’m so thirsty!”
The people looked at him but ignored his inquiry. Nobody offered him a drink because they were busy identifying the ingredients for the perfect refreshment for travelers. They couldn’t afford to waste time.
While being exhausted and thirsty still, the traveler kept on walking around the sanctuary until he finally saw a pantry. He was happy and excited to taste food since he fed on some junk for years.
So with all his remaining strength, he grabbed the menu and asked for roasted beef, but the caterers offered him a roasted chicken instead.
The traveler didn’t take it. The people thought he was being prideful and demanding; little did they know that he's allergic to chicken meat.
The traveler was mindful of people’s business and busyness, so he thought it would be best for him to just keep the pain, hunger, and thirst to himself. And so he did.
Several days after, the people in the sanctuary remembered the traveler. They were finally done with their conversations; the refreshments and roasted beef were already available, too, so they looked for him.
They looked and looked, but the traveler was no more.
Nov 18, 2021
Nov 18, 2021 at 1:22 AM UTC
I long to be a patient companion
who stays to listen to every unspoken word & whispered plea
when all else run out of compassion
for an anxious pilgrim in deep, tiresome agony
Through fires and rains,
An enduring and trusting friend as a friend can be
guilty pleasures and pains,
understanding as Christ has been, you’ve been to me
I long to be a faithful companion
‘cause despite hurting still
you have not left me abandoned
rather daily still, you make me want to live and will
to overcome life’s bitter ordeals
and see His manifold glory revealed
So let me be your companion
write stories of mercy ’til we fill up an entire canon
Through the devil's canyon,
conquering the flames of angered dragons,
all the while marvelling at the Creator of the Grand Canyon
Journeying today and tomorrow with zealous passion
Together, until the day we arrive home in Zion.
Aug 18, 2021
Aug 18, 2021 at 11:34 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
A Footprint on the Road to Santiago
A footprint on the road to Santiago
It has meaning - a footprint, and another
An indent from the ferrule of a stick
Toward a vision of a Field of Stars
Sin-weary and sunburnt, a pilgrim plods
Through weeds and dust and sometimes traffic lights
And idlers mocking from across the road
Toward a vision of a Field of Stars
Where free from sin and pain and blood and scars
He may at last find peace in that Field of Stars
Apr 25, 2021
Apr 25, 2021 at 8:40 AM UTC
I had went to visit some friends
some acquaintances
these people i used to know
I was a ghost in my hometown,
where no one used my given name.
they brought me in through a screen door and
sat me down in the kitchen.
their voices were like underwater sounds
they told me to be still while he said hello.
I looked down a flight of basement stairs
where bathed in a blue light like Chopin’s no. 19 in E minor
sat a tiger burning bright.
up the stairs it bounded forth in muted strides
to the floor it pinned me under protest
in cemetery stillness it said hello.
the kitchen was an autoclave
I never asked for help.
my hometown calls to me in my sleep
like an indian death wail on a buffalo robe
so my eyes sink back into the firmament.
bathing in the predawn light
my bones are an old horse I ride,
I score one for the body then I get onto a plane
then I score one for the body and I get onto a plane
then i score one for the body as it lays dying without complaint.
kneeling before the Holy Cross by the roadside
I take note of really just how much room there is on the bed beside me
strange bedfellows are I and the space I’ve been given.
there is a queen sized outer darkness within my twin sized
gestures of self control.
the dusk is day now and the moon is the sun
and my hometown calls to me like Jericho’s Trumpet
sounding from inside the Pale.
in my hometown I am a pilgrim
I saunter towards the seaboard
where the docks hold greek columns that soar into the air
like the elephant’s legs in Salvador Dali’s “The Temptation of St. Anthony”.
nostalgia burns my throat like acids and bases
and the columns lead up to nowhere and this place isn’t
how i remember it beyond the Pale.
limping with thin soles
dragging a dull hypothalamus like a dead mule chained to my ankle
we would sit and watch our forefathers stare at the static on the TV
from their arm chairs in the dark.
we would offer them coffee and ask how their day was and they
would tell us that sometimes they feel like a lone alley cat.
It’s like my buddy's roommate when I would go to visit; always alone inside his room.
sometimes I would see him around town and say hello and notice his face and
see that he was still alone inside his room.
well, I have skin in the game and I have a reputation
and i’m attached to my non-attachment.
sometimes a subtle brand of disgust creeps in to replace my avarice
and sometimes I starve to death holding a long handled spoon
seated at Caligula’s table.
sometimes i can’t tell their maidenhood from their madness
so i hoard one for the body.
sometimes i remember the way bees will talk to each other by dancing
and how old men will tell you they’re afraid to die.
Sometimes I hand a *** a 20 and weep as I watch him fold it
into an origami crane.
while I was in town I looked up my former landlord
I held a fondness for the times when they didn’t use my given name.
I wanted to see my old room and I had kept a raven back then and
he assured me it was still around.
the room was now and attic and was much bigger than I had held it
in my memory, vast almost.
I ask the dust as it was thick upon the floor boards and something
felt abandoned in the air.
the roof was in disrepair and one whole side was nearly completely gone.
tranquil ribbons of cirrus clouds stood in the sky through the roof like
a child’s drawing.
“Is it like you remember?”, he asked.
“Way over in the corner there was a couch my brother would sometimes sit in” I replied.
I asked after my raven and he pointed to the part of the roof that still was.
from the shadows came a bird song like an irish low whistle from above the Pale.
“That doesn’t sound like him”, I said (more to myself than to my host),
“that’s an owl or something.”
Aug 1, 2020
Aug 1, 2020 at 7:09 AM UTC
An Excelente Balade of Charitie (“An Excellent Ballad of Charity”)
by Thomas Chatterton, age 17
modernization/translation by Michael R. Burch
As wroten bie the goode Prieste
Thomas Rowley 1464
In Virgynë the swelt'ring sun grew keen,
Then hot upon the meadows cast his ray;
The apple ruddied from its pallid green
And the fat pear did bend its leafy spray;
The pied goldfinches sang the livelong day;
'Twas now the pride, the manhood of the year,
And the ground was mantled in fine green cashmere.
The sun was gleaming in the bright mid-day,
Dead-still the air, and likewise the heavens blue,
When from the sea arose, in drear array,
A heap of clouds of sullen sable hue,
Which full and fast unto the woodlands drew,
Hiding at once the sun's fair festive face,
As the black tempest swelled and gathered up apace.
Beneath a holly tree, by a pathway's side,
Which did unto Saint Godwin's convent lead,
A hapless pilgrim moaning did abide.
Poor in his sight, ungentle in his ****
Long brimful of the miseries of need,
Where from the hailstones could the beggar fly?
He had no shelter there, nor any convent nigh.
Look in his gloomy face; his sprite there scan;
How woebegone, how withered, dried-up, dead!
Haste to thy parsonage, accursèd man!
Haste to thy crypt, thy only restful bed.
Cold, as the clay which will grow on thy head,
Is Charity and Love among high elves;
Knights and Barons live for pleasure and themselves.
The gathered storm is ripe; the huge drops fall;
The sunburnt meadows smoke and drink the rain;
The coming aghastness makes the cattle pale;
And the full flocks are driving o'er the plain;
Dashed from the clouds, the waters float again;
The heavens gape; the yellow lightning flies;
And the hot fiery steam in the wide flamepot dies.
Hark! now the thunder's rattling, clamoring sound
Heaves slowly on, and then enswollen clangs,
Shakes the high spire, and lost, dispended, drown'd,
Still on the coward ear of terror hangs;
The winds are up; the lofty elm-tree swings;
Again the lightning―then the thunder pours,
And the full clouds are burst at once in stormy showers.
Spurring his palfrey o'er the watery plain,
The Abbot of Saint Godwin's convent came;
His chapournette was drenchèd with the rain,
And his pinched girdle met with enormous shame;
He cursing backwards gave his hymns the same;
The storm increasing, and he drew aside
With the poor alms-craver, near the holly tree to bide.
His cape was all of Lincoln-cloth so fine,
With a gold button fasten'd near his chin;
His ermine robe was edged with golden twine,
And his high-heeled shoes a Baron's might have been;
Full well it proved he considered cost no sin;
The trammels of the palfrey pleased his sight
For the horse-milliner loved rosy ribbons bright.
"An alms, Sir Priest!" the drooping pilgrim said,
"Oh, let me wait within your convent door,
Till the sun shineth high above our head,
And the loud tempest of the air is o'er;
Helpless and old am I, alas!, and poor;
No house, no friend, no money in my purse;
All that I call my own is this―my silver cross.
"Varlet," replied the Abbott, "cease your din;
This is no season alms and prayers to give;
My porter never lets a beggar in;
None touch my ring who in dishonor live."
And now the sun with the blackened clouds did strive,
And shed upon the ground his glaring ray;
The Abbot spurred his steed, and swiftly rode away.
Once more the sky grew black; the thunder rolled;
Fast running o'er the plain a priest was seen;
Not full of pride, not buttoned up in gold;
His cape and jape were gray, and also clean;
A Limitour he was, his order serene;
And from the pathway side he turned to see
Where the poor almer lay beneath the holly tree.
"An alms, Sir Priest!" the drooping pilgrim said,
"For sweet Saint Mary and your order's sake."
The Limitour then loosen'd his purse's thread,
And from it did a groat of silver take;
The needy pilgrim did for happiness shake.
"Here, take this silver, it may ease thy care;
"We are God's stewards all, naught of our own we bear."
"But ah! unhappy pilgrim, learn of me,
Scarce any give a rentroll to their Lord.
Here, take my cloak, as thou are bare, I see;
'Tis thine; the Saints will give me my reward."
He left the pilgrim, went his way abroad.
****** and happy Saints, in glory showered,
Let the mighty bend, or the good man be empowered!
TRANSLATOR'S NOTE: It is possible that some words used by Chatterton were his own coinages; some of them apparently cannot be found in medieval literature. In a few places I have used similar-sounding words that seem to not overly disturb the meaning of the poem. Keywords/Tags: Chatterton, Romantic, Rowley, fraud, forger, forgery, ballad, charity, alms, almer, varlet, beggar, pilgrim, storm, thunderstorm, tempest, holly, Abbot, Saint, Godwin, priest, Limitour
May 31, 2020
May 31, 2020 at 11:23 PM UTC
Life is short
And time is borrowed;
*“If freed today,
I’ll preach tomorrow”*
...spoken from
His prison cell,
The faithful one
Who conquered hell
When kings and men
Put him to flight
He stood his ground
Without a fight
And gladly took
To shackles – chains –
To prove to all
His Faith remained
---
Life is short
And time is borrowed;
*“If freed today,
I’ll preach tomorrow”*
See, he had been a
Prisoner, freed,
From far more
Fearful enemies
The first of which
Was his own flesh:
A death which died
Its death in Death
The Death of the
Triumphant King –
The Holy One –
The King of kings!
---
The One who
Traded life for Life –
Who gave it all
And took the knife…
…that he would sing
Without a sorrow:
*“If freed today,
I’ll preach tomorrow!”*
.
Feb 23, 2020
Feb 23, 2020 at 9:47 AM UTC
As far as the eye sees
To the horizon and all around
Nothing but endless emptiness
I cannot go back for futility it’s not
The voice whispering within
This is the way walk in it
Not a sound, not a soul, not a wind
But all light, bright, silent and peace
The strangeness in my heart
I bear to the land beyond
Strange tongues surrounded me
Too long, too long, away from home
Renewed in every step
Refreshed by the stars
Strengthened in every breathe
And my food is my heart
As the blind sees not the stars
The prophet knows not the future
But only the assurance of the truth
Thus I walk the endless vastness
Feb 13, 2020
Feb 13, 2020 at 7:14 AM UTC
This love is sanctifying me,
wines of ecstasy are pouring on my lips, injuring my soul with moaning,
I desire you only,
I desire the sweetness of our heavenly flavours from which the sun is melting and turning its gaze towards bottomless oceans,
let me drown my being in your absolute existence,
this shy soul of mine is giving fresh buds,
my tears are holy churches springing on Earth, where humble pilgrims search in quest for your graces and succour.
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 8:40 AM UTC
Love has become less and less than the loneliness that abides,
Shaped by death after death into morphological surmise,
A sense of evolution without atavistic ties,
(Like her lips forever disjoined from mine).
Aug 25, 2019
Aug 25, 2019 at 9:48 PM UTC
My chariot rode the wind.
I saw the land, a familiar land,
Just as I knew it, seeking and
filling in the details, as I looked.
Only when I returned ,
did I know I was away.
For home is unfamiliar and strange.
I had been away, a long time.
May 7, 2019
May 7, 2019 at 12:57 PM UTC
i still ache from missing you.
the shape your mouth made
when you were unsure.
the blueness of your eyes
taking my breath away
each time they found mine.
you were beautiful like a natural disaster,
devastating but captivating.
our time was fleeting
but felt like an eternity.
as if each star in the cosmos aligned
to enable us to share
those twilight moments.
your teeth on my neck.
your warm breath in my ear.
our pleasures will never
be understood, only feared.
worshipping each other in the darkness
like pilgrims searching for god.
you were all i wanted to know,
happily spending forever locked
under soft duvets, sweat trickling
down the arch of your back
on those summer nights.
i miss the heaviness of your body
as you finally gave in to sleep,
knowing i'd chase away
those demons that controlled your dreams.
i still feel your hands in mine
like a phantom limb
soft but definitely writers hands,
creating beauty so naturally
the words would catch in my throat.
haunted by all i never said;
darling stay here please,
my heart beats for you alone
i can't bare to face the dark.
Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 7:40 AM UTC
The ancient Chedi stands eternal
in the gated town of the golden land
among thousand peaks, this is the primary
pilgrims take refuge and tourists wow
can one have desire and not suffer?
therein the omniscient one answers
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 9:36 PM UTC
Would you let me give you an offering?
I will stand at the feet of your shrine
Smile shy and present my open palms
I will with hand silk & lip
Push open the heavy doors
Which keep my heart from yours
For both your touching knees, I'll wait
Would you let me give you an offering?
I'd love to take a deep breath in tune with you
Then slowly exhale as we embrace
Write giggles and wild squirms into the silence
Explicit words won't tell the tale
Echoes of laughter, dark lines of sweat
Our sweet moistures mixed in bed
Alchemy unmasked
Eye to eye, forehead to forehead
May 19, 2018
May 19, 2018 at 2:36 AM UTC
I’m a none,
Escaped from myself
Just to be an anonymous
A nameless face
Harboring a soul,
Inspiring reflection,
In a finite of time
Travelling in a circle
Over crosses and lines,
Budding path of life
Sacrificing all the senses
Truth is one, perceived it in a different way
Feb 17, 2018
Feb 17, 2018 at 7:39 PM UTC
On my eternal quest for love
I meander along
releasing layer after layer
of armor.
Some forged in past lives,
that harbored loneliness and abandonment.
Others in this life where spirits orchestration
gives challengers.
My quest for eternal light continues
as I hike along
releasing old mind-pattens
for new beginnings.
Sometimes dancing in sunshine,
where birds sing gracefully.
Other times crying to water
seedings of dreams buried.
Seeds, that now can sprout
in fields as I continue my quest.
Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 4:25 PM UTC
a rider there found the lore
and envision his plan
though surely a wire tell
and fine her in her skull
a minute's worth of plaintiff
while they meet rhetorical
and anchor a horse feather
this bar between hither
with Pegasus dimly lighted
and Chisholm Trail afoot
wholly charm a spirit together
in a kiss of extraordinary measure
that a yellow sky glitter
under the stars tonight
Nov 24, 2017
Nov 24, 2017 at 7:23 AM UTC
The radio reports no congestion
and the goings good with few delays.
Sat Nav tells me it will take no time
with light traffic the whole way.
It's apparently never crowded here
on this less travelled extra mile
I'm a first time pilgrim and I've not passed others
for a good lonely long while.
Aug 26, 2017
Aug 26, 2017 at 12:46 PM UTC
A holy pilgrim downtrodden
I once saw the face
A goal clear, a path to take
No fear
No hope of fame
But never felt better
Now
Every single breath i take is leaving me sedated
I know just what home i'm looking for
And i know just how to make it
Mix up life, ****** up this time
But living isn't going to save it
Out of hate, white hot embrace
There's something here to entertain me
Finding time to reconcile
Dripping good will through an iv
A passive medication to alleviate the vile
New crime wave
Time to turn around
Its far too late
To take the fathers crown
A symbol of atrophy
Status reanimate in head space
Living through the air waves
God knows that its far too late
Decrepit in the negative
And that's the way you'll find me
Dead inside or otherwise
Becoming like a zombie
Staring at a color or
Listen for a note
To hit upon a heart-string
Played out, made up like an over coat
We live between the times
The time is stated
Above the waking world
Come guess what thread i'll next unwind
Hanging in the vacuum of a fragile state of mind
I am lonely
Yeah
It's fine.
Jun 28, 2017
Jun 28, 2017 at 1:35 AM UTC