#troubadour
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.
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 2:50 AM UTC
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.
Jul 31, 2019
Jul 31, 2019 at 11:33 AM UTC
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
Jun 9, 2019
Jun 9, 2019 at 7:40 AM UTC
A Catalan
liaison where
with his
jazz guitar
as Gioconda
in Hoboken
really left
for Athens
and green
pasture of
Ulster that
pokes a
fable with
lure of
capes in
New York
and Saint-Tropez
Jun 6, 2019
Jun 6, 2019 at 8:51 AM UTC
I be a troubadour
marching streets paved
in lines of vellum.
My trombone of pen
releases words elegantly.
My breath dances,
on courtyards for eyes.
I am a troubadour
that moves before
all prince and princesses
born upon earth.
My instrument
is stored in heart
of red velvet case.
My intention is
to spread lyrics joyfully.
I am a troubadour
marching proudly
with my troupe of script.
My invitation stands
for all to gather on sidelines.
My intention is to share
melodies from a scribes score.
Dec 21, 2018
Dec 21, 2018 at 10:22 AM UTC
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
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 2:54 PM UTC
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,
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 1:10 AM UTC
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
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 5:20 PM UTC
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.
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 11:20 PM UTC