"archers" poems
Lithe, pharmaceutical muscles regulating microfiber hairs
Draw from the primitive neglect and sin
A clarinet changes the chemistry of champagne
Inside Humanity again
A stock infection of planets and galaxies
and their debris
Small enough to be e coli
and atomic dreams
Beading with the warmth of breath, persisting,
Naming dragons and archers in the infinity,
The cocktails brew people at the seams
Their sentences clapping the breeze
Into a day, or a season,
or her hand leading
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 9:50 AM UTC
Spartan shield wall, impenetrable & fortified
Persian soldiers, dying by the thousand
Spears pointed outward, catching flesh & blood
Persian soldiers, dying by the thousand
Sun blotted out by Persian arrows
Persian archers, killing them all
Spartan soldiers, fight to the last
Persian archers, killing them all
Spartans all fallen, not one left alive
Persian soldiers turn back home
Spartans left immortalized, final stand
Persian soldiers turn back home
Spartans, three hundred strong
Spartans, still standing tall
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 6:02 PM UTC
the art of poetry
like any art
produces better work
when writers are not only
erudite but also smart
the lovers' painful state
upon loss or desertion
is voiced much more impressively
with less dramatic flourish
and more of the grate
that finishes the sword
at the old blacksmith's fire
where the hot flame of our desire
thrown into water
with a defiant hiss
turns into deadly steel
ready to **** and ******
friend or foe or lover
in our desperate search
for exits from the mire
or take the unexpected loss
of victory that seemed so close
on a wild battlefield
when suddenly the hero's gallant steed
falls victim to a hostile archers shot
and its proud rider is reduced to shout
"A kingdom for a horse!"
rather than holding a long monologue
about the treachery of fate
in short
less is oft' more
and lets the readers fill the empty spaces
with their own images and graces
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 5:23 PM UTC
In the year 480 B.C., King Leonidas of Sparta lead 300 Spartan soldiers to the mountain pass of Thermopylae. They came face to face with over 200,000 Persians under King Xerxes of the great Persian Empire,
whose archers so multiple, their arrows blocked out the sun.
Bravely the Spartans fought, with no thought of surrender.
After three days of brutal fighting, tens of thousands of Persians lay dead,
yet the Spartans still remain. Then a local resident becomes a traitor, revealing to the Persians a mountain path that lead behind Greek lines. Surrounded, Leonidas sends Greek soldiers back to Sparta to tell of a great victory, that he knew would never be. Valiantly the Spartans stand by their king, and fight to the death. So today, even though the Greeks lost the battle, it is better known for the bravery of a Spartan king and his 300 soldiers.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 12:18 PM UTC
The spotlight is on the broken coastline
porous - like archers spilling arrows
into the vanquished hinterland.
In the ancient West Mercia
wooden bridges collapse
uproar, as the King's regiments
long disbanded , ghosts
into fading memory.
Our defenders, our loyal subjects
enmeshed into the wider fear
our citadels breached,
and where is the valour
the self reliance of our septic isle?
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 3:50 PM UTC
There are archers in rooftops 270 meters to my east
They account for the wind
They feel the humidity as the air condensates on the back of their neck
Crawling down their spine
They inhale
Let out their carbon in a slow steady sigh
Their target is at the door to my dorm room
My door creeks open
The archers let the cord to their payment slide down the mountainous ridges on the end of their fingers
One archers whispers "for freedom"
The arrow soars to the window that lets light pour onto my covers
Glass shatters
The thud of a body falls to the floor
I sit up
A thousand grasshoppers replace my bones
The hairs on my arms are attentive
The lights illuminate my illusions
I stare at my own body on the floor
I fall to my knees
Meeting my eyes to the dead stare so familiar in mirrors
Finally
This monster is dead
A ****** arrow stands from his forehead
From his toes to his hair, he falls to ashes
The broken window letting in a breeze that vaccums the ashes from the room
All that's left
An arrow stuck to my floor
The arrow penetrates a photograph
I lift the picture to take a closer look
A hole covers the eyes
What gives it away is the smile
The complection
Finally
This monster is dead
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 9:43 PM UTC
In contemporary belief.
A archer went to a shaman for relief.
A answer to ease fear of thoughts.
Finding his way home, the trail of war became too much.
He struggled with the regret of building a life away from what he knew.
When he came to the shaman.
The shaman hung his head low.
Smelling the stinch of blood.
Still he could not turn his back to the archer.
When posed with the young archers question.
He sat puzzled. Summering the long winded statement to "a great change must be made. Else all will fade."
Knowing of the young archers longing for a maiden.
The archer looked puzzled.
Yet the shaman spoke nothing else.
The young archer was called upon.
A war broke on the opposing side.
They needed his skill in fear that survival was utmost.
Without time to think the archer grabbed his bow. His arrows and darted quickly in the direction the war has taken place.
He quickly coiled arrow to bow. In repeated motion until none were left.
A field of arrows covered the small space.
War does something to a man.
A brief clarity after the slaughter of contemplation.
The shamans words dawned upon him like a snake.
He darted to the shamans place in great discoverly.
Finding that the shaman as well as his possessions were completely gone without trace.
He darted back to the field.
Searching through a forrest of arrow.
A heart wrenching feeling stuck on his face.
Guiding his way through the arrows he found a familar hand. Connected to a familar torso.
A face stuck in agonizing eternity.
The shamans words made more sense.
Backing away from the body.
Thinking deeply. Damning his hands.
The thing that came as habit.
He broke his bow in the reflection of his maiden's eyes.
This war gone astray inside of him
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 12:00 AM UTC
But like love
the archers
are blind
Upon the green night,
the piercing saetas
leave traces of warm
lily.
The keel of the moon
breaks through purple clouds
and their quivers
fill with dew.
Ay, but like love
the archers
are blind!
2.6k
The wind howled in the night,
Below the moon was a wondrous sight.
We were marching,my friends and I,
to the battle drawing nigh.
I was the lord,I was the king.
On my finger was the royal ring.
After me,went my captain,the hare,
My knights,the cat,the bat and the bear.
Our host was great.
Before us,our enemy would abate.
With spear,shield,bow and sword,
went the sloth,moth,leopard and bird.
Under the silver glow,
we beheld our dark and cunning foe.
His fortress filled with gloom and dread,
could not hinder our brave tread.
Our eagle archers sought their prey,
and the war began when the sky was grey.
Our soldiers were fierce and bold.
But the enemy was fearless and cold.
I entered the fray alongside my captain and friend.
Together,we fought till the end.
The air was rent with the clash and the clamour.
And the enemy fled before the hare's giant hammer.
I found my rival and challenged his might,
to deliver my princess from her evil plight.
I hewed his sword and hacked his shield.
Before my valour,he had to yield.
We returned with the princess,victorious.
The greeting in our kingdom was glorious.
The princess turned to me to kiss
and to take me into that moment of bliss...
SLAP!!!sounded my teacher's hand.
On my cheek was left a brand.
Gone with the reverie was my ecstasy.
As the reality shattered my Fantasy.
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 2:33 PM UTC
Boudicca, long hair tangled and bunched; fiery flame red hair.
Warrior queen of the Iceni, daughter of these isles of tin.
Defender of freedom, leader of men, slayer of legions.
Through the mist the Britons, Celtic in origin; saw the legions.
Row upon row of tightly packed troops, shields locked together!
Flanked on either side by cavalry. Above the silence orders could
Be heard echoing across the field, the leather harness’s creaked
Metal chinking, horses stomping and snorting, in the stillness.
Through the mist came the first rays of sunlight glinting on sharpened
Swords and spearheads; horns began to blow as the steady
Stomp of the legions moved forward in formation.
Boudicca’s eyes peered out from a face of blue woe. Bow strings
In turn began to creak death, as archers pulled back on their bows.
A slow chant from the Iceni, slow at first, began to build into a crescendo
Of noise, as the boom, boom of sword and axe rapped against wood shields.
Boudicca flame haired warrior queen stood proud and fearless on her chariot;
Daughters on each side of her, defiant against Gaius Suetonius Pauline’s
And the might of Rome.
Oh what a sight it must have been!
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 10:51 AM UTC
Archers stance, breath held
Sighting along the arrow
The calm then the storm
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 9:34 PM UTC
-A lament by the preteen Queen of Mesopotamia.
Late September,
During summer,
My great kingdom was obliterated by raiders.
My poor people,
Young and feeble,
Were all mercilessly butchered by those strangers.
Every temple,
Made of beryl,
Was then looted and set on fire by their archers!
And as for me,
A preteen Queen,
Slavery is now my role for their vile leaders!
Sep 27, 2020
Sep 27, 2020 at 9:53 PM UTC
We lined the ridge of Senlac hill
The shield wall stood five men deep
In the autumn chill
The came at us on horse and foot
But we were the men of the Sussex weald
Men who would not yealed
Our shields now hacked and broken
Bodies bloodied bruised and sore
But we the housecarles of the English King
Would stand and fight the war
Prince William came with his aray the English crown to take
But we the men of Sussex
Would many French bones break
Alas our shield wall has broken
Kentish men on the right have charged
They sought to cut the Norman line
And so the men of Kent did die
The French now archers did deploy
With bitter arows fired high
Harold, our king, our leige Lord
Took an arrow in his eye
We gathered round his body
We men of the Sussex Weald
Our king was dead, the battle lost
But Sussex men don't yeald
The shield wall now in disaray
Large gaps now opened up
Brave men now die before the spear
From the broadswords vicious cut
And so we died on Senlac ridge
But there were no wounds in our backs
We died for England's glory
Cut down by spear and axe
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 6:55 PM UTC
by Roger Turner on Thursday, 5 July 2012 at 19:43 ·
In the year of our lord
Sixteen Hundred Fifty Four
There were no papers
delivered to our door
No radio, no TV
Media was rather slim
If you couldn't read or write
then your world was rather dim
One person brought the info
To the masses as he could
For he read out proclomations
Told the people, as he should
"Hear Ye, Hear Ye" he would yell
"Come gather, hear me speak"
"I have the words you need to hear"
"It's been a busy week"
The Crier came and took his stance
The crowd had come to hear
Their attention captured by his voice
And his bell rung oh so clear
"Oyez, Oyez praise the Lord
Today in the Town Square
An exhibition of archers skills
Take heed, now all be there"
"The King proclaims this Saturday"
"To be a day of feast for all"
"Prepare for this year's carnival"
"I am sure you'll have a ball"
The Crier held the crowd at hand
Dressed in the finest coat of silk
Green he was, from head to toe
With a belt as white as milk
For forty years he'd held this post
His father did before
He'd relay all the news there was
And all that had come before
His voice boomed out the words
That the people had to know
He was half a wealth of info
The other half was show
Until the mass production
Of papers and of books
This man was instrumental
In conveying what folks took
To be the truth not fiction
To stop rumours as they spread
To share important messages
From the peoples Royal head
Without the mighty Crier
People would not know just how
Their world around was changing
I think we all owe him a bow
500 years have passed since
The Town Crier is still here
And to most he's as important
As he was back in that year
They still make their proclomations
Still come forth and hold the crowd
Still yell out "Hear Ye, Hear Ye"
Still yell it mighty loud
Behold the Mighty Crier
Give him the praise that he has earned
For without those before him
Many people would not have learned
I dedicate this small verse
To a Crier for us all
He's the Town Crier For London
"I present to you Bill Paul"
Jul 5, 2012
Jul 5, 2012 at 7:51 PM UTC
any ground 18 stood on crumbled as all once-great nations do.
the flame of hope that had kept the lights on
turned and burned down the wooden roofs,
while the archers left arrowheads in flesh.
lakes of insurmountable grief covered the ruins of who she once was.
in moments of cruelty, she could feel the bottom of the waters,
could feel the glory of the old self.
the wickedness was that she did not possess the strength to lift it up again, could not resurface glimmering gems.
left without sight and taste, doomed to the brush of fingertips.
Dec 21, 2021
Dec 21, 2021 at 11:30 PM UTC
Arrows your choir.
Release.
In come high soaring melodies
The air bathes in their aromas
A disguise for incoming piercings.
One strike upon the next.
Perseverance bleeds from every wound.
First it trickles
Now it pours.
When struck again
Please find my head or my throat.
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 2:03 AM UTC
Where the stars turn to rust,
I hit it right
and it made me wild with thought
that before we know where we are
It will be Spring
and She will enter
I did not enjoy seeing you the other day
and I wear your necklace as a reminder
of sweet things and of your seduction
my heart regards me, steadfastly
with tiny, bright eyes, and
ultimately retreats rejoicing
in the strength of ten thousand archers
golden arrows fly
so numerous they blot out the sun
Stange shadows come alive and
when shall I play for you the music of the
April rain?
Jan 18, 2022
Jan 18, 2022 at 1:04 PM UTC
what if we were castle turrets?
our tasseled but torn flags whipping the clouds,
dragons tearing off the shingles
with their nostalgic disorders.
we could be sagittarius.
emerging from the groves with purple,
bruised collarbones
only because they stretched miles within
our bodies like archers' bows, bitten
& shooting unintended victims.
which i guess is what i was always scared of,
mulling your jeans around in my room
and eating frozen strawberries alone,
staining my fingers with more than just
your sharpie-written love letters.
milky-white plant smoke can permeate hands
just like your smell can permeate my canyons,
sending tremors inside of their fibers
giving us scars that we don't like to burden,
sending rocks into our jagged feelings.
what if we were golden like our naked skin
under the olive branches that inevitably
mean hate, anger, shame, and the bee sting
of slaps from loved ones?
diamonds can pour through our smiles,
fill our upturned palms
and give the rubies of our tattoos to a shrouded god.
i've been listening to song lyrics & hurricanes,
& i understand now.
i understand what it would feel like
to belong to someone.
Jun 26, 2011
Jun 26, 2011 at 10:09 PM UTC
the archers have their fingers
pointed squarely at the hotel singer
smoke on the edge of their mouths
coiling sweetly all across the house
and the trees will part
for a song and a blood sacrifice
bowed low over a guitar
trying to teach himself the meaning of pain
sitting in the dark of a car
doing his best to convincingly feign
the long-suffering fool
with everything to gain
her ashes sunk in the sand
and the rest went over the electric dam
in the dark the mournful loon calls
as trumpets echoed in the concrete halls
and the rapids will churn
with a growl and the whisper of a lovely fern
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 3:42 PM UTC
Men engaged in a five day battle
you better hold on to your saddle.
armoured knights running a runs race
archers shooting ***** for them to face
Dressed in white but no messengers of peace
these are 22 warriors, not from Rome or Greece
The ground remains green, but the pitch burns
in the fight for the prestigious ashes urn
Jul 23, 2015
Jul 23, 2015 at 9:22 AM UTC
I hear the sounds of…
Clanking swords, spears, and crying souls
The sight of…
Shoveling dirt for graves and empty bowls…
Empty stomachs
The thunderous drum beat is in unison with the marches
Brave soldiers and accurate archers
Men and woman who sacrifice everything to see their country rise
Without the slightest feeling that they are getting sand blown over their eyes
The truth is hidden in the brain of every society
If someone were to ask me who I am…
American? Latino? Native? French?
No. I am none of these things
Tan skin and thick, dark hair
A giant with an awkward smile
The Universe begs us to be “different”
Yet it judges us for it
Hypocrisy is our philosophy
Since the first day that I took a deep breath of this thin and polluted air…
I have lost faith in all of humanity
What do you consider “the end”?
When mankind is completely wiped out from the face of Earth-
Or when we lose our morality?
Society has come to the end of its rope
It’s my job to tie a knot and hang on tightly…
Hang on as long as I possibly can
I wonder how long I would last before someone tries to tear me down…
To the depths of failure and misery
Our world’s rotting heart is oozing out with anger, pride, and lust
A society supported by hate and judgment
We are like Al-Qaeda and the Nazis
No different
This world is killing you slowly…
With every breath that you take
We are lambs that are being led to the slaughter
Killing each other…
Moms, dads, and daughters
The blood of our society tastes bitter and acidic on my sensitive tongue
The bullet shells clank loudly against the cold and hard concrete sidewalk
Suicide, genocide, homicide, worldwide
We are what we think
What we think is wrong
Society wins
We’ve reached the end
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 7:56 PM UTC
impartial to war
i try to keep peace
motives still alive
i will survive
enemies don't help
as hard as they try
the sky is dark
clouds heavy tonight
i run like the wind
war close at hand
to escape from the wrath
i need to defend
i fight for the truth
keep safe all in sight
my entorage close
i leap for the fight
spreading so far
we fight in disperse
i'm running in anger
down mountains of bone
blood flowing thick
i hold nothing back
the full blow of fury
headed straight for the top
in mud caked clothes
the blood is stained thick
a sword in my right hand
dagger at left
archers fire in anger
i dodge behind rocks
they hit me in double
i ignore the shock
running now screaming
the serpent sees me
i spring for the ****
blade ready to run through
sword clashes ring
across hills and valleys
we stop in horror
a moment of silence
then blood all about
we challange each other
winner shall live
do as they wish
the looser will die
in bad honor at that
they die cold and still
on flat rocks of stone
clinking at first
we warm up the tension
the swords are flying
death drawing us in
the skill is high
you can't see it all
a blade here now
in one second gone
keep your eyes keen
to see the quick end
shoulder, leg, arm
slices death blowing
still not over
we fight until finaly
i stab the heart
his face melts in death
the fight below
turns into fleeing
we won the war
all tired and steaming
the casualty rate
is high on our side
2000 souls gone
of my 5000 here
the saddness goes on
never to end
home bound we go
leaving all wrath behind
home once at last
good conquered evil
we went for a fight
came back with no evil
May 24, 2010
May 24, 2010 at 4:13 PM UTC
Barbarians, and archers, and goblins oh my !
Restless in army camps for the raiding is nigh.
The builders are busy setting up my next plot,
Deciding where the mortar can pull off the best shot.
A chop and a cut, and voila ! More land to use,
Setting up decorations, all cast as a ruse.
I look to my shield, and the icon says “none”,
If I don’t request troops soon I’ll surely be done!
I prepare to attack, but don’t like what I see,
So “next” I press, and hope for a camp that’s easy !
Aha! I exclaim as I find a weak prey,
Gold walls or not, I’ll be claiming victory this day !
Giants come rumbling, to cause some destruction,
Followed by wall breakers to remove all obstruction.
With holes now aplenty, in come the rest of the crew,
To pilfer and plunder and do what they do.
100% !!! And 3 stars the finale,
Plus 35 more trophies to add to my tally.
Mission completed, I set back to my camp,
A smile on my face feeling like a real champ !
The day’s at an end so off goes the phone,
In the middle of the night I hear a familiar tone.
I reach for my ipad and what do I see,
****** ! I’ve been raided by PãRāß@pk !!!
With shields now up for the next 16 hours,
My resources are safe and I can upgrade my towers !
And thus ends the day’s tale of cast spells and flighted arrow,
Don’t worry Clash of clans, I’ll be back tomorrow !!!
Sep 19, 2015
Sep 19, 2015 at 9:13 AM UTC
A thousand failed sonnets
To profess mine Passion
A world of Gemstones
To show thy worth
A Moon of spun silk ribbon
To caress Thy Skin
An Army of Archers
To Protect Thy heart
Humble me with reason
To think these enough
These words that whisper
To Reveal Mine soul
I Love You
Aug 7, 2012
Aug 7, 2012 at 7:53 AM UTC