"bardic" poems
After the wolves and before the elms
the bardic order ended in Ireland.
Only a few remained to continue
a dead art in a dying land:
This is a man
on the road from Youghal to Cahirmoyle.
He has no comfort, no food and no future.
He has no fire to recite his friendless measures by.
His riddles and flatteries will have no reward.
His patrons sheath their swords in Flanders and Madrid.
Reader of poems, lover of poetry—
in case you thought this was a gentle art
follow this man on a moonless night
to the wretched bed he will have to make:
The Gaelic world stretches out under a hawthorn tree
and burns in the rain. This is its home,
its last frail shelter. All of it—
Limerick, the Wild Geese and what went before—
falters into cadence before he sleeps:
He shuts his eyes. Darkness falls on it.
6k
Meteoric Buick
Slick *****
Frantic frenetic
Majestic kick
Chick shtick
Shashlik
Nicotinic stick
Lick flick
Hermeneutic heretic
Magnetic rhetoric
Hick logic
Strategic
Plastic music
Tick click
Bucolic Bardic
Peptic druidic
Rustic emetic
Sceptic
Polymeric quirk
Sick trick
Turmeric trimeric
Septic *****
Wick crick
Derrick
Mar 4, 2010
Mar 4, 2010 at 12:27 AM UTC
This valley wood is pledged
To the set shape of things,
And reasonably hedged:
Here are no harpies fledged,
No rocs may clap their wings,
Nor gryphons wave their stings.
Here, poised in quietude,
Calm elementals brood
On the set shape of things:
They fend away alarms
From this green wood.
Here nothing is that harms -
No bulls with lungs of brass,
No toothed or spiny grass,
No tree whose clutching arms
Drink blood when travellers pass,
No mount of glass;
No bardic tongues unfold
Satires or charms.
Only, the lawns are soft,
The tree-stems, grave and old;
Slow branches sway aloft,
The evening air comes cold,
The sunset scatters gold.
Small grasses toss and bend,
Small pathways idly tend
Towards no fearful end.
2.2k
Poetry, the reason we are all here.
Writing words that we hope someone reads and hears
Hears in the sounds of the words, them coming alive
Vocally there is a potency to written words
Say them out loud, hear them, feel them form in your mouth
Soulfully continue this aged tradition of story telling
Poetry, is known globally, it transcends diplomacy,
it reaches souls, hearts and minds.
Like a minority,poetry is seen as weak and bleak,
but then life is not a bed of roses, there are thorns.
Reproachfully it is scorned, 'poet? Try writing a novel'
Wrongfully seen as the poor man to a novelist, poetry
at its best conveys, more in a few verses than a thousand
pages of a novel. Lonesome is the poet, that sees truth.
There is merit in poetry, the continuation of odes told by
the fireside, Viking, Persian, Celt, all historic bardic civilisations.
Purity in poetry leads down a path least travelled these days
but tales of yore still prevail, and Beowulf still roars.
Canterbury tales still elicit smiles, cries and woe.
Shakespeare, Dante, Poe, Neruda, Thomas, Petrarch all Poets with soul.
So, you tell me, and all of us poets are we the novelists poor relation?
Or, just reclaiming our station in life as the purest storytellers?
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 10:39 AM UTC
She fluttered like the heart ascending o’er that ‘a way,
her swirling flower petals trailing scents throughout the day.
Heaven’s hounds are following, the wolves who chase the moon,
who chased after the birds and eagles, -who clamored to the sun.
The meeting followed once the bull, and the man,
tree and mountain, rivers and ship; found they met as one.
And finally the snake appeared to join in Tlaloc’s face,
All the actions, movements and motions that occur in outer-space.
Each apportioned in a name and symbol, time and order, or function each unto its place...
When the heart did see them afterwards and it fluttered like the early birds, inhaling in the wondrous, feeling something marvelous, and trailing through the skies upon and over time…
…and song or poem, bardic tale, kenning and the rhyme,
And set in stone or scribed on scroll, clay-carved or remembered in the mind. Lost of rhyme or reason and forgotten of their meaning until thought of as sublime. A tragedy or travesty, our lost past and history and that Dragon from the mine; and who he was or who he is and what we’ve lost or what we did.
A sleeper nay, a beast they say, who directs the evil Id...
And the birds shall fly and flowers grow, the ship arrived and animals stowed. The rivers, tree, mountain, bee, the bull and last, the man.
An ordering too and of all things said to be a plan,
…and that Dragon in his awful cave,
when Homer died became the grave,
...for over time did man forget them and thus became a slave.
chorus
…qe te awis petō, beehelōtis krēskō, plowós ghēmi qe kaiwotos karpō,
Te danus, deru, uros, bheiqlā, te ukson qe póstmos te haner,
…qe tagjōvi do-qe-pe olja weqtise seke do esmi e-men,
…qe jod Dherghen en-hen ghouros-te-speqos,
jom e-Homer walóm weiṛtō en-dō bhodsās;
…uperi tempos, ye man ne-mē, qe-en-dō e-dōsos.
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 9:34 PM UTC
bleak darkness and its measure:
squandering the light
no definitions
no spectral haze
no inhibitions
its onerous labor is one
with me.
live life at the edge of the fall.
holding a hand
fallibly.
live alone, love alone —
these things pulse with strength
in singleness, even the glances
of prying neighbors are sequestered
reduced to sealed shut, hermetic,
no sight or hindsight.
i'll run to where the sunlight is
and wish for the moon, slumber
like a dead log adrift in the current.
buying myself love and selling its pleasures to defunct markets.
trying to repair what is beyond salvation,
trying to amalgamate what is perpetually
scarred, sundered.
clangorous *** of metal, herding jeep
and riotous chariots; mad men fill
the lines waiting for encumbrance,
bardic in the streets of Marilao
hungry for something:
give me a blank piece of paper
and i will try to reinvent the world
with impunity and lostness.
the world gives back such awry stare
and all imperative darkness reigns
supreme, mine are all emergencies
as shadows are succored not,
retained in their caliginous thrones.
living alone
yet not so much alone.
the dog outside does not bark anymore.
the well-placed gnome of stone outside
stares stonily across the thick space.
the nosy neighbor does not meddle
through the rusted ocher grills.
the old moon wanes outside
as the lift of light sways to where
there are no disappearances.
somewhere in the metropolitan there
is a derby of fools and all mirth;
i wish myself there and curse my presence
right then.
work does not fill me anymore,
money does me no good. my soul
bangs the walls and slams the doors
it threatens to leave without auguries,
and demands a new sense of necessity.
tonight, i will go out, drink at a local pub
and crawl towards the ajar door of
my father's car. smoke will caterwaul
the pressing scenes of the vicinities
crumbling at the tremor of clocks;
i will open my dresser and discover
all books dissipated, some naked
in relished pages, others abeyant.
the curtain can fall later,
and the night too, falter evenly
widely spread across the sky.
— all is broken.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 8:49 AM UTC
Are his sins so great to justify the harm?
Are your hands so clean and white to
Ridicule; alarm?
Was your time so wisely spent
To spew your words of hate?
Will your judgment passify
the hurt that you create?
Is your throne so golden
To stand above the rest?
Do you feel a victory
To shame, to crush, to jest?
Do your means enthrall the lack
of something you hold dear?
Does your “court of justice” claim
support of comrades who live here?
Did you think before you tied
The knot upon the noose?
Do the stains upon your soul
Justify your truth?
If you can answer “yes” to these,
I shall kiss your feet alone
For you started the trial
Fanned the flames
The conclusions, you shall own.
If you cannot answer “yes” to these,
You’d best leave well enough, alone
Abandon reckless disregard,
And abdicate your drones.
Feb 11, 2011
Feb 11, 2011 at 10:45 AM UTC
Welcome Stranger come and hear
the words that draw the heavens near
and listen to it's breeze that blows from the East
of whose Ancient cast melody tames Man and Beast.
For Tis a song so old that time has forgot
the writer of its winds wherein it's Lyrics are caught
But it's secrets may be heard and it's power felt
within the heart and mind of a truthful Celt.
For its words though obscure hold the greatest key
for all the descendants to come and see
The place where verse and rhyme equate with time
to show man's greatness and his crime.
Tis a place where all may come to Ken
the song Of the Bard over Hill and Glen
Tis a song of Being, Of Life's joy and its pain
O'Blissful tender passions and tortures mournful slain.
Tis a Journey back into the past,a relic of times gone
and yet a journey into the future, O'Life's greatest song
So Welcome stranger into a World of verbal fantasy
and to the inspirations of this Bardic Rhapsody.
Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 22, 2011
Mar 22, 2011 at 1:58 PM UTC
Atop the tor with ancient horn
Blows bardic spirit newly born
With magic emblazoned on their tongue
A descant begging to be sung
Through the saccharine morn
This is the song. The babes rejoice
To hear the magical ludic voice
They sway, and clap, and swing their heads
As bard goes round them with gentle treads
The music paints their passion red
Alight! For cosmic sense is said
The flame of love be theirs to behold
A treasure that can't be bartered, sold
That brings life back to the dead
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 3:52 AM UTC
Away ye tempests rising
the songs of life fall short
the faded images of the morrows sun
shall dim afore these eyes once bright
there is no longer a song to carry
nor a drifting phrase to brighten this mind
only pastures of endless countless wishes
that e'er now but longs to hide.
I have heard the chambers roar
triumphant he comes and brings
to these ears that final mirth
to this soul its long abide
These eyes of mine dim and worn
to the bitter step and paths arrayed
I lay back in my final glory to
the ancestral calls and faded halls
the bygone lands where they my fathers be.
I cry O' winds but e'er one last time
and thunder to the heavens e'er sweet glory
My bardic drift shall fade sweetly away
into a Celtic Gaels soft story.
Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 7:59 AM UTC
Amongst the multitudes of beats
That coy, hip underbelly
Allen Ginsberg found his feet
Bestowing an amazing treat
Articulating Poetry
Majestic music of the mind
Like semtex inflammatory
Allen’s Howl gains notoriety
Lamenting forces of destruction:
Materialism and conformity
The consumer world is in construction
Like soma the ultimate distraction
Yearning for a world where souls
Are unencumbered by cynical agendas
Allen assumed the bardic role
Trying to convey creation whole
Alluding to the magick realms
Where chaos and wilderness reside
Allen is at the Muse’s helm
Turning the world upside down
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 4:15 PM UTC
Speaking in esoteric patter
Allen implores the crowd to hear
His curious, most enchanting natter
Perceptions shake and start to shatter
Initiated in to the mysteries
Allen’s words bring them to life, with a
Voice that transcends time and history
That brings his cosmic joy and bliss to me
Words sear with a frightening power
That startles, overwhelms the crowds
Allen’s visions start to flower
Allen’s visions start to tower
He harbours an inquisitive, roaming soul
Which languishes in mystic climes
Enchanted by creation whole
Allen assumes the bardic role
Sapient and wise as the owl
Attuned to magick of the night
He conjures heaven, fathoms hell
Harnessing the wildernesses’ howl
Nov 27, 2016
Nov 27, 2016 at 5:58 PM UTC
when all else fails, we have our love
i’ve said before, it's like a glove
i'll carry you when you're too weak
down every valley, up every peak
when you're in pain, i'll rub your feet
when you're ocd, i'll make things neat
i'll catch you if you fall down stairs
i'll caress away all of your cares
though you’ll take care of every spider
for i’m the wizard and you’re the fighter
when you need money, my wallet's there
you’d do it for me so it’s only fair
and when it's cold, you have my coat
i'll read you every poem wrote
every line and terrible rhyme
from now until the end of time
matching tattoos i can't wait to get
the showers we'll take, soapy and wet
and even when i overreact
i know our love will be intact
nothing will break the bond we share
for what we have is truly rare
worth more than platinum, silver, or gold
better than any bardic story told
it's priceless, dear, you know it's true
and conveyed with every “i love you”
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 6:56 PM UTC
he explained galvanised metal,
made a bardic chair.
the eisteddfod is in llanelli
this year, while many go,
we cannot.
we have such unimportant work
here, that needs not be done.
we carry on,
with regard and fortitude.
the weather warning is cancelled.
6.12 am.
sbm.
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 1:17 AM UTC
was exhumed by stern-faced defeat
as all others revel in victories.
i only watch the limpid light
slowly frittering back to its
console as the barkeep hands me
my 7th beer of the night
as i handed them the first defense
of the inveigling tactic i have yet
to put them through and send their
young minds to equipoised trial.
i have felt ears poor without
understanding but the welcoming warmth of the light shone against
my already bleared body pierced
through the unclear of words,
as i read them littlest of
my far-slung poems, bardic
and resolute yet rogue upon sound
thinly hanging, barely on a spindle of plaudit.
the barkeep bestows me my 8th bottle and i have felt some
slow ease encroach me with lighter burnt retreat,
as i left,
unfinished.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 11:08 PM UTC
Bardic pretensions aside
I am full of dejection
Blue devils plague me
Night and day
Playing with my mind
Circles of thought constantly turning
Whirling and whirring
Worthless, self loathing, aggression
Manifests along with tears and
screams, let me go, let me leave
but, you won't.
Pop a pill, then you'll be less
Possessed, but I'll still be depressed.
It's not a tap, I cannot turn it off
Do you think I want this?
Remembering sunnier days?
My life event of being diagnosed with MS
caused this, do you not think I want it to go?
Stressed, bereft, dispossessed you call this life?
I am enmeshed by a web of my own brains doing.
Descending faster than a broken elevator
down, down, down all the way to the bottom.
If I hear that the only way from down is up
I will scream, and scream, fight and bite
Scratch and holler until I am a hollow husk.
Oh, no wait, I'm already a hollow husk of a human.
All I want is to disappear down the rabbit hole.
Un-whole, lost in the twilight zone."
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 1:48 PM UTC
even for
the non aficionado
when you say
such trite things as
step up to the plate
knock it out of the park
they can still feel
the solid oak of the bat
smell the oiled
leather of the glove
and hear the crack
as the ball soars
higher into the sky
past the cheap seats
and beyond
and I wonder
how could I
have dismissed
these words
and turns of phrases
so raw
golden
sweet and bardic
Whit Howland © 2019
Jul 8, 2019
Jul 8, 2019 at 2:09 AM UTC
Dawn breaks,
Wind rages,
The crow caws thrice.
Marvel at the poet's sin,
Bardic Rule of Law,
Inspiration at Death's Maw.
Deep pockets of space-time,
Treasured energies and auras.
Always looking outward, never within.
Universe, overture of divine sadness.
Humanity, limerick of contained madness.
Bound infinitely in harmonic chaos.
Rivers run rampant.
Time tinkers tides.
Vengeful voids vie.
Worlds wither woefully.
And yet, endless and forever,
The iridescence of written word,
Bends all things against discord.
Jul 6, 2018
Jul 6, 2018 at 1:20 PM UTC
You are the truest rebel
Borne aloft on fluent wings
In arcane, bardic arts you dabble
Through medium of you all Creation sings
Sauntering to inner music
Guided by a soulful beat
A path of fire and passion
Spin out from ‘neath your feet
With arms akimbo to the sun
You fathom God and soar divine
Eternal life has just begun
O sweet, this path that doth unwind
With lyrics like impossible lassoos
Capturing and conjuring phantasms
That appear in the rift between magic and reality
That most mystical of cosmic chasms
You paint the world with fine fluent fire
Fixated on the hope that flies
Harping on your divine lyre
You serenade the sweet evangelists of sky
Nov 30, 2016
Nov 30, 2016 at 7:28 AM UTC
Rejoice! Rejoice! For the bardic voice
Is born again in innocent infant souls
The magical ludic spirit does entice
Their stainless minds, rapt in thrall
From whence does this purest passion come
Its origin is unaccounted for
But it's magic music they happy hum
And to cynical, jaded souls implore
O, the babes of the world rejoice
I love to hear their tender voice
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 2:04 PM UTC
There is no Power like a Pen
To drown the walls of Kings
Nor any suasion like a Verse
Coercive rule an inferior thing
Endeavor such consumes the scribes
And summons want and will to resist
Coercive tyranny, that dull machine
Toppled by Bards' superior fist
Aug 12, 2025
Aug 12, 2025 at 1:02 PM UTC
I sing for the Jack of Diamonds
The iridescent, seamless jewel
Flaunting my poetic garland
Seducing with its haul
The Jack is the rumbustious renegade
Who goes wayward, errant, coy
To Jack I dedicate this enchanted serenade
The bardic arsenal I employ
To capture the diamond for my diadem
And flaunt it to the world
We'll waltz together in freedom
Towards the future hurled
The diamond is a dilettante
Dedicated to bliss
A most passionate militant
Touched by the light of luck's kiss
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 4:49 AM UTC
'
*You have been much more
to many a progressively
ailing heart,
in the eloquence
of whispered words -
watch them alight on
the pages of a poem.
What in the waving
of waxing thought;
words copiously flow
in the effervescent
glow of lilting rhyme -
solitary images
march the desert storm.
Amnesty provides no relief:
no human deed can make amends,
the speed of apologies fail
to outrun the steam roller
of resolute demeanour.
Once the balm of intimating breath
now asphyxiates tomorrow's hope.
Put forth in plain speech
what now in riddles present
then lay a poignant wreathe upon
this wailing, bardic crypt.
Underneath its gravestone, find
wispy embers of yesterdays
awaiting phoenix wings' climb.
Hence in its turn let generosity provide
this grievous dagger a sheath to hide.*
____ ____ ____ ✒
○●
°
'
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 5:57 AM UTC
He thought me jealous of his lute
When I'm miles away playing the bardic flute
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 7:18 PM UTC
O love, what times you've dwelled in thought!
Of deep, exquisite, tender things
O love, the wisdom you sweet sought
More precious than a diamond ring
O love, the Beauty your Heart taught
How resplendent, bright she soar and sing
For peace, humanity thy voice fierce fought
And velvet bliss to man you bring
Exalt the path of wisdom true
The fragrant unity of Hearts
That only devil would callous rue
God's innocent knowledge you impart
Turn my heart to red, from blue
Your love has no end, lo, no start
Like sapling to the sun, sweet grew
Your magic and magnificent heart
O love, the hours you've whiled away
At canvas of the nascent soul
Adorned with colours of the day
That beautify life's wall
O love, you have a brilliant way
Of rendering philosophy
O love, the Roses that you lay
Upon theology
O love, I pray forever you may
Beget the bardic Poetry
You laboured for without no pay
To end the people's sorrow, dismay
O love, paint my mind with the hue
Of heavens that you clearly see
Remake me new, with art that you
Have mastered like the treacherous sea
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 12:57 AM UTC