"battlements" poems
I would kiss you on the battlements
I would kiss you below flying cars
I would kiss you in the rain
Or when we would dance
Underneath the stars
Just keep me close through time
And time again-
I'll never leave your side,
No matter what,
I promise.
Dec 1, 2017
Dec 1, 2017 at 10:02 PM UTC
It was the twilight of the iguana.
From the rainbow-arch of the battlements,
his long tongue like a lance
sank down in the green leaves,
and a swarm of ants, monks with feet chanting,
crawled off into the jungle,
the guanaco, thin as oxygen
in the wide peaks of cloud,
went along, wearing his shoes of gold,
while the llama opened his honest eyes
on the breakable neatness
of a world full of dew.
The monkeys braided a ******
thread that went on and on
along the shores of dawn,
demolishing walls of pollen
and startling the butterflies of Muzo
into flying violets.
It was the night of the alligators,
the pure night, crawling
with snouts emrging from ooze,
and out the sleepy marshes
the confused noise of scaly plates
returned to the ground where they began.
The jaguar brushed the leaves
with a luminous absence,
the puma runs through the branches
like a forest fire,
while the jungle's drunken eyes
burn from inside him.
The badgers scratch the river's
feet, scenting the nest
whost throbbing delicacy
they attack with red teeth.
And deep in the huge waters
the enormous anaconda lies
like the circle around the earth,
covered with ceremonies of mud,
devouring, religious.
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the water carves its caves
out of the black rock,
little turrets of the wind
walking the battlements
of the sea's dark fortress.
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 10:46 AM UTC
*The smell of rain precedes the storm
that looms out in the west.
The sound of distant thunder
causes racing in my chest.*
*The temperature begins to drop
as I begin to flee
Seeking shelter from the storm
beneath a lonely tree.*
*I cower there, although I know
this haven's a mistake.
I know this is a lightning rod
but that's the chance I take.*
*The clouds, like battlements,
now, tower overhead
Ominous...majestic...and
they fill my heart with dread.*
*Drops of rain begin to fall
and plop among the leaves
Followed my the icy hail
that toward my shelter weaves.*
*A branch has fallen near my crouch
and nearly I am crushed.
My choice to wait beneath the tree
now seems a little rushed.*
*I stumble out into the storm.
The rain is driving hard.
Lightning strikes the tree I'd left.
The trunk is black and charred.*
*How foolish was my little hike
in spite of warnings thus.
Stay at home when storms approach
or next time...take the bus*
Jun 2, 2017
Jun 2, 2017 at 11:03 PM UTC
Sweeten, let’s, a coast of dun
Therefrom which, the tides erode,
A castle to blind the mighty sun
Affront to that Poseidon, and others
On the beach.
***** the walls and battlements
Fair crystal arm the turrets
The audience of the hermit *****
Pay silent homage to the throne
Intricate are its libraries, etched
Our history inside the tomes.
Only grains of perfect stock
From which antiquity, in full credit,
Will revere the lot
And poetry of human might
Shaped and forged to kiss the day of light
Only that may suffice.
In this endeavor, no ancients will tenet
Its salty beams but the children of the morn
For we shall build the universe
From when progenitors are born.
Before it began, we were dismayed
Our future, castle, by waves waylaid
Aspirations sink, now, from shape.
But, Gods, I curse you!
Let my destiny rise free!
Look now before you:
A stone in ocean of mediocrity!
All these that build up forts
Lack in that spirit to fight, retort
**** you, **** you, waters of my doubt
Turn false the shades of realism
Which I thought it all about
**** you, **** you sands of time
For now all that founds my dreams
Is erosion of the shoreline sand.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
The sky lies on the horizon
like a smoke-coloured cat
draped over a sofa of heather,
purple as pansies but sharper,
scratching against boots and paws.
It washes across the landscape
in a swathe of paint,
broken by breadcrumb rocks.
Up here, the wind gallops,
almost spins me round
to face home again.
Water framed by narrow paths
like battlements, flicking
onto grey stones and sand,
smell of earth, damp air.
Our path drops down
like the side of a ship and the dog,
ginger beacon in a sea of bog-grass,
skids on his front paws.
I shuffle sideways, crab steps
slipping from mud to puddle.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 3:39 AM UTC
Muggy murky dawn clogged with gloom the abbey
Where his grampy sleeps ,
Through
the drizzles fizzle
As native orchids embosoms and blossoms in his lost vault.
like a curfew drawn in the church
The pew lost its crowd
With the paws of time.
Lone man sleep
In deep latin chants they petrify you
Before sheol purifies you
And litany literature lecture limbs you
When in overprotected embankments of battlements
They dry their garbs
Where your lore forayed growth
And sweat smeared smelt breathed wealth
Chagrin dreams washed ashore
lay as upon a cold mornings recollection on a tabloids sold column
which drew your freckles bolder
In a savour of remembrance
For your zealous zealots
Who on an another 'all souls day' reoccur revisiting
the truth of their establishment
in prayers
The good Lord adorn you
Let Lekker dreams cradle you
Your consorts concert never consume you
And earth never haunt you
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 1:47 AM UTC
LOUD trumpets blow among the naked pines,
Fine spun as sere-cloth rent from royal dead.
Seen ghostly thro' high-lifted vagrant drifts,
Shrill blaring, but no longer loud to moons
Like a brown maid of Egypt stands the Earth,
Her empty valley palms stretched to the Sun
For largesse of his gold. Her mountain tops
Still beacon winter with white flame of snow,
Fading along his track; her rivers shake
Wild manes, and paw their banks as though to flee
Their riven fetters.
Lawless is the time,
Full of loud kingless voices that way gone:
The Polar Caesar striding to the north,
Nor yet the sapphire-gated south unfolds
For Spring's sweet progress; the winds, unkinged,
Reach gusty hands of riot round the brows
Of lordly mountains waiting for a lord,
And pluck the ragged beards of lonely pines-
Watchers on heights for that sweet, hidden king,
Bud-crowned and dreaming yet on other shores-
And mock their patient waiting. But by night
The round Moon falters up a softer sky,
Drawn by silver cords of gentler stars
Than darted chill flames on the wintry earth.
Within his azure battlements the Sun
Regilds his face with joyance, for he sees,
From those high towers, Spring, earth's fairest lord,
Soft-cradled on the wings of rising swans,
With violet eyes slow budding into smiles,
And small, bright hands with blossom largesse full,
Crowned with an orchard coronal of white,
And with a sceptre of a ruddy reed
Burnt at its top to amethystine bloom.
Come, Lord, thy kingdom stretches barren hands!
Come, King, and chain thy rebels to thy throne
With tendrils of vine and jewelled links
Of ruddy buds pulsating into flower!
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When I die,
bury me under a tree,
large and spreading,
so that I may give again to life
and be a home for breezes
and whatever birds
may please to make their home there.
Then climb the battlements
of my old and crumbling castle
in the air
and appreciate the spectacle
of a speck against infinity.
Go to my oak desk
and burn all love letters,
pure and singing though they are.
Let others learn love for themselves,
as I did. It is best.
Then celebrate, inebriate.
Divide up my possessions
and sell a few to buy fireworks that burn
brilliantly and fast.
Raid my cellar, eat, drink, make merry and enjoy,
for tomorrow is unknown.
And when the revelers stagger home,
remember only that I loved incandescently and enjoyed.
Yes, there were futile crusades, furious fusillades and
wild charges against the windmills,
but I did love. Yes, desperately.
That's all.
So goodbye, my friends. Don't grieve.
Please believe that
the gift of love and
this scatter of words
is all I want to leave behind.
See - they flutter from that great tree
that stands against the blustering sky
out there, beyond the mist,
along the pathway to
forever.
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 7:24 AM UTC
O lady o ,
When I first saw you ,
you’re beauty was it not plucked like a carnation Gods gardens of delight ?
Or had the snake who saw you stand there ,
so to draw blood from my very sight ?
For I have ridden in dark forests by day ,
past pine ,
and firn
for even they could never draw out the love in you’re eyes ,
or the tender way you’re White carnations flew on by .
The sunset with its colours as vast as you’re breast ,
I have awaited every hour of every day ,
and there you are ,
You’re turrets tall and fair youre battlements boast of ore and steel ,
You’re cannons lit it’s flintlock poised ,
You’re hairs as black as the Lotus flower that gives its scent unto
the night ,
and grows all around you’re turrets so rare .
I will blow a kiss to you this evening ,
for the wind may howl ,
let its spirits deceive ,
this night you’re cannons I shall disarm ,
You’re turrets dismantle ,
you’re battlements besiege.
As for you’re carnations ,
shall I hold tight to my chest ?
For this night our bodies will entwine ,
as the firn and the pine ,
the bark and the yoke ,
to chase the sun ,
past forest glades,
gallop ,
as you hold my thighs ,
together we shall ride ,
Side by side .
This night we shall call our own lost in the pine forest ,
firn and flower .
For are they not dainty ones I shall pick for you this hour .
Then as the last rays of light called it a night ,
and the vast reds in all their array ,
could not stop my tears ,
one white carnation on the ground ,
without a note ,
quite profound ,
an empty space where you once stood ,
lies now a block of wood .
And I still mount thus every night ,
Galloping hopeless in faintest light ,
as faster than any knight ,
to gaze to where you once stood ,
for with thy white carnations must lie
my forever ,
beating ....
heart .
.
Jul 29, 2019
Jul 29, 2019 at 11:42 AM UTC
The day following Cawdor's capture
Was strange and grew stranger:
Relief from battle's end,
The weary ride's return.
Three witches in a fen
Pronounced Macbeth's sweet future
Named him, "King," hereafter.
Their prophecy fazed him,
I think.
Aware their source could only be the Devil,
I queried them,
"Prophesy the future to my line."
Cackled utterances gave nothing to me,
Except the fathering of kings,
A promise I can only to leave to God.
Shrieking and smoking,
The hags evaporated
Leaving us shaking,
Alone in murky thought.
I obeyed, as much as I am able,
Macbeth's command
To leave the hellish messengers'
Words hanging in that fen.
Tonight Glamis has become Cawdor;
The day has trickled down to night;
I am out upon the battlements,
Too troubled now to sleep
While Macbeth snores, content.
He leaves to see his Lady in the morning.
King Duncan follows after
To celebrate the victory of Scotland,
To honor the bravest of his heroes,
The two-named Thane.
Here above the courtyard,
I pace beneath the tent of night,
As witches' words I mutter,
"And King hereafter."
Something is not right.
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 7:10 PM UTC
A Moment in Life Twice Lost to Time
The Swiss watch is my paradigm
Residing now ‘neath Tampa Bay
A moment in life twice lost to time
The gift, from a wall of ice to climb
In Luxembourg where I did stay
The Swiss watch becomes my paradigm
Research belaying the banker's crime
Through valleys green, o'er bridges grey
A moment in life twice lost to time
While belching diesels share their grime
And church bells call all souls to pray
This watch, my truest paradigm
In this city from another time
In Europe's heart I found my way
A moment in life twice lost to time
Returning from this land sublime
My walls and battlements fell away
Rodania watch, my paradigm
A moment in life twice lost to time
2 March 2000
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 3:47 PM UTC
Amidst all the hustle and bustle of the biggest city in the world.
Amidst all the turmoil of rooms being booked to make the most efficient use of time and space.
This place got overlooked.
I'm in an empty classroom,
Alone.
The empty chairs,
A quiet reminder,
This place is used to more.
But I'm in an empty classroom,
And my thoughts are my own.
I feel illicit.
And excited.
And inspired.
I feel like becoming, the people I admire.
The space is defiantly alive,
There's new stacks of papers each night.
I feel in touch with the beauty of society,
But safe from its vice.
I barricade myself behind battlements of books.
My presence will almost certainly go undetected,
No one will notice the slight shift in the desks and chairs.
But I feel connected.
There is a shared spirit, that lives in the air.
I breath in the ghosts of the day time,
Their raucous noise nothing but a whisper, now.
I don't dislike those ghosts,
I'm just thankful for this time to play alone with the possibility
Of creation.
Away from idle chitterlings.
Their whispering ghosts make me relish this stolen time all the more.
I've got until the sun sinks, sinks, sinks into the deep dark.
I've got a candle, I've got my heart.
until sunrise.
And hopefully someday,
someone will feel,
In the midst of their new delight
The spirit of
the ghost of night.
I'm in an empty class,
Alone,
In the spaces left over,
I feel at home.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 10:25 AM UTC
Mulling about
The muck
The haunts we are hardbound
Foggy fetal leavings by the sea
Right before the light;
The days of purple haze
Of sallow street cars, street lamp, amped up
Yet dampened loss of desire
Pop another oxy-hydro-fire.
To be able
To muck about
With inner abandon
the abandonments deep
Numb battlements / "Hoorah!"
Semper Fi the pain
Only significant
With derivatives
From ******* plantations
Opioid addiction’s contractually binding
Lingering love notes
A vice grip on idle minds
So many now that prey
But with a side affect of
Try holding in your ****
for three-plus days
So as not to feel
Not at all
Not even the rage
We keep anxiously pacing
Clawing at
Nonexistent strings
A Beast inside our cage
Forgiven by preacher men
Proclaiming to hallelujah
Change
At war with illusionist
Freedom
The boys fight for still
A country of patriotic pill poppers
Believing in heavenly kingdoms'
Healing
Secret silent pleading
Because nothing takes away
The pain
Like Hydro Oxy foxy pills
Self medicate down wind of will
If unaffected "consult your physician"
He’s at the edge of the stage
A Spearmint rhino making it rain
For Peaches
From patient list of his *******
The business of lust
Is feeding the loss of will
If you still feel lost -- and war sure did
Give them nothing but
PTSD & bad dreams
Machine gun migraines
Pop another pill
Jagged little killer
Softly knocks you off your feet
Black is cheaper
Smoke out not to feel
The muck-about days of
Constipated pains
Reader Digesting heavily,
Numbingly unreal.
Casualty of a nameless waste
That’s his deal / what it's like :
Most fecund
A life on the toilet
In wait for relief…
Get off the ***
Can't give a ****
Like this bowel movement
His heart has called it quits
To all this unholy *******
Veteran
Patriot
Manhood’s defeat
Damnation
Mucking about...
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 11:02 AM UTC
The storm rages on,
an endless cycle.
Territory won and lost daily,
doomed to repeat.
Relentless waves of attack,
pounding upon steadfast walls
lined with tiny timbers,
encrusted in golden pebble-dash,
the armour of Poseidon's minions
on display as grim defiance.
The tides of battle turn constantly,
but with each assault the fortress falters.
Foamy charges batter and breach,
tearing down the walls,
melting into nothing.
With just sand, sticks and shells left,
strewn over the battlefield,
the war is over...
Until, the next summer's day
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 7:29 AM UTC
A man whose name was carved in stone,
his bloodlust - a mountain, unknown - the peak.
The wolf dyed deep into his very bone,
to each theatre of war does he seek.
Each emperor becomes a trade,
barter gold, purchase steel, sell red.
Battlefields become eternal, bodies soon fade,
a tribute to vultures with unending dead.
Strew flowers in wake of chains,
bow before a once hated king,
catch a glimpse atop battlements.
A trusted solider without reigns,
loyalty in his eyes – a sin,
past bonds only exist as remnants
Mar 19, 2012
Mar 19, 2012 at 5:12 PM UTC
He left with the passing time
no farewells offered
no heartfelt backward glance
his footfalls ticking seconds
echoing in the Sunday parlours of the righteous he despised
He left with the passing time
no one mourned,no tears were shed
His sacred, bleeding heart
now but a tattooed image
on the chests of the dejected
He left with the passing time
on whispers of myths
and suspected tall tales
doubting his own truth
despising the lie of his creation
He left with the passing time
while pious mice sang of his glory
behind the battlements of faith
as the wars of the wicked raged in his name
He left with the passing time
while mothers wailed at shaken babes
and the disappeared sang from **** choked graves
He left with the passing time
as society shunned his brand
and drunken feet danced lasciviously on his moral high ground
He left, with the passing time...
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 4:29 AM UTC
On a lip-crack Wednesday morning
with a mind as dry as ice
my cold Mojave fingers
make it difficult to write
and the radio is laying
sentimental sediment
on a limestone lack of lustre
that's as solid as cement
and a sad Sahara sunrise
bakes a barren riverbed
where the trickled inspiration
once went gushing through my head
and I point a brittle finger
at the unrelenting sky
and I ask it why?
Then you
dawn
upon
my memory and
My heart becomes a waterfall
cascading through my very soul
refresh the butterflies that fly
in coloured clouds below
And if you'll take me, I will grow
I will grow
I recall a conversation
from a few years down the line
one voice isn't shouting
but the other one is mine
laying words like sandbags
against the battlements
making promises which, made,
cannot be made again
I was sure of something
but my certainty was wrong
now I'm sure of something else
I can't tell for how long
I point that brittle finger
at the unrelenting sky
and ask it why?
Then you
dawn
upon
my memory and
My heart becomes a waterfall
cascading through my very soul
refresh the butterflies that fly
in coloured clouds below
and if you'll take me I will grow
If you'll take me I will grow
If you'll take me I will grow
I will grow.
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 3:23 PM UTC
You could say he hates her,
From the way she talks to him, how every rose is ****** at him thorns first - millions of little slashes - battle wounds of the everyman adding up day to day week to week year to year the river of blood leaks to the ocean big enough to drown them both.
He fires back though, and across the battlements of the dinner table sits the enemy shaking a half empty bottle of depression pills, basing how much happiness was left for the month off of the rattling of white capsules against the orange bottle.. She, how could she have ever given birth to him? Some might argue that was all she ever did for him, too preoccupied with her reflection to see the mirror image her son had become with his suken eyes, a rotton apple, a cyanide cynic at the ripe fresh age of fifteen.
So six months later when they both led the cavalry in charge for the umpteenth time throwing dagger words laced with poison aimed high at heads ducked below cover to a safe place (but of course there is no safe place),
Who would've thought when he told her to start taking her pills she'd take them all. Tip top of the bottle bottoms up for the bottle plain white capsules and blood red wine because when she goes out she goes out like a lady.
Its a sad sight seeing all her family weep at her grave, cry true tears clear and pure. All her family but one, her beloved boy. How dry face and stone visage were oh so heart wrenching.
But perhaps worst of all, is that you could say he hates her even now
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 9:41 PM UTC
Mr Finn
was talking
history
Saxon stuff
battlements
and castles
listening
I recalled
the toy fort
that I got
for my 6th
birthday gift
with coloured
lead soldiers
some with swords
some with bows
and arrows
and after
the school day
on the way
home I asked
Janice if
she'd like to
see my fort
you've a fort?
a real fort?
she asked me
as we walked
together
along St
George's Road
it's a toy
fort I got
for my 6th
birthday gift
has it got
a drawbridge?
sure it has
and towers?
5 if you
count the one
over the
drawbridge I
informed her
I'd love to
see your fort
she said so
I took her
to the flat
where I lived
and showed her
the toy fort
and soldiers
and we sat
on the floor
and my mum
brought us drinks
of Tizer
and biscuits
and Janice
said to me
maybe you'd
like to see
my dollies
at my place
Gran likes you
then we can
have a tea
party with
my dollies
I liked her
but going
to a doll's
tea party
how could a
young boy live
that one down
if the boys
on the block
found that out
so I said
maybe one
day I might
when there's not
a moon out
in the night.
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 7:28 AM UTC
Why dost thou build the hall, Son of the winged days? Thou lookest
from thy tower to-day: yet a few years, and the blast of the desart
comes: it howls in thy empty court.—Ossian.
I
Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistle:
Thou, the hall of my Fathers, art gone to decay;
In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle
Have choak’d up the rose, which late bloom’d in the way.
II
Of the mail-cover’d Barons, who, proudly, to battle,
Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine’s plain,
The escutcheon and shield, which with ev’ry blast rattle,
Are the only sad vestiges now that remain.
III
No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers,
Raise a flame, in the breast, for the war-laurell’d wreath;
Near Askalon’s towers, John of Horistan slumbers,
Unnerv’d is the hand of his minstrel, by death.
IV
Paul and Hubert too sleep in the valley of Cressy;
For the safety of Edward and England they fell:
My Fathers! the tears of your country redress ye:
How you fought! how you died! still her annals can tell.
V
On Marston, with Rupert, ‘gainst traitors contending,
Four brothers enrich’d, with their blood, the bleak field;
For the rights of a monarch their country defending,
Till death their attachment to royalty seal’d.
VI
Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant departing
From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu!
Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting
New courage, he’ll think upon glory and you.
VII
Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation,
’Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret;
Far distant he goes, with the same emulation,
The fame of his Fathers he ne’er can forget.
VIII
That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish;
He vows that he ne’er will disgrace your renown:
Like you will he live, or like you will he perish;
When decay’d, may he mingle his dust with your own!
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You look like a fire escape in a dress
Flower patterned
Sunday's best
I don't have to fall so hard anymore
The first night I held you
I dug your neck into a trench
This body was not at war with itself
Your shoulders are battlements
Your chest a drawbridge
I am waiting
Horseless
For you to let me in
I know you are so much softer than that
Lay across me again gorgeous
Let me sleep under your strength
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 4:08 PM UTC
black is my mind my body and soul
white the light but it still looks yellow
past the point were turning back is not an option
revenge is only folly if success is valid conquest
belittling immigrants
who settled for scraps off our battlements
preposterous pledges by parliament
only campaigning for the next election
correction only acting for praises by thespians
who digress me again its a mess, sin.
what I'm saying is puppeteers puppet them
and they speak in voice roll
440 A is what rock sold
watch the room get cold
but even if I said it you still likely wouldn't know
its old
giving rhythm to a message, that predates me
but the soul
pours forth, so as for digging my feet
I may as well be digging a hole
like a mold compulsion
perpetual veritable intervals
in a vexing verbose
burying any chance for understanding
overwhelming cowardice
forces most to just live with it
a mask makes a brave man
so one day well rise again
hiding in sub-text
my plain sight re-utterance
if you do nothing you change nothing
now shut up and forget I said anything
gooble gobble
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 6:49 PM UTC
enchantment waits above the castle towers,
the midnight gleam unholy, she is lost
to darkling clouds and battlements of frost,
and enigmatic night shows all her powers.
bewitched by ages white as lily flowers,
the ivy creeps upon the broken walls,
a kingdom for the prince, high ceilinged halls,
fall, fall to dust and long the starry hours.
great knights in armour, restless for a fight
on thundering horses storm into the night,
with swords unsheathed towards their deathly foe,
and love is lost with nowhere left to go,
the mighty fall, their army silver bright,
beneath a slumbered moon the south winds blow.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 2:23 PM UTC