"broadsword" poems
My name is Thomas de Charney
16 years old but rarely play
Father a humble Templar Knight
Pedigree noble bloodline might
Was born special is all I know
For God’s direction to and fro
Shield from danger ab ovo
Reason revealed from His glow
Broadsword and lance, reading abound
Practice and fight til victors crowned
Warrior and Monk seen as one
One and Only Begotten Son
Father taught me the skill to fight
Learn skill to read on parchment write
Knight Templar to be, but then what ?
Fate left to God with no rebut
Then one day Father came to me
Young Parsifal son you will be
Sequestrated as directed
Pushed to excel unaffected
Templar Knight who carries his sword
Doing God’s work for no reward
Beget with specific design
Some day made known I do consign
_______________________________________
Father, it’s time we practice, yes—deke the
wield of your sword and parry your blows, and
push myself until all the sweat has left my
body. For I am a young Parsifal soon to become
a Templar Knight.
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 11:07 AM UTC
clue time game of bluff-man blind fuss of obstacles scold up my mind -(the-vermin-are-quite-rife) / portrait, ambitious portrait racing a train - broadsword toward - a fertile pocket of prissy death ;/ crown, fist and sprawl in the court of The Charmers sole hissy-fit upon your knees
Jan 15, 2024
Jan 15, 2024 at 6:21 PM UTC
To my mate Stevo....with love
‘Tis perilous, Sir, to write our thoughts to paper,
To commit our living words to those unknown,
For regardless of the flair expressed in writing all with care
The interpretation’s different to each clone.
What may be black and white and clear as crystal,
To others may diffuse as shades of grey
And the message, though succinct, may be read as challenge brink-ed
To confuse and collapse in disarray.
Oh the agony and the ecstasy of we writers
Is best captured in the rolling of the dice
For to script all saccharin sweet may be interpreted as… effete?
But a dour approach won’t be observed as nice!
Yet to lay about with broadsword is defeatist
And collapsing belly up implies a lie,
So perhaps the best refrain is to abstain from all the pain
And leave the ****** prose to fools who don’t care… why?
Marshalg
In absentia….again!
18 October 2013
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 2:38 AM UTC
Cancer, old devil.
I've shaken my fists at your
Ugly back as
You've laid your
Hands on my loved
Ones.
Cursed your name;
Kicked at your
Shadow. At last you've
Gathered the
Courage to
Face me. I
Suppose you could only
Ignore me for so
Long.
Come at me with scythe
Raised, I'll stand,
Broadsword
Drawn.
No shield; double-
Grip-swinging.
I'm ready.
No nurse ever saw
You greeted
With
A smile like
This.
Aug 28, 2017
Aug 28, 2017 at 3:27 PM UTC
Haunted for decades by
Ghosts in the shape of
My own broken parts.
At my most vulnerable, I
Am torn and spilling.
Some girls have knives
For fingernails; broadsword
Words swung by own
Insecurities-
To chop down a man
Renders many young women
Giants in the eyes of their egos.
Enter exorsist. Enter patient,
Slender hands around
Work worn, worried ones.
*Take your time, you man
Of open, ancient wounds.
Rain your lust upon me,
Unveil fantasies and wants.
I'll be sand; white beaches;
Welcoming your every wave.*
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 2:28 PM UTC
Here I am
now armoured
swinging my
broadsword
Come at me now
(pointing at your heart)
"Which limb can you afford?"
You know me
so well
You assumed I'm dirt
but can't you tell?
I'm better than that
I'm dirt mixed with tears
baked in the Sun
now just as rock solid
as your own moral fears
I drink
(like a fish)
I smoke
(like Ash Wednesday)
I even still
gasp
have... S E X
with my bloke!
My river of sorrow
compares not
to your puddle
you've still not
understood
how to sidestep,
my ocean of Joy
is bigger than
your sky
but, I bet
that one day
when you aren't looking
I'll still be standing
while you are on your knees
cupping your useless nuts
just sooking!
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 2:52 AM UTC
However gently, be it in a letter
or conversation.
When the words of rejection fade,
all that is left is the sting.
Despite your efforts, aspirations,
dreams, hopes, even the way you feel.
The knowledge of being spurned cuts
deeper than any broadsword, cutlass or saber.
Along with that person you lose your
desire to change or grow.
You wish everything to remain the same
as before, hoping by some miracle, he
will return.
Then your mind returns to reality
and all that is left is the sting.
Dec 21, 2010
Dec 21, 2010 at 8:31 AM UTC
The fortress that which is your mind
May find not such turmoil as harsh
And instead might as well, rejoice
The shackles which at present bind
Or may be, but it shall doth budge
The resolve of its castles strong
And surely not, it shall not smudge
Ordeal undertook by genial souls
What may be, will have then begun
Fear not, have faith on the virtuous
Path; Think not, what if but of the
Good, that has_ and in time you will
Clearly see; mental tenacity will be
Yours, decreed; Have just clear head
Upon thy broadsword. Nothing else
Will have; or will ever matter more !
May 2, 2020
May 2, 2020 at 9:30 AM UTC
The sky rising up from the sea
something in me?
Each man sets his own horizon
which lies on
the
broadsword of the uncut
umbilical.
As much as I see
I see virtual reality
and a veil drawing
over the day.
Voices of reason chattering away
scattering the clouds that
lay over the bay and
spoiling the view, but
you are the muse where
the words from a heart and
the thoughts in a head
come together and
fuse.
The cat
(if there was one)
has gone
the bell tinkles on.
The fine line,
the first line of defence
was,
(when I was a boy)
the old garden fence where
words were batted like
ping pong *****
Old fences fall and
innovation calls,
the mobile phone
the mobile office
the mobile home
and we're all immobilised
looking surprised.
The sea remains
stains on the bedsheets
***** plates in the sink
washing in the basket
I think
I must make
a move.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 1:10 AM UTC
Don't listen to the song
It's just a requiem for an old sword
A silver sword turned dark
A greatsword, a broadsword, a sellsword
A soldier's life a king's toy
And traces of blood
The sign of another chance
The silver not shining anymore
Buried under the dark
Succumbed to the way of life
Don't listen to the requiem
Don't cry to it's rhythm
I'm just an old sword
Cry for the mothers
fathers
Children
Not me,
Never me,
My steely heart never deserved a cry
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 9:26 PM UTC
Torn up photos.
Ripped to shreds.
Baby you went.
You left me for dead.
Standing on the sidewalk.
Swinging your broadsword.
Played darts with cupid's arrows.
Poor shot.
Shots came from bottles.
Cupid missed.
Probably ******
Usually is.
Dizzy.
Busy.
Drinking.
Coffee.
Thinking.
Shrinking.
A violet not.
Guess I forgot.
So what's love?
(c)LIVVI
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 1:59 PM UTC