"camelot" poems
The young and bold Sir Lancelot
Had shunned the lady of Shalott
And all the swooning maidens, dear.
His heart belonged to Guinevere.
And were she not to Arthur, wed,
She'd have the heart-sick knight instead.
But so it goes, such is the luck
Of sad sir Lancelot du Lac.
When first he came to Camelot
The orphan knight, Sir Lancelot
Did prove his worth to Arthur's Court
In jousting, and such noble sport
And with his charm and courtly grace,
His confidence and handsome face,
He won the heart of Guinevere,
And so he found his heart's one fear.
But so it goes, such is the luck
Of sad Sir Lancelot du Lac.
In tournaments and deeds of arms,
He never fell to earthly harms.
His Lady's scarf about his breast,
He held aloft his knightly chest
And for her honor always strove,
And worshiped her with courtly love.
But she is wed, such is the luck
Of sad Sir Lancelot du Lac.
Beneath a tree, the young knight slept
And one day, four queens on him crept,
The chief of them, Morgan Le Fay.
With magic, they stole him away.
A choice they begged of him to make,
That one of them his heart should take.
But love is strong. They had no luck
In tempting Lancelot du Lac.
When Melegans stole Guinevere
A cart, Sir Lancelot did steer
To reach the hold where she was kept,
Then toward the treacherous knight he leapt.
He bested him with slash and blow,
But to Sir Lancelot's great woe
His Lady simply laughed in jest
And saw no honor in his quest,
For he arrived upon a cart.
Thus, broken was the young knight's heart,
And in a rage he left the place.
He longed just for his Lady's grace.
But so it goes, such is the luck
Of sad Sir Lancelot du Lac.
The young and bold Sir Lancelot
Had shunned the lady of Shalott
And all the swooning maidens, dear.
His heart belonged to Guinevere.
And were she not to Arthur, wed,
She'd have the heart-sick knight instead.
But so it goes, such is the luck
Of sad Sir Lancelot du Lac.
So when he quested for the Grail
He made a promise he would fail.
He said he'd not love Guinevere,
But as he spoke, he shed a tear.
He knew one day their love would end
The table round, and hurt their friends.
So when this promise he did break
The land of Camelot did quake.
For Agrivan, King Arthur, told
His wife did love Lancelot bold
And Arthur sent her to the pyre
To end her sinful love, in fire.
But Lancelot, his queen, did save
And Arthur fell into the grave
And all the knights of Table Round
Were torn apart, could not be bound.
And thus the fall of Camelot
Was caused by one Sir Lancelot.
But so it goes, such is the luck
Of bold Sir Lancelot du Lac.
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 9:29 PM UTC
Hear ye, hear ye
hearken from the medieval times of old
where knights in the round once roamed
jousting with deeds fought in truth and honor
to protect the weak, the helpless, the oppressed
with an ideology lurking since the dawn of time
that all are born free, unshackled from contrived ordeals
only to soar high with the eagles to become one with the heavens
and bask in the glory of serving the frailty and holiness of mankind
Hear ye, hear ye
it’s Merlin conjuring a magical spell for the spirit
to behold, to marvel, new stages of self-enlightenment
where the essence of the King invades sleeping visions
possibly foretelling ominous events awaiting new missions
or predestined journeys one must endure to become so bold
in knowledge and wisdom offered, living in this world’s mold
not necessarily realized, instead shrouded with unimpeded urges
akin to the signs found in youth, immaturity, the close-minded
Hear ye, hear ye
the quest to sip from the Carpenter’s silver chalice
and taste charitable love for family, friends, and foes
where reckless pride and hatred are speared with the arrow
forged in devotion of a noble belief, tempered with selfless feats
where the sun rises and sets on the wicked actions of human nature
slaughtering the divine lights prematurely, locked within many souls
yet crusades against evil continues, no retreat, no regrets, no surrender
price to uphold the spirit of Camelot, payment in full, services rendered.
Jul 9, 2017
Jul 9, 2017 at 1:36 AM UTC
I'm Bailey.
I sometimes forget to recycle.
I'm from singing camels and trigonometry.
From soap bubbles and yellow scarves, Irish hymns and Zucchini the ferret,
piano keys, bluebonnet seeds, and DO NOT ENTER signs.
From salt.
I'm the color of hosed off sidewalk chalk.
I'm all summer in a day.
I'm a conglomeration of artistic thoughts that make me look more profound than I actually am.
I'm your infinite playlist.
I'm from elephant necklaces and rosemary bushes
from high-heeled taps and Camelot
threadless socks, shopping carts, and impromptu salons.
I'm the fifth ninja turtle.
I live where you laugh so hard you cry.
I'm from carrots and ranch.
I'm a happy cow from California, a fortune cookie with your enchilada, a drill team skirt over marching uniforms.
I'm from unfinished crossword puzzles and forgotten dead languages
from pixie dust and snapcracklepop
from actually-it's-pronounced's, because-i-said-so's, and that's-not-my-name's.
I am Nancy Drew with a Peter Pan complex.
I come from honeysuckle candles and sunroofs of pickup trucks
broken-down fences and peach salsa
the second you step onstage.
I'm from in between.
I'm Bailey.
I don't drive the speed limit.
And I'm from you.
Dec 22, 2009
Dec 22, 2009 at 6:08 PM UTC
She was the queen of Camelot in her dreams
She wore a golden diadem and a silver swirling dress
Servants were at her beck and call
Her king was kind and brave and caring and noble
But when day broke she was a prisoner behind bars
Trapped in her bedroom
With only her dreams to comfort her
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 10:10 PM UTC
The assassins hit in 63
And Camelot was gone,
Inspiration vanished
And the darkness sang it’s song.
*Vietnam escalated
Brezhnev’s Russia loomed,
Africa was eviscerated
And Red China entombed.
*Floating on a long white cloud
The Kiwis were replete
With abundant British markets
For their butter, wool and meat.
*The Europeans went ****
And Britain lost it’s way
When the Beatles and the Rolling Stones
Monopolized their day.
*Man landed on the moon
And raised the Yankee flag
And they shot Mahatma Ghandi
For making good things out of bad.
*The Berlin Wall dividing,
The Cold War tense and spare,
ICBM’s threaten silently
In their silos of despair.
*Bob Menzies ruled Australia
As an amassing of his loot
And his White Australia Policy
Condemned him as a brute.
*Found naked on her tousled bed,
Blonde hair across her face,
Marylin Monroe is dead
The world’s a darker place.
*In the Age of Aquarius
Our children lost their youth,
LSD and smoking ***
And Afro’s were the proof.
*Lots of leg in miniskirts,
High bouffant’s in the hair,
Screaming teeny boppers
Rock with Elvis on “the Air”.
*Giant, Rawhide, Ponderosa,
Martin Luther King,
Kaftans and a cheese fondue,
Abortion is a sin!
It’s a sixties kaleidoscope,
A panoramic skim
Of an era of wonderment
Which you and I lived in.
Marshalg
@the Gate
Mangere Bridge
20th January 2009
Oct 23, 2009
Oct 23, 2009 at 2:25 PM UTC
I have wearied of grand romances
Of deep sighs and swooning trances
Of doting gentlemen’s advances
And all manner of courtship play
I am tired of love confessions
And of dizzied, dazed professions
And of unrestrained obsessions
I grow sicker day by day
I once dreamed of adoration
Went quite mad for veneration
Laughing, flirting with temptation
The queen in Camelot
The lonely, lovely Guinevere
Dainty-masked with girlish fear
But when King Arthur wasn’t near
Dreaming of Sir Lancelot
These days I want no noble knight
Despite my seeming helpless plight
I wish to set myself aright
And tread upon the ground
Yet here I am, pedestal-high
Too close to the dazzling sky
As my life keeps passing by
And boys keep running round
I’ve let myself grow much too proud
Drew up arrogance from the crowd
Heard the cheering, bright and loud
The queen in Camelot
And though I had my faithful Sir
Still my heart was all astir
With flying fancies, all a blur
For Guinevere and Lancelot
These fantasies have grown too old
I’d rather let my bed grow cold
For I have wearied of being told
“You are mine to keep”
Men have tired me to the core
Left me sad and sick and sore
And have turned into such a chore
And I’d much rather sleep
What blasphemy for a maiden fair
To toss such doting to the air
To turn away without much care
Though queen in Camelot
But I have withered, I have tired
Felt as if my brain’s been mired
And find not Arthur much desired
Nor dashing Lancelot
Is it so bad to want respite
From endless longing, day and night?
This constant charm becomes too trite
With ever staler tone
I only wish to rest a while
Recover from incessant guile
Forget the weight of lovers’ trial
And simply be alone
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 10:48 PM UTC
The Peacock and the Necromancer
Dance upon the sky
Their light lives on beyond the stars
The thousand staring eyes
We show them where to find us
From Bridgeport to Camelot
We tell them our dark secrets
And we send them our bright thoughts
We flash our golden feathers
And we sing our pretty words
So they will see us, notice us
So that we can be heard
When every other edifice
And evidence is gone
They walk the dark ahead of us
Where our song shall play on
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 7:02 PM UTC
i.
Pink doesn’t play into it, that delicate
petal of perfume & flower stuff.
She abhors it.
Red suits her better.
Red for Fridays & red for Aries.
Red for the blood her dagger could draw.
Her seal of wax is no
rosebud adhered to
fine paper.
Warrior, she escaped its letter.
With Roman candles & Roman sandals,
sword, wand & chariot,
defender of her Eden.
Seashells are her votive gifts, the
stars of her Atlantic.
It is within her reign of Camelot.
At the edge of the Earth,
her kingdom dreams.
ii.
Blue maid
a curious ***** in her armour.
But she wouldn’t flinch
if an army of soldiers came crashing in.
They are hunting the witch.
A woman can never have such power.
It is reserved for the patriarchy
to wield at will.
Up it goes.
They can ***** steeples with it.
They are stoking the fires & sharpening
the axe with it.
But threats of torture
don’t make her beg, plead or recant.
She is guilty of nothing.
Even broken on the Catherine Wheel,
Athena still keeps her
bow & quiver intact.
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 6:34 AM UTC
Summer’s time has come and gone
The walls, floorboards release a yawn
With nine months then to recoup, recover
From being a home, just for the summer.
Eloquent memories freshly remain
Of friends who nestled within her frame
A cabin of bunk beds, cubbies, fresh air
Where girls unwound with little a care.
Her crevice now holds a left-behind letter
Whose parchment hardens with winter’s weather
Yet the season’s sleet knows the warmer reflection
Of late night secrets and encouraged imperfection.
Spring has sprung most slowly for some
The evergreens exclaim a harmonious hum
Her wooden steps defrost, and patiently await
The coming of campers to the cardinal state.
Fall, winter, and spring all pass
Warm rays have woken the mountains at last
Each cabin’s frame stands taller, *****
While girls, all ages, reconnect.
Anna Blake
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 11:57 AM UTC
That night your great guns, unawares,
Shook all our coffins as we lay,
And broke the chancel window-squares,
We thought it was the Judgement-day
And sat upright. While drearisome
Arose the howl of wakened hounds:
The mouse let fall the altar-crumb,
The worm drew back into the mounds,
The glebe cow drooled. Till God cried, “No;
It’s gunnery practice out at sea
Just as before you went below;
The world is as it used to be:
“All nations striving strong to make
Red war yet redder. Mad as hatters
They do no more for Christés sake
Than you who are helpless in such matters.
“That this is not the judgment-hour
For some of them’s a blessed thing,
For if it were they’d have to scour
Hell’s floor for so much threatening. . . .
“Ha, ha. It will be warmer when
I blow the trumpet (if indeed
I ever do; for you are men,
And rest eternal sorely need).”
So down we lay again. “I wonder,
Will the world ever saner be,”
Said one, “than when He sent us under
In our indifferent century!”
And many a skeleton shook his head.
“Instead of preaching forty year,”
My neighbour Parson Thirdly said,
“I wish I had stuck to pipes and beer.”
Again the guns disturbed the hour,
Roaring their readiness to avenge,
As far inland as Stourton Tower,
And Camelot, and starlit Stonehenge.
2.5k
Camelot was really a place
where you parked camels –
yeah, the Egyptians traded everywhere;
and sure the round table was true –
King Arthur asked Sir Circumference to
fashion him a round table
because, as a matter of strategy,
it’s never good to be cornered
And what did the Egyptians do
after they parked their camels at Camelot?
Oh, they enjoyed the knight life
and the Musical
and they eyeballed Guinevere and Julie Andrews
So really, in spite of Thomas Malory
and Richard Harris and Richard Burton
in spite of all skills literary and vocal,
and Hollywood special effects -
Camelot was just a night club;
the English have always loved a good drink
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 5:31 AM UTC
A mythical reality
of Presidents and Kings
Oval Offices, Round Tables
And the power each one brings
A dream of unknown future
Of what we wished to see
A fictional creation
Of life not meant to be
Magical creations
That lived just in our mind
Families so cursed
There's just remnants left behind
A time of recollection
Be it near or long ago
A true tale of "what if?"
That we all will never know
Brothers dead, dreams vanished
Future Princes of the Realm
Plantagenet or Kennedy
Which son will take the helm?
A Mythical creation
A place we want to see again
Is there royalty in waiting?
To be the leader of free men
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 5:40 PM UTC
Sara L Russell, 22nd January 2014, 01:26
Sometimes things make it harder letting go.
We made some progress on
the first day; gathered clothes and books,
some random pieces of costume jewellery,
laptop cables, pens, lighters,
shampoo and makeup.
I could see her in everything;
the rock chick aura of her CD collection,
the dalek key ring, a book on Camelot;
only she could carry off that Wonder Woman tee shirt,
only she could stand outside in Mum's garden, in that
fleecy dressing gown with hearts,
cawing back at the crows,
cigarette in hand.
The photographs hit us the hardest.
To look into those merry blue eyes
and know that they no longer look back into ours;
They only keep their smile lines for eternity,
laughing at a secret we will never know,
lost in two dimensions,
In the flat worlds of the past.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 6:20 AM UTC
A President fell into
the conspirators trap.
History was rewritten
as easy as that.
Remember the riots
the blood and the gore.
Remember the protests
of an unpopular war.
Think of who benefits
when young blood is shed,
for its they who put bullets
in J.F.K's head.
It was they who put Johnson
up on Camelot's throne.
Do you still think Lee Harvey
acted alone?
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 11:41 PM UTC
My world came crashing to a stop
Thirty four years ago....on 8 December
I can tell you all just where I was
And I'm sure that you'll remember
I mourned the loss of a legend
I sat and cried for he who died
And like people the world over
Our emotions could not hide
Three years before, another
Died, but it didn't mean the same
He was found dead in his bathroom
A brand new image for his fame
I mourned the loss of a legend
One who died, but at what cost
He was a victim of his excess
I didn't feel the sense of loss
Two Men of peace in Sixty Eight
I was not yet seven at the time
Assassins changed the world we knew
It changed direction on a dime
The King of Camelot in waiting
His brothers shoes, this man would fill
But, for a bullett in Los Angeles
Would hit their mark and get the ****
The other man was destined
To die, because he had a dream
But he united those who heard him
It was a surreal as it did seem
Five years before in Dallas
A President brought down too soon
Was it a single snipers rifle
Or another on the knoll there in the gloom ?
For each of us, a moment,
When our world did change it's way
When we asked why did this happen ?
There was nothing left to say
Imagine or Remember
We all have that certain date
Be it November, or December
It was not ordained by fate
Lee Harvey Oswald, James Earl Ray
Sirhan Sirhan, Mark David Chapman
Elvis Presley, John F. Kennedy
Martin Luther King Jr, Robert F. Kennedy
John Lennon....ask which ones we should remember.
Jul 24, 2012
Jul 24, 2012 at 8:33 PM UTC
*Insane, insane what follows old
This tragedy you're about to be told.
Though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
It is love that we most of all bequeath.
Amongst green pastures grows a flowering field
One not tainted by what this life yields.
Somewhere in the withered forget-me-knots
It lives long enough to be what it ought.
A shining prince upon a silver steed
Riding home to find that which was decreed.
Nothing more than just a thought
Of something born here in Camelot.
Oh mastery of misery art thou my friend?
Do we have so much to gather or defend?
Send us upon this grievous plain
To battle for all that must be regained.
Oh ported soul of Arthur’s gallant lot
Send to us the dear Sir Lancelot.
He be the bravest of all hearts,
His bravery known right from the start.
He hast no legend braved in fear
Doing the right by his lady Guinevere.
Life deals us such a broken art
Of a finger painted love here in Camelot.
The quest be of ill fated charms
Where love survives the coat of arms.
To be so brave is to be a slave
Fighting for the thing we crave.
For no coat of arms can delay
Love’s onslaught once on display.
For to pour the grail back into the flask
Would be to hold love as a captured task.
For ‘tis love that captures all at last
And nothing loved can truly pass.
Though the lance laid silent Lover Lancelot
His secret survives him here in Camelot.*
Feb 5, 2018
Feb 5, 2018 at 10:28 PM UTC
“Half sick of shadows,” cried the Lady of Shalott,
half sick of darkness growing, doorways
twisting, with faces grotesque on yellow wallpaper
and speaking woe in whispers passed
dream-thin through limbs and veins and minds
because a window is a stop sign until
opened, and locks are stitches sewing chapped lips
tense as the web woven, intricate designs
layered vibrant color on a lonely loom in a tower
otherwise lightless, heavy with pressure,
bearing down on the Lady of Shalott and her art--
made up in the image of Camelot.
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 9:25 PM UTC
Adorned in his mystical robes
Of shimmering moon and stars,
Drawn from the vault of heaven
By the power of Merlin, himself
When other worlds were only seven.
He emerges from the crystal cave,
From the old world into the new.
He holds aloft the sacred chalice,
Before him lies the shinning palace
.....Of Camelot.
He smiles on his remembering
Then salutes the once and future king.
Feb 27, 2011
Feb 27, 2011 at 7:36 AM UTC
There once was a TV network
That made me want to exult
But now I am sad and despondent
And it’s mostly Steven Moffat’s fault
I enthusiastically started Doctor Who
Who’s chronology is twisted and bizarre
It seemed like such fun to travel through time and space with a man
Who used a blue box as his car
But soon the companions’ aspirations
To travel to planets and stars
Were crushed by the Void, lost love, and gargoyles
And the Doctor is lonely and scarred.
Not yet wise, I began watching Sherlock
His deduction left me amazed and bamboozled
He and John drank some tea, and solved crimes with glee
Although each case took quite some perusal.
They lived happily with their cool flat decorum
Mrs. Hudson made biscuits below
Then along came the menacing, mean Moriarty
There was nothing that he didn’t know.
Because of the fallacy that Sherlock’s a fake
He’s dead and John’s in the doldrums
The only thing done to commemorate him
Are John’s “I do believe in Sherlock Holmes”
Hoping for a show that was boisterous and happy
Instead of the peaceful, yet sad
I turned to the medieval Merlin
who was quite a cheery lad
He worked for the king’s son, Arthur
who eclectically chose his knights
There were sirs Lancelot, Gwaine, and Leon
The bravest people in sight.
Merlin used his job as camouflage,
His secret he did not divulge
for if they all knew he was a powerful wizard
In his execution King Uther would indulge.
Since Merlin’s destiny was to keep the prince safe
He faced many scary things
He would cower in fear, but when Arthur was near
He felt brave enough to sing
Merlin’s feelings for Arthur were obvious
But does Arthur feel the same way?
When Arthur deigns to exchange dialogue with him
It instantly brightens his day.
But Lancelot died doing Merlin’s job
And Arthur is in love with Gwen
Morgana, a wizard who was once Merlin’s friend
Is evil and wants Camelot dead.
So the Doctor is lonely and growing old
Sherlock left John all alone
And Merlin feels guilty and outcast
They’ve lost all the good they’ve ever known.
And I am left crying and angry.
How could the writers do this to me?
But still, they’re the best shows I’ve ever watched
And I’ll always love the BBC.
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 11:36 PM UTC
As the waves fall on stony shore
the sword just sits there,
blunting in the washing sea-foam.
England’s winds carry the sand
from England’s rock to the grazes
on our ankles, our feet and hands.
They from the toes of Cornwall to
rocky Dunnet head
will our courage forward
through the first crawl on cam-corder,
to the last drop to earth.
‘We all began at the seaside’
Though days are gone, we linger
snaking through London with those southern scrubbers,
those diamond white men,
the Caribbean accents, the Guajarati, the Jews -
‘A Coke is a Coke and no amount of money can get you a better one’
- we all patter round Oxford Circus and
climb aboard the number 9 bus.
‘Who so pulleth out this sword is trueborn King of all Britain’
And we watch the waves fall.
‘Hold very tight’
It’s there behind our ray-ban’s, our fake ray-ban’s,
their halcyon glint.
It’s the same secret, not one of us can keep -
*Under the setting sun between
England's canals and sheep
the living live, cry and sleep.*
-
It was London and my mother that
raised the muscles in my thighs to look firmly planted
and my face to look resolute when turned to the sun.
It was my mother and London.
They grew me up to look like I could pull out
Excaliber.
‘Lay me down trepanner man, but take the stories with you, if you can’.
So I, always King Arthur,
not a yank, not from Roehampton’s towers,
or Peckham. Not Tintagel, or Camelot,
escaped on an eddie to Manchester,
to bury stories with distance
and stare at cobwebs after rain.
'I’ll hear easy music, find out it’s easy, man.'
But in Manchester’s plastic, in Manchester’s rain
It ran all the same.
Of a blunting blade, I dreamt,
until the Phrenologist came
and I asked him if I was torn up by London grit,
London loves and London’s spit.
But he said no,
no matter where you go
there’s just one secret that you’ll never keep
*Under the setting sun between
England's canals and sheep
the living live, cry and sleep.*
-
The sword just sits there,
honest as a dog.
And the sun has more secrets than any man on earth.
my shadow scuttles through the suburbs,
the seaside, the city, sideways like a crab.
The sandy cuts on my toes, ankles and knees
are bleakly investigated by a fly.
Has anyone sat at the round table?
It’s out of reach of my skinny wrists.
*Lash me to a pole and wait for the Avalon tide
to slowly roll my English soul.*
I better keep on living.
All stories, tears and sleep.
We are all just the living secret,
that not one of us can keep.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 6:19 PM UTC
Farmer Song
Can you make a chicken duck
I can make a chicken duck
Give me the recipe for that chicken duck
Throw a rock at the chicken's head
Chickens can't duck you stupid head
Now I have a chicken with a bump on it's head
How is any chicken going to ever lay an egg
If the chicken was a chicken with a bump on it's head
Throw it slower this time
Said the man with the red...
Man who owns the chicken
With the bump on it's head
The man threw another rock slower instead
The chicken he ducked and was finally spared
The man shocked the chef when vociferously stating
I THINK I'LL HAVE THE DUCK WITH A SIDE A PATAYDUHS
Can you make a p*king duck
I can make a p*king duck
Give me the recipe for that p*king duck
Deep fry duck with eyes closed shut
That can't be a p*king duck
A duck can't peek with his eyes closed shut
But if he is sleepy at cockshut
That would be a p*king duck
In the days of Camelot
A king was missing an awful lot
Not a clue had the king until one day
He saw a thief with the loot running far far away
Find me the thief said the king to his men
The knights suited up and found said man
Here is the thief the knight said to the king
Off with his ****** head
Can you make a chicken duck
I can make a chicken duck
Give me the recipe for that chicken duck
Throw a rock at the chicken's head
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 4:44 PM UTC
Minstrel, what have you to do
With this man that, after you,
Sharing not your happy fate,
Sat as England’s Laureate?
Vainly, in these iron days,
Strives the poet in your praise,
Minstrel, by whose singing side
Beauty walked, until you died.
Still, though none should hark again,
Drones the blue-fly in the pane,
Thickly crusts the blackest moss,
Blows the rose its musk across,
Floats the boat that is forgot
None the less to Camelot.
Many a bard’s untimely death
Lends unto his verses breath;
Here’s a song was never sung:
Growing old is dying young.
Minstrel, what is this to you:
That a man you never knew,
When your grave was far and green,
Sat and gossipped with a queen?
Thalia knows how rare a thing
Is it, to grow old and sing;
When a brown and tepid tide
Closes in on every side.
Who shall say if Shelley’s gold
Had withstood it to grow old?
1.5k
~
she is woman of softened beauty,
like the sunset’s molten hues;
yet rugged as the rocky crags,
that from afar are mountain’s blue,
and which each night at even’s call,
the sun behind will slowly slide.
she is timid as a doe,
’neath a canopy of green,
feeding by the quiet waters;
yet fierce as timber wolf,
among the limbs and leaves
her young from prey she hides.
within her soul she bears her secrets,
without she is ten thousand verses;
as waters trickle to the stream,
and have no voice until,
they join in gathered current,
to fall in thunderous cascade,
as majestic waterfall.
she is a being... light of spirit,
yet bears on dove white shoulders,
pain endured from cruel world.
in the dark she is a light;
in an age of growing grays,
she robes herself in dazzling white.
to each who calls her friend,
she is to them a heroine;
an angel ’midst the darkness,
she works beside, yet out of sight.
of many thoughts, none spill careless,
from her tongue to cross her lips;
yet all her words are weighty,
a bond of promise, made and kept;
these in secret places dark,
in a foundry, hot with sweat;
her long and dusty journey,
leaves on her soul a branded mark.
loyal friend and steadfast mate,
she brings with her a hope eternal,
yet she alone accepts her fate.
she is peace and love maternal;
within her an oasis rare,
few have found, and fewer see;
for all its hidden beauty lies,
behind her softened hazel eyes,
these she guards, the secret way,
the stair beyond her garden’s gate.
~
*post script.
these words christened in celebration of her life, her birth. she entered the world in the year Camelot began, and though we would not meet til we were both sixteen, she became Camelot to me; a castle of hidden fragrance and beauty. of these few words she is all, yet so much more. she is everything i didn’t know i’d want or ever need; at every turn more than my equal, she is the sum of all my parts. at a glance some judge her simple, yet she is rogue complexity; a woman who discards little, except barriers to those she loves and who love her in return!
Happy Birthday, Darling!!*
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 8:53 PM UTC