"foreswore" poems
Trolling Amazon I found my inner Kurtz
Harrison foreswore my bear totem: darkness
Lady gal pal taught me soul-mating hurts
Martha Muffins vinyl v. Kirby’s Agatha Harkness
Saved my twins made them productive
Mutating FF X to Avengers indie 80s on me take
Man-starring all the boogie children say code this grandpa
Gaiman Miller Moore Morrison invade Waid
Wrightson Kaluta Jones Smith put bronze to paint
McKean Sienkiewicz Mack Maleev mimic The Studio
Now let’s gallery our portals strung from kid dimensions
Makers engaging history NOW NEW 52 intervals starstruck
Spread indie throughout known multiverse in craft crooks
While nursing nannies coddle light corners scuttling roaches
Bell & Schrödinger's cat transport trainspotting to a fine art
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 12:03 AM UTC
Truces
by Michael R. Burch
Artur took Cabal, his hound,
and Carwennan, his knife,
and his sword forged by Wayland
and Merlyn, his falcon,
and, saying goodbye to his sons and his wife,
he strode to the Table Rounde.
“Here is my spear, Rhongomyniad,
and here is Wygar that I wear,
and ready for war,
an oath I foreswore
to fight for all that is righteous and fair
from Wales to the towers of Gilead!”
But none could be found to contest him,
for Lancelot had slewn them, forsooth,
so he hastened back home, for to rest him,
till his wife bade him, “Thatch up the roof!”
We must sometimes wonder if all the fighting related to King Arthur and his knights was really necessary. In particular, it seems that Lancelot fought and either captured or killed a fairly large percentage of the population of England. Could it be that Arthur preferred to fight than stay at home and do domestic chores? And, honestly now, if he and his knights were such incredible warriors, who would have been silly enough to do battle with them? Wygar was the name of Arthur’s hauberk, or armored tunic, which was supposedly fashioned by one Witege or Widia, possibly the son of Wayland Smith. Legends suggest that Excalibur was forged upon the anvil of the smith-god Wayland, who was also known as Volund, which sounds suspiciously like Vulcan. Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, armor, sword, Excalibur, spear, Lancelot, wife, domestic chores, war, peace, homework
Apr 18, 2020
Apr 18, 2020 at 1:17 AM UTC
I wish I could find the book titled you,
The haphazard bounded and embroidered
Cover with pages spilling golden rue
And blurred lines under every lovely word…
But I don’t know where to look anymore
Or if my heart wants to ache like it did.
I couldn’t burn the secrets or foreswore
And forget the love seared on my eyelids…
But my thrum is in the eyes of a man,
Laced in every vein, waiting on his lips
Like a drug deal not according to plan
And your relapse stinging like poison whips.
I’ve held and been held by this book in dreams
And secret studies full of rouge sunbeams.
Perhaps this diversion is what I needed;
Maybe someday I'll learn to stop the bleeding?
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 11:01 AM UTC
A rock . . .
well really the brow of a rock . . .
its heart lay deep and hidden,
but when I lay my cheek against it
in the heat of the summer it cooled
and I could feel the great primeval thump of its heart
comforting me, when nothing else was understood.
I clutched this great rock,
my only constant in a life of changes,
while the earth itself, with me holding on tight,
flew at increasingly careless speeds
throughout my teenage years.
Beneath the arched viaduct it squatted
uncomplaining of the shafts of steel
and the weight of the stone it carried;
my teenage weight, of little importance.
It was always there when I came,
in dream, or even reality
taking the time to be calm and listen
as I told it of my hurts and young confusions.
One Summer, I foreswore all others
and promised it my heart,
if it would only turn it to stone,
and though the Rock it listened,
I knew the answer without us having to speak;
I was being selfish
and it would have given all of its
great and brooding strength
to feel, just a little, of my pain.
©Copyright Niall OConnor 2012/2014
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 5:31 AM UTC
We’d dallied with bright shining dreams, of course;
Gatsby-esque timetables and solemn pacts
Made with ourselves, come undone with brute force.
A bitter brew to quaff, but facts are facts;
We’re those workaday cogs we once foreswore
(Of no note at all save in mothers’ hearts)
Doomed to lurch forward while being no more
Than the shabby sum of commonplace parts.
Let us shelve tattered remnants of our ghosts,
And deign not to dwell on what could have been,
At last shaken free of our fathers’ boasts
(Praise God, no longer promising young men.)
Unshackled from that, then we can begin
To embrace the joy of just sleeping in.
Oct 5, 2017
Oct 5, 2017 at 8:39 AM UTC
I foreswore to nevermore be the root of your despair
Whenas ever in life I am too weary to stand, I will love at my knees
To all the men who’ve spew’d temptation upon your stances of true romance…
Let I take this draw,
I’ll tote every inculpation
This is beyond the worth of anything known by sight and sound, I serve my word
For I could never half love, like no other should
Now or ever…
Even at the dearth of sight, I will love
In life, in death, space, nothingness, I will love
Together the days will be subtle, and true
Sep 29, 2017
Sep 29, 2017 at 4:06 AM UTC