"joust" poems
She doesn't own a mirror.
Confirmation of her beauty comes from those around her at all times.
Fawning fools adore,
jealous sisters abhor,
but all notice the shine of her hair, the tilt of her lips.
She does not dance.
Her steps lead, and dancers follow with no reasons nor rhymes. They cry:
"Lead me not into temptation",
but in her ministrations,
they ache and beg for her glance, their hearts in her grips.
She does not care for suitors.
Her heart was long ago dulled by the fencing blades of admirers. And yet I
if honest, must admit
that it is a careless abandon, devoid of wit
that begs me join her jousters in mock combat for the privilege of her kiss.
What a porcelain fool, she, to inspire such a heartfelt, bloodtaxed roust.
What sorrier the fool, me, to join in such a sure dealt, unasked joust.
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 7:48 PM UTC
a birthday poem for S.
perhaps, this is the responsibility, the purposeful gentility,
that poetry engenders, that thwarts the impulse to anger,
guiding away, finding a way, to temper the temper, to out
and joust away our basest, our first, but never our foremost
nor finest, succinct instinct, yet terrible human nonetheless...
perhaps, this is where we hide, neath our carnival masque,
our-would-be better selves, and struggle in this, this intensity intentional,
the season's change is subtly blatant, not obvious 'cept to those
who have a front seat, a well worn Adirondack chair in the nook
where the airy breeze offers fruits of words so easy, pluck words
as easy as breathing, and the slight gradation change, in the light and
temperature, and yet, the suns cares not, for it still warms my body,
though lower and slower, nonetheless, when the heat invades my soul, confirming my, our, existence,
burning off the fog of our contradictory confusions,
and eliciting an unsolicited
"thank you god"
for my, our personal miracle of re~birthing
and better comprehending,
that other
miracle we can embrace
never enough
loving kindness
sun~mon
sep 14~15
twenty twenty five
Sep 15, 2025
Sep 15, 2025 at 8:33 AM UTC
lovers are burning.] balsamic ****** gallops from shame
into the overwild wetness of labial volcanoes, caramelized in musk. by love's labor.
laid bare, their bodies origami inhibition...[ lovers are burning. ]
and surrender is victorious !
Eros is speechless. maidens howl into cumulus goose-down, chewing carnal haikus
with swayed backs.... hips wide and wanton. masculine wands plow oyster beds, unmade.
they joust pearls... and [ lovers are burning ]
.... a damp conflagration; tongue stoked and windswept, conspires.
monotony is slain !
puritan harps are plucked and thrummed ! lewd harmonies anoint the perfect pitch
and a chorus moans. the ghost of sylvia plath, straddles Apollo; and he earns his wreath
surging besotted. [ lovers are burning ] and laurels forgotten.
lotharios charge the seldom road; the starfish door to Saturn's parlor.
pumping unbridled, that glistening, cloven moon. her riding crop insists !
his urgency must do.
satyrs sup salaciously and summon staves to dip in brine. they grin and grind
their sutras, stripping karma gears with silk scarves. ankles to a post, well spread...
cushions crush. flowers press... stamen fed.
nymphs clutch their serpent stones
to drain what nectar slips the slit. they ***** and throat.
they peck and pinch their quivers; knock their arrows to the purpose, half spent.
[ lovers are burning ]
eyes ablaze. nostrils fetch randy fumes of consent. mouths seek.
a pouty swamp with Spanish moss.... finds a matador
and a bull, a china shop.
lovers are burning the rough sketch of a lost god
and their angels are voyeurs
with unclean thoughts
for gospels.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 3:14 PM UTC
Georgiana Seymour,
Duchess of Somerset
crowned _'Queen of Beauty'_
at the 1839 Eglinton
Tournament, the first known
beauty pageant;
W
European festivals dating to the medieval era
provide the most direct lineage for beauty pageants.
For example, English May Day celebrations always
involved the selection of a May Queen.
In the United States, the May Day tradition
of selecting a woman to serve as a symbol
of bounty and community ideals continued,
as young beautiful women participated
in public celebrations; such as the beauty pageant
held during the Eglinton Tournament of 1839,
organized by Archibald Montgomerie, 13th Earl of Eglinton,
as part of a re-enactment of a medieval joust
that was held in Scotland; the pageant was won
by Georgiana Seymour, Duchess of Somerset,
wife of Edward Seymour, 12th Duke of Somerset,
and sister of Caroline Norton;
Georgiana proclaimed _"Queen of Beauty"_;
Entrepreneur Phineas Taylor Barnum staged
the first modern American pageant in 1854,
his beauty contest closed down after public protest;
However beauty contests became popular
in the 1880s; In 1888 the title of _'beauty queen'_
was awarded to an 18-year-old Creole contestant
at a pageant in Spa, Belgium. All participants
had to supply a photograph & a short description
of themselves to be eligible to enter; a final selection
of 21 judged by a formal panel.
Such events were not regarded as respectable;
But beauty contests came to be considered more
respectable with the first modern _"Miss America"_
contest held in 1921;
Still the oldest pageant in operation,
the Miss America pageant was organized
in 1921 by a local businessman as a means
to entice tourists to Atlantic City, New Jersey;
The pageant hosted the winners of local
newspaper beauty contests in the
_Inter-City Beauty Contest_ & was attended
by over one hundred thousand people;
_Sixteen-year-old Margaret Gorman of Washington, D.C.
was crowned Miss America 1921, having won both the
popularity and beauty contests, and was awarded $100_
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 10:04 AM UTC
'O godmother, open your mind to me and tell me of your woe!'
'My dread spouse, he is to joust on the morrow's night; Death cannot accompany him, else I shall be left bereft!'
'O godmother, he is no longer a marauder; he shan't greet Death on the verdant hill where he shall joust,'
'My dread spouse, what will he suffer if he were to fail?'
'O godmother, ye of little faith! Your dread spouse shall joust with a fiery spirit,'
'My dread spouse, what would become of me if he survived, only gaiety!'
'O godmother, worry not, for he shall battle under a gibbous waning moon, a good omen surely!'
'My dread spouse, if he shall be pierced by an arrow whilst on his stallion, I shall weep to the moon!'
'O godmother, if his blood is to stain grass browned by heat, he will lay peacefully knowing his courage.'
Aug 5, 2019
Aug 5, 2019 at 7:25 PM UTC
Commit ****** then flip an ounce, a nonchalant verse that promotes the internal joust, with
pride earned as the only badge that counts.
Tap the snare drum for a bar, or vibing melody,
our backwards society stereotypes "thugs" as, "what drugs are they selling me?"
Rap is art in raw form,
intended to excite the youth who see death as a norm, the daily street storm.
Women de-humanized for a buck,
men taught to only treat them good if they **** and don't run out of luck.
The concrete jungles can only have just one king upon a throne, as the vicious cyclone continues destroying futures of the youth unless they succeed in the booth.
Youth commit ****** then flip an ounce,
pride earned needs to be denounced.
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 5:06 PM UTC
They're Everywhere!, The Beautiful Badger Skins, All Of Your Things, To Conquer The Ant, Feces Feline, ****** Off Traffic, The Coloring Books, I'll Catch You With Nets, A Truce To Trance, Pale Nosed Girls, Jars In June, Fake Fight Fridays, Just Like Madeline, Cats And Dogs, The Poor And The Smiling, So She Says, No Strawberries Please, Bicycle Chase, Chickens Don't Fly, Behind The Shed, Cars In The 90's, Carl's Disease, Anthropomorphic Crush, A Cheer From The Waves, Bubbles Bubbles Bubbles, The Floorboards, Suitcase Joust, Beneath The Forest, Myspace Meltdown, Call Me On Tuesday, Take Me Out To Pho, Grave Of The Cameras, Toothpicks And Cigs, Wax On Wax Off, Bad Days For Good People, Burnt Bacon.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 11:27 PM UTC
Take the **** just stepping inside
Rejected and invited
A stratified disguise
Then a tentative trial
A round for a smile
At the bar where we iron old lies
Appraise the net cost
Are both of us Lost
Or will we be pirates tonight?
Break my nails just prying you out
Here for a jest and a joust
Drunk off of comfort and wine
Lean on what's real
Like a shaky third wheel
Struggling to stay in the lines
Do we settle our debts
Or dare raise our bets?
Does our broken poetry rhyme?
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 9:56 PM UTC
You're good for me like penicillin.
But I haven't popped enough of you yet.
Sightings of you as rare as an eagle,
The rare occasion I feel like a human.
Your purity is beyond belief,
like the cleanest **** on the street,
Your skin is the smoothest white marble
You're like renaissance art
I would quit all of my bad habits
just for a day in your presence
I wouldn't need another sip of *****
or sweaty fumbling in the back of a car
How do I tell you how I'm feeling
With a keytar and shaker at your door?
Could I win a joust for you?
I would invent electricity if I could.
But that's it, you demigoddess
You're boarding now a flying syringe
******* the life of me with every inch
What's blood for if not for spilling?
To me, you are perfect, love
A hologram i'm not allowed to touch
My tangled heart with stay right here
and pump occasionally for you my dear
10.13.12 1:20 AM
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 10:21 AM UTC
Where have all the Juliet’s gone.
The princess' to rescue, the maids to save.
A woman’s gift use to be so more defined.
As was the part I had to play.
Not that I was a very good actor.
Was never much of a factor on the main stage?
If I could go back to the days of Arthur, when chivalry was alive.
Joust with evil princes and slay fire breathing dragons
to ride, on an steed through the meadows and dales.
Listening to minstrels sing my story accompanied by a lyre.
Guinevere wouldn't run from this mans passion.
Exalibur would be pulled from the stone.
Alas I live in the technology age the dark ones are well past gone.
What is good for only some, never ever lasts.
I still have my pen which lets me sit and fret
and lament for a sweet Juliet.
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 7:15 AM UTC
~
*Elegies
entering the lists,
in absentia,
the prayer of blood
broken at its spine.
Ah, how minding days
trampoline and joust,
like those days beyond recall
thrown into the fire.
The persistence of memory
is a series of F-stops,
the fountain of youth
a spring of well-being
and then forever nothingness.
We've reached the prophetic day,
I feel the coming wrath
in the whites of their eyes:
I dream of wires
and sleep by godless windows,
the sound of untamed rivers
chanting passions misplaced
and of the absence of belief
—the true ***** of man.
Take one last look
at the structure of morality
before it closes down.
One last look...*
~
Jun 26, 2021
Jun 26, 2021 at 12:14 PM UTC
All the roads are closed. Silence metastasizes through the stretch of EDSA. Cold seeps in bone. Sun still flagellates.
Oscillate through sound space and whitewashed walls. Seismic grunt of jeepney awakens the signs: no avatars, yet. The night was as deep as any lover, a fine blistering moon glares through lit rivers.
Nothing exists except heads of tacks and maimed populace ambulating across roads sequined with ermine light. The disquiet approximates the lightness of
buildings in repair. Scaffolds, ubiquitous lovers,
clouds explode into white, and everything else like pain, pales in comparison with the slow twitch of everything.
Today there will be no siren nor
simultaneous joust of cyclists in perpetual motion— just you contending
against hues of all graffiti:
Cataract of anguish. News of killing.
Incarnadine trees netted with aureoles burning bright in solstices. Penumbral undulation of
forethought and afterthought.
Dislimned – all; you, left
in polaroid taken in solitary shutter,
in pursuit of light.
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 1:59 PM UTC
Stepping through the looking glass
there is no stepping back
The journey once accepted
is a never-ending track
Adventure leads to places
that we should not dare to go
Questions lead to answers
that we should not dare to know
To wander through the wardrobe
is to leave what's safe behind
Forever leaving normal
for the hope of what you'll find
A journey of a thousand steps
that cannot be retraced
A single step once taken
that can never be erased
Dangerous the road that flows
away from your front door
Keep your feet or it may sweep
you to a distant shore
Should ever you joust windmills
or travel mystic lands
Blaze trails through rotting jungles
caravan cross burning sand
Remember with each victory
there's also something lost
There's a price for each adventure
that's not always worth the cost
So whether it's the seven seas
or past the worlds own edge
Regardless of the paths you take
or promises you pledge
Should find you Never never land
and finding choose to go
All that which you had afore
will ne'er again be so
For once you've rode Laptua
or Pandora's Box unbound
Once love has hold your spirit
or wisdom had been found
Once blind eyes have been opened
or sirens song is heard
Once tragedy has struck so hard
that laughter seems absurd
Once Wonderland is entered
your soul is ever changed
The world you left behind you
is ever left estranged
You can return to bridges burned
but o'er them none may pass
For once you stray there is no way
to get back through the glass
For more see:
~ http://aweavingofwords.blogspot.com ~
Jan 26, 2010
Jan 26, 2010 at 12:49 AM UTC
Hanging her head into depths of an oubliette,
the toilet bowl grieves inside muddied ruin.
An early avocado and piles of bile simmer
inside porcelain wastelands. Her face, a dark fillet,
fat like a flea questing on skin. Fingers joust
her drawbridge mouth. Cavaliers cannot rescue.
Tiny talons scratch the back of her throat,
distant organs heaving during the battle
of the bulge. Nothing tastes as good as thin feels.
She tastes it twice. Flecks of spit singe cheeks
like undersink chemicals. Her imperial
belly wails, a damsel distressed.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 3:43 PM UTC
Lazy sunny summer afternoon,
in the hilltop meadow, clouds and balloons,
floating while
bees milking flowers for dusty blonde pollen,
butterflies joust with dragonflies for honour fallen,
Children run while those balloons trail nonchalant
with invisible string,
Air so fresh, there is no stress, all very Utopian,
Why has it been so long since, I dreamed this quixotic?
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 12:34 AM UTC
A bitter fuck-fest of lollapalooza.
Burn(ing) me, man. but don't taze me, bro.
If I got high on legalized substances, am I still escaping?
Metaphoric endorphin rushing as patio furniture sits silently,
slowly choking as I fill it with my own ***
I haven't written in so long, because I lack some passion.
I haven't written verbal joust in the form of bitter tongue because I felt it lacked restraint.
I ****** with a straight jacket; it felt great.
Perpetual virginity, a fool's errand running.
I have my V-card still; kind of... it's stunning.
I left a can of gasoline at an alien's house.
I came back and fire had engulfed what was left of my sorrows.
"I thirst," said He, the savior of the world.
Let's all ignore the singing signs of everything, boys... girls...
I have not a word to say in recompense for exploitation of your idiotic murmurings.
Well done, my good and faithful burdenings.
I can't speak to what hasn't yet been said,
but I can sure as hell guestimate, that we'd probably all be dead.
This **** ain't free.
Thank you, Kendrick Lamar, for reminding me.
This is me unfettered.
This is me unchained.
Give me a pen and some paper:
this **** will get strange.
I am Fred Astaire with a **** so fine, you'd think it's aged wine the way it twirls and floats.
Breaking up is ****** now put this poem down your throat.
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 4:16 PM UTC
there was little hare and he just long to be
a shining knight in armour back in history
riding in a joust with a big long lance
riding on his steed as it began to prance
then a fight with swords clashing in the sun
this would be a challenge and give him lots of fun
sitting round the table like proper knight
with a feather in his hat very big and bright
then he would go to sleep in a great big tent
and think about his day and how his day was spent
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 12:15 PM UTC
it appears as though
there was a coup,
in kookaburra land,
this morning.
much fuss,
and cacophony.
as the brown and blue kingfisher clan, reassembled,
their royal court.
the big old king,
uncurled his talons,
unfurled his wings,
gave one last,
manical chuckle....
and fell from his perch.
to lie still,
upon the dusty,
brown earth.
shocked, silence for some seconds, and then...
the eucalypts erupted into, (what would appear to the outsider);
cold calculating mirth.
as the young jacko princes, all began the joking joust
for the top place berth.
in a melee of swooping, chuckling grace,
a contest no less,
set to test....
mettle, worth and cackle call.
each young bird,
takes to the wing and flies into the maddening...and how close,
how loud,
how startling,
they can be.
is made known,
by those,
whose years,
have flown.
when all, is said and done. tourney overflown,
feathers are preened.
then the winner
is presented,
with opportunity, bold....
to nest the queen.
as to the rest,
they take their place,
in the chaotic, cackling, cacophonous,
kookabuurra clan nests.
to bide their time,
until, the next coup,
comes calling...
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC
Seldom have I seen such strength, such purposefulness shown
And I have witnessed many who have made their message known,
Immovable this woman stands in seas of raging tide
Where friend and foe, as challengers, she’s deftly swept aside.
Resolute she stands atop white cliffs of blazing chalk
To glare across the Channel where her predecessors stalked
In league with Winston Churchill with pugnacious jawline set
When he thrashed the fiend in Jackboots and field grey appuletes.
In league with Margaret Thatcher with that glint of grey in eyes
To the accolades of Gorbachev who recognised the prize.
In league with Boadecia the ghost of power past
Who rallied this great nation to fight on to the last.
Snapping at her ankles the dogs of turmoil writhe
And comrades of another time amass to criticise,
Labourites howl murderously to all who would take heed
While the rabble rousing Europeans joust to intercede.
Swirling round her skirts they mass now screaming their abuse
At her articulated message of a pathway less obtuse.
If Tony Blair had the ***** it’s to her side he’d dance
As would Jeremy Corbett but of that there’s little chance,
Her Majesty stands forthright, as do all her heirs
Including Will and Harry who are cheering from the stairs.
Dianna’s there in spirit plus the Kiwis from the pub
And the rough crowd from the chippie all dolled up with a scrub.
She needs ALL of you behind her in her struggle for the best,
Independence for Great Britain is ascendancy’s great quest.
The very heart of what It means to dwell within these shores
The very heart of what it means to be Brittish to the core.
England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales combining for the task
Of a guarantee of future from the quagmire of the past.
We SHALL stand behind Teresa May and make our voices heard
As we scream aloud the anthem to impart our final word….
RULE BRITANNIA,
BRITTANIA RULE THE WAVES
BRITAIN NEVER, NEVER EVER…
SHALL BE SLAVES!
Boom, boom, boom
RULE BRITANNIA,
BRITANNIA RULE THE WAVES
BRITAIN NEVER, NEVER EVER….
SHALL BE SLAVES!
M.
18 December 2018
Dec 17, 2018
Dec 17, 2018 at 6:33 PM UTC
I took to my red and brother to his blue. we were far from any head in its right mind. I didn’t know what he thought of while sharpening his stick but I thought of two sisters fighting over a glamour shot of their mom. homelessness experiences one man at a time and violence ties his shoe. it came to me on a moving bike.
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
I look to you to be a courtesan,
and not just in the bedroom arts,
there is great depth in this craft and calling,
how to conduct the delicate tête à tête,
stirring envy without rancor,
there is politics to master,
who is in and who is out,
and whose nose grows longer with every joust 'n bout,
the arts, must of course be mastered,
music, poetry, and painting
you must teach yourself beyond the basics
while leaving it to those that profess it their profession,
and there is the necessity of fashion
in polite manners, dress, and current bob 'n coif
so all eyes will rise when down the stairs you descend,
and then there's men,
study me, my dear, and to them, "amen."
Jan 28, 2011
Jan 28, 2011 at 1:12 PM UTC
Your with that straight girl
Whos into you
Shes out of this world
She wont move in with you
You let her make your life ****
While you complain about my boy
Just shut up now this is it
This is all my choice
While you live with our mother
While your 20 years old
Still with her not another
She'll always make you fold
Ill be in my big house
With the same boy I have loved
You wont win this joust
Take off the boxing gloves
Lets agree to disagree
We wont say a word again
She has you n he has me
Lets just see how this will end
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 2:43 PM UTC
The blade held fast by stoic clutch of earth
Intended for a single man since birth:
Upon the hilt in celtic runes engraved
An epitaph for how the king be saved,
And since in canes below the lake was forged
The magic brand knew well which foes to scourge.
The king unsheathed his worth from holy stones
As all the boulders strewn are mother's bones,
And wielded it across the heaving lands
Until they'd all been conquered by his hands.
Say some the sword was loose by fleeting chance
Precise as judgement by a joust with lance,
Some other say that Merlin hexed the Lady's gift
Before embedding blade within the rift,
Yet druid told before to doom he strayed
That sole for Arthur was the weapon made.
Within the marrow-rock of endless time
The patient sword awaits Pendragon's climb,
Yet would the worth have found itself a hand
If kingly stranger gave the hilt command?
Or does the aether-steel unceasing sleep
Denied of dreams 'til safe in Arthur's keep?
Can worth that slumbers deep and makes men whole
Await arrival of a single soul?
These truths are lost, for Merlin scattered dust
That lets our minds remember what they must,
Yet after Arthur he returned the blade
And to its rest beneath the waters laid.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 6:30 PM UTC