"merlin" poems
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
Tumble down, fall part, fragment,
Become the figment of the imagination,
that enchanted your dreams.
Create the spell,
Beautiful and powerful, like the whispers of Merlin
Torch that dark sky.
Scorch, blacken and smoulder,
Mold thou from the ashes,
The Fortune of a Moghul.
Hold your head high,
Become that figment of your imagination,
Jiggery pokery your spell;
Roar like a Dragon,
that wit and intelligence,
The world shall bow to you.
Saurabh.
Jul 2, 2017
Jul 2, 2017 at 9:34 AM UTC
Budging the sluggard ripples of the Somme,
A barge round old Cérisy slowly slewed.
Softly her engines down the current *******
And chuckled softly with contented hum,
Till fairy tinklings struck their croonings dumb.
The waters rumpling at the stern subdued;
The lock-gate took her bulging amplitude;
Gently from out the gurgling lock she swum.
One reading by that calm bank shaded eyes
To watch her lessening westward quietly.
Then, as she neared the bend, her funnel screamed.
And that long lamentation made him wise
How unto Avalon, in agony,
Kings passed in the dark barge, which Merlin dreamed.
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I will not die for you
Woman fey of flesh and home,
I linger but to see you unfrock
The holy, set rogues to roam.
Why should I thus be consumed
In breath like coldest fire?
Shape of rising waterfalls
That state, I surely do not desire
The downy ******* the runny skin,
Spark of cheek, notes of hair in shower,
The gliding step, the gusty tone,
Fools have died for much less a dower.
The lancing pools, the hemlock mien,
The highland sheen, the dawn-bird voice,
The Safire eye, over step of pyramid
Merlin gave Arthur a safer choice.
I will not drown for you,
Flood of hair, red as the lye
In parted Jordan, that sea, not me,
Shall pine as ever, slowly dying.
Your healing humors, your subtle sovereignty,
Your blood, noble as seven-seas are blue,
Little mirror who paints the sky,
Though nearly, I will not die for you.
Jun 24, 2012
Jun 24, 2012 at 10:28 AM UTC
The Hawker Hurricane is a British fighter design from the 1930s. Some 14,000 Hurricane and Sea Hurricane fighters and fighter-bombers were built by the end of 1944。 August 1940 brought what has become the Hurricane's shining moment in history: The Battle of Britain. RAF Hurricanes accounted for more enemy aircraft kills than all other defenses combined, including all aircraft and ground defenses. Later in the war, the Hurricane served admirably in North Africa, Burma, Malta, and nearly every other theater in which the RAF participated. The Hurricane underwent many modifications during its life, resulting in many major variants, including the Mk IA, with interchangeable wings housing eight 7.7mm (0.303in) guns;the Mk IIC, with a Merlin ** engine; the Mk IID, a tankbuster with two 40mm anti-tank guns plus two 7.7mm guns. During the war, Hurricanes were sold to Egypt, Finland, India, the Irish， Persia, Turkey and the USSR Air Corps.More in http://www.rangorango.com/124-series-c-1_5.html
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 4:08 AM UTC
The rhyme of the poet
Modulates the king's affairs,
Balance-loving nature
Made all things in pairs.
To every foot its antipode,
Each color with its counter glowed,
To every tone beat answering tones,
Higher or graver;
Flavor gladly blends with flavor;
Leaf answers leaf upon the bough,
And match the paired cotyledons.
Hands to hands, and feet to feet,
In one body grooms and brides;
Eldest rite, two married sides
In every mortal meet.
Light's far furnace shines,
Smelting ***** and bars,
Forging double stars,
Glittering twins and trines.
The animals are sick with love,
Lovesick with rhyme;
Each with all propitious Time
Into chorus wove.
Like the dancers' ordered band,
Thoughts come also hand in hand,
In equal couples mated,
Or else alternated,
Adding by their mutual gage
One to other health and age.
Solitary fancies go
Short-lived wandering to and fro,
Most like to bachelors,
Or an ungiven maid,
Not ancestors,
With no posterity to make the lie afraid,
Or keep truth undecayed.
Perfect paired as eagle's wings,
Justice is the rhyme of things;
Trade and counting use
The serf-same tuneful muse;
And Nemesis,
Who with even matches odd,
Who athwart space redresses
The partial wrong,
Fills the just period,
And finishes the song.
Subtle rhymes with ruin rife
Murmur in the house of life,
Sung by the Sisters as they spin;
In perfect time and measure, they
Build and unbuild our echoing clay,
As the two twilights of the day
Fold us music-drunken in.
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She is a thirteen month old red Labrador *****
He is a little black Tom cat with no *****
But they are unusual lovers
Honestly they are like a couple of teenagers who can't leave
Each other alone
Amber is my daughters dog who I baby sit
As soon as she gets in my door in the mornings it starts
Running up to each other sniffing noses and bums
Have you ever seen an adult cat picked up by a dog and carried round the garden?
Well I've had cats and dogs all my life and I've never seen it until now
Sleeping time and Merlin is curled up between Amber's feet
It's a crazy world
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 10:14 AM UTC
It was impossible, it seemed to me,
that twilight came so swiftly;
And with it coolness of the night,
and relief from restless drifting.
Wrapped in a towel of perspiration,
I lay on the desert's mounds of sand;
The crescent moon became my friend,
while watching it curve just like my hand.
But whispering wraiths arrived to haunt,
my vivid dreams of black and white;
Exposed to the darkness up above,
where nothing appeared quite right.
The moon dissolved in silent tears,
while shedding its silver sheen;
And with a touch of Merlin's wand,
gathered waters so clear and clean.
The desert rain fell with intent,
to wash away my mortal dread;
Dripping down from the crescent's mirror,
to reflect upon my earthly bed.
When I awoke it was eerily quiet,
the towel around me had dried;
No longer alone in a desert world,
I reached up and touched the sky.
Mar 30, 2019
Mar 30, 2019 at 8:53 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
The scribble- aka nonsense: I always try and categorize everything into a neat package. My own make due box if you will. Weather its food, friends, life, love, pain and sorrow, it all get stowed away in a box as I try to connect them to make sense. But in the end it is, and I am (my boxes) over shadowed by it, myself. I'm a "complex creator" is the LAST thing people will know when I'm gone.
But it’s all nonsense. I'm just a control freak
The baby drinking- aka nurturing: I made him. It’s so weird. Of all the things I've painted, wrote, and sculpted or whatever this (Essek) is by far the best and last work of art I could ever create. He drinks because I thought him that his beverage is in a vessel to get he has to drink. He sleeps securely because daddy (me) will always keep him from harm.
"I'm a good father" is the LAST thing people will remember when I'm gone. But it’s all nurturing. I'm just good with instinct
My new plant- aka optimism: this flower is actually a fake. I put it in the fish bowl to try and make my fish (merlin) a little happier. Even though his brain is the size of a 6 font "O" he deserve a bit of joy in his aquatic dwelling. It’s the last lesson I can give to those that fall in a dark place. The smallest things have a big purpose
“I was always optimistic" is the LAST thing people will think when I'm gone. But I'm just courteous………………….
There’s more but its personal
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 8:22 PM 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
“The atoms that comprise life on earth are all traceable to the crucibles that cooked light element into heavy element.” —Neil deGrasse Tyson
And up here we have Vega, rigged to a few older men,
Jupiter’s herd of moons. Look through its eyepiece,
convince us there is no such thing as reconstruction.
The right time to return light, the path to earth. Yes,
we are part, living or real. Such is the layout
of this cosmic ballet. A naked man and woman,
a map of earth’s location, unstable in their older years.
He spreads himself so wide, hard at the heavens
for two reasons. Fairly often, someone would call the police.
Handcuffs came from stars, next generation solar systems
quantumly entangled. Size is only development condensed
into a singularity, enriched guts against gears of war.
So what does this mean? The breadth of the actions
taken, meaning limitations, meaning sky was worth looking at.
He charmed the cops with conversational boom, dozens of people
crouching in the dark. Their common center of gravity:
darker barrel shaped streets with long rows of sold-out houses.
It’s not a lecture—how to calculate latitude, one neck cramp at a time,
an extension cord across Merlin’s Tour of the Universe
to satellites gliding in low orbit, nine years to work its way out.
The voice is deep and rowdy—from a man at the edge of the crowd.
The other reason is down here on earth, down the handle of the Big
Dipper. An artist will tell you—crank it some more, until it begins
to glow blue. Red-hot is the coldest among all the hots.
Apr 5, 2012
Apr 5, 2012 at 12:03 AM UTC
the Man is no longer a Man
in this day and age
he is a strange Middle-Aged Boy
an Aging Adolescent
hair going grey
with the hours whittled away
on Xbox video games
the Man that is a Man
is of a bygone age
The Real Man in the films of old
Age-ed Anachronism
strong and proud and brave
standing tall to face the day
and keep the wolves at bay
that I am a Man-who-is-not-a-Man
a product of this modern age
has vexed my Heart and Soul
my Arrested Ascension
how can I always play
when a Real Man works all day
but really who's to say?
the Boy is also a Man
in our culture at this stage
in truth both young and old
Advancing Adolescence
we get to play our lives away
yet still have bills to pay
the balance of the middle way
I am a Boy and I am a Man
by internal and external age
work only to play is my road
an Admirable Aspiration
that I get to live My Way
a little boyhood every day
is the great gift of this age
**** it
I'll be okay
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 4:23 PM UTC
The Passionate Pen
Pulsates with luminescence.
Its source transcendent,
Pages radiate, injected with ink incandescent.
The sun squints when the strokes soak.
The sheets must be sheathed in a quote's cloak.
'Tis no quill
Taken from a bird's nestle.
'Twas a thrill
To concoct the ink, with a firm pestle.
Lava for determination,
Stardust for high hopes,
Starlight for inspiration,
Glacier water for rejuvenation,
A drop of the Savior's blood for salvation
And a speck of His sweat's salt for eternal preservation.
Finally, I siphon a raging scream of emotion
Into the cartridge to keep the mixture in motion.
Swirling like undercurrents of the ocean.
Merlin has never known so potent a potion.
An elixir of passion.
I mix it with passion.
The pen glows
And throbs with a tempo.
It plants seeds,
Watch the stems grow.
The false poets—watching at bay—
Flock, & they say,
"Long live the Passionate Pen!"
As, once again, the Passionate Pen
Conquers the day.
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC
He walks in stolid darknesses
At days zenith, hears whispers
In the dew dusted fens, lights
Leaves into sun candle flames,
Drew a lake sword by maidens
Hand, alchemic shaper of water,
Air, old fires and earth, bending
Cold elements of moly and lode
Rushing forth, in extra emotions.
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 3:43 AM UTC
He walks in stolid darknesses
At days zenith, hears whispers
In the dew dusted fens, lights
Leaves into sun candle flames,
Drew a lake sword by maidens
Hand, alchemic shaper of water,
Air, old fires and earth, bending
Cold elements of moly and lode
Rushing forth, in extra emotions.
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 3:52 PM UTC
The Wild Hunt
by Michael R. Burch
Near Devon, the hunters appear in the sky
with Artur and Bedwyr sounding the call;
and the others, laughing, go dashing by.
They only appear when the moon is full:
Valerin, the King of the Tangled Wood,
and Valynt, the goodly King of Wales,
Gawain and Owain and the hearty men
who live on in many minstrels’ tales.
They seek the white stag on a moonlit moor,
or Torc Triath, the fabled boar,
or Ysgithyrwyn, or Twrch Trwyth,
the other mighty boars of myth.
They appear, sometimes, on Halloween
to chase the moon across the green,
then fade into the shadowed hills
where memory alone prevails.
Published by Celtic Twilight, Celtic Lifestyles, Boston Poetry and Auldwicce. Few legends have inspired more poetry than those of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. These legends have their roots in a far older Celtic mythology than many realize. Here the names are ancient and compelling. Arthur becomes Artur or Artos, “the bear.” Bedivere becomes Bedwyr. Lancelot is Llenlleawc, Llwch Lleminiawg or Lluch Llauynnauc. Merlin is Myrddin. And there is an curious intermingling of Welsh and Irish names within these legends, indicating that some tales (and the names of the heroes and villains) were in all probability “borrowed” by one Celtic tribe from another. For instance, in the Welsh poem “Pa gur,” the Welsh Manawydan son of Llyr is clearly equivalent to the Irish Mannanan mac Lir. Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, wild hunt, Halloween, Artur, Bedwyr, Valerin, Valynt, Gawain, Owain, Devon, Wales
Apr 18, 2020
Apr 18, 2020 at 12:18 AM UTC
The dark woods circle the clearing.
The marsh birds, safe in their stalks,
Curtains to the yellow,
Cautiously wading.
Wick and wings — wand
Over, under leaves.
Merlin shoots — morning,
Smokes the light
Air.
The woodland birds,
High and low,
Flick and feed,
Soon will turn,
To fallen
Seeds.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 1:49 PM UTC
*Here in the midst of lake and fell
where lake-land poets once did dwell,
penned their words in romantic style
I too will sit and dream a while.
Sat at the edge of mountain tarn
looking back over field and farm,
watching Merlin and Goshawks fly
on thermal winds high in the sky.
The scent of pine from forest deep
red squirrels search for nuts to keep,
native to this Cumbrian land
to watch them scurry, really grand.
So tranquil here midst lake and fell
where reds and poets do still dwell,
the only sound is natures song
this is the place that I belong.*
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 4:47 AM UTC
He walks in stolid darknesses
At days zenith, hears whispers
In the dew dusted fens, lights
Leaves into sun candle flames,
Drew a lake sword by maidens
Hand, alchemic shaper of water,
Air, old fires and earth, bending
Cold elements of moly and lode
Rushing forth, in extra emotions.
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 12:54 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
There was a gap between the trees
And when I pushed through all the leaves
I saw a wizard standing there
With pointy hat and snow-white hair.
His beard grew down to his feet,
The most wizardy wizard you could meet.
"Come on son, you're late you know?
We don't want to miss the big show."
"Excuse me sir, but you really should
tell me if your magic is bad or good."
"Oh yes of course my magic's good.
Don't you know your in Merlin's wood?"
So off we went to see the thing
That Merlin called a great big fling
Dragons were dancing in the meadow
We laughed and giggled at those big fellows
Great wings flapped around ***** nilly
It made all the beasts look rather silly
Then Merlin said it was time to go
A wave of his wand and what do you know?
I plopped down, back at my tree
And there was Mom calling for me.
One last look, behind my back
I thought I saw his dancing hat
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 5:33 PM UTC
The Kiss of Ceridwen
by Michael R. Burch
The kiss of Ceridwen
I have felt upon my brow,
and the past and the future
have appeared, an eerie vapor,
mingling with the here and now.
And Morrigan, the Raven,
the messenger, has come,
to tell me that the gods, unsung,
will not last long
when the druids’ harps grow dumb.
Originally published by Songs of Innocence
Keywords/Tags: Ceridwen, white, witch, enchantress, sorceress, crone, cauldron, awen, throne, Morfran, power, Wales, Welsh, Druids, Banshee, Picts, Scots, Scottish, fairies, glade, raven, gull, King Arthur, Arthurian, Morgause, Merlin, round table, knights, England, stone, Excalibur, chivalry, Camelot, Uther Pendragon, Colgrim, Saxon
Apr 17, 2020
Apr 17, 2020 at 1:17 AM UTC
I just want to be on the cliff at Tintagel
Looking to the castle, & Merlin's cave.
Or Bigbury beach, on the sea tractor.
Or hanging off a rock at Peak District
Or hanging off a tree in Holborough
Maybe further afield than England,
Coffee with her at Montmartre
Or hiking in the regions of Inca
And bathing in coves of Costa Rica
Or climbing pyramids of Cancun
A list of things to do once lockdown ends
Apr 23, 2020
Apr 23, 2020 at 5:58 AM UTC