"nobleman" poems
A defeat I can't bare witness
I should have known
The king signed a peace treaty with the enemy
Politics behind our backs
Chancellor's participation
His engagement cost us dearly this war
Poison the king's mind for serenity
Our enemies have won
I renounce service to the king
Nobleman I am
A mercenary life I will live
Payments is my services
Death is thy drink
May the spirits keep me away?
From a nation of ignorance
Sep 30, 2009
Sep 30, 2009 at 3:04 AM UTC
Letter Of A Young Polish Nobleman,
Warsaw, 1759
There was a farce performed the other day
In the cathedral, where, as is my wont,
I'd gone to mass. While kneeling near the font,
I saw, when I had just begun to pray,
A mob of filthy Jews swarm up the aisle
To be baptised. The King himself was there
And even stood as sponsor to a pair
Of thick lips with a most unpleasant smile.
Back home, I asked my steward, Mendel Gryn,
What it had been about. "Pan Casimir,"
He said, "The man you saw was Yankev Frank,
Those were his followers: they claim that sin
Leads Man to God, but now, baptised, I hear
They've all been raised, by law, to noble rank."
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 11:01 PM UTC
You deserves a lamp shade not a melting candle for woe is me, that I sojourn in obscure.
You deserves a clean sheet not a grime rag for woe is me, that I no pure.
You deserves a doctor not a band-aid for woe is me, that I no cure.
Woebegoness lingered on my soul so dont be a fool.
Then who is you to tell that thee? Saith the nobleman that captured the heart of me.
Then who is woe? If I can be the lamp shade to light the obscure sojourn of thee.
Then who is woe? If I can be the clean sheet to wipe the impurity of thee?
Then who is woe? If I can be the doctor to cure thee?
Who is woe?
Woe is me if you give up thee.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 12:16 AM UTC
Violent rage befitting a man of noble status.
Slaves and servants beaten without
discrimination. Blood soaked halls echo
with moans of suffering. Cracks of the whip
inciting shrieks of pain. The count is pleased
but not yet satisfied. Naked bodies, male and
female, covered in blood. No resistance is
offered by these peasants. They don't dare to
defy the urges of a nobleman. "The night is still
young," he says. "There's still time to **** and
defile all of you. And so I shall." He laughs as
his eye catches a young girl. "You my sweet
shall go first," he says unbuttoning his trousers.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 12:42 AM UTC
When ancients in our eyes waged war in green Gaul,
He fought for new wealth and nobleman's glory,
He rose from mud where slave-spears lay shattered,
And raised the good name of his house from disgrace.
Binding giants in a favorable pact,
The consulship could well be attained,
But men of the day could not perceive greatness,
And barred him from beloved Rome.
So he rode out and vanquished the untamed Gauls,
Who once had brought Rome to its fearful knees,
Winning victory after victory in forests of the north,
Splitting oaks in the east, where his sword marred its sheen.
When fleets by Britain's cliffs hemmed the horizon,
When the seat of the Sphinx was polished marble-gold,
There were ten thousand Greeks could tell of his exploits,
And ten hundred Egyptians who claimed to know him.
With rude steel, he mastered the Mediterranean,
And over the Earth he brandished civilization.
In later years, his heirs spread like a stain upon the land;
The seas too were dyed with Roman sails,
And every coin minted bore the face of Caesar.
Even now, though the empire is hardened like iron,
And purple luxury replaces the crimson of war,
There are still a few among us who remember
Our young and mighty red-feathered conqueror.
Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 12:33 PM UTC
I am left in the forrest to die, a battered runaway slave, until a swamp mambo saves my life with some herbs and love over time, but I cannot let go of the fact she brought me back from the precipice of death, so for the rest of her breath I serve and protect her with honor and respect.
I am an ancient Chinese nobleman betrothed to a bride for more money and land, except I'd rather spend the time with a common woman because she makes me feel and opens me up, but in the end I choose the power, and to my horror the bride has the woman's family removed from life.
I am a suave satyr, a boisterous and joyous half-goat who prefers the light of night, a rapscallion nymph chaser whose frenzied bacchanalia rife with wild ****** an ecstatic ******* even though a had a penchant for this shapeshifter whose eyes lifted me beyond an echo in time.
As an oracle, I am only beholden to the gods though I don't think the Kings and Queens understand my sister and me. Our feminine bodies flicker and dance in shadows, embers aglow as we flow between each other's souls and worlds to bring words of wisdom through smoke visions and hieroglyphic poems.
I am a Viking, tired and hurt, our ship burns as my ****** body is momentarily buoyed in the frigid watery deep, proud yet ready to sleep until I realize this is my final battle yet won't reach Valhalla as I drown, the freezing drink slowly chokes my veins, the sound fades.
I feel free, a wild dakini gypsy between dimensions and time, with my sisterly crew of hypnotizing pirates making no bones what we want from the clients as our razor sharp bodies and piercing eyes cut through souls so we may outshine each other in stories and diamonds.
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 7:37 PM UTC
In the ears of mine intention
and heart of my affection
heavier are thy words
than Mike Tyson's punches:
they struck my feelings
hard, breakimg the chords
and jaws of my passion.
Truck of snobbish display . . .
. . . plight blighted . . .
crestfallen.
Should the sis linger more
in my marooned mind,
who hath belittled my person
and social worth?
Though i'm no Knight--
matter of fact, truly--
neither a nobleman, Miss Beauty,
with riches and a badge
of honour to show forth
my position, eminence and prestige:
wheeling thee about in a Rolls Royce
to diverse paradise of your choice;
yet deserve i no scorn of lips,
high lady,
even if belong nay to the gentry.
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 11:52 AM UTC
I won't be on site for some time. I'm writing the story of my father's life. He's 91 years old. In a power chair due to severe arthritis. Almost completely deaf and going blind. He can't read properly now and, being a very bright man, is filled with ennui. He doesn't know what to do with his time. I want to find out about his life. I know parts which I will put in this poem you are about to read...
My father's not a nobleman
Born a farmer's son
He has not the title Prince
In my heart he's surely one
My father is not tall of build
He's not a rugged man
But on his shoulders as a child
I saw the Earth's full span
My father is not wealthy
Has no Goods to share
But in my heart I know his worth
He is a billionaire
He is not a Wise Man
Has not those gifts to share
But he has a high IQ
Is bright beyond compare
Raised in the Great Depression
He ate the slop for pigs
Now he's a survivor
His grave cancer didn't dig!
He saw Okinawa
Eniwetok's grim atoll
Code named "Ivy Mike"
The Bomb landed on it's shoal
He went to MIT
Far 'above his station'
And he did it with a handicap
A 7th grade education
He is not a saint
He is far from 'pure'
But in my mind he's worth it
His tale should endure
So I will write his story
I believe it should be told
He is a curmudgeon
*But he has a heart of gold*
♡ Catherine
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 1:55 AM UTC
Through the night,
rode the poorest knight,
o’er vale, o’er innocent glade
with thundering and beating heart,
that matched the quickened pace,
of the steeds nimble stride.
Tho’ the stormy gale opposes,
and the might of winters snowy,
blizzard, should keep him at bay,
he rises to the challenge
and crushes them ‘neath his heels,
When at times the spirit is low,
and normally a liquor does restore,
he hastens past the tavern,
to where his mount does drink and eat,
and makes fast the saddle,
in order to make advances on his merry
quest.
When the day he has been riding
for presents itself with fate and circumstance,
at its left and right,
and this poorest knight, tho’ stout of heart,
and a little bit stout of figure,
might be bequeathed with one
small gaze at Her.
He had ridden many miles in many days,
for what purpose he had no knowledge,
although, now that fate has blessed him
with the cause of his lengthy travels, and quest,
he might smile, and become the richest knight,
that other might envy, and wonder at,
indeed this is what did happen.
the village, town, and city,
all were amazed that this poor
nobleman did acquire someone
such as her, whose looks were
stunning at the least, and were
nigh short of some divine providence,
and making.
That when he rode through town,
with her arms wrapped around him,
the down did gawp, and wonder how,
that he did prove them wrong, and
hadn’t a care for their rude gawping
faces.
He and She,
carried on unto the sunset,
whereupon not a soul saw them
again, nor needed to,
they knew where to find them,
they were happy, and needed not to
be bothered by the troubled
villagers, and issues.
The poor knight,
is now living as a king,
though not wealthy of riches,
or prominence, or land,
but of the true happiness,
only love can bring.
Jan 19, 2012
Jan 19, 2012 at 11:54 PM UTC
Thank you very much
for teaching me feelings are a crutch
for educating me to how my dreams will get crushed
Thank you for enlightening me
to get rid of my heart you see!
It's simply nothing more than a tool
others use to hurt you you fool!
Thank You for forging my armor
to make me stronger for much longer
opening up it seems will just get me hurt
so thank you for forging it, you did admirable work
Thank you for killing my once happy self
the world was trying but it just needed help
now I have all the happiness of a caged elf
or a nobleman lacking in wealth
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 3:46 PM UTC
Tax is a concept
By which you measure governance and each cent from each pocket
Tax is a concept
By which you measure a homeless man’s pain and the hard rain
Tax is a concept
That only adds up but sometimes doesn’t
Tax is a concept
A technique to intercept the poor man’s invasion
Tax is a concept
That funds a government servant’s evasion
Tax is a concept
That requires frequent revision for the privileged 1% division
Tax is a concept
For the rich to market their wealth as a sales pitch
Tax is a concept
That is open ended that helps lawyers find a niche and sometimes a gaping ditch
Tax is a concept
That helped the Untouchables put away that whiny *****
Tax is a concept
That takes the interest out of the spooks
I don’t believe in being rich
If I have to pay more I think that’s a glitch
I don’t believe leaving it all to the middle class
If I criticize it the government shows a lot more sass
Tax is a concept
If it wasn’t it wouldn’t be in books and in the salaries of prison cooks
Tax was a concept
That kept out of it the clergy mooks
Tax was a concept
That kept a nobleman’s coffers’ ostentatious good looks
Tax was a concept
That kept death at bay
Tax was a concept
That contributed to the dead everyday
Tax was still a concept
If it wasn’t then in Germany there wouldn’t have been any bread for each day
Tax is still a concept
It still pays the rich and takes from the rich *****
Who has the lawyer who is smarter than Tom Sawyer
I don’t believe in law and order
I just believe in world order and peace
Sep 13, 2017
Sep 13, 2017 at 5:39 PM UTC
From within the safety of the train compartment
Memories, written in stone, glide by
There’s the Roman church
With the statue of the priest and his dog
And the enigmatic farm
Where llamas and ostriches stride
And that one funky albino kangaroo
And after that comes the castle
Which in my mind is inhabited
By an anachronistic loner
A degenerate nobleman
Who hides within his fortress
Hoping that the days of old come back
And after wasted grandeur comes earnest cosines
Carefree children playing football
While their grandfathers smoke
And discuss the Tour de France
And eat Boules de Berlin
Images that I have seen a hundred times before
But the celebration of triviality
Has never been so precious to me
As these images, gliding by, through the window
Written inside my memory
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 9:28 AM UTC
I have a guru who comes to me from time to time
To teach me things I tend to forget.
Once he appeared as a wrinkled old coolie
Who carried my bag into a crowded train.
I gave him a generous fee which he did not count
And left, as I sat there feeling quite self-righteous.
Moments later, he returned jostling through the crowd
Teary eyed and hands joined to inquire in silence -
If I had made a mistake
Or if there was something else he could do?
For I had paid him far more than what was due.
In an instant I shrunk to the size of an ant
In front of this giant of a nobleman.
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 12:15 PM UTC
The ladder is so simple.
It is used
to climb
to see the heavens.
The ladder is so simple.
With a grasp of its outer shell
Man
can
slip
away
without
a
sound.
The ladder is so simple.
But it requires such effort to move upwards
Each rung requires a jump from the previous.
A leap of faith-
Ending in the starting place with no new vertical accomplishments
OR
Continuing with a crash on the next, elevated rung,
Repeating the process once again.
Then there’s the other option.
To grasp the sides of the ladder when man has finished climbing,
Slinking, slithering down the smooth sides of the legs
Where you smack the bottom.
The ladder is so simple.
It’s easy for man to climb.
Each rung is a new goal to reach.
There’s a constant need to land on top
like a nobleman chasing the crown.
The hard part is saying goodbye to the heights achieved.
“Are the rungs pointless if man should pass them all coming back down?”
“Are the leaps of faith worth the energy in the end?”
But the hardest question of all-
“When does man know to sink?”
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 2:17 AM UTC
a man
has shoot
and sell
his desire
where tires
embark to
Ilium but
a nobleman
farm his
wit with
hell and
back truck
in a
parade of
fire yet
amble in
Market Square
Jul 24, 2020
Jul 24, 2020 at 9:12 AM UTC
I am a heavily folded
sheet of stationery.
A Roman
nobleman.
She is
so
so
sick.
You are
Shakespeare;
you are
wrong.
It took me
f o r e v e r
to decode:
The fault is
NOT
in our stars,
but in
ourselves.
She is a letterhead.
She is in
my empty bed.
She is
enough.
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC
*don't harangue my life with care for pity at woman's idiocy, not having adopted Caesarian birth as universally adequate and prospering her, to instil this barbaric guilt in me wondering why women, of all mammals had no natural anaesthetic produced when giving birth... **** your little guilt-trip argument! Caesarian or no argument!*
to be robbed of a glorious death, and be given an
inglorious birth, esp. when women were given an ease
with a Caesarian birth diplomacy... what's there to retain for man?
ardency in labour? old age? i too was robbed of what
Caesar described as the ideal death: the sudden one...
am i to wait for my sickbed...
if i only chanced the thrill of life
within one sunset and sought no night
to encompass my life as worthy compensation
of nothing.
a life lived to the bell-tone of a replaced
uvula, no care for charity asserted...
in that one momentary exception of all life prior,
to have lived it, and hence entombed,
readied for the element acquiring me to
further its signature... as sustainable...
i'd rather die a painful death that live
a comfortable life: pain is eased with its short-lived
establishing awareness when the glory prior is "prolonged"
ascribed to the fates akin to Achilles... and indeed pain is
merely pain with its prolonging on the sickbed...
counter heroism, so defeatist;
how many times am i to be robbed? to thus experience
such shallows of thieves with cheap constantly
expedient thievery? i've had enough to concede to a juggle
of fates and fortunes! one smooth stroke of the ace
rather than the many axe-hackings of the neck
of ****** Mary. bothersome agitations via pride, honour
and braveness, only if they do not happen,
and should they, they'd be undertaken, but to no quest
of celebratory non-enactment, i.e.: farting rather than ********
prior: to be given a wave of the standard acupuncture
of infantry: as guarantee of mythology; and a nobleman
on his horse without a stirrup prior to the *** intervention.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 10:14 PM UTC
When this nobleman was around,
He went town to town,
segregation, being his fight,
while brave men of black and white,
went hand in hand and were united, by one common goal,
to save america's face,
or the blacks and the whites would get the same terrible fate,
but at that same time, Martin Luther ironically had to fight,
for black kids to walk into the same schools as the whites,
ride and sit on the same bus,
and even get the same bathrooms, water, and bar counter brunch,
but we could have them be in a war together,
no if ands or butts,
because oh great america like we are now,
doesn't stay out of other countries or allow,
that country to do its thing,
has america let someone tell us how to run our land?
didn't we leave great britain for our independence?
so how come like then and now,
we get into war over problems other countries need to fix themselves,
when we havn't fixed ourselves yet either,
Martin Luther King Jr. Could've told you that,
anyone from a history book could predict the future,
because we have not learned from any mistake we have made
so america is at fault and the one to blame.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 10:11 AM UTC
I was once a queen in this dress.
Peasant and nobleman, child and commoner I had been, yes,
But never queen.
In this dress, autumn was my station, my birthright, my blood—
I was an heiress of field and stream,
Of tall grass, tree and sky,
Of August leaves bronzed under an Indian Summer sun.
Let me take you to that day; See as I see,
Look to the field all where the trees
Clap their hands, and shake from their branches golden leaves
To crown this small soul, their Majesty.
Standing steadfast as sentinels as they
Watch a life in reverse: I am shrinking, I am becoming
Nothing more than these blades of grass I run on,
This patch of sky I fall from,
This body, this blood, this tiny wisp of memory
In a mind so vast with humanity,
It has to spill over and splash into something like Time.
Silent, they watch as I unfold into this moment:
This moment newly-made,
ancient,
eternal,
To become queen, to become everything, to become
Nothing more than an end-of-summer’s day—
May 24, 2012
May 24, 2012 at 11:23 PM UTC
The Great Wall of China is a series of fortifications made of stone, brick, tamped earth, wood, and other materials, some of which include: chips of cloven hooves, beating in rhythm with a grand conqueror on high, brethren united in one charge; sweat of a migrant, summertime rain cooling between his shoulder blades, stones callusing fingers; blood of one and many terracotta men, giving their lives for God and king; new silk chewed up by moths; jade and chrysanthemum, a nobleman’s wife’s treasury; sun and wind, a flood, grace of a new emperor - my life, reaching backwards into pockets of rice fields, scholars’ tables, great-grandmother’s childhood castle, everything I know.
Apr 26, 2018
Apr 26, 2018 at 1:19 AM UTC
no, possessing eyes, no, possessing my eyes filled me with dread at possessing a stomach, how stomach or even imply digestion of sunrise or sunset? how?! it's impossible to convene or communicate... if i were to ordain life a will, i'd ordain it without a digestive system, for spent gluttony, for untamed gluttonous peoples carving hope in nearing the grave, housing themselves in resembling structures, as of life in life and furthered thrice enclosed off life; they say you're a scot nobleman using a semi-colon living in a semi-detached house going bankrupt because of the heating bill! well, close proximity of words and no nearer the lives of those using a method of kinship.
my diet? like that of a wild animal,
i live for alcohol,
i eat to keep the nutrients in balance,
i grab a sand-witch in the dark,
and then like a rat jumping off
a ship or treadmill i
imagine a sponge trapped in
my stomach soaking up acids
while being digested without bloating up;
i don't like eating, true enough,
i wish eating wasn't part of life...
but hey... so the story goes...
you got to eat and get fat and get bulimic too.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 7:40 PM UTC
What do you want?
I want to be king
Do you don't
I d--
My father is a king
A good one
He is loved
Much more than past Kings
He solidified the realm
Kept the peace for many years
And he kills children and nobleman and peasants alike
He killed your mother
And made your father watch before he killed him too
And He is a good king
If you rebel
Even if you win
And **** my father
At best all you will ever be
Is A Good King
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 10:02 PM UTC
“Once upon a time”
The age old fairytale
About each perfect little princess
Finding her perfect little male
From birth into adulthood
We read about princes and knights
We’re promised a perfect match
To join us on our plight
So we sigh and sit and wait
Or sit and work and sigh
Always quietly wondering
If our prince has passed us by
Then with each lunar passing
And each trip around the sun
Our age brusquely informs us
That our prince may never come
No knights on noble steeds
Ride up to right our wrongs
There is no handsome nobleman
To play us his love songs
Except for those of course
Whose love proves insincere
The ones who leave us jilted
And actualize our greatest fears
With each disappointment
Another petal falls away
Slowly killing any magic
Leftover from our early days
Until one day an unassuming
Handsome man appears
Offers a ride on his white horse
Then promptly disappears
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 12:20 AM UTC
The feeding space to German pilots supports drinking
games holy Dream sleep, dog rules are a donkey to the
tongue and the language of the child's Radio is a spiritual
Wall sporting friends like Naraka Nature's Old Brown
China Open convinced the Italians watching the Park;
the Song's truth Spans part of the European assembly
of the Mountain glass; Some rooms at King Devi's
and in cities to write relaying the Hours; many calls
have been made for those that easily dance
to finger, fingers' fingerprints in a loud Jaguar robot's Old Country Location,
Center the children in Museum Street, Willie, an International
Asian Master of Science's inner world, wildlife issues;
And the remembrance of Arabia, the best computer
of a poem: the dark age Bloom of speech, Vico of the vitamins,
the hard earth, created do not, to buy fields for the issues,
Modern Family: like a cloud, soft foods with much industry and Secrets,
of course he would come up as the smoke
of the Remindance the natural Books ECB is said,
to day of memories, care is said to the glory of the first part
of the enemy thinks that the money of
Quim's twin, O Lamb of warm water, feet of a hexameter
coupled with the Mirror of the Spanish nobleman
eating in ritzy Einstein's, the sister of peace.
The average poet gets a big kick out of the commandments
of the invisible to walk the blow with a loud voice
in the Asterella Kiss, the ladies to go to the chief of the mind.
To who goes two hundred to stop the revolution
with alkameric socks and hand movements of grape alcohol.
Inwarding frozen Hills, harbors give their parents smoke, India says
Jan 27, 2019
Jan 27, 2019 at 4:12 PM UTC