"parried" poems
1.
There was the tremor of leaves,
a rustle of bayonet grass
parried the multihued calm
of dawn's smeared light.
"This is what we trained for," the captain said.
We hunkered behind stacked bags of sand.
2.
Filigreed shafts of light pierce
the bullet perforated leaf canopy,
bellowed yells punctuate the swirl
and buffet of turbulent air:
“Contact”, “2 O’Clock”, “Incoming”, “
"Moving”, “Reloading”, “Ammo”.
3.
Fingers twitch, the grit of soil
twisted through their grip;
moon slashed carcasses glint, spent shells,
Earth exhales a vermillion mist,
rising, echoless, in this cathedral of leaves.
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 1:19 AM UTC
In a story so old, is a story of love told
as the little folks go nodding their heads.
A tale of a sin, it is has centuries been
the mystery that has, so many, misled.
Amidst the bristling leaves, to which they paid no heed
the lovers, they parried their foes.
In the wisdom of lust; for which one must crave so much,
the lovers, they deafened the shores.
The mighty they came, the mighty they slayed
and time whistled past them to flee.
It was a bruised sky that woke her,
and the weeping earth that cloaked her,
when she fell to knees and roared.
In a story so old, is a story of love told;
when purple mist dawns on us again,
about lovers who met, for those who forget,
that time doesn’t need to know tomorrow.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 11:20 AM UTC
It seemed that out of battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which titanic wars had groined.
Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
Then ,as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless.
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall, -
By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.
With a thousand pains that vision's face was grained;
Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.
'Strange friend,' I said, 'here is no cause to mourn.'
'None,' said that other, 'save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also; I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
For by my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping something had been left,
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled,
Or, discontent, boil ****** and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress.
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery,
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery:
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels,
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
I would have poured my spirit without stint
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.
I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now...'
2.7k
I yearn for your voice.
For it is the remedy for this distance.
And this Distance seems to be,
The archenemy of Bliss.
He waits patiently for his chance,
To ambush an unknowing victim.
Yet Bliss walks by our side,
When You and I are hand-in-hand.
He has no conscience.
And he walks with Bliss,
After his victim has fallen.
Yet Bliss, too, is another of his victims.
I yearn for that voice,
To be a shield against Distance.
And You, my sword.
For with you, I can defeat him.
For now, Bliss is nowhere to be found.
So Distance is here with me.
Bow at the ready,
Waiting for me to turn my back.
But I know he is there,
So turn my back, I shall not.
I play your voice over and over,
In my head, and Distance has been parried.
I wait for your return,
So I may take the offensive,
Against this villain,
And destroy him.
For I know when you return,
Bliss will be at your side,
And together,
We shall impale Distance.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 12:42 AM UTC
Dangerous dragon eyes
burn the stars
and scorch the skies
as the warrior lets
her silver blades fly,
Bronze skin
battle maiden,
******* in chainmail,
spear and shield
on her back
as she tracks
the beasts
who attacked
random villages.
Like a Valkyrie
she walked past me
with death on her breath.
All power and confidence,
she passes on to face this
monster in the darkness.
She moved like
a ballet dancer
rushing in
and striking him
in the place where
his scale skin was thin.
then rolled back
before the dragon’s attack.
Fire and fury
bare skin scorching
forcing her
to retreat
but only for
a solitary
second.
Claws cutting,
tail swinging,
scales scraping,
scratches stinging.
The ground
running
with the blood of
both combatants.
One arm
a ragged mess
of jagged flesh.
One dragon eye
destroyed while
sulphur and smoke
choked the breath
from her parched throat.
Long neck charging
as she parried
in a twirling fashion
letting the dragon’s head pass.
It moved quick
but she was faster
and matched that ********
primal fury.
Short silver
sharp dagger
nested itself
slightly above the neck
as the force of the animals
violent
movement
cut itself
making a long sick ****
as it lunged past fast
and finally fell
in defeat.
Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 10:39 AM UTC
Proud we stand, loftily in our ivory towers
Proud we stand, bawling our boasts and feats
Proud we stand, on the cold concrete we built
In shame, I hung my head, fathoming our “powers”
In grief, my quill broke his heart descrying our plight.
Humanity bleeds as his ink flows in protean woe
Love has lost its world, We estranged her away
And the world lost its Love, We chased disarray
All the colours in this world have run eerily cold
Our eyes fixated on a global monochrome gold
To bundles of printed paper, our soul… we sold.
Humanity bleeds as his ink flows in protean woe
Our vermilion blood has thinned, thinner than wine
Onto our gashes, we had to dowse the thickest brine
Blinded by rage, we parried the balsam to our souls
Yet in an unhesitant grace, traces remain in our bowls
Yet... Our calamitous claws yearn to rinse it off us
Humanity bleeds as his ink flows in protean woe
For an endless pursuit, in an unquenchable thirst,
We ****** our heels onto them who cleansed them
The hands which held us taut. we mangled them.
All for an empty crusade seeking the same black
We went rabid, scouring for an immortal fountain
The answer was a drop of Love, now unobtainium.
Yet I anticipate in the warmth of a spring someday
A few dewdrops and a little fountain emerging…
Fountain so bountiful in Love, her arrival in glory.
That day, my quill shall be healed and his ink resting
Sep 19, 2021
Sep 19, 2021 at 2:50 AM UTC
It was a cold night,
I was coming home,
And I didn't inform her,
As I wanted it to be a surprise.
War was over and I was going home,
The terrorists had been terminated.
I had stopover en route,
At a distant town I paused,
Famous for its winery,
I had got the finest ***
For both me & my wife.
Obstructed en route by a blizzard,
I thought about my wife at home.
Waiting for the way to be cleared,
I slept because I felt so very tired.
A dream sequence started,
It was so bright and warm.
I was basking in the Sun,
My wife accompanied me.
Holding hands we're in the backyard,
Not a cloth shielded us from the Sun.
Composing poems we were,
Warm and hot ones as well.
I had said:
***"Oh my honeybunch,
My buttercup,
I love you,
From the core,
Of my purest heart."***
She had replied:
***"Oh my sweetiepie,
My bigger baby,
I love you too,
From my heart,
And even my body."***
But then the dream ended,
They had cleared the road.
The driver again started driving,
At a slow speed fit only for snails,
Still my rifle rattled inside the bad.
Now I reached my town,
I expected her in nightgown,
In the velvety green one she had.
Edging closer on foot to my home,
I observe incandescence in the hall,
Glimmering through the curtains,
I thought she was waiting for me,
Basking in the heat of the fireplace,
After a tiring day's work at the office,
She should have slept peacefully,
But here she was, I thought,
Waiting for her man to be back,
From the neighbouring state's capital.
With these positive thoughts on my mind,
I parried forwards in the snow,
And I thought I'd surprise her,
Telling that my work was done,
Earlier, much earlier than I had expected.
I produced my copy of the key,
And silently opened the door,
But then I heard some sounds.
Totally unexpected sounds,
Like the intimate ones in bed,
I wanted it to be some teleseries,
But then I noticed an overcoat,
And a pair of oversized boots,
Neither the overcoat belonged to me,
Nor the huge gumboots were mine.
It dawned upon me,
My wife had been cheating,
She was in the hall,
The indecent incandescence,
With the noises of it,
Filled the home after issuing,
From the main hall.
I immediately stepped back,
Closing the door silently behind me,
Then I went to the bus stop.
I entered the lodge nearby,
Took the bottle of *** out,
Drank it full slowly but surely,
Then I took the gun out,
Sank the *** in & pulled the trigger,
BANG!!!
The bullet dug under my chin,
It pierced me through my head,
Shattering the lamp overhead.
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 11:40 PM UTC
Everything had a place,
neatly tied up, zipped in the case.
The handle extended ready for
the station;
a one way train to a working vacation.
She stole the tickets before he’d gone, hid them away to deceive and prolong.
Over there where street names are art
and the coffee barista, 24-hour-bars
sit brimming like every star or
burning ember,
found within iron clad, raw splendour;
is where he wants to sit and reside,
to write about the commuter tide.
Books will live on reclaimed shelves,
stacked high like Tokyo, midnight hotels,
ordered by tears shed
and poetically written lines,
not alphabetically
or in genre kinds.
There, for 900 Euros a month,
with a deposit to be paid up front and all at once,
windows look out onto windows-
tenants do the same; but
this time smiling, mid-browse,
mid-game.
She stole everything he wanted to regain,
so parried her move
and took off in the rain,
to the nearest station
to the first train.
No ticket was held in his left wet hand,
just a Howl for the planned
and one for the descent, to the
north-of-the-river
Three Brothers apartment.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 1:46 PM UTC
By T. A. Beale
I was working my garden on a warms summers day,
When a robin flew by, from across the way,
His wings tipped with silver, black brows over his eyes,
His robins red breast, you might have guessed,
but upon his cheek, a dark mark he could not disguise,
I laughed and I smiled as I cried aloud,
"Tis brave Robin Black-Cheek, a bird most renowned!"
He bowed and sang, “Good day to you sir! My chicks need a feeding!"
I nodded and said, "There's food underground, just follow around while I do
the weeding!"
So we set to work, and into each hole that I dug,
Mr Robin flew, and emerged bearing worms or a fat wriggling bug!
Time after time, with a beak full of grubs he'd return to his nest,
As the day grew long, I could not go on, I lay down my shovel, I needed a
rest!
Mr Black-Cheek hopped on my boot, and danced an impatient jig,
He looked at me and sang, "My chicks are still hungry! Why won't you dig?"
"Rest a while, lets take a moment to speak, tell me how you got that black scar on your
cheek!"
"Very well. But I warn you now, 'tis not a tale for the meek!”
I was guarding my garden when a rogue robin rival reproached me and said,
"I shall end your life, then take your wife, she will thank me when you're
dead!"
I swooped down to meet him, I perched on the fence,
I puffed my red breast and angrily sang, “Let battle commence!”
The scoundrel soared up, beak shining like steel in the sunlight, and he sliced my cheek!
Staggered and stunned I spun round, but soon I steadied, stood straight and showed my beak!
“T'was but a slight!” I swung at him, and continued the fight!
We ****** and we pecked, we riposte and we parried,
“Leave while you can! Too long have you tarried!”
We flew and we dashed, and in mid-air we clashed,
In a flurry of feathers we fought, a final fell blow and the foul fiend was fallen,
I sang with glee; for he was forced to flee!
I returned to my tree, now no one would dare challenge me!
He bowed again once his tale was told,
“Now dig me more grubs, afore this day grows old!”
I gladly obliged, for I'd made a new friend,
and we worked all day, until the end.
© Thomas A. Beale
2015
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 9:56 AM UTC
He must have looked like an easy mark,
the old man and his dog.
He walked with a cane
with his dog on a chain
on a deserted stretch of road.
There were three of them
they were young black men
as their car pulled up behind
They viewed that man as an ATM
and set out to rob him blind.
As he faced his foe
with his dog at his side
he parried with his blackthone stick
When one tried to grab the cane from the man
it ripped his hands to shreds right quick.
The faithful dog lept to the fray
and his teeth sank into beef.
He warmed to his task
as he bloodied the calf
of the somewhat tasty thief.
The third crook had a knife
and he tried for the life
of the little old grey haired man
but the cane ,like a club,
gave his kidney tough love
and the thief said
"its high time we ran ."
They fled from the scene
in their crack limousine
and my Dad and his dog
cheered their flight
Though he was quite out of breath
and his coat had been ripped
all in all it had been a good night.
My Dad and his dog
have long since passed on.
It's been thirty years now
since that night
but his old blackthorne cane
in my homestead remains
ever ready in case of a fight.
Jan 25, 2012
Jan 25, 2012 at 8:56 PM UTC
We speak the explicit language of damage
Whether it's through anguish or famine
It only takes a little while to examine
Until we learn the language well
And eventually become fluent
To create this worldwide hell
Where the warfare is incongruent
We speak this language for many reasons
We speak this language through every season
The dialect varies from country to country
But all that really matters is who's hunting
The end result is the same
For damage done before
We inflict retributive pain
To even the damage score
Damage lowers our health
Damage increases their wealth
Damage puts us on the shelf
Until we damage ourself
The damage is done
So we must run
But at some point we turn around
Planting our feet into the ground
Becoming the damage cause
Doing what we've learned
We attribute this to our flaws
Not caring who gets burned
There is a damage sandwich
Within our damaged land's width
We're caught between being imposed on
And becoming oppressors
You're either forced to keep your clothes on
Or become an undresser
Perceptions of greater and lesser
Further complicate the scenario
We receive them through our stereo
To look down on those of other barrios
All of that damage can be parried though
If we work as a team
Better yet a species
To live in a utopian dream
Instead of our feces
Mar 1, 2018
Mar 1, 2018 at 10:42 PM UTC
Fights
They throw words like little hand grenades
because in our house, we cannot use fists
(I feel that those would hurt less)
and he,
small boy full of rage and sound and not much else
with fists balled to tight
each wanting to strike out, to break his sister's stupid face
Searching through the catacombs of his mind he thought only of falling through a war chest
searching for some sharpened bone or anything to use
he was a skilled warrior of the shadows
with one jab he could ****** thorns through her guarded heart
the precision of a sibling ****** on his side
he had wounded her before
he almost always won
but his wretched
sister
refused to lose this time
refused to be out manipulated
She too had been training
sharpening a silver tongue
that usually served as a shield to her brother's barbs and wicked advances
but today it was a dagger
and assassin for the old king
"You never loved me," he lunged with a flourish
She parried with a cuss word and a sigh
he danced aside, and jabbed at her flank
"I'm going to jump off the cliff" he declared
she scowled
this move usually did her in, but with one glare, she kicked the sword from his hand, and rounded upon him
no fencing foil was on her, no seemly battle ax
but a dagger
and she drew in close
the killing blow
"You are only my half brother" she whispered
and he
was vanquished
The battle done, the two sunk to their knees
and sobbed
Fights
They throw words like little hand grenades
because in our house, we cannot use fists
(I feel that those would hurt less)
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 10:45 AM UTC
In a field of flowers, the marigolds
waved to say hello on behalf of the
wind. It was not, at that time,
well understood, that the wind had
cosmic drifts of stars, like blossoming
marigolds, to be parried with steel
and resolve. The numbers added up
to amounts obscured and contradicted.
This interminable universe swirled in
spirals set by the hysterical gardener.
The telephone operator was calm.
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 6:03 PM UTC
the speaker
greatly labored,
the audience
deftly parried,
gently snored.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 12:23 PM UTC
Dispatched to seek out the “traitors” of High,
Michael, Archangel of the sky,
With God’s wrath in heavy tow,
Would bring about our kind to woe,
He tortured Angels and Devils alike,
Until he came to Azrael’s Scythe,
One of the most glorious battles,
Michael and Azrael had no previous quarrels,
They slashed, parried, savaged and fought,
Until such a time as a season wrought
The Snow and sadness of Death and Decay,
Azrael’s strength was abound this day,
And as the Scythe found Michael’s neck,
Michael lowered his sword, all vexed,
Afraid of his Father for his apparent failure,
Azrael began to speak of the Savior,
Who one day would save the good of Earth,
Although Angels do not share this birth,
Michael then decided to stay and in moral,
Like Azrael, protecting all of the mortals,
He chose to leave Heaven for Earth in time,
Until Gabriel was to come collecting his fine.
And in this decision, Michael hid himself from God,
So that The Father believing Michael was lost,
Wept in His glorious stead,
Thinking that His Archangel was dead,
He spoke unto the remaining Six,
He spoke and then they were convinced,
The Parents of Nephilim had struck Michael down,
It was then, Gabriel swore, he would see his brother found.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 5:38 PM UTC
I grasped the sword
charged ahead at full speed
I don't know who will win
my opponent or me
we both trained for years
shared classes, friends even food
now our elders decided that our fates
shall lie within an age old contest,
out in the forest, we staged a duel.
I heard kunai hit the trunk behind me,
I instinctively turned around
dodged, parried, struck back as he aimed
to cut me to the ground
I struck back with two quick slices
aimed directly at the head,
we fought like dogs starved for days
like the moon struggling against the sunrise
I was grievously injured, but he couldn't win the fight.
I removed his head from his body
in one swift, fluid stroke
and then I awoke...
fighting my own brother
a nightmare that had been plaguing me for days, weeks on end.
why is it I keep on thinking, that maybe just maybe, it has roots in my past loves end?
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 7:33 PM UTC
Stones hinged
In jagged mystery
Behind whispered veils
And torrid grays.
A damp earth hinting
The bashful sun
bides it’s peak.
Morning is a majesty
parried
By chaotic wakes.
Hark!
The stolen kingdom!
All is Regicide;
the car
the train
the lovers quarrel
Over coffee-
A public execution.
Mysteries remain
The sun bides less
Unabashed-
Fading
with the grays.
We’ll try again
tomorrow.
Oct 15, 2020
Oct 15, 2020 at 8:57 PM UTC
You’ll smell of whiskey, I just know it.
Sweaty, just a tad
Briskly you walk towards me
with purpose, all your thoughts exposed
you’ll not be able to stop yourself
afraid of a girl
and I’ll like that
a slight step backward, taken… and then
Itll be like a dance
nervous, twitching
until
shoulders brush
backs of hands touch
and then the magnet eyes
the tendon glue of you
and me
crackles clean
first footsteps after a midnight snow
spun sugar
glances parried
returned
dry lips licked
panting
all right before a voice quietly floats out
Hello.
No going back now.
We’ve met. It’s personal.
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 5:36 PM UTC
Jed charged forth with a mighty roar
Karadain was first to fight
Thunder ripped and skies they tore
The clash of swords was an awesome sight
Karadain, he moved with grace
Jedediah stood his ground
Every slash and ****** a waste
Parried with a ringing sound
Jed's claymore soon made it's mark
Silence played a simple song
He ****** it through Karadain's heart
To take a life was never wrong
Solotris bowed his head in shame
Friend or not he didn't care
Life was gone as soon it came
It seemed the fight was hardly fair
Drawing faith in many spades
Solotris began to march
Courage was what courage made
He raised his sword in a deadly arch
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 1:28 PM UTC
The only poet I saw from any close
never married his muse
wrote poems for her
offered her rose
but when she asked to tie the knot
found an excuse!
love's road ends in marriage
when he told her this
with on her forehead a gentle kiss
she got a shock
the poet cleverly averted wedlock!
they had a prolonged affair
each day he gave her a new name
each day she inspired a new poem
each time she proposed marriage
umpteenth time he would repeat the adage
love's road ends in marriage.
thus nailed with wisdom and parried
on the tenth year she married
and soon the poet forgot his coined adage.
He wedded a woman half his age!
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC
Night's chill parried by
Tea or tobacco leaves
Slick gradient of a sky
Until housing cuts rough
Disguising true horizons
And their warmth of whatever within
Flanked by twelve houses
Built by twice the hubris
As to be within speaking distance
Of this village of backyards
Yet communicate
In the alien language
Of light switches.
Bedrooms are fireflies
In an open field of brick flora
Backdropping the safety of
All of our bad habits
Struggling as we like
We share in the disconnect of
Our wrought ice age
Marked by the jingling of keys.
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 7:19 AM UTC
Slithering subtlety, the serpent saw a shard shaped slightly like his self.
He gazed into the glass, seeing a reflection.
"What beautiful feathers I have!", he said covered in scales. "What beautiful colors--- and wow! Look at my wings!"
He mused to himself, (it's no wonder I soared so much higher than the others...They had no wings! No illustrious feathers! They only have scales, that's why they're different than me! They not like myself, or other birds that I see).
He slithered sedated and satisfied with a sullen, sad and insecure of sense self under surface.
Along the way he spotted a Gold Parakeet, he compared himself and said this through his teeth: "Your scales are ugly, and cracked, and dull. You slither with your wings from trees very tall. Why can't you fly, and be bright like me? You're unable, and there's something wrong with you, all the other birds agree."
The parakeet parried the poisonous paragraph perfectly:
"When you see me, you see what you want. You attack what I am because I have what you flaunt. But I soar high, while your words sink low. One day you'll be measured by the scales you show."
The parakeet pondered puzzled at the python's reply:
"I see only the reflection of the glass I passed by."
Oct 14, 2020
Oct 14, 2020 at 4:42 PM UTC
Within my hand I held it strong
Notwithstanding its weight prolonged
The burden carried, the weight parried
I wish I had but just some clarity
It was precious, precarious, and persuasive
My yearning for it was but invasive
Like the ring its presence grasped my mind
Was it really the type to be kind
Many have sought and called it mine
But only for a mere instance in time
Joyous contempt filled the others
Who were not blessed by Olympus’s mothers
Intangible yet it could still be held
Was it the fire which had really meld
The fortitude of its past successors
The pain incurred by its predecessors
If it’s Ares who carries, it’s very scary
Bide, the burden is deeply buried
Through thoughtful triumph will prevail
The victor who holds the true avail
by Mike V.
May 23, 2020
May 23, 2020 at 1:32 PM UTC
I always try to remember the good stuff
but it’s hard
to block out and forget the cold
it was cold and rainy that day
hop skipping
and jumping
to keep up with you
on bridges
over canals
through alleyways
and bicycles
oh how we parried
to dodge the bicycles
and how I’ve tarried
so long
to think about and make sense
of what
it all meant
but like I said
I just try to remember
the good stuff
Whit Howland © 2019
Nov 15, 2019
Nov 15, 2019 at 5:30 PM UTC