"portcullis" poems
*He built me an empire
on a gargantuan chateau
There, you'll see me write
under the Northern lights
stars hover in sight
as the ghostly glow of
green in the east over
the peak of the mountain sky
began to dance this one winter night
The man of my history
is nowhere in sight
he could rule the earth
but I was left in a tower
of one window
with a candle lamp on my side
The blow of snow coming from
my window sends shiver
down my spine
It's cold and empty
there's no more guards
standing on the portcullis,
the drawbridge wasnt closed
for years
and the moat is starting to freeze
Everything is dead,
only my heart is alive
waiting for the king
to find his way back from
a journey that made him lost
his home, people
and once he called a queen*
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 3:38 PM UTC
the meaning of an apology:
echoes of a thousand I’m Sorry’s;
the silence of deceit, its awful slink;
the humbled hope to atone,
to pay amends where due,
to mend the maimed,
and trust renew.
forgiveness is a sad word:
it bears the scar of a wound;
to forgive is to hope with hurt.
it is to trust in tide to wash ashore;
for in lack of trust and hope,
it is noble to sink with the ship.
it is bolder yet to hop asea,
and let tide be guide.
the parable of the builders:
the wiser built his house on rock,
the rain came down,
the floods came,
the winds blew,
and beat on that house;
and it did not fall,
for it was founded on a rock
the foolish built his on sand,
the rain came down,
the floods came,
the winds blew,
and beat on that house;
and it fell — and great was its fall.
determination's downfall;
for, is a house still not a house
despite its foundation?
fortune's fortress looms;
our sandcastle holdfasts hampered in comparison,
but home is neither keep nor battlement,
neither moat nor bailey,
neither portcullis nor drawbridge;
home is where you touch the ground,
where you choose to grow...
the rain will retain its hiss;
but the rain is still the rain,
the floods remain the floods,
and the wind is just the wind.
~ Inori
Sep 6, 2021
Sep 6, 2021 at 7:14 PM UTC
He glides across the cold asphalt
this man of indeterminate age,
Hair tinged gray, eyes to match.
Singing and grooving to the music
Of the celestial spheres heard clear as mountain waters.
Collapse into his manhood
He is not like the other men,
a beer and a historical allegory,
He will guide you to a lumberyard,
where he'll record our voice, and photograph your mouth.
Paint the walls passion red, greed green, purest aqua.
When he enters, and the portcullis opens,
Ringing of a bell, there will be noise.
You will open fifteen portals, and swim with your senses.
Outside, an intermittent, pindrop noise and Cold waters, that taste of honey.
the release ... of a night sky of solar energy,
White, red, yellow, and blue lights blazing.
He'll follow the cloth to the seam and memorize each stitch of your skin,
Bend your strings until two hundred silk pillows shower down,
Two bodies buried beneath breathing only each other.
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 8:24 AM UTC
i.
the sun burns the grass and the ferns,
they melt under a bright sky,
roughening, like the tongue of a cat,
the grass with its brown sandpapers.
ii.
the flowers pray for me and my
watering can, on a dirt track
the water splashes and the earth
drinks deep, the trees shiver
at the thought of water, their
branches sway, this is to dance -
leaves with patterns scattering -
leafy shade and pools of bright
sun.
iii.
drawn out of the air a drawbridge
of breeze raising its portcullis and
suddenly the heat is bearable,
shadows and sun like a patchwork
quilt.
iv.
we wait for summer, tender-eyed,
smouldering in the heat, the trees
like colossal statues of bronze
stretching branches beneath the canopy
of a green sea in a dream spun
from ebony.
v.
i kiss you, grazed by this
orient sun, my heart
seeking yours, my
legs longing for your legs,
my limbs threading
with yours
while summer
sings of her forgotten
ghosts.
Jul 8, 2018
Jul 8, 2018 at 1:35 PM UTC
Two and sixty days ago —
Two months, or so I'm told —
I wandered, wistful, without cause,
Through a memory of old.
A hall of walls I wandered, tall,
As tall as tales I could weave,
But none as tall as this regale,
A story that you won't believe.
I walked near endless hours,
My only friends the cobblestones,
Ringing in my steps the sin
That only time atones,
When upon that pallid plaster
I did spy a shocking sight:
Upon that place's rocky face,
The wall had turned to light.
"Curious," I cooed and questioned,
Calm as I could never be,
"Perhaps it might be that this light
Is rightly mine, I see?"
And as I pondered that hall I wandered,
A chilling change I never chose arose:
That light so rife with delight and fright
Began to open, and I froze,
For that particular portcullis I pondered
Put me in a vice.
I nary noticed that walls in focus
Had changed into a hall of lights.
Transfixed, the light engulfed me so,
As slow as my bewildered head
Could comprehend the candid land
I planned my final stand in dead.
I whizzed through spaces, unknown places,
In stasis from the faceless force
When finally I fell, the frenzied light
Still tight from an unseemly source.
All at once, those two months
Became a fraction of a wink;
The frost was lost as I was tossed
Among the lights of what I think.
And where else would I find myself
But in this courtyard we call love?
My journey never left my head,
Nor bed's unconscious dreamland hub.
Two and sixty days ago,
I heard these words so true,
And in the dark they were my light:
You told me "I love you."
Nov 3, 2010
Nov 3, 2010 at 2:06 PM UTC
Starlit nights bring a sense of tininess.
The vast soot-stained cloak of the sky,
pierced with so many tiny scintillating
spots of vim opalescent flares, is a heavy
intoxicant. It contains a thing most panache.
A girlish teetotaler beside me says,
"We're like those stars, distantly inflamed,
lost in a void of what we cannot know."
She is most apt in her contrivance.
I wish to be castellated, terraced
with Byzantine buttresses and towers-tops.
I want a portcullis for my portico that is
made mostly out of gold, an inner bailey
where the stars can sleep and the wine may flow.
I want the wine most metaphysical,
the type that flows and churns, perning
inside the inner sanctum of the mind.
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 2:04 PM UTC
This purpose I seek
Continues to elude me
All I can hear is the words
From foreign mouths
Compliments, accomplishments
But still satisfaction is far from close
Goals tossed aside
Like flood damaged novels
Except for one
Dusty, old, and unachieved
One from my childhood
Tucked away for safe keeping
Inside the hidden nook of my mind
One day, I will find a person
A person whose mind reacts
Perfectly with mine
So my journey begins anew,
But misleading pursuits led me
Far from where I needed to venture
Years it’s been, but I found a new path
One that I thought would lead me
To a delicate spring, peaceful and joyous
I still don’t know if this path is the right one
However, I continue with my hopes held high
10 miles in, now I see it
The path, it’s blocked
Preventing any passage lays a gate
Constructed fairly recently, but solid
Solid as stone and no way around it
I could turn back, choose another path
But the image of the spring is so near
My faith cannot falter
And so I wait
Sitting on the stairs leading to the gate
Listening for the chains to move
Lifting this portcullis
But what if I wait to long?
What if another arrives?
No, I must not question
I must find my use
So I continue to wait
Hoping that for once
I can continue on my journey
And for once
I can stay
Happy.
Right?
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 1:01 AM UTC
She smiled
her best hurricane smile
with lightening instead of teeth and
eyes at once anxious and unkind,
whispering first,
“you ain’t near good enough.”
Then,
“I’m probably going to **** you tomorrow.”
The gate has
an intimidating portcullis
secured with
a five dollar padlock
from Ace Hardware.
That’s enough to keep me out.
Over the high south wall I can see
broken glass treetops,
not so much reaching for the sky as
probing it for weaknesses.
I stand and stare
as day turns night.
Some far off moon rises;
a sickly crescent
that reminds me of
a smile
like a hurricane
with thunderheads
instead of dimples.
Suddenly
I am filled with dread
for tomorrow.
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 1:16 PM UTC
Cats stuck to window sills as languid as the rolling hills and craggy like the rocky tors
sheep sleeping underneath a portcullis of a sky
as steel grey clouds disguised as prison bars soothe
them gently with the Lakeland lullaby
I saw no Viking
but I did see hikers by the score
up the scree
scrambling up the tor
being me,
I wondered
what you doing that for?
Boats across the lake
too much
Kendal mint cake
and your jaws ache
take the Lilliputian train
we're toddlers
toddling off again
Such fun.
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 5:21 AM UTC
The very second he leaves
A dark void begins to form
I finger the musical keys
With melancholic music I mourn
Because when he was here I could breathe
I could smile and talk and sing
But now that he took the heart on my sleeve
All that is left is remembering
I know in my depth my knight will return
To the stone cold castle in the sky
But I still have gargoyles and urns
And things that could easily die
I have created a collection
Of monstrous items to hold
I cannot seem to win the battle
Between me and my wretched soul
My hair has grown long since I saw him last
Longer than the crimson lace of my dress
Trying to leave a shadow I can’t even cast
Leaving me hungry for blood and flesh
The portcullis of my terrain
Is wrapped in red and dead roses
With each gust they whisper his name
As each lifeless petal poses
The vine of thoughts strangles my weak neck
I promised the world I’d be strong
I want him as well to be fit on his trek
If not, have we all been living wrong?
Death is tempting when you have a moat
Surrounding your very home
Rope or dagger to the throat?
I prefer to be left alone!
The Hourglass is my worst enemy
He haunts me in my dreams
When slumber lets me in for a peak I see
My heart with all its fragile seams
I tell myself there’s a Queen inside
Where is she now?
She’s let the people starve and suffer
She’s let the people down
The people are inside her head
The people of the future’s past
A drink and smoke can only let
The fear come just as it passed
Nothing will aid the aching
The Queen has gone mad
She throws what ends up breaking
But it is making no one sad
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 7:26 PM UTC
why do we love
open the door to be robbed
raise the portcullis for invasion
leave our frail hearts open to the skewers and the pain
open our arms for an embrace at knifepoint
put our neck in the guillotine
feed each other our torn-up hearts?
for a smile or a kind word
in fair exchange?
the story of love is loosened ties and running mascara
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 6:40 PM UTC
He stood in the doorway
watching her sleep
His hands pressed
to his chest
whispering promises
he could not keep
He stood right next to her
his hand trembling, mid air
took one step back, then another
so he was no longer there
She lay upon sheets of silk
her back a work of Art
her scissored legs and arms
flung wide,
as though she was torn apart
She waited with breath held tight
her eyes closed and lungs burning
She wanted as though
time was right
Her world was centred
with her yearning
He hesitated to touch
such fragile beauty
his encroachment in her space
seemed an impregnable fortress
so he stood back
just to stare at her face
But she had raised the portcullis
and lowered the drawbridge
He just needed to storm
the castle
and dwell forever
where she lives
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 4:37 AM UTC
Surprise
surprise
even the veins write lines
inside my eyes.
When I sleep
which I do,
I shoot up the ink
that makes me blink
more lines.
I need no pat on the shoulder
no cat for me because I'm older
Methuselah lives next door
and he has the ***** of Babylon
that keeps
him young and big
and strong.
Not for me,
I love the pain
I like being the bain
of my own life
and words more words
there's always more
come knocking on the bedroom door
prying into eyes and spying out the
land
some other hand writes the lines that line
the artery
but I can see it,
just as I got over Casanova
Judy punches me,
I felt it
the belt, it
hit me like
she meant it.
it's la di da as far as it can be or
all tickety boo to you.
The meds are wearing off right now
the portcullis lowers down
the castle guards are keeping watch
in this great Northern..
..did I say
they all wear gowns of heavy pink brocade?
they'll feed me lemonade laced with cyanide
must keep my eyes opened wide to
write lines with veins where all are class five choo choo trains
it's only being insane that keeps sane
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 6:19 AM UTC
Skeletal sycamore branches stick out
atop crowning heaps of golden saw dust,
protruding portcullis on walls obscuring
a paradise lost in a tilted hourglass.
Trophies of green sea stone
spring tall, out the arid desert dirt,
shimmering in the spotlight and
scattering rays off a polished exterior.
Cages of bone and eyeless skulls
are covered in feathery craftsman,
sculpting leathery carrion meat
into monuments with chisel beaks.
Apollo's wavy bangs dangle down from
hurricanes of dusty satin sheets
infusing the air with a rippling haze,
a curtain shrouding the main play.
Evanescent art adorns the dunes
erupting in bursts of swirling spirals
at the lightest twirl of the wind's
dancing digits on the gritty canvas.
And lost in mirage, icy springs
attract flourishing palm trees
bearing sickly sweet treasures;
a moist fruit in a desert garden.
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 12:14 PM UTC
carrying fairy tales in your pockets
I could see your yearning for a castle
the towers reaching into the sky
Moated with drawbridge and portcullis
safe from the wickedness of stories
handed down through generations
the ones kept in your pockets and
to be re- read while residing safe in your castle
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 9:32 AM UTC
Once upon a time
in a tiny kingdom
called Beautiful Water
there lived a silly faux monarch and his fair maiden
in their castle aka duplex
No mote, no portcullis
but one groovy fence about a humble abode
littered with rooms
ill-appointed and dingy
but with affectionate wainscoting in spades
Nonetheless, they would often rue
the lack of spoil within those walls
'twas an age of shoddy floor-space
like a page with no margins
hence, the royal bedchamber was more a sleep shed
Trips out of town, no doubt
called for something fancy
a room with a view
a bed fit for a king
to stretch out without bother
But a funny thing happened on the way
to forming a quorum
they both pined
for the cramped quarters
left behind
The little bumps
and rubs in the night
came to be a comfort
a way of saying
"Hello, I know you're there and I like it that way"
Jan 16, 2020
Jan 16, 2020 at 7:35 PM UTC
*I whisper to you
I love you honey.
I say four small words
Simple and sweet.
As a child may say them
when it falls asleep.
Yet when softly spoken
to you in the moonlight.
The dragon that guards
The portcullis to the fortress.
that is your hearts defense’s.
Lays peaceful and silent.
I walk past him
without fear or harm.
The rusted iron gates creak open
As you welcome me once again
inside your heart.*
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 3:36 PM UTC
the portcullis grinds to a halt
the red, leering cyst Solipsism
tints the looking glass
:blustery,
warm afternoon breeze
smoothes out the crinkling
of the wrinkly overcast soul
as a hurried little sheikh,
an aged caucasian woman
blisters past me
on two be-tighted legs
tensely betwixt
solemnity and nervousness;
i wonder why i hurry everywhere
a man with one full human leg
on crutches
in an astronauts effigy
tripods a very deliberate but rickety path
slowly leaps his spider arms
his cyborg motorcyclists helmet
obstructing none but the least aware
from peering at his character
"*doting on windmills
every day is a partition
the great event; theatre epic,
"Life!"
presenting everything ever,
filtered and engraved
by humanitis
there's you and who you were,
where you've been,
how you're going to be
and in no personal regard
--Psyche is a selection of the universe,
propped up by consciousness.
it exists in no True sense,
but it is as it does
due processes aside.*"
--to paraphrase his silent proclaimation
look into the annals and you may deduce
humanity has made a rather good run of things
we no longer stick each others heads on pikes
or burn women who float at a stake
blot out the eternal sunshine
the well-wishing hypocrite of everymind,
who robs us of choice
hovering the carrot of dreams in place
learn to live through the brimstone rain and choking dust
because volcanoes give birth to islands
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 2:13 PM UTC
Passwords to the heart
Jude Kyrie
*I love you honey
I say four small words
Simple and sweet.
As a child may say them
when it falls asleep.
Yet when softly spoken
to you in the moonlight.
The dragon that guards
The portcullis to the fortress.
that is your hearts defense’s.
Lays peaceful and silent.
I walk past him without harm.
The rusted iron gates creak open
As you welcome me once again
inside your heart.*
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 3:06 PM UTC
It was deep in her
she knew she did wrong
opened the gates
and let the rats come in
From war to war
we have beaten them all
at Hastings, we found out
they rode into Camelot
Oh how beauty can be so evil
how deceived you can be
by a Morgana
that evil witch
With my faithful, we ride west
to the temple of peace
we give our blessings and blood
we will not relinquish our swords
One knight a dear friend of mine
strikes his sword into some granite
his sword could not be retrieved
I gave him my spare and told him to leave the other in there
As we rode to Camelot
I told my friend
you know that sword was one of mine
and now you have one of my other ones
It is raining hard when we get to our Camelot
the portcullis is still open
we ride in with swords in hand
and there does Morgana stand
We alight our steads
some of us still do bleed
I tell her we will **** her
she laughs and say's she knows
Ten of my knights fall from her first spell
we that are left rush her
just like we did last time
but she moves to another timeline
I tell my brothers and sisters
I will follow her through time
and where she did stand
I stand and disappear with a magic rhyme
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Dec 22, 2020
Dec 22, 2020 at 11:07 PM UTC