"rooks" poems
.
***Ancient games
tell tales of dust. ||| A story drawn
from the lips of two poets.***
~~~~~
It's the wits that **** not Queens of ivory or ***ink. ***
Charged with coal strokes, scraping up the lies.
Pawns & Knights slip between the grasp of the sun, leaking into* lion jaws of Leo.
Shifting these granite plates, ignoring the Rooks common price of aslant.
Here we have slain kin, crescent traitors that backstab the night and battlefield.
Closed doors and trap floors, trade me a tie, swindling your tactic ruts.
Reality never got the noose around our necks, check turned into manslaughter, and kingdoms ripped asunder by the roar of Jupiter
Get up, get up, get away from these liars, they can't have your rank or your fire.
Peak a notion, this match is spared by a luft.
Toss away the pride buried 'neath your dusty skin, it don't matter no more if death has you by the lips.
Silence is a language too in our eyes of earth.
Take my hand, knott your soul into this downfall, and brace yourself for the wreckage in our bones.
The Sword of Sorrows will fall 'pon your shoulders, not to slay thee, but to dub thee a new day.
The drums of war will knit the lyrics in the sky,
singing:
"The mighty sharpen their fangs, the weak sharpen their wisdom"
~~~~~
I'm tired of your wishbones, and golden scales, give me the hard-earned truth.
Hot coals of honesty may you tread upon, shadow-bitten remorseful may you be, don't stray off the course of Ursa major.
The North star isn't the one I follow
It's the moon with all of it's phases,
Eclipsing and crescent, tipping the sky with it's beauty.
Now let this sink further than any soul has ever sunk,
no man could ever
*rule the moon.
~~~~~~
***Shoot on command,
C
h
e
c
k
m
a
t
e***
~~~~
You could drag me to hell and back and those words wouldn't mean anything.
Let this downfall become a downfell,
Because last I checked
"Wolves worship the moon"
and I have broke it's reflection in the water
*Just
by
throwing
s
t
o
n
e
s
.*
.
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 3:19 PM UTC
In ruck and quibble of courtfolk
This giant hulked, I tell you, on her scene
With hands like derricks,
Looks fierce and black as rooks;
Why, all the windows broke when he stalked in.
Her dainty acres he ramped through
And used her gentle doves with manners rude;
I do not know
What fury urged him slay
Her antelope who meant him naught but good.
She spoke most chiding in his ear
Till he some pity took upon her crying;
Of rich attire
He made her shoulders bare
And solaced her, but quit her at cock's crowing.
A hundred heralds she sent out
To summon in her slight all doughty men
Whose force might fit
Shape of her sleep, her thought-
None of that greenhorn lot matched her bright crown.
So she is come to this rare pass
Whereby she treks in blood through sun and squall
And sings you thus :
'How sad, alas, it is
To see my people shrunk so small, so small.'
7k
Through portico of my elegant house you stalk
With your wild furies, disturbing garlands of fruit
And the fabulous lutes and peacocks, rending the net
Of all decorum which holds the whirlwind back.
Now, rich order of walls is fallen; rooks croak
Above the appalling ruin; in bleak light
Of your stormy eye, magic takes flight
Like a daunted witch, quitting castle when real days break.
Fractured pillars frame prospects of rock;
While you stand heroic in coat and tie, I sit
Composed in Grecian tunic and psyche-knot,
Rooted to your black look, the play turned tragic:
Which such blight wrought on our bankrupt estate,
What ceremony of words can patch the havoc?
6.7k
The man with the piercing eyes
The one that is oh so wise
The one that feels like he can criticize
The man with the heart melting looks
The one that is king of the rooks
The one that gets his strength from his books
The man with the exact right word
The one that thinks what you write is absurd
The one that doesn't listen to what he's heard
The man with the new and hot game
The one that I think is really looking for your shame
The one that I think doesn't think we're all the same
The man with the tower to look down
The one that has lowered my level to a frown
The one that makes you feel like he doesn't want you around
He has the word and he has the sound
But don't fall under his spell
He'll turn your head round and round
And leave you in a state of dwell
Nov 25, 2009
Nov 25, 2009 at 9:54 AM UTC
Among orange-tile rooftops
and chimney pots
the fen fog slips,
gray as rats,
while on spotted branch
of the sycamore
two black rooks hunch
and darkly glare,
watching for night,
with absinthe eye
cocked on the lone, late,
passer-by.
5.7k
Water in the millrace, through a sluice of stone,
plunges headlong into that black pond
where, absurd and out-of-season, a single swan
floats chaste as snow, taunting the clouded mind
which hungers to haul the white reflection down.
The austere sun descends above the fen,
an orange cyclops-eye, scorning to look
longer on this landscape of chagrin;
feathered dark in thought, I stalk like a rook,
brooding as the winter night comes on.
Last summer's reeds are all engraved in ice
as is your image in my eye; dry frost
glazes the window of my hurt; what solace
can be struck from rock to make heart's waste
grow green again? Who'd walk in this bleak place?
5.5k
As the warm days of summer give way to chill, and shadows grow longer as days shed their hours.
High winds and rain storms scrub the tired landscape down.
Colours are changing from rich green to gold, from yellow to red and orange to brown.
The grain has been gathered, wheat, barley and oats, cut and collected, sifted and sorted and put into store.
Grown by God, and by man with machine and by effort of hand.
Poppies and stalks now mark the spot, of the return for their labour. The wealth of the land.
Birds follow the tractor, rising and falling, swirling and soaring they move like a cloud.
The farmer is out and turning the stubble into the ground.
Rooks and crows, gulls and wood pigeons, starlings and magpies follow him round.
Hay long since mown is now bailed and in barns, or rolled up and bagged, ferments now in high silage towers.
The countryside has yielded reward for all Adam’s toil.
Work done in rhythm with the seasons, sowing, growing, reaping, ploughing and tilling the soil.
Gathering goodness, from garden, and greenhouse, carrots and courgettes, tomatoes in bunches.
Fresher than any you can get in the shops.
Picking the bounty gleaned from the hedgerow. Rosehips and cobnuts, damsons and hops.
Elder and sorrel, mushrooms and puffballs, sour green crab apples, and brambles in tangles.
Sloes that were missed by the late winter frost.
Not all are pleasant and some really can hurt you, pick only those that you know and trust.
Take full advantage of God’s generosity, share it with gladness, with thanks, there is plenty for all.
Sticky syrups and cider, wines, cordial and beer.
Pies, puddings, sorbets and ice creams, jam, jelly, and chutney and enough pickles to last into next year.
As the warm days of summer give way to chill, and shadows grow longer as days shed their hours.
High winds and rain storms scrub the tired landscape down.
Colours are changing from rich green to gold, from yellow to red and orange to brown.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 3:16 PM UTC
When daisies pied and violets blue,
And lady-smocks all silver-white,
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue
Do paint the meadows with delight,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men; for thus sings he,
Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo!—O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear!
When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,
And merry larks are ploughmen’s clocks,
When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,
And maidens bleach their summer smocks
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men; for thus sings he,
Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo!—O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear!
4k
GOOD Father John O'Hart
In penal days rode out
To a Shoneen who had free lands
And his own snipe and trout.
In trust took he John's lands;
Sleiveens were all his race;
And he gave them as dowers to his daughters.
And they married beyond their place.
But Father John went up,
And Father John went down;
And he wore small holes in his Shoes,
And he wore large holes in his gown.
All loved him, only the shoneen,
Whom the devils have by the hair,
From the wives, and the cats, and the children,
To the birds in the white of the air.
The birds, for he opened their cages
As he went up and down;
And he said with a smile, "Have peace now';
And he went his way with a frown.
But if when anyone died
Came keeners hoarser than rooks,
He bade them give over their keening;
For he was a man of books.
And these were the works of John,
When, weeping score by score,
People came into Colooney;
For he'd died at ninety-four.
There was no human keening;
The birds from Knocknarea
And the world round Knocknashee
Came keening in that day.
The young birds and old birds
Came flying, heavy and sad;
Keening in from Tiraragh,
Keening from Ballinafad;
Keening from Inishmurray.
Nor stayed for bite or sup;
This way were all reproved
Who dig old customs up.
3.7k
She moves him ‘round the chess board,
dodging bishops, pawns and rooks.
She coaxes him from square to square
without a second look.
The white knight cannot catch him.
Piece by piece, the foe now yields.
Her king is safe; the game is done.
The queen controls the field.
Jan 5, 2021
Jan 5, 2021 at 8:47 PM UTC
The elderly psychopomp speaks his gullet words
Preparing me as charity for birds
I smelled snow and sweat when I drew breath
Though now I must give charity to birds
Juniper and fire become alms for the air
As I now must give charity to birds
The vultures are first, their beaks are the strongest,
They take the meat of my charity for birds
My friends come next, dearest to my heart,
Laughing as they grind a further charity for birds
What once I was is mixed with milk and bread
To fatten my gift of charity to birds
The speckled hawks and midnight rooks arrive
Hoarding their share of my charity for birds
I might be a wisp of smoke or softly chanted prayer
As I watch myself give charity to birds
Destitute and zephyrous I find my elsewheres
Having given everything in charity to birds.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 5:06 PM UTC
.
Fazzy moams on wivvel crusts
carry jazms on flocked pavs.
Rinkulled witty over sark
unburcoaled plinks of bloo.
Serry nark are they cronking
and fillipas grapples in kloque.
Verx on spappled gurns are they
torting through gattering weems.
Fernol wend the schism klone
Glolling fast in clutty pawk.
Scenty flox drozzle by teas
Nisting on cowt rinnalled dawn.
Yurish casts of nash pigoon
stoz over hinty-hanty bynum.
When in merdeen lemp quimsy
dilly noff flyx and wempwarble.
For loofin under korots mingle
At the imtem tong fallop.
Shoozy bales of cremp deflate
and gwample rooks the plisties.
©Pagan Paul (22/06/16)
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 7:45 PM UTC
The wild duck startles like a sudden thought,
And heron slow as if it might be caught.
The flopping crows on weary wings go by
And grey beard jackdaws noising as they fly.
The crowds of starnels whizz and hurry by,
And darken like a clod the evening sky.
The larks like thunder rise and suthy round,
Then drop and nestle in the stubble ground.
The wild swan hurries hight and noises loud
With white neck peering to the evening clowd.
The weary rooks to distant woods are gone.
With lengths of tail the magpie winnows on
To neighbouring tree, and leaves the distant crow
While small birds nestle in the edge below.
3k
Dans le fond des forêts votre image me suit.
RACINE
There is a panther stalks me down:
One day I'll have my death of him;
His greed has set the woods aflame,
He prowls more lordly than the sun.
Most soft, most suavely glides that step,
Advancing always at my back;
From gaunt hemlock, rooks croak havoc:
The hunt is on, and sprung the trap.
Flayed by thorns I trek the rocks,
Haggard through the hot white noon.
Along red network of his veins
What fires run, what craving wakes?
Insatiate, he ransacks the land
Condemned by our ancestral fault,
Crying: blood, let blood be spilt;
Meat must glut his mouth's raw wound.
Keen the rending teeth and sweet
The singeing fury of his fur;
His kisses parch, each paw's a briar,
Doom consummates that appetite.
In the wake of this fierce cat,
Kindled like torches for his joy,
Charred and ravened women lie,
Become his starving body's bait.
Now hills hatch menace, spawning shade;
Midnight cloaks the sultry grove;
The black marauder, hauled by love
On fluent haunches, keeps my speed.
Behind snarled thickets of my eyes
Lurks the lithe one; in dreams' ambush
Bright those claws that mar the flesh
And hungry, hungry, those taut thighs.
His ardor snares me, lights the trees,
And I run flaring in my skin;
What lull, what cool can lap me in
When burns and brands that yellow gaze?
I hurl my heart to halt his pace,
To quench his thirst I squander blook;
He eats, and still his need seeks food,
Compels a total sacrifice.
His voice waylays me, spells a trance,
The gutted forest falls to ash;
Appalled by secret want, I rush
From such assault of radiance.
Entering the tower of my fears,
I shut my doors on that dark guilt,
I bolt the door, each door I bolt.
Blood quickens, gonging in my ears:
The panther's tread is on the stairs,
Coming up and up the stairs.
3k
The past has past,
and from it I have decided to flee.
I no longer care about what
happened then.
So, don't wave your history at me.
Technology is supposed to
lessen the load,
and somehow make us feel free,
But all I see are chains and rooks.
So, don't wave your gadgets at me.
In the educational system I trusted,
through it the world I could see,
But now I know
it's all a show.
So, don't wave your grades at me.
Poetry is an acquired taste;
As dead as it can be,
But write we still,
As words can ****
So, don't wave your lines at me.
In love I used to trust;
the one and only key.
But then I learnt,
and caring was burnt.
So, don't wave your happiness at me.
You came unexpected and briefly;
Like the sun on a cold winter's day.
You dived and soaked in the waters,
and caused ripples through and through.
Changing the surface for a brief moment of eternity.
Now you've bathed and done;
had your fun.
For this I decree:
I am the errors you left me
So please do not wave at me.
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 8:12 PM UTC
She caught on to algebraic notation, as if,
she'd been born in the 64 square matrix,
whose precise logic spoke her mother tongue
They discussed, at length, the fianchetto formation ...
... how the defensive fortress of the castled King
was akin to the monarch's personal Masada
... how the power of the doubled Rooks and Queen
in the latent lance of Alekhine's Engine
gored the other position in thermodynamic dissipation
When he pointed out the cloaked irony of
Queen being strongest, but King paramount,
she shrugged, as if it were to be expected
Shaking hands, agreeing to the draw,
she smiled, joy precipitating from her face,
knowing there could be a world without losers
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 5:02 PM UTC
For the seven lakes, and by no man these verses:
Rain; empty river; a voyage,
Fire from frozen cloud, heavy rain in the twilight
Under the cabin roof was one lantern.
The reeds are heavy; bent;
and the bamboos speak as if weeping.
Autumn moon; hills rise about lakes
against sunset
Evening is like a curtain of cloud,
a blurr above ripples; and through it
sharp long spikes of the cinnamon,
a cold tune amid reeds.
Behind hill the monk’s bell
borne on the wind.
Sail passed here in April; may return in October
Boat fades in silver; slowly;
Sun blaze alone on the river.
Where wine flag catches the sunset
Sparse chimneys smoke in the cross light
Comes then snow scur on the river
And a world is covered with jade
Small boat floats like a lanthorn,
The flowing water closts as with cold. And at San Yin
they are a people of leisure.
Wild geese swoop to the *******
Clouds gather about the hole of the window
Broad water; geese line out with the autumn
Rooks clatter over the fishermen’s lanthorns,
A light moves on the north sky line;
where the young boys **** stones for shrimp.
In seventeen hundred came Tsing to these hill lakes.
A light moves on the South sky line.
State by creating riches shd. thereby get into debt?
Thsi is infamy; this is Geryon.
This canal goes still to TenShi
Though the old king built it for pleasure
K E I M E N R A N K E I
K I U M A N M A N K E I
JITSU GETSU K O K W A
T A N FUKU T A N K A I
Sun up; work
sundown; to rest
dig well and drink of the water
dig field; eat of the grain
Imperial power is? and to us what is it?
The fourth; the dimension of stillness.
And the power over wild beasts.
2.6k
Life is a but chest board and
we are the players, some
are pawns they may seem
weak, but to others they are
the best players in life. They
can move any where they like,
they are many, but are the
first in life to fall. The down
trodden, those deemed weak
are the ones who will pay the price,
for the wrong move ends all.
The knights the protectors
of the people, but always
sacrifice them self's if to
save the king or queen
of the land if the rooks all fall.
the bishop it is only has one
way thinking, never will it let
its faith change, same coloured
square all through out its life of
the game.
The rook not a person but a
place to keep those from harm,
but a place Is only as safe, for
as long as it doesn't fall. For
where this rook is placed
depends on if it will keep
those from harm or be toppled
an burnt to ruins on the floor.
The king and queen of this
wooded land, but will only
survive if they can play the
board with the right moves
and hand. For if rule is misplaced
then even a rook can topple a
kingdom if played in the wrong
way and down will fall a kingdom
pieces and all.
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 3:57 AM UTC
.
Hair the colour of Ravens,
skin the colour of Crows,
eyes the colour of Rooks,
somehow it just flows,
as she walks
down the path
like a bride,
with the sway
of the sultry,
and the smile
of the Huntress.
Her way lined
by the bowed heads
of willows,
meandering,
with the feint ******
of water bubbling
over pebbles,
from the mountain stream
that wends in consort
and chimes
with the bells on her toes.
Her breath, mist
in the morning air,
as she seeks her prey,
a victim of lust,
with no pardon,
mossy rocks glide by
as her pace slows,
dew soaking her feet,
dawn glade,
the jaws of her trap.
© Pagan Paul (17/08/18)
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 11:16 AM UTC
This is the weather the cuckoo likes,
And so do I;
When showers betumble the chestnut spikes,
And nestlings fly;
And the little brown nightingale bills his best,
And they sit outside at ‘The Traveller’s Rest,’
And maids come forth sprig-muslin drest,
And citizens dream of the south and west,
And so do I.
This is the weather the shepherd shuns,
And so do I;
When beeches drip in browns and duns,
And thresh and ply;
And hill-hid tides throb, throe on throe,
And meadow rivulets overflow,
And drops on gate bars hang in a row,
And rooks in families homeward go,
And so do I.
2.3k
Comets or meteors?
Perhaps they're like rooks and crows
“Where there's a rook there's a crow
“Where there's crows there's rooks”
To be one amongst a shower, a storm of meteors
Hurtling through the emptiness of infinity
Protected by the confidence of knowing
That we and our equally frenzied fellow travellers
However far we hurl ourselves
Flashing by through all the vastness
Looking tiny and bright like a fireside's sparks
Consumed in a stampede, burning up and soon to be lost
Are in fact racing along a familiar orbit
That could last as long as a million years
Which all too soon will pull us back to where we've been
A familiar sight, overlooking what we've already seen
Or to be a lonely meteor
Deserting the pack, distracted by some new attraction
Sampling a novel atmosphere, hardly aware
Of the flames gathering round
Till the grip that was a comfort
That was such a pleasure to be caught by
Loses its interest or changes its intent
Returning the wanderer to the emptiness
Or turning a journey of exploration
Into a pitiful conflagration
With a final pathetic fall
Messy and destructive to all
That witness the meaningless call
Of that misguided journey's concluding bump
Well, I don't know if this is good science
And hope not to be subject to such violence
Shooting stars may enjoy applause from those below
But I'll see it all from here, and adore the moon's glow.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 3:38 PM UTC
64 squares and 32 pieces
white and black or black and white
pending your thesis
whether your black or white
they all have the same features
8 pawns, simple creatures
8 x 2 is 16
infantry disguised as peasants
trying to get above the 7th
to the 8th and replace
their meager form for something more severe
2 rooks, sitting on the edge
2 crooks robbing everything perpendicular
to the perimeter provided the king
doesn't falter in his pledge
When the night rolls through,
the knights roll through.
Puffing green goo, these squares or cubes
will move an L make a 7 and ***** you.
The bishop will say a blessing
as he stumbles across the board.
Moving forward diagonally,
these drunken priests drink towards
a leader hung with dressings
The queen? That greedy broad
thinks everyone is a pawn.
constantly placing her place
in the face of those trying to take her place.
The king orchestrates the beat
carefully placing his feet before god.
His feat is living, no great givings,
giving up the wrong square will make his crown your treat
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 1:47 PM UTC
light my fuse on fire and set me aflame
watch as you singlehandedly set me ablaze
what is it like to watch me burn, baby?
I'm no better than cinder, ashes in an urn.
lately I feel just like charcoal residue,
remember when I was sweet and wet like honeydew?
do you remember when I was good to you?
how much longer can we pretend?
that we know when this war will end,
I can't express how badly I miss my best friend.
charging towards each other from opposing ends of a battlefield,
no matter how much I beg,
your sword you will not yield.
pull out your guitar and play a chord
I don’t know how much longer I can afford
to run around on this chessboard
moving pawns and rooks
when we should be swimming in ponds,
and reading books.
thoroughly covered in brambles
I‘ll wait as you amble
who knew we could get so tangled in something we thought we could handle?
we’re filled with pride and jealousy,
resentment and envy too
how can we come back from this?
what did we lose?
Jul 3, 2021
Jul 3, 2021 at 8:21 PM UTC
This game of life I'll explain it like chess
only the way she plays is with her own rule set
No King to start and she doesn't need one either
No Checkmate she still rules her board with authority no Rooks, no bishops she moves how she pleases
me I'm still sticking around like a pawn scheming
almost undetectable , unnoticed at times but I'm still trying to make it across proving to her
I CAN BE YOUR KING
if she allows it
still moving one step at a time in any direction I please
but I always keep in mind this is her playing field and that's the key
I'll keep taking out those in my way until I reach my final place
it's a well thought out game not to be played with emotion or distress
always calculated at my own pace every move I make I'll make sure it's to impress
Dec 30, 2018
Dec 30, 2018 at 10:41 AM UTC