"swordsman" poems
I am a swordsman of the mind. My blade, Language, and logic.
It’s purity glints in the sun. It’s truth, a razor edge.
With a deft flick of my tongue, crimson lines appear, blood beads.
The cut is skilled, rends deep.
This is not trolling. This is sparta.
Jun 5, 2010
Jun 5, 2010 at 2:12 PM UTC
Forged by Hephaestus himself, tempered in Satan's heart.
It moves too fast for the normal eye to see,
But leaves traces of moon glinted footsteps in the fissure of heaven's breath.
In the harmonic tune of clashing instruments, an orchestrated chaos is present.
The chord from the bowstring beats time on wooden shields.
To this, their blade waltz continues.
Their cadence unmatched by surrounding performers,
The maestros continue their viperous style.
Just as a painter cannot take away a stroke of the brush,
A swordsman cannot take away a stroke of the blade.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 5:30 PM UTC
Honey meets tongue,
Leaves taste buds stung and mouth melting
violently versing vows, Spilling out
fermented
Thoughts caught aloud
Dribbling down toward where they ought not
Time stopped us In a clockmaker shop
Cooking empty pots of dead doves in forgot sauce
Some day in december's When
Plans were dismembered
For the scent of Butter bubbling curiosity
Found horse hungry, So, suddenly he broke free
Trampling Predictable logic.
chasing her tail to town
When, I, sir pain, thought id taught again, then again
the art of invading castles,
Without being found.
Trolling, rolling through The inner out of bounds
A shoeless, shoreless yet Very sure way To get around
None catching on of course Till swordsman number four
Split with silver This world on wheels we made
With a crash
left some
Birthday suit vision
Standing
stunned
stupid
Abashed with a gun to the mirror
Which crying, stammered:
If you let them dear,
Just let them,
They will Listen,
To your chime, chiming Bells inside,
Rhyming you dread hearing songs from"
Said defense:
"Who wants to play each blow to the heart
With lawless abandon to The head?"
"letting harsh light burn holes and leave marks wherever they feel"
Don't think so Solomon!"
Vision laughs,
reflection kneels,
Hands praying
And In the periphery, as a way to break scene here
we see the mailman Crying tears on a map
Who once watched little Ms steel-sturdy
put on her full act.
Wood chips flew thenmsky went black
Pupils dilate to her shell-shocked state Of Before,
before hell bent on Withholding,
before Taking hostage of clowns who are all tied up with
Lilith, the queen
The state that led our wayward siren to begin driving round
in Some man-made beast
She calls Ed.
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 7:22 AM UTC
sometimes it seems as though the cars
passing my street won't drive quickly enough,
and that the strands of christmas lights
aren't strong enough to support my weight.
so for now i'll settle for forgetting to look both ways,
and perhaps later, i will invest in some sturdier rope,
all the better to scale my own cliffs of despair,
and face off with the spanish swordsman
reclining on the tip of my tongue,
matching rapier in (left)hand.
if victory finds its way to me, i'll continue to confound
in meeting the brute within, he who pounds boulders,
whose heart is like tourmaline in a granite casing,
and who claws at pristine arms in convulsion.
if i am once again triumphant, i shall travel further,
and face the shards of wit cutting through my irises,
except i am not as the dread pirate, the man in black,
i am vulnerable, i have no resistance, i am broken down
as easily as i am built up, and it is truly a gamble.
if, by some miraculous stroke of good fortune, i continue further,
i shall be disappointed, for at the end of the trials lies tribulation,
no flower princess for me, no blindfolded beauty,
only that **** noose of christmas lights again,
suspended from a macabre and rickety structure
seemingly crafted from the same material as the road to hell,
destination identical.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 12:40 AM UTC
I laid there staring
at the insanely
bright and rude
fluorescent light
that
mocked my suffering.
The cold concrete
floor felt
good against
my screaming aches.
My body was
pleading with the
Gods for just a
taste of what
had been taken
away.
My bowels were as
controllable as
a teen aged
beauty.
With a ****
I brought my
burning face
toward the cool
silent cold metal
toilet.
Ugly yellow bile
that only a tired
and tortured
body could
produce
spewed forth.
A moan and a wipe
then a hollow knock
on the graffiti
covered cell door.
"You made bail"
an almost robotic
sounding voice
says.
With a thousand tiny
swordsman stabbing
at my face I
managed to smile
into my own bile.
I looked at the
mustached uncaring
face in the
small window.
"You look like Death Pal"
The mustache says to me.
I spit the acrid taste
of day old *****
and ****** resin.
Then rise and run my
sweaty palm through
my hair in an
attempt at looking
presentable.
The mustache opens
the door and
as I walk out
I look directly at the
rogue hairs
protruding from
the mustaches nostrils
and say.
"Death Is Beautiful"
The mustache holds
the door as I walk out.
I'm feeling better already
"Oh Yea well so was my Xwife
look at how much trouble
she still causes me".
The mustache says
Every step
I take down
the institutional colored,
masonic checkered floored
hallway causes
my body
to scream with hope.
I can feel the sweat
roll down my face
but I refuse to let
this mustache
see my suffering.
We stop at the
property window,
I sign a half
of an X where it
says signature.
Then before
I gather up
my belongs
and head
back out into the
night I looked
over at the
mustache and said
"You had a Wife?"
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 5:03 PM UTC
The storm– she will come,
Oh- by the roar of the drum,
The boom of the beat–
Now cometh defeat,
Four seals are now shattered,
The ground will be battered,
Come forth thy lost line,
Thou shall face His divine…
The sky opened to set them free–
The creature like thunder: “Come and See!”
Foremost in the lead–
Upon the White steed–
Arrow of the Bow,
All obstruction fall low,
Striking the weaker down–
The fire glistens about his crown,
Above all the rest,
Behold all victory; CONQUEST…
The bizarre of the steeds–
The color that bleeds–
A Fiery red that burns in the eyes,
As each soldier dies–
The civil war spark,
As if for a lark!
In the fight of the four,
The second is WAR…
Come and See! Come and See!
Now the count is to three,
The black horse doth ride,
The third horseman as guide,
The hand bears balance not gore–
The sole vocal of four;
“…And see thou hurt not the oil and the wine”
The third–oh the third–John! The third is FAMINE…
Oh the horror– the horror– the fire filled eyes!
All that follows in path now simply just dies,
The pale green beast is a savage- a monster- no heart,
The ending- the rebirth- the salvation doth start,
The fourth rider tears– ravaging all the land,
The unholy Reaper with scythe in it’s hand!
The harvester hath expelled mankind’s final breath–
With Hell at the rear– the fourth and final is DEATH…
The war now to heaven and Hell now to Earth,
The charcoals are black and red hot in the hearth,
Cast forth by the Lion of Judah- the Lamb of the Lord!
With all of existence- the Divine became bored,
The Harbingers of the Last Judgment- the servants divine,
The living creatures cometh to steal all hope from thine,
Cometh One then come Two from the mythical Seal,
Cometh Three then come Four from the seven rumored to be real…
CONQUEST– the archer- the first rider of pure WHITE,
Crown capped with unholy deception of light…
WAR– the swordsman- the second rider of fiery RED,
Blood and betrayal as thou mark thy brother dead…
FAMINE– the balance- the third rider of pitch BLACK,
Food and resources all man will soon lack…
DEATH– the reaper- the fourth rider of pale GREEN,
Hell guiding scythe ridding Earth of all souls unclean…
The horsemen they triumph in biblical tale–
Consider an alternate story and detail,
Think not of no hope in the book Revelation,
Rather- imagine the truth of a war of no rotation,
The power unbalanced to alter dimension,
A different battle scene with a similar intention…
– Written By: Jacob Coffey –
*********************************
Just my take on a Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Hope you enjoyed it!
– Jacob Coffey
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 7:30 PM UTC
Love has given up.
It was the wrong religion.
And London did not melt into the Thames.
You teetered on the edge of a golden world,
and then fell suddenly—
accused of sortilege, ****** and treason.
And at his pleasure—
or was it mercy?—
Was it for the sake of your seven years,
or perhaps for the little daughter?—
in which flowed the royal blood, spoiled by *** and lineage.
Whatever it was, no matter.
He would spare you the pain
of being burnt at the stake.
Instead, to be executed like royalty—
dispatched by a French swordsman.
The prophecy must have been of little comfort
as your ladies helped prepare you to meet
Death, newly betrothed.
A gown of dark grey damask
floated over a blood-red petticoat.
Your mantle was trimmed with ermine.
Queenly, you stood and addressed those who had come to
watch you. And then you knelt and began to pray, and
quickly and mercifully, the blade
carried out its trajectory.
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 10:52 AM UTC
You could've left, honestly I wouldn't have blamed you.
You could've left, but you didn't.
Instead you drew your sword, fully armoured.
Alongside with me you fought.
Slayed my demons one by one.
When my strenght ran out you held the frontline.
I see you rise and fall, only to rise again.
You fight and you bleed, for me.
My best friend, know that I'm always ready.
Ready to fight for you, I'll slay 'till my last breath.
For you.
I love you my swordsman.
Jun 17, 2020
Jun 17, 2020 at 4:58 AM UTC
As the cobra falters before it doth strike I recoil away from thee, awaiting my moment to ricochet forward and make my **** Such false security aids my real course and weakens my adversary’s resolve and as you happily take full advantage of this ill advised programme you can rely that your mistake is now my gain. As you plunge, I parry and as your momentum fades mine increases in velocity until my blade doth find its target.
This sword of mine, made of finest worked, metal, slides easily through your personage. Flesh, muscle, even bone presents a none problem for this well forged tool. Sharpened point now immersed so deeply through your core that it conveys me too close to this pierced torso. I am spattered by such spurts of blood and sickened by another’s foul breath.
We gaze for a moment, you in the horror and pain of defeat and myself in the satisfaction of victory. You remain upright only through the skewer I have delivered and it is at my decree that you do so. As I withdraw my being the blade extracts itself and it is only then that you are allowed to descend to your indubitable destination.
As crumpled legs can no longer hold the weight of thee I use the momentum of this blades removal to pirouette my body. The spin that culminates with such a strike, a laceration so immense that the removal of your skull is no more than a mere triviality. Your destination is now complete. This is the legitimate place for a lesser man and the norm for a superior warrior than thee.
Come take this gift dear Lucifer, I make a present to you of death's cadaver, it lies here before me at this very moment and it is yours. A donation from one great warrior to another. It seems that I fill such a bottomless pit with unworthy adversary. They suppose honour holds them to stand before such a skilled combatant but their is no morality for lesser men to try. There is no such thing as a honourable fool.
I seek he that will try my skills, he that will take me to the brink of death with more than a single strike. For this person I will gladly redeem as a worthy opponent, for he, I will present my respect in more than a just a mere bow. Such adversary should he become victorious will possess a legacy that will draw him to the status of majesty. I would gladly fall to this superior being and as such, this would be a most fitting and virtuous death.
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 9:59 AM UTC
Sharp and dangerous.
That's what you think when you hear about them.
"They'll **** you quicker than you could blink"
"You'll hear the soft ****** of charms, spurs, and then it's over"
"The gunslinger- now he's straight from hell, no one could out draw that man, no matter what gun you have"
"I've always heard you had to watch the swordsman, he's like a ghost, never know where he'll be"
Now, I knew next to nothing about them.
Everyone they visited usually ended up dead.
Hard to confirm.
Standing here and looking at them though...
These soft men, all smiles, joking, relaxed.
I don't know about the stories but they're sharp and dangerous alright, etching their mark on my heart.
They aren't known for asphyxiation, but they sure stole my breath.
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 2:48 PM UTC
Images of what I wanted to see are blurred
As clutter fills the way
I looked to the path to find a way over
But my step was too large
The heart's wish whispers its words
So gently stating what it would like
I looked to the elders
But that become nothing but memory
Passion aches for a chance to dance
Swaying its hands to sign whats coming
I looked to the moonlight defender
But that was nothing more then a child's admiration
My strength hangs by the thinnest of thread
Waiting for a chance to fight
I looked to a swordsman who fought the same wars
But that too was admiration for forgotten ways
My mind tries to plan the next step
Seeing if it could twist the ropes of reality
I looked towards the bridge
But that was gone in the wages of war
I looked for a hand to hold by my side in this journey
Seeing if they were worthy of the time
I looked to my family for ideas
But that too had faded into lost memories
So I stand
Waiting for wings to grow
To soar above the mess
And meet with the angels I have foresee
Behind I could hear whispers
Chanting various unknowns and tone
I looked to see who is there
To realize the armies I have brought
How am I to truly lead the way
If I am stuck in this hole that never stops getting deeper
Come to me my wings
Allow to soar higher above the forgotten green
So I may once again foresee the angels
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 1:04 AM UTC
Iron lightning strikes, the bitter tease of blood on my lips I am a swordsman writing my poem. your blood is the ink and my sword is the pen
as i write on the field of war and death. I see the sun it peaks to the disparity of war. it can no longer gaze at us so it hides amongst clouds and corpses. its warmth has left me in the cold with only the blood of thine enemies to bring heat but my bones will never forget and will never forgive. and in that split second i find myself back in war with its pain and fear. my sword shaking the earth with every strike to **** thy enemy hearing the beating of the drums and screams of men.
Oh my God please help me hear my plea.
I know i come to you like a beggar in the street but hear me out just let me live, let me walk that thousand miles back home even as i freeze to my bones
but i am careless and of course you didn’t answer me because the pain has stopped but i’m still so cold...so very cold.
I lie there painted in red looking to my sky of sorrows, praise the sun, it just might be the last thing I see.....
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 7:10 PM UTC
A cold winter draws near
Darkness lives here
As snow whirls around
There comes a booming sound
War approaches
Like lightning, so quick
An enemy encroaches
A land, prosperous and thick
Archers and swordsman
Join the fray
A cavalry of horsemen
Clashes here this day
Death is a venerable vintage
A wine of blood and gore
A variable incentive
For the hoards to go to war
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 6:39 PM UTC
*it's a dead, obviously, working from per se, i only used prae to be near per, i could have used foris, or even ante, but given the dictionary and the necrosis of the Latin tongue per se as in: per - by rather than in - and se - himself rather than itself, you can imagine the complications of coining a phrase for the antidote of in-itself, i.e. outside-itself.*
revision of Enya: **** away **** away,
against the wind against the wind;
mash up... brrrrapt big up big up east end
Loud Don... bonkers bunch...
now that is random,
i wanted to make a serious point,
and i will (insert snigger)... eventually.
what i wanted to communicate was the revenge of
von Kleist against Kant...
Kant is the enemy of poetry we're led to believe,
i can imagine, only Heidegger took Holderlin seriously
and lectured on his poetry,
von Kleist committed suicide out of despair
having read Kant's critique...
but what i want to do:
to take each poetic technique out of poetry, and
then use each technique to describe it's origin...
so for example metaphor... given that poetry is
ensō (one smooth stroke) - ever watched the t.v.
series Wolf Hall? it's about the dealings of Thomas
Cromwell, all matters of intrigue, Henry the VIII,
and Anne Boleyn... so the metaphor describing
poetry... at the end of Wolf Hall
Anne Boleyn is about to be decapitated, because
she ****** like Catherine the Great (although i'm
sure the myth about the horse by polish / lithuanian
conspirators isn't true... or applicable to Anne)
and that offended the king...
so on the scaffold, there's the swordsman (using a sword
was a clean affair, axes were brutal, imagine hacking
at stump of wood, or like Longinus Podbipięta,
who with a Teutonic sword cut three Turk
heads in one go, so Longinus Podbipięta vouched
to a lady his chastity that he'd bed her if he also
cut three Ottoman heads in one go ref. Sienkiewicz
with fire and sword - the sword
that cut ****** Mary's head was, blunt)...
so there's this scene in Wolf Hall, ah man, the swordsman
is classy, Thomas Cromwell asks him, 'will it be a clean
death?', 'only if she doesn't move',
so on the scaffold, he takes his shoes off, speaks into her right
ear as if she's expecting the swing to come from there
and then with great stealth moves in the other
direction and cuts her head off from the left...
so i guess poetry is a metaphor of that, an ensō,
an evolution from haiku: one smooth stroke and you're done:
nothing airy fairy, like you need to sigh...
no... you need to drop the anchor:
poetry prae se, as described by metaphor.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 9:24 AM UTC
Moonlight strikes my face
It's getting harder to breath
I just came out from the dungeon
I tell myself this is freedom
To see and believe, the air is thinning
What do I have to lose
Running wild, breathing night dew
A swordsman stabs me twice
Puncturing my lungs, I breathe out blood
Spurting everywhere from my mouth
*Where do I stand? Where do I start?
Tell me where I should go.
How do I breath? How do I live?
My lungs are punctured.*
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 12:02 PM UTC
Casper Sparrow is a slim, smart and hilarious actor from Ohio. His life is going nowhere until he meets Heather Wishmonger, a handsome, pale woman with a passion for music.
Casper takes an instant disliking to Heather and the spiteful and mean ways she learnt during her years in Europe.
However, when a lion tries to punch Casper, Heather springs to the rescue. Casper begins to notices that Heather is actually rather down to earth at heart.
But, the pressures of Heather's job as a swordsman leave her blind to Casper's affections and Casper takes up reading to try an distract herself.
Finally, when brutal painter, Michelle Blast, threatens to come between them, Heather has to act fast. But will they ever find the passionate love that they deserve?
Mar 29, 2019
Mar 29, 2019 at 8:12 AM UTC
I need a purpose,
an epic tale!
I’m not a princess.
I’m a swordsman,
a mercenary,
my last breath given in a fight
where all is done for higher cause
no matter the pain,
the danger and loss.
I refuse to just live it through
and be put to rest.
I need a purpose,
an epic quest!
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 6:29 PM UTC
Blessings and Curses, two Edges of the same Sword
A Swordsman is one Ordained, knowing When and How
To Unsheathe, to Cut, to Pierce, to **** only for Good
But if used only for his Good or sheathed rather than ****
He then is a Renegade, condemned by the same Sword
Jul 22, 2024
Jul 22, 2024 at 8:12 AM UTC
This is where Sebastian fell
see the blood leading to the well
he was such a great swordsman
how could of it of ended this way
My word he must of fought fierce
well he got four of them that's a fact
after he was slain they must of dragged him
tipping his body in the ****** cold waters well
We must avenge his demise
with fortitude and vengeance in our eyes
and please please stop me guys
from saying well.... Where poor Sebastian fell
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 10:55 AM UTC
My blade as a brush
I create masterpieces
With a single stroke
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 9:06 PM UTC
May I have a WORD?
With the warrior's sword?
That pierces the broken heart?
It malices it's melodies -
And plays a Love Song;
Woven into a Wedding Bell.
Alas, to his loving I tell,
On that Embracing day -
So tell the Songstress;
Play it again - Play it away.
Where doth runs the heartless man?
Whoever roams this day,
Sobbing to its sunset,
For a pointless victory.
Behold the fallen warrior!
The sorrowful swordsman slain -
Time's latest victim;
Alas - a Love only in Vain.
Dec 27, 2015
Dec 27, 2015 at 10:34 PM UTC
I am a poet with no words
I am a shepherd with no herd
I am a forest with no trees
I am a piano with no keys
I am a watchman with no eyes
and I am a deceiver with no lies
I am a swordsman with no sword
I am a religion with no lord
I am a musician with no band
I am an emperor with no land
I am a library with no book
and I am a fisher with no hook
It does not seem I am needed anywhere
I am everything I never was afterall
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 1:09 PM UTC
A lonesome swordsman
Stands on a hill
Watching the village
Where nothing is still
No quiet moment
No crowdless street
No content beings
Nothing unaccounted for
Except the man
On the hill
For he knows one thing
That will
One pair of eyes unseeing
One pair of legs not moving
One pair of hands, useless
One heart not beating
The devil-reaper
On the hill
Looks to one broken home
And finds his ****
Mar 30, 2019
Mar 30, 2019 at 6:29 PM UTC
atop an azure ocean
old Polynesian pearl
Omnipresent Overwhelming.
Illuminating all before it,
Waves glow soft,
pushed and pulled
by lunar cycles.
Once the sun slumps dormant,
the evening air a world away
from a swollen summer afternoon.
Leave me in stone!
Quartz or Marble.
I've never been fussy,
Anything to ensure,
my name remains mentioned
when my bones are only barely there.
The bayeux tapestry.
Crafted by artisans
Pulled by times tide
Eternity echoed in cloth.
Faces faded expression empty
Tales told only so long
Swordsman standing ready,
Baying for blood forever.
Wild joy when stared upon,
replaced by dull admiration
Oh how things change!
The tactician.
The tactician casts his able gaze,
upon his silent subject.
All manner of analysis ensues,
there are many factors to consider.
This he knows more than most.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 12:59 PM UTC
Clarity of the mind,
Strength of the soul,
Precision of the sword.
Energy flows,
So does the body.
Feeling the wind take you,
Following your own path.
No two are the same.
Grace, Finesse, Speed.
Enlightenment,
And the Gift.
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 4:17 PM UTC