"troubadour" poems
#*Nightbird perches high
beneath the shooting stars
that dapple the bouquet
of sleepless peace
... his soft downy breast
has lent breath
to the sweet April afterglow
heaving with song
The mystical feathered troubadour's
swooning echo
A melodic twilight serenade
conjures a moonstruck metamorphosis,
sprouting magical wings of flight;*
rousing *a lonely heart's esprit
to fly away unfettered
in constellations of song
How dare imaginings spilled from the big dipper
enchant such an enrapturing magic spell?
It's so far to fall from swinging on a star!
It's so far beyond nearing crescent moon
when you wish upon a star
Thereupon struck by a bewitching bolt of starlight;
Dropping asudden as a shooting-star!
Rolling like trailing thunder;
tucked and tumbling ―
somersaulting,
celestial rumbling
blossoming with an unearthly joy
A nascent winged heart splayed bare,
soars upon cresting wind waves;
dreaming of that shapeless
w h o o o o s h ―
gathering beneath
~ uplifting wings ~
Suddenly ― gliding freely,
winging gracefully
upon wafting star drift glitter;
lilting lightly upon the arising cadence
of nightingale's melodious fluted song
Nightingale sings sweet April perfume
beneath the star shed lamplight twinkle
... and it makes no difference if it's only a dream
if my heart had wings*
imagined by: Jesse Stillwater
Apr 27, 2018
Apr 27, 2018 at 11:26 AM UTC
A message heart delivered by a musing troubadour
left footprints upon a well weathered rivers’ rocky shoal
the lazy days of the summer’s simmering
ethereal breezes lazily waft astir
Unknown distance ‘tween yonder skies azure;
thoughts of nebulous distances fearlessly ignored to be sure,
connectedness sown and deference’s soar from high above,
yet beyond vast breadth afar the great divide
His brimful heart in hand fulfills passersby thirst
needing love here, hearts on sleeves sincere,
wellspring sensibilities handed out willingly here
voids filled by word of quill …
right now is the known needed time
Glasses half empty suffused to their half full brims;
do unto others you will reap just what ye sow,
a poet beyond the bounds of his own demure,
bearing immense understanding
The quintessential essence of family love
drips from heart like heavens rain,
testifies the heart's purpose for being
A poet’s voice speaks in soul’s timeless tongues
unknown breaths from another understanding realm
too deep for words;
yet the word sayer struggles to see his forest ‘s poetic beauty
for to see beyond the pendant beauty
within its magnificent grandeur
of his own gifted heart’s nurtured trees.
~
The Twist
This poem was not written by me.
It was written almost four years ago,
lying fallow in some passing cloud.
Writ for me by someone effervescently more talented than I,
and one of the poets whose quality of work, and command of our shared language is something to which all of us should aspire.
I post it now as yet another homage to the true author.
For in reading it, never was a poem was far more clearly,
an unwitting self-portrait.
**It was written on August 21st, 2013
by Harlon Rivers**
by Nat Lipstadt
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 12:53 PM UTC
"With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves
Let me forget about today until tomorrow@With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves
**Let me forget about
today until tomorrow**"
lyric, Mr Tambourine Man,
Bob Dylan
<>
Rebel troubadour, always resrless, asking the obvious,
with answers readily apparent,
yet no one knows them out loud
Here we are,
two old Jews,
crossing paths at our shared six point star,
we aware, we know, that the
questions will likely be there tomorrow,'for they
have always there come the morn,
so we do not raise our voices anymore,
indeed,
the questions grow up best when asked softly softly,
and the answers,
blowing in the wind,
are clearest, sharpest obvious when
whispered,
So,
~forget about today till tomorrow,
until tomorrow comes no more~
And is this an only love poem?
To be sure,
Be sure.
For only love is the bridge between yesterday,
Today, and Tomorrow,
No matter what!
Jul 9, 2025
Jul 9, 2025 at 9:31 AM UTC
If that night could remember
it would call him back
to our Chinese restaurant
to fried rice and steaming tea
to our winter refuge of tile and cushions
60s retro black and white
Chrome legs of lacquered tables
with its mural of
our Great Wall
...winding, distant, wonder
If the snow hadn't muffled all
but our voices
we would not be—
so alone
Only I
felt his arm take its chance
around my shoulder
Guiding warmth
as good excuse as any
to touch
Two miles on foot
An arc in time
In lace of white
to hide— what might....
Below my window
“Good Night”
not enough
for troubadour
singing, pleading, stumbling...
(I worry about his long way home)
...and hardly notice...
How gently Time joins Snow
as if they cannot bare
instead, conspire
Decide the crystals
Send the flakes to sift over him
This loss needs snow
to blur his face
to fade from view....
This— tender let-down from the sky
As only snow can do...
Cover with beauty
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6o6zMPLcXZ8
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 10:39 PM UTC
the grass, leaning in the south wind , seeming
as if emeralds, had sent tendrils up
to suckle at the yellow breast, now, high above inflamed....
over soft new
grass
like
strands of green gemstone,
as delicate as humming-bird tongues
teasing nectar
from a titan,
in the sky
triumphant in the void,
a golden bead in the baffling blue !
cattails, curling in sway...and two brown eyes bob upon the surface
of a myriad fertilities.
as if
nature itself had known, one day
a poet would come ~
to roam the rambling renascence of these remote ramparts
in awesome humility ~ and so prepared
a path afflux
that ambled near
and yes !
an
anonymous nomad
with nicotine skin and a scabbard of scandalous quills
would indeed
stumble in as if returning home
to a mansion restored to glory
and seraphic randomness....
a place
that in youth, sustained a quiet, soulful troubadour
by gospels of granite and grain, grass finch
and faun - ennobling an oracle ... but now
enticed a scholar from his cot
to jot ephemera
of outlasting spark
before dark-fall
and so... there
amid all allurement and soft machines
a word-smith gathered
poesy and prose.
muse-driven
this one served
an invisible
sovereign
one
of unsurpassed virility
who charms kaleidoscopes
with offhand sketches
rescued
from
a landfill
a basket weaver,
that unravels to
achieve pure
forms
a wineskin was decanted in dianthus and hollies -
as ampules of anagrams
were sold unscrambled, to dyslexics
without hope
a falcon frolicked above the lowborn lilies...
with eyes
too keen
to see a
blur
as the hand
of god
or a vole
as a lifeline
on his
palm.
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 6:15 PM UTC
Cold beer,
a long necked bottle held to my forehead
and in my throat,
to my lips,
so relief comes both ways,
glad for it,
the double of the cool,
helps the day of troubled nothingness,
and the long necked bottle makes it
worth the extra second of anticipated tasty wait
can't drink in the river park,
don't cotton to brown paper bags,
do it anyway cause the East River
tides me over on its way
thru the Verrazano Narrows,
bound for the Atlantic with me low rider spirit in tow,
a devil may care attitude en contrôle
this troubadour opened the store at 700am
but not a one came looking for a song,
but the mail came reliable,
with dues due,
promises that need keeping,
and other items,
what the grownups call responsibilities
June Monday early eve and the Moran tugboats
ply their trade like reliable ****** to the sailors,
and their larger than bathtub size toys,
turning containers, freighters, into docile boys
who do as they are told on their way to ports far
there are stick figures outlined on the hexagon
paving stones that are so nyc for me,
here pedestrian! follow your designated path
here pedestrian, you must walk to be safe arrived
but I take to the railing,
where Isaac-bound and mesmerized,
I imagine surfing the churning wakes on the surface
of the riveting tides and wonderous wanderlust for
where we are bound...
no voice heard from the heavens,
saying Abraham put down that knife,
because I have not passed the test of true belief,
perhaps the river's invitation is my test,
if I should sing another song here,
perhaps it will tale the end of this tell...
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 7:24 PM UTC
They hail me as one living,
But don’t they know
That I have died of late years,
Untombed although?
I am but a shape that stands here,
A pulseless mould,
A pale past picture, screening
Ashes gone cold.
Not at a minute’s warning,
Not in a loud hour,
For me ceased Time’s enchantments
In hall and bower.
There was no tragic transit,
No catch of breath,
When silent seasons inched me
On to this death …
—A Troubadour-youth I rambled
With Life for lyre,
The beats of being raging
In me like fire.
But when I practised eyeing
The goal of men,
It iced me, and I perished
A little then.
When passed my friend, my kinsfolk,
Through the Last Door,
And left me standing bleakly,
I died yet more;
And when my Love’s heart kindled
In hate of me,
Wherefore I knew not, died I
One more degree.
And if when I died fully
I cannot say,
And changed into the corpse-thing
I am to-day,
Yet is it that, though whiling
The time somehow
In walking, talking, smiling,
I live not now.
3.1k
the grass, leaning in the south wind , seeming
as if emeralds, had sent tendrils up
to suckle at the yellow breast, now, high above inflamed....
over soft new
grass
like
strands of green gemstone,
as delicate as humming-bird tongues
teasing nectar
from a titan,
in the sky
triumphant in the void,
a golden bead in the baffling blue !
cattails, curling in sway...and two brown eyes bob upon the surface
of a myriad fertilities.
as if
nature itself had known, one day
a poet would come ~
to roam the rambling renascence of these remote ramparts
in awesome humility ~ and so prepared
a path afflux
that ambled near
and yes !
an
anonymous nomad
with nicotine skin and a scabbard of scandalous quills
would indeed
stumble in as if returning home
to a mansion restored to glory
and seraphic randomness....
a place
that in youth, sustained a quiet, soulful troubadour
by gospels of granite and grain, grass finch
and faun - ennobling an oracle ... but now
enticed a scholar from his cot
to jot ephemera
of outlasting spark
before darkfall
and so... there
amid all allurement and soft machines
a word-smith gathered
poesy and prose.
muse-driven
this one served
an invisible
sovereign
one
of unsurpassed virility
who charms kaleidoscopes
with offhand sketches
rescued
from
a landfill
a basket weaver,
that unravels to
achieve pure
forms
a wineskin was decanted in dianthus and hollies -
as ampules of anagrams
were sold unscrambled, to dyslexics
without hope
a falcon frolicked above the lowborn lilies...
with eyes
too keen
to see a
blur
as the hand
of god
or a vole
as a lifeline
on his
palm.
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 5:51 PM UTC
Weeping turtles
On angels' wings
Electric harps
And choir sings
Traveling time
Remembering
As an era
Comes to close
French chabot
In fruited hues
Revving engines
With horses used
Nothing that
Compares 2 U
And songs
We'll never know
From pain
Was born a troubadour
Pushing limits
Breaking doors
Supernova
Evermore
Songs with
Silent lines
A legend lost
Within the mist
Of mewling souls
Interminus
Taking time
To reminisce
The party ends
In nines
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 3:11 AM UTC
Strike a mark on a sun kissed shrine
Cheek bones, dance within the sand's light -
Lambent spore sprig -Rot - beneath the mine
Lay the tourniquet fused, marble eyes.
Center stark stork - wracked to atomic bliss
Forked tongue minotaur, auric troubadour -
Machinations of bellowed amethyst,
Composed the flowered Aum, raising thy *********
Arachnid's webbing - strung of turquoise beads -
By what are the viscid lines severed clean
That they convolute binaural progeny,
And lure the soul to breathe?
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 7:17 PM UTC
The earth was sown with early flowers,
The heavens were blue and bright--
I met a youthful cavalier
As lovely as the light.
I knew him not--but in my heart
His graceful image lies,
And well I marked his open brow,
His sweet and tender eyes,
His ruddy lips that ever smiled,
His glittering teeth betwixt,
And flowing robe embroidered o'er,
With leaves and blossoms mixed.
He wore a chaplet of the rose;
His palfrey, white and sleek,
Was marked with many an ebon spot,
And many a purple streak;
Of jasper was his saddle-bow,
His housings sapphire stone,
And brightly in his stirrup glanced
The purple calcedon.
Fast rode the gallant cavalier,
As youthful horsemen ride;
"Peyre Vidal! know that I am Love,"
The blooming stranger cried;
"And this is Mercy by my side,
A dame of high degree;
This maid is Chastity," he said,
"This squire is Loyalty."
2.3k
Once upon a midnight, dreary,
Top Hattie twinkles, lipstick smeary,
...spinning girls like Mischief Managed all glittery on the ball room floor,
I was taken, most completely.
...Batting lashes indiscreetly.
D'lilac lips that pouted sweetly, a Circus Girl that knew the score.
I pinched myself, could i be dreaming?
Of this Nymph, this Empress gleaming?
was her Diva charm misleading? Shoe Addicted Troubadour.
A Siren in Styletto thrilled me,
Abracadabra wish fulfilled me,
......Medusa eyes that drew, yet stilled me- Retro-Futuristic roar.
Like an Airborn Unicorn descending,
advanced upon me unpretending.
my heart of Dragon Scales extending for this Cupcake Thief I'd cover for.
"Mirror Mirror" she whispered, smirking.
Countessa Fluorescent had caught me lurking,
and sent my Great Pink Planet jerking, Cosmopopping, Centrifuchia war.
My Beautiful Rocket was set to swinging,
No She Didn't hear the ringing
in my ears the Twilight singing, to the Limest Criminal on the floor.
Jan 22, 2011
Jan 22, 2011 at 7:17 PM UTC
99
New feet within my garden go—
New fingers stir the sod—
A Troubadour upon the Elm
Betrays the solitude.
New children play upon the green—
New Weary sleep below—
And still the pensive Spring returns—
And still the punctual snow!
2.2k
The troubadour planted his last name between
a she-vegan's legs in San Marcos;
rambled north to that country of love, Oklahoma City,
where he took hits of windowsill acid every three hours
for a week straight.
To escape, to begin.
He spent his nights in the St. Cloud Hotel, trying to
sleep on a carpeted floor. He saw a color between
lavender and orange, nameless and impossible to
recreate. He knew all, including he'd forget all.
He shared a room with two high fashion,
burgundy-lipped lesbians, Viv and Jean, and
one night, the last night the troubadour, our troubadour,
was allowed to stay, Jean went out for some fresh air,
code for a cigarette.
"She never smokes just one," Viv said, little Oprahs reflected in her eyes from the plasma screen. She lay on her stomach on the bed,
atop a jungle green comforter. For your discretion and for the discretion of those before you.
Viv brought him between her legs.
"Gentle. Gentle," she said.
The troubadour thought of those Pepsi Challenge commercials as he tongued her **** A lesbian has an edge when it comes to oral pleasure. Across the nation more people prefer Pepsi. She's got the same parts, sure, but as the troubadour wordlessly recited the alphabet with his tongue to her, he felt confident Jean hadn't put in this kind of effort, not lately anyways. And so what if he's Coke? The troubadour preferred Coke. Viv snagged a handful of his hair, "Don't stop," she said. "Don't stop."
And it all ended, as drug-addled, hetero-on-homo escapades always do: abruptly and with an "I think you should leave before she comes back," a "But sweetheart, this, us, I think this means something," an "I like girls," a "But," an "I just needed an edge," and later that night as he marveled at the brilliance of the common streetlight, tripping his *** off on his last hit of LSD, he empathized.
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
Sigh no more,
Put it all in a drawer,
Don’t let life be a bore,
Go out and explore,
Cast your line from ashore,
Do the things you adore,
Remember it like it was pre-war,
Like you ran out the backdoor,
Didn’t stop screaming till the encore,
Waited and watched the downpour,
While kids called you ********
And you listened to folklore,
Praised the big uproar,
Traveled to ecuador,
Chose to ignore
Listened to the troubadour,
Forgot to abhor,
Gazed at the eyesore,
Praised the antiwar,
Dreamed evermore.
Oct 28, 2010
Oct 28, 2010 at 5:01 PM UTC
i'm a yellow chill
a daffodil in the rain
thought i found my place
kinda heard to explain
sip each glass of wine
your palette needs a rest
taste his cracker's brine
along your lips
signing documents
you can't help hide your grin
sweat beading down your brow
my nervous penmanship
is this what they call peace
four hundred dollars an hour
the clock says nine past three
rounding up minutes they devour
caught you dead to rights
my son's new step father
when he sees your blight
harvest grapes turn sour
i feel constant dread
our son can't cope the truth
so far above his head
your soulless attribute
i'm a daffodil, more like a coward in the rain.
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 11:22 PM UTC
I am soon to die
You are going to make me cry
You say that I am the guilty
But it is this society that is filthy
So before I go
I will address your foes
Your knights are supposed to be chivalrous
But they do not care if you are at risk
Your king and queen doth rule
But their treatment to you is only cruel
Your nobles give you a home
But do not care if you grow alone
Your wives bear your children
But it is your best friends that are the villains
The men are seen as strong and whole
Little do you know they are drinking in a brothel
This land is made up of imposter’s hands
But you want to **** me the one who exposed your clan
Apr 9, 2018
Apr 9, 2018 at 11:56 PM UTC
Are you a cat or bird,
devil or saint?
Villain and victim, dichotic romantic,
bruised and beaten, ostracised.
Bruised and beaten, demonised.
A willow bending against cruel fashion's wind.
A thousand storms of impotent hate,
jealousies and malignant complaints.
Rain like sonnets before the deaf!
As your gifts are pearl before swine.
And yet thy brow is regal still.
The profile of a demon prince -
no matter what shape taketh the face.
Be thou Quasimodo or Adonis by fate.
Whose smile has lit a thousand candles
in thankless, bitter hearts,
and fires in the hearths of freaks
who need but a spark to break the leash.
Or art thou Prince of Cats?
Yearning for the freedom to roam, to hunt.
Seeking pleasure, his mistresses pats.
The enemy of closed doors and cold paws.
Or could thou be a bird?
Clipped wings, a gilded cage,
whose song can only go so far.
If not let to glide into the night, to rise,
to greet the dawn with bleary, satisfied eyes.
Of one who has been given the chance to soar!
Or else to wilt, and yowl no more.
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 9:25 PM UTC
Let school-masters puzzle their brain,
Blinded by revolt and disorder,
A schoolboy departs in a rage,
And a preachers deprived of his daughter
They met at the Café de Flore,
And talked over gateaux and coffee,
She said ‘Joseph, you're my troubadour’
He smiled and said ‘You are my Sophie’
The pair acted out fantasies,
Embracing the Louvre with ambition,
Romancing across des Champs-Élysées,
With purity and inhibition
Back in humdrum Buckinghamshire,
The locals did summon a meeting,
While beneath the old Notre Dame spire,
Sophie said ‘Can you feel my heart beating?’
Then back at the Café de Flore,
A Mademoiselle served them merlot,
She said ‘j’aime votre poésie,
Et votre femme est un angelot’
Let school-masters puzzle their brain,
With grammar, and nonsense, and learning,
The schoolboy perversely proclaimed,
‘My buoyant soul will not be returning!’
(March 2010)
Sep 19, 2010
Sep 19, 2010 at 11:08 AM UTC
To my bearded bear friend;
I've started this 'bout thirty times
And ended just the same
I couldn't get it just quite right,
Or make sure it wasn't lame
So I've decided heck with it
I'm writing this and posting
So my dear friend Troubadour:
Thanks, for all you've done
You've been a terrific friend
Enjoyable and fun,
Thanks for the conversations
Both really short and long
And may I say, once again
Thanks for being awesome.
Danke mein Freund,
Du bist super, und das ist
Die Wahrheit!
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 5:38 PM UTC
I want to dance with you again,
Before the light descends;
Dance, the troubadour sang:
Dance me to the end of love.
Place yours in mine,
We'll wind with time;
Repose your head, close your eyes,
I'll hear you breathe another goodbye.
Can't you dance with me again.
I'm spinning off this elliptic world;
Holding the dark side of my moon,
Orbiting 'round this star lit room.
Waxing on the upbeat,
Waning on the down,
Dancing on a gyroscope,
Through phases round and round.
I awaken, tapping toes,
And humming in the after glow.
Yes, I danced with you!
Did I dance with you?
I didn't dance with you.
And never will again.
Sep 18, 2017
Sep 18, 2017 at 7:47 AM UTC
I could see all neith the flowing dress she wore,
though the moon played its tricks on my eyes that night.
Curled red hair flowing like waves upon the shore,
yet could not hide her fairie wings from my sight.
All night I lay with her on the woodland floor.
We laughed and loved, though she was gone come daylight.
And each night since I've gone to the wood to find,
naught but a fairie ring did she leave behind.
Ottava Rima: Italian stanza form composed of eight 11-syllable lines, rhyming abababcc. It originated in the late 13th and early 14th centuries and was developed by Tuscan poets for religious verse and drama and in troubadour songs.
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 5:57 PM UTC
What mares did you see, your mind all at sea, the girl with van gogh eyes?
What smiles you give, what lives do you live, with no lies to give - the girl with Van Gogh eyes?
The mud in your toes, the potions you brew, the singing of her voice, the girl with Van Gogh eyes
Your dark pool windows cast bright light and dark shadows, oh how they spark me, the girl with Van Gogh eyes.
Dark voids I fall into, portal or eternal loss, girl with Van Gogh eyes
Your pale moon skin, troubadour clothes, firm curved within, girl with Van Gogh eyes
cartwheels in the grass, you fiddle away in a beautiful way, girl with Van Gogh eyes
Starry nights twirl, earth flower I unfurl in avarice and in care, girl with Van Gogh eyes
Your butterfly child helped temper my sin, the girl with Van Gogh eyes
It lies within, curves womanly my chagrin, oh girl with van Gogh eyes
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 12:19 PM UTC
I used to be hidden in my room
choking at my mouth's roof
as if stuck within a stutter,
exhausted from existing, hinging
like a wind-chime battered by a hurricane.
Then a troubadour with honey hair
had me humming to his ear-worm
of a melody, depicting a choreography
that jolted my legs into frenetic mania
like an early talkie starlet's.
For years, I have memorized
this intricate chord structure,
immersed myself in its crescendos
until I could belt it backwards.
It's the only song I know by heart.
There is this one tune, though,
if you can even call it that,
this atonal reverberation that alerts
the darkest corners of my mind,
a slowly muttered siren song
leading to lands I never want to visit.
I can never fully decipher
the lyrics to an entire verse.
It's the excerpts, scattered
like dust mites in a concert hall,
that try to nibble at me piecemeal,
romanticizing the revolving door
of self-destruction, bruises
veiled as smudged calligraphy.
So please excuse the minor notes
that hiccup from my vocal cords
every other half moon or so.
It's just the ebb and flow
of awkward drumming
that disorients the ear,
causes me to trip up
on the patchwork of refrains
we've spent so much time weaving
into heavenly cohesion.
Above all, please remember
that no static or din
will ever shoehorn its way
into our ironclad harmony.
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 3:53 PM UTC