The crack of heavy swords upon the faded heraldry of wooden shields
made by calloused hands to the witness of milk-laden cows and courtyards of stone
these shields of mighty oak slain amongst their own child as witness to parent
sawed limb by limb by hands calloused in the labor
hammered and beaten measured and nailed
the damage covered in the hue of berries
this dead wood protecting young life
protecting calloused life the very life
now threatened
now making two noises
the noise of life still living
and
the noise of life still fighting
with instruments
Swords rise into an innocent sky like the handsome oaks, fathers of the heralded shields, they strike cracks of silver lightning splitting painted wood splinters flying before weary eyes dull in butcher numb to the hour
the king's men and then I thought hey, those men have jobs honest labor government maybe but a paycheck all the same
I have this recurring dream the images coming in broad daylight clear as the Kansas sky
wood I smell old somewhat polished stained
I feel the cool breeze on my neck then the whole world tumbles upside down and all is quiet
as children dance and bakers bake and blood fills my nose
Let me know if you think anything in these comments should have its own post. Think of these various poems (in the comments) as photographs from the memory, snapshots of a day in a medieval village where there was fighting and killing and maybe a little raping and pillaging too. :-)
The second version of this poem should be published, as it's own poem, for the original is perfect just the way it is. This however travels further down the road. Version two is an incredibly well-written (love verse two) piece.
As you know, I found the up bottom poem thoroughly entertaining, true and the delivary is spot on for the subject. Short, not so sweet, but ace that's for sure.
I just lost a comment, but to summarize upon our dirty souls The thought occrus, not for the first time, that you are largely unaware of just how wonderful/powerful/.../etc your writing is. All of these would look right upon the main page and I hope to see them there, and (daren't even think about Trebuchet until I am done here), trust that though I am trailing, I am following the path.
And a dragon there! Head and wing. A hymn to Saint George, my favourite saint.
ReplyDeleteThanks Cristian. I didn't see the dragon before, but now, it's crystal clear. :-)
ReplyDeletea work in progress second version:
ReplyDeleteThe crack of heavy swords
upon the faded heraldry
of wooden shields
made by calloused hands
to the witness
of milk-laden cows
and courtyards of stone
these shields of mighty oak
slain amongst their own
child as witness to parent
sawed limb by limb
by hands calloused
in the labor
hammered and beaten
measured and nailed
the damage covered
in the hue of berries
this dead wood
protecting young life
protecting calloused life
the very life
now threatened
now making two noises
the noise of life
still living
and
the noise of life
still fighting
the day in poetry or the making of tripe:
ReplyDeleteWhen one's head
is up one's arse
One is the last
to know
although you'd think
the aroma
would be
enough
The crack of heavy swords
upon the faded heraldry
of wooden shields
made by calloused hands
to the witness
of milk-laden cows
and courtyards of stone
these shields of mighty oak
slain amongst their own
child as witness to parent
sawed limb by limb
by hands calloused
in the labor
hammered and beaten
measured and nailed
the damage covered
in the hue of berries
this dead wood
protecting young life
protecting calloused life
the very life
now threatened
now making two noises
the noise of life
still living
and
the noise of life
still fighting
with instruments
Swords rise into an innocent sky
like the handsome oaks,
fathers of the heralded shields,
they strike
cracks of silver lightning
splitting painted wood
splinters flying
before weary eyes
dull in butcher
numb to the hour
the king's men
and then I thought
hey,
those men have jobs
honest labor
government maybe
but a paycheck all the same
I have this recurring dream
the images coming
in broad daylight
clear as the Kansas sky
wood I smell
old
somewhat polished
stained
I feel the cool breeze on my neck
then the whole world
tumbles upside down
and all is quiet
as children dance
and bakers bake
and blood
fills my nose
addendum:
ReplyDeletethe suck of mud
everest effort
to walk
sackcloth blisters
oily hair
beard caked
on horseback
we hear
gallop as heartbeat
our life
measured
in lengths
of horsemanship
of breeding
of the rain of steel
may God
have mercy
on our dirty souls
Firstly, the poem as published.
ReplyDeleteSkilled, it is both simple and absolute. Splendid!
Will be back for those in comments.
Let me know if you think anything in these comments should have its own post. Think of these various poems (in the comments) as photographs from the memory, snapshots of a day in a medieval village where there was fighting and killing and maybe a little raping and pillaging too. :-)
ReplyDeleteThe second version of this poem should be published, as it's own poem, for the original is perfect just the way it is. This however travels further down the road. Version two is an incredibly well-written (love verse two) piece.
ReplyDeleteAs you know, I found the up bottom poem thoroughly entertaining, true and the delivary is spot on for the subject. Short, not so sweet, but ace that's for sure.
ReplyDeleteI just lost a comment, but to summarize
ReplyDeleteupon our dirty souls
The thought occrus, not for the first time, that you are largely unaware of just how wonderful/powerful/.../etc your writing is. All of these would look right upon the main page and I hope to see them there, and (daren't even think about Trebuchet until I am done here), trust that though I am trailing, I am following the path.
Unaware I will admit. But feel free to correct my vision as often as you like. :-D
ReplyDelete