I just want to have some fun and couldn't find the right thread, so I'm sticking my neck out. Here's how it works: you can post any poetry here as long as it rhymes. Comments are ok; actual critting, not so much. We are poets. We write stuff. Sometimes it's not our best stuff, but it moves or tickles us and on occasion we want to share. Hope you'll join me.
I wrote this one some time ago. It's a bit long, so forgive me if I've crossed a length boundary. (I'm still new here.)
Lord Wemslay
Upon a dark and furrowed brow the crown unsettled lay;
in twisted thoughts a King devised to kill the Earl Wemslay.
Raced from the throne-room wrapped in robes of purple and blood-red;
he cursed and vowed, "Before day's end, the Earl, he shall be dead!
"So will he hang'ed be, my Lords, for scoffing at the crown,
let masses watch and cheer their King for bringing Wemslay down."
But in his maddened rage, misheard the people's thundering cry,
crowds thronged below sent up a shout, "Lord Wemslay must not die!"
High counselors scurried to and fro imparting their advice,
to heed the public warning: "We beg thee, Sire, think twice."
Though much beseeched, the King refused, implore him as they may,
he would not deign to spare the life of Charles, the Earl Wemslay.
"What can be done," advisors whined, "to make him see more clear?
"If he oppose the people's choice, could overthrow be near?"
He taxed them hard and took their coin to fill his treasury,
not caring if they lived in filth, and abject poverty.
But die?...They must not! Rather toil - to bring the kingdom gain;
they'd suffered past afflictions, but the King must now refrain.
For in his most intolerable greed, a good and just man slay
in jealous and vainglorious quest to steal a love away.
Elayne, the one the King adored, was Charles' devoted bride,
and this foul course His Grace had set, to wrest her from his side.
The drummer rolled a death march as the cart wheeled Wemslay past
toward the shadowed gallows as the sun's rays dipped their last.
Twelve bosky guardsmen staggered forth to keep the crowd at bay,
but loyal villagers doffed their caps as Charles passed by their way.
He climbed the thirteen wooden steps to face the rope strung high;
A thousand voices echoed loud, "Lord Wemslay must not die!"
With heart of stone the Royal drew the executioner near
to place the noose round Wemslay's neck, the knot behind one ear.
With loving look, the Earl smiled fond adieus upon his wife,
and said in steady tones, "My Liege can only take my life."
"My spirit soars free with the dove that gambols in the sky."
A rumbling chorus still proclaimed, "Lord Wemslay must not die!"
Great evils done that fateful night, Lord Charles lies in the ground,
but what a catalyst he proved, to bring a monarch down.
King's soldiers searched across the land, in hamlet and in town,
as if her spirit stole away - Elayne was never found.
His Grace grew addled and distraught; a fever seared his brain,
forsaking duties of the crown, thought only of Elayne.
While masses rallied through the realm and forged a battle cry,
from these few words a legion grew, “Lord Wemslay must not die!"
For one long year the brave crusaders struggled with their foe
and won escape from tyranny; the King at last brought low.
What worth a crown if souls be lost, and loyalty should cease?
What value kingdoms must accrue to equal inner peace?
A madman walks deserted halls, but neither knows nor cares.
He seeks in dank and moldy rooms for his lost lady fair.
Perchance he stops, and cocks an ear, to hear ghost voices cry,
and whispers to himself in fear, "Lord Wemslay will not die!"
I wrote this one some time ago. It's a bit long, so forgive me if I've crossed a length boundary. (I'm still new here.)
Lord Wemslay
Upon a dark and furrowed brow the crown unsettled lay;
in twisted thoughts a King devised to kill the Earl Wemslay.
Raced from the throne-room wrapped in robes of purple and blood-red;
he cursed and vowed, "Before day's end, the Earl, he shall be dead!
"So will he hang'ed be, my Lords, for scoffing at the crown,
let masses watch and cheer their King for bringing Wemslay down."
But in his maddened rage, misheard the people's thundering cry,
crowds thronged below sent up a shout, "Lord Wemslay must not die!"
High counselors scurried to and fro imparting their advice,
to heed the public warning: "We beg thee, Sire, think twice."
Though much beseeched, the King refused, implore him as they may,
he would not deign to spare the life of Charles, the Earl Wemslay.
"What can be done," advisors whined, "to make him see more clear?
"If he oppose the people's choice, could overthrow be near?"
He taxed them hard and took their coin to fill his treasury,
not caring if they lived in filth, and abject poverty.
But die?...They must not! Rather toil - to bring the kingdom gain;
they'd suffered past afflictions, but the King must now refrain.
For in his most intolerable greed, a good and just man slay
in jealous and vainglorious quest to steal a love away.
Elayne, the one the King adored, was Charles' devoted bride,
and this foul course His Grace had set, to wrest her from his side.
The drummer rolled a death march as the cart wheeled Wemslay past
toward the shadowed gallows as the sun's rays dipped their last.
Twelve bosky guardsmen staggered forth to keep the crowd at bay,
but loyal villagers doffed their caps as Charles passed by their way.
He climbed the thirteen wooden steps to face the rope strung high;
A thousand voices echoed loud, "Lord Wemslay must not die!"
With heart of stone the Royal drew the executioner near
to place the noose round Wemslay's neck, the knot behind one ear.
With loving look, the Earl smiled fond adieus upon his wife,
and said in steady tones, "My Liege can only take my life."
"My spirit soars free with the dove that gambols in the sky."
A rumbling chorus still proclaimed, "Lord Wemslay must not die!"
Great evils done that fateful night, Lord Charles lies in the ground,
but what a catalyst he proved, to bring a monarch down.
King's soldiers searched across the land, in hamlet and in town,
as if her spirit stole away - Elayne was never found.
His Grace grew addled and distraught; a fever seared his brain,
forsaking duties of the crown, thought only of Elayne.
While masses rallied through the realm and forged a battle cry,
from these few words a legion grew, “Lord Wemslay must not die!"
For one long year the brave crusaders struggled with their foe
and won escape from tyranny; the King at last brought low.
What worth a crown if souls be lost, and loyalty should cease?
What value kingdoms must accrue to equal inner peace?
A madman walks deserted halls, but neither knows nor cares.
He seeks in dank and moldy rooms for his lost lady fair.
Perchance he stops, and cocks an ear, to hear ghost voices cry,
and whispers to himself in fear, "Lord Wemslay will not die!"