Tag Archives: king arthur

Broken By Brexit Britain

Broken By Brexit Britain

In the House of Commons in London,
here in B.B.B.B., that is, Broken By Brexit Britain,
some have gone savage, to roar like a lion,
others whine like a kitten.
After the battle of Camlann,
the Round Table was broken,
and Arthur, wounded by Mordred,
to Avalon, Isle of Apples, was taken.
It is said he will return
when Britain needs him most,
but maybe he is merry in his mythic court
with his mugs of mead
and plates of marmalade on toast.
Some who voted Remain
cannot believe so many voted Leave.
Now, after three years of tedium,
since the Referendum,
long gone is the happy medium.
There is only cold, increasing friction,
worse than in dystopian fiction.
Lost is Arthur’s island of Britain,
along with wise words in clear diction.
By Merlyn’s staff, there’s a strain in the song,
a sneer in the laugh.
Britannia herself is dusty with dirt.
To free her from hurt, she requires a good bath.
Startling events pass by, hour by hour,
and she is not even offered a shower.
O Big Ben, when will you chime
beyond this Broken By Brexit Britain time?

Sides

Sides

One side lost, the other side never won.
Consider the riddle, decide which side you are on.
Criss-crossed in the middle are the lines that divide.
Observe them grow faint as the vision fails.
No one more alone than an emperor on his throne,
cannot pick a bone with anyone.

Geese screech across the late November sky,
leave the far mere in irregular lines.
Winter comes.
The trees will soon be bare.
Will you stay on the same side
or choose another cause to bear?

One side won, the other side never lost.
Answer the riddle to know which border you crossed.
A triangle has three sides, a square has four.
A circle has no sides but has been broken before.

Now the Arthur king in the tales
sat his knights at a table round,
all to be equal with no chair at the head,
but Mordred rebelled and broke the ideal
on the battle ground.
Both sides lost.
No one heard the final bugle sound.

Dreams I Had

Dreams I Had

Britain was broken.
Barons fought for the right
to sit as king on the throne.
By Merlyn’s staff,
I was the child who pulled
the sword from the stone.

The battle of Trafalgar.
Nelson lay on the deck,
shot by a sniper.
Like the sails of his ship, he was torn.
I was the cabin boy,
high in the crow’s nest,
clouded by cannon smoke,
sounding victory for him on a horn.

Gunslinger rode into town,
ordered whiskey at the bar.
Poker players grew tense.
The saloon keeper perspired,
looked round for defence.
I was the man
who wore the sheriff’s star.

They were dreams I had
when I was younger.
Always woke warm,
refreshed from the drama,
glad to have been on the side that won,
sad that in real life I could save no one.

 

 

Isle of Apples

Isle of Apples

The Round Table is broken,
to divide this green island, Britain.
Now I must obey the last words of Merlyn.
Take Excalibur, the sword of Arthur,
that I alone could draw from the stone,
down to the edge of yonder mere,
Sir Bedivere, and throw it out on the water,
as far as your strength can,
to be your last deed for me,
as my faithful knight, a true courageous man.
Prepare in your grief to see a wonder,
as the Lady of Faerie takes my sword
away to her land.
Mordred is dead who came against me,
to take my crown and throne.
He lies with pale skin and empty hand
in the mud of the battlefield,
among crows and his abandoned shield,
like all betrayers he died unloved, alone.
My ideal I made real, if only for a short time.
That it came to ruin hurts me more than my wounds.
Look, the black barge comes towards me through the mist,
to take me to Avalon.
On the Isle of Apples may I be healed.
The dragon under the mountain was woken,
but now rain sweeps over the burnt field.
We who achieved the Grail will not be forgotten.

The Return of Arthur

                         The Return of Arthur

Sir Bedivere, never so quiet has earth seemed,
as it does now, as I lie by the banks of this mere.
My mind forks with the fight at Badon Hill.
The rebel Mordred cut me down with sword and lance,
but my spirit, he did not kill.
Our banners fell. All my knights lie still.
Say farewell for me to Gwenivere.
The mist lifts from the water, The air is clear.
The barge comes silently, to take me to Avalon,
the Isle of Apples. Soon I will be gone.
Those who study my tale in future times may learn,
though there was a passing, there will be a return.

Searching For The Sangreal

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                                                 Searching For The Sangreal

 

Farewell, my lord, King Arthur,
this may be my last farewell,
I go on the quest you gave us,
I go searching for the Sangreal.

This task is great you gave us,
one so worthy of our name,
I’ve a token of my true love,
for I may never see her again.

Searching for the Sangreal,
our Lord’s Holy Grail.
Searching for the Sangreal
in my shining mail.

Sir Galahad you dubbed me,
all at your fair table round.
A dragon’s head I gave thee
that I slew on dark, burning ground.

Searching for the Sangreal,
our Lord’s Holy Grail.
Searching for the Sangreal
in my shining mail.

I stand before a tower,
it shines ruby, sapphire light,
and I walk across the drawbridge,
and kneel before tall angels bright.

Farewell, my lord, farewell, my lord,
this is my last farewell.
I achieved the quest you gave us,
I have seen the Sangreal.

( Searching For The Sangreal was published in the Summer 2013 issue of The Dawntreader, a quarterly poetry magazine, published by Indigo Dreams Publishing: http://www.indigodreams.co.uk   Facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/indigodreamspublishing