Pleas of a Claymore I
In my sedentary ineptitude,
I shall acquaint you with
The uncouth wails of a claymore
With the hissing sounds in the air
Of its unabashed bashings
Slicing through the verdigris of reticence
Swallowed, like serrated daggers
And the throat that bled the anarchy
That had always coiled in the underground
Grottos of a stagnant river.
I shall ring the sleeping bells,
With the shrills and clatters
Spewing the turbulent climates
Of a claymore in a warfare
That he vied for, like his own
And of a greater mayhem
When is he is not desirable
Pleasant and wanted,
And remained sheathed
Effacing incorrigible thousand winks
In the mausoleum of his scabbard
That pierced through the veneer
Of impassable platinum.
Have you ever seen a saber?
Obstinately lacerating its throat
In emitting the anguish
Into the moon as he raised
Its head to wedge the enemy;
A phantasmagoria of an adversary
In an amorphous shape
For he is an abused vessel
Of a blind tormented soul
In the emollient hands
That he had vied for
Like his very own.
Sometimes, the claymore
Is more of a scabbard
Than a sword.
And when the vigor is acquiesced
Cleaving into a carnage
With a remonstrative odium
He would bow his estoque
Into the sanguinary of the soil
Reeking with sepulchral remorse
Only to pray for the clenched fist
That had mended him
And forget about his own
Fluttering pains
And peccadilloes.
Sometimes, the claymore
Is more of a rosary
Than a sword.
poem by Norman Santos
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Pleas of a Claymore II
Have you ever seen a saber?
Took so much beating
In a plethora of derision
As the hands pounded his convictions
Against the feral adversary
Of his stale conqueror,
Lackadaisical and crestfallen
But still fawning in a lash back
To find the elusive direst
Of his tethering fate,
And his silver blood spilled
And scintillated in stellar
Like the mistral tears of a maiden.
And some people esteemed it
Musing in avarice for the clout
That this claymore possessed
Despite of the scarred visage
Or perhaps, because of the incisions
And they would lather the lacquer
Of his chipped and dying blades
To thaw the poignancy
And bend him down to his knees
Rasping upon the stance
Of defensive resistance.
The surrender of a saber
Would stab his own soul
And the hero inside
And his parched tragedies
Would whittle and fritter away
Into the very zenith of cusps
To become a despondent weapon
In the final incarnation of a claymore
But the hands forget
Or sometimes do not care
What the saber was
And seize him in their cradles
Fervently seeking bloodshed
In favor of their legendary conquest.
Have you ever seen a saber?
Malleable with a sole graze
As the hands guided itself
Down his glacial crassness
Reckoning the beatings
In the crevasses of his edges
Ravening upon the triumphs
That the saber gave them
And in spite of the disease
The saber would plead
To be held once again
And take the brunt and blames.
And when the hero bequeaths
The glory of his subsistence
Coming clean and pristine
While the downtrodden friend
Smother in the draping
Of the chrysalis in his scabbard
The claymore would plead
In profound reiteration
To be held once again;
Have you ever heard the hilt of a saber
Call for euthanasia?
poem by Norman Santos
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The Making of a Prince IV: Eternal Wars for Sovereignty
A pen—a claymore, a crown; power
A paper—a vast land unconquered; possession
Tear drops and blood trickles down
In a troubled gypsy, pristine in beam and frown;
In a white lily, queen of her regalities;
An esoteric mesh—keys and codes,
Algorithms and genetics ensconced
In the marrows of a little prince's becoming
Burning a thousand year, browning a thousand leaf,
In the escritoire - the sanguinary palms of scars
And there I was, cringing without recoil,
A tatterdemalion defeat
A breathing carrion
Slumbering like a mirror
Concealing light.
But there's the damsel,
The king, and the star,
They vied for me
As how I shall for them
And now they have whittled
A prince from a lifeless stone
Shoved apathy away,
Lulled the demons to sleep,
And gorged destitution to death,
I shall depart and san
This part of the story
Where I shall wan away
From their reach
And shall they recognize
And leave no chance
To stagger and miss.
poem by Norman Santos
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Several Species Of Small Furry Animals...
Aye an a bit of mackeral settler rack and ruin
Ran it doon by the haim, ma place
Well I slapped me and I slapped it doon in the side
And I cried, cried, cried.
The fear a fallen down taken never back the raize and then craig marion,
Get out wi ye claymore out mi pocket a ran doon, doon the middin stain
Picking the fiery horde that was fallen around ma feet.
Never he cried, never shall it ye get me alive
Ye rotten hound of the burnie crew. well I snatched fer the blade o my
Claymore cut and thrust and I fell doon before him round his feet.
Aye! a roar he cried frae the bottom of his heart that I would nay fall
But as dead, dead as a can be by his feet; de ya ken?
...and the wind cried back.
[in english] thank you.
song performed by by Pink Floyd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Endless Waltz
A gravid somnolence
From a constant defeat
And consistent deaths
That never really ends
Encumbers my gusto
For a waltz and its scherzo
And sit in the benches
Among the shadows
Of desolated nights
The weight of the mortified suit
And its eroding pallor
That I wore to ignite
My mechanical heels for waltz
And now I don for my funeral
In this denied living;
Took its toll
And brought me down
To the very film of my knees
And the bones kissed
The hostile marble
And the clenched fist
And shackled wrists
Toppled and rolled
With the opaque blood
The clout of defeat
From a coarse melee
Of keeping myself
In the chains of a rosary,
In the petals of a sanguinary
Glassine ice lily
In the peril of melody
Of the waltz song
Is brushed by the stroke
Of a stellar light
In the reflection of a lake
I'm too tired
To tell another story
About the pangs of reality
Of my barricading delusions
Of a dance ball
I'm bled out
Of verve,
Of demise.
But one last time
Or maybe not,
Like a chipped claymore
Crying for a war,
I will take the endless waltz
And the caustic impalement
Of another defeat
When the music stops
Favoring my feet
Because in this story
Where I have already died
I was hauled out
By an owl's cry.
poem by Norman Santos
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Unassailable Fidelity!
The horse never slept
Nor it lay on ground
His mind was battling
With the songs of swords
The challenges of the riders
The splash of blood
The pool of blood
The horse kicked
The horse of the enemy
Eager to cut the throat
Of his master on him
The horse trampled on
The dead on the battlefield
To take his master to safety
When the hissing sound of sword
Lashed at him like a storm.
The horse learnt the rule
The rule of sword
The rule of battlefield
The justice of killing
And the destiny of killed!
His master on him swing
With the sword socked with blood
Of the enemy cavalry
And enemy animal carriers
And moved fast to fix
The mast and flag
At the fort his master seized.
As the thunder and lightening
Deafened and blinded
The horse lost a leg
And the master had the wound
Gushing blood with all force
The horse leapt as a wind
And crossed the river
And fell on the river bed
And his master took his head
To put on his lap
To see the flash of life
Taking wings through eyes!
The horse had the satiety
Of saving his master
And serving him to keep alive!
poem by Vadakkumpurath Ramesan
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Pleas of a Claymore III
Perhaps, the blight in all of us
Are denizens of a labyrinth
And are all engaged in a feudal mêlée
Amongst our ludicrous terrors
Etched in fleuron to our buried core;
Then we must all be the hero
Of our clandestine tailored tales
Regardless how omnibus the chronicles,
Or how rippling the wave of climax,
Or how dark the corners of the nadir,
It will narrate the atrocity
Of our dime a dozen breaths
Shallow or unfathomable,
In synergy with the heartbeat or not.
Sometimes, I do confabulate
With the cajoling omnipresence of hope
And submit to its scheme and proposition
That the struggling and the somnolent undertow
Makes a dogged-hungry hero,
And yonder this sedative restrain;
This famished comatose sleep
Of an oppressed hero or heroine
Solders one from rubbish slivers
Into a potent artillery of silvers
And the anguish veers and sprayed
Asphalt to the grave.
Do you bleed in your riling fists?
Or do you bleed in your asphyxiated hilt?
I, for one, was honed a claymore
And you can picture me
Glistening at the back of the hands
Of the yawning sunset
And erecting motionless
Into a small hill of the earth
Like a string to a buried puppet
Pleading, in its taut stance
To be stricken and undulate
Into the emollient hands
Of a puissant hero
With profound caverns in calluses
Of the yielding palms;
A raddled blade
Shrilling for the mellifluous
Hands of suicide.
poem by Norman Santos
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A Wraith In The Mist. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The Fifth)
On the green little isle of Inchkenneth,
Who is it that walks by the shore,
So gay with his Highland blue bonnet,
So brave with his targe and claymore?
His form is the form of a giant,
But his face wears an aspect of pain;
Can this be the Laird of Inchkenneth?
Can this be Sir Allan McLean?
Ah, no! It is only the Rambler,
The Idler, who lives in Bolt Court,
And who says, were he Laird of Inchkenneth,
He would wall himself round with a fort.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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A good sword is the one left in its scabbard.
He that strikes with the sword shall be stricken with the scabbard.
Thousand Wars in One Day
I rouse up from a hefty bunt
Of a hapless, sleepless dreaming
With a dehydration manifesting
All over my paper thin body
Brought upon a short-lived revelry
That tinkered in last night's episode
And the post blues are not leaving me
Along with the ethereal phantoms
That comes to life every zenith
Of the darkness of night time
Where the hands of the clock
Would steal a chance to touch
Each other, though like fireworks,
Ephemeral but orgasmic,
And as I raised to bow my head
Upon another meandering
In this labyrinthine garden
I shroud myself with valiance
Plastering a shattered vying
Last night's rain failed to purge it
Though I was sodden, profoundly,
And sleep botched recuperation
Like a butcher instead of an angel
That would knead all my chafing
Into her pristine tranquility
And forgetting was not an option
Anymore, since I had feigned
To be stronger than repression
And I do not blame, or I cannot,
For I could only sink myself
As invisible fingers pressed
Upon the hole in my forehead
Brought upon by a stray bullet
The less comfortable pillow
Is sublimely inhospitable
And the hearth of this marble
Does not even have to withdraw
The second kind of loneliness
Defined and defied all that there is
In this day, after yesterday,
Before the vanished tomorrow
So there, in the battlefield
In front of a colossal mirror
In my mint green bedroom
I mused upon myself undraped
In the metaphorical sense
And I saw all these scars
Running in my abused frame
And it appeared, if not exactly, as if
‘Twas greater than my goblet
Yet, no one even cared
As I selflessly threw my safeguard
In the concoction of mud and blood
And held my the claymore higher
Without thinking about my grandeurs
Or the horrors, and it makes
Everything harder at its best
To vie dying selflessly and find
No worthy intention would
Appreciate and be available
To make a martyr or a hero
Who fought a thousand war
In one lonely Wednesday.
poem by Norman Santos
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Good sword has often been in poor scabbard.
Scottish Gaelic proverbs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Who draws his sword against his prince must throw away his scabbard.
Whosoever draws his sword against the prince must throw the scabbard away.
Poetry is a sword of lightning, ever unsheathed, which consumes the scabbard that would contain it.
quote by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The scabbard is content to be dull when it protects the keenness of the sword.
aphorism by Rabindranath Tagore from Stray Birds (1916), translated by Rabindranath Tagore
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Wit in women is apt to have bad consequences; like a sword without a scabbard, it wounds the wearer and provokes assailants.
quote by Elizabeth Montagu
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sword Of Mine
The Sword that I carry
Though made not of iron or steel,
It is a mighty sword
That I proudly do so wield.
Though it wont break the skin
Or combat the weapons of a foe
But this is a mighty sword of mine
More precious than silver or gold.
This sword that I carry
I proudly display it in my hand,
For I know this sword of mine
Is greater, than any other mans.
It comforts me when I am tired
It will warm me when I am cold
It will lie down beside of me
To protect, and strengthen my soul.
The sword that I hold
Is tattered, and so very worn
It has been a friend along side of me,
In the sunshine and many storms.
It has shown me a path to follow
And has lit the road that I walk,
And those nights when I was alone and scared
Then to me, I could hear it talk.
The sword that I wield
Though may be different, in shape or size,
But it is the same sword
Which for years has cushioned the souls cry.
It has been here since the dawn of time
And will be here when the great walls fall,
And then when all men of war and hate reflect,
My sword, will be the mightiest sword of all.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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The Collective: The Demented Soldier
A fist, a gun, a belligerent soul to ramble;
A soldier sifted from colossal fears
In sanguinary grounds you amble
With valiance often excessively fierce,
A turret you held not to fumble
Amidst the delusion of mocking leers
In times of calamities, steadfast you are
Beguiling yourself with such convictions
Shredded from a destitute war;
Wrath on trigger, crosshair visions
But inside yourself ran the scar—
The bomb that fulminates the turbulent condition
Soldier lost, wield not a rifle
For treachery lingers not in your dominion
This torment in your head maims you a cripple
Armed with loathe of weak constitutions
So let the bastion slumber but do not topple
Vex yourself no more with hostile dispositions
The crowd roared, you shot the adversary
The king bled from the mirror of tyranny
poem by Norman Santos
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