What Churl Has Pluckt ~ Fighter Poem for Andrea

 

Sir Andrea

(ballad)

 

What churl has pluckt the yellow rose

And cast it to the ground,

As if ‘twere but a common weed

And not a fleur renowned?

 

Who was it who did not admire

This prize in full fair bloom,

Who cut it to its tender stalk

And wrought untimely doom?

 

What fellow crushed it’s yellow head—

Tore petals from the boll,

And set them spiraling to earth

Asunder from the whole?

 

Whose foot then trod them in the loam,

As from the field he strolled,

Abandoned with their heady scent

Commingling with the mold?

 

It must have been a loveless soul

To wreak such wanton woe,

For all Caid, ‘tis surely known,

Esteemed Andrea so.

 

--Philippa Llewelyn Schuyler

 

Not sure which Crown this was, but it's for Andrea and calls her a yellow rose.  I'm sure I can find it somewhere.  It may be in here already, just don't know what it's called.

Lord Richard atte Valeye ~ Fall 2022

 

Lord Richard atte Valeye

(villanelle)

An eagle – double-headed – casting ‘round

Talons flexing and eager for the fray,

One head forward-looking, one scanning down.

 

A wary argent lion hears the sound

Of wings a-beat and spies the bird of prey:

An eagle – double-headed – casting ‘round.

 

Battle met; the eagle is brought to ground,

The bird springs skyward, barely flies away

One head forward-looking, one scanning down.

 

A wing’ed fighter, formerly tree-bound

Bedeviling in his apian way

An eagle – double-headed – casting ‘round.

 

The double-beak’ed bird snaps all around

But cannot bring the bee a-buzz to bay.

One head forward-looking, one scanning down.

 

In  mighty combat the eagle was downed.

Lord Richard did not win a crown this day: 

An eagle – double-headed – casting 'round

One head forward-looking, one scanning down.

 

-- Mistress Philippa Llewelyn Schuyler

...weaver of words and wadmal

 

Garden Plots ~ sestina

 I found a sestina I forgot I wrote in 2009.  [I did find it when I looked at the label sestina.  So yay.]

 

Garden Plots

Not the ages of man, but of woman
occupy my thoughts in these passing hours,
passing now with no deliberate care
whatsoever, if once again the sleep
I seek mocks me tauntingly.  So it leaves
me mulling over the life I have made.

Was I ever that buoyant child who made
mud pies in the yard, cloning the woman
who could turn out a pie dotted with leaves
of flaky crust lovingly crafted hours
upon hours, perhaps even in her sleep,
nurturing body and soul with such care?

When in the springtime of my life, what care
did I have for the future?  As a maid
I was timeless, ageless, I slept the sleep
of innocence.  I blossomed into woman-
hood full of ideas to fill the hours
to bursting, all those green unfurling leaves.

A wandering vine took root and our leaves
entwined to form a sturdier plant, care-
fully nurtured and tended.  In the hours
of loving husbandry as we two made
a garden together, man and woman,
a sprout grew wild and free in our sleepy

valley plot.  Seasons pass as dreams in sleep;
a day dawns when our sprout ups-root and leaves
for new vistas.  This can hit a woman
hard, this bare nursery.  It took some care
to plant anew, germinating plans made
to stuff the once full but now hollow hours.

What was fallow bloomed in time; now the hours
weight lightly on my mind.  No time for sleep
it seems, as plantings old and new have made
an oasis in the desert.  New leaves
have turned, and if they are gold-tinged I care
not.  A mature garden suits this woman.

Happy is the woman who fills the hours
given her with care.  When she drifts asleep
to dreams of falling leaves, her peace is made.

Ellen Shipley (c) 2009