upsilon400

I write poems, songs, and stories. Comment, like, follow, do as you wish as long as it's decent. I only speak English.

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  • upsilon400 7h

    #myself (heavily fictionalized by the way)
    I wrote a bunch of stuff but then decided to connect them to make something longer.

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    To my Bad Half

    One day the world will end
    and I will pass on, friend
    while my enemies go drink
    and dwell in darkness to think,
    while that passerby still suffers.

    The many uncounted numbers
    as I reluctantly slumber.
    I rest my head to ponder
    on past transgressions made,
    and who is this afraid?

    Why, it is a child
    whose life thus made riled
    while I perish in thought
    at the end of this plot.

    Forgive me for emptiness
    for evil is the temptress
    fulfilling my wickedness,
    and I, surpassed and surpassing
    should never see everlasting
    a wholesome scenery.

    That child does not see me
    and all good things may mock me
    for what I was not to be,
    God the holy one divine
    not Adam whose blood is mine.

    I am what you are
    when you boast to stars
    that you can shoot far
    as the eye of the sun.

    That you could lower the moon
    and hold in your hands the stars,
    as if fools construct miracles
    and wisdom misheard as rhetoric
    causes one to dawdle
    on dreams unrealistic,
    always in the minds of children
    made of clay wishing to be golden.

    Why, I was a child
    and by then was wild
    as the one I so despised
    before my very worn eyes.

    Feared and respected, a grandsire,
    it is no wonder one would tire.
    And yet I will fear the day
    of which my sense goes astray.

    Where is the road to Zion?
    Where at rest a benign dawn
    awaits the consigned,
    redeemed the once blind.
    ©upsilon400

  • upsilon400 1d

    #Medieval #fight #warrior #history #duel
    Fun fact: Most professional soldiers and mercenaries were also farmers.

    How I see this fight:
    A knight or mercenary with a longsword fights a soldier or another mercenary with a halberd.
    They stand in the middle of a battlefield after the main battle is over (looting corpses).
    The fight lasts for a few minutes (most likely 2-3 including the brief staredown)
    The halberdier has the better chance of winning since he has the range advantage and can easily pull in the sword and disrupt attacks with his halberd which could also pierce plate armor.
    Note: I imagine that both combatants are competent and fully or mostly covered in plate armor of decent quality with at least enough experience in battle. Kicking and punching was allowed in duels which usually ended as first blood. But this isn't an honorable fight since it's war, which means killing off or capturing an enemy for their ransom was allowed.

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    Champions but not Heroes

    The swordsman points tempered steel,
    eye and eye fixated front
    while eye and eye strikes him real
    beneath that helm a foe grunt
    in the midst of no-man's-land
    where many felled men lie far
    from their country's homely sand
    seen by the voyager's star.
    Here a man against a man,
    longsword against the halberd
    not like their brothers who ran
    out of ranks marching forward.

    Neither one steps defiant
    nor movement as if stone touched.
    Stand resolute, the errant
    at the ready, handles clutched.
    In grime and filth stained armor
    punctured and beaten like glass,
    one a lord, one a farmer,
    both along a stretch of grass.
    Midday when the sun is hot
    on a conflict's aftermath
    when corpses begin to rot,
    but blazed unwavering wrath

    when blood had not yet turned black
    and robbers still in the hills
    while footsteps still marked the track
    that goes by ushering rills.
    Like a bedsheet flung at ghosts,
    double edged swings 'gainst spear thrusts
    both through many clashes boast
    before they splinter and rust.
    And lost souls within death's grasp,
    whoever will fall at last
    to show the hare and starved asp
    in a fight that shall end fast.

    Honorless fought feral might
    unleashed for self-serving oaths,
    drawing devils in the light.
    Mano-a-mano, each loathes
    the other who bars his way,
    to contend for glory's sake
    and turn sanguine the noonday.
    But the hitching horns could rake
    and in moments the blade slowed
    as the footman kicked the side,
    piercing after a feint's goad
    before the noble lord died.
    ©upsilon400

  • upsilon400 2d

    #writerstolli #arspoetica_wt

    Edit: Fixed spelling errors (I blame small touch screen keyboards)

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    Transpire, Inspire, the Lyre

    It is a gift from my God
    though the pagans say it was of Apollo
    or the northman son of Odin
    who brags as poems embrace the open eared
    with a human sound and human thought,
    rousing for applause or quiet,
    bewilderment or for grieving to bloom.
    It is like a flower, a seed of mind
    surrounded with nature, so it describes
    how like a tree bowing to the sapling,
    for its own tragedy that gifts new life.
    It is there, it is here and likely everywhere.
    What is thought without man,
    a spectacle invisible without meaning.
    And man without thought
    is naught but a dumb beast that stands.
    For poetry, what would it be without man,
    and man, what would he be without poetry?
    Dull and degenerate as a wolf is savage,
    pricked without an ease to his suffering.
    No tune or voice to offer his heart
    any bread from heaven or drink from spring
    to soothe his sores with comfort and laughter.
    Truly it is a blessing, to sing of poetry.
    ©upsilon400

  • upsilon400 2d

    #ode #face #age some people just like beards

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    Ode to a beard

    Black as the shallowy deep,
    growing even though I sleep.
    I never trimmed it
    as it was unfit
    to even be a goatee,
    that these albino whiskers
    are warmless as destiny
    for a lad amongst hickers
    to claim its masculinity.

    Ardor stretched the short stubble
    amicably unshorn to vine
    until my overgrown bristles
    stock cracker crumbs and leak wine.
    Someone refined would call it coarse
    while razorless peers and wives
    consider for no divorce
    on their scruffy yet simple lives.

    But what am I called
    with a chin made bald,
    womanly and feminine
    though the young are free of sin.
    This baby face shall be man
    with dark hair on hide dyed wan
    that much our worldly populace
    will be put to shame and disgrace
    and adore how stunning a face
    full of features kept right in place.
    ©upsilon400

  • upsilon400 3d

    Lord of what flies

    A fiend spirit
    calls you a nitwit
    from the excrement pit
    with a malevolent grit,
    the flies all buzzing as he sits.

    Say not his name
    unless you bear shame
    and take part in his game.
    Flies and gnats rejoice his fame,
    Beelzebub, wings burned by flames.
    ©upsilon400

  • upsilon400 3d

    Flies

    Flies, four fly
    and disperse
    for they fly
    with a curse.
    A dead fly
    for this verse.
    ©upsilon400

  • upsilon400 3d

    Bear

    Bear. There's a bear in the trees.
    Bear. There's a bear, big and bare
    with yellow teeth
    and tearing claws underneath.
    Bear. There's a bear over there!
    There, a bear over there,
    brown as the bark,
    grizzled as the leaves.

    The long horns with their pride,
    the falcons with their eyes,
    the meek of doe and caw of crow,
    the wolf and antlered flee.

    There's a bear over there,
    a bear over there!
    And all the creatures know
    the beast with jaws spread wide,
    it stalks and walks alone
    gulping flesh and grinding bone.
    A mighty grizzled bear among the trees
    with the wrath of ten strong men!

    A bear over there,
    the brave find their grave.
    Who face it, none dare.
    ©upsilon400

  • upsilon400 4d

    Pink the eye transparent in mirror realm

    Pink the eye transparent in mirror realm,
    it may cry though lacking joy or sadness.
    Pale the body as slim as a tall elm
    staring down into the depths of madness.
    Proud the visage trickling in the mirror
    without a hint of doubt, with features great,
    the reflection evermore the clearer
    yet hands on rims and sides would dissipate
    into the heart of darkness' high office
    below the immaculate foliage
    in the dreary gloom promising a kiss.
    What sweet little tryst fragments the image
    but for a heart's sake, for love's purpose brought
    not for doxies or a harridan's lot.
    ©upsilon400

  • upsilon400 5d

    #Medieval #song #reality #realisticstories

    Image source: "Tom Bombadil" by BorjaPindado from DeviantArt

    1st line = a bill is a polearm weapon used by some Medieval infantrymen.
    3rd line = debts
    Lines 4 to 6 = illiteracy
    Line 8 = disease

    Note: If you're name so happens to be William Miller then please take no offense in this as it is a work of #fiction and the mention of your name is merely coincidental.

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    The song of William Miller

    Ill-willed is the bill
    of the man whose mill
    he works to pay bills.

    But not with the quill,
    not even his will
    would he sign with quill,
    so his name unfilled.

    Sadly he fell ill,
    unremembered Will,
    or was his name Bill
    who worked the old mill.
    ©upsilon400

  • upsilon400 5d

    Towards the stars

    To the roof the stars above, my eyes
    saw in awe the menagerie of constellations
    I could not desert the balcony
    nor fail to provide fantastic imaginations
    for the stories forming in my mind,
    retelling to the children to their fascination.
    Of a dream catcher with dreams to find
    from here to there, the earth and skies about the nations.
    A frog leaping from a lily pad
    while the gossip of the wind whistling machinations
    could send one raging, joyless, or glad
    onto their course, it shows ahead many directions.
    The fisher's net is laden with clams
    he hopes to gain a shining pearl full of perfection.
    But here I stand seeing anagrams
    in the bedecked expanse of a stellar dictation.
    And there I bide my time in mindful contemplation.
    ©upsilon400