597 replies to this topic

[PainBrush]

A big tough Cimmerian killer
saw that pulp mags needed a filler.
he was soon a best seller
for an inspired Texan fella.
all his tales are still a big thriller.
----
Mighty Thor with his new horn of power
did hammer the door of the tower.
after tasting the flesh
of this hot Sorceress
he crawled home like a sore wilted flower. 
----
A buxom witch who lived alone
had found a big gnarled mammoth bone.
with muscular cries
she tried it for size.
but it would not fit onto her throne.

<{POST_SNAPBACK}>

- naughty , bawdy , wicked , & great !

[Ironhand]

----
Mighty Thor with his new horn of power
did hammer the door of the tower.
after tasting the flesh
of this hot Sorceress
he crawled home like a sore wilted flower. 
----

<{POST_SNAPBACK}>

I bet he wath thore all over.

[PainBrush]

- jutht don't thing a thong ironhand .

[Ironhand]

Thing, thing a thong, thing out happy, thing out long...

Thorry, I jutht couldn't help it.

[Crom]

Thith ith getting thilly...

[Buxom Sorceress]

This Hyborian poetry thread
has got a virus in it's head.
against this spreading lisp
i pronounce clear and crisp
"With this sword i kill the bug dead!" ..

[Borumas]

His blade is sharpened upon the stone
making an edge so keen
to severe flesh and bone
in night only seen the blade's gleam

To the doomed man on duty
his head relieved of his shoulders
the body hid, the wealth of booty
carried by arms thick as boulders

Wealth to spend on drink and wench
tales to listen and tales to tell
outside in the streets lies the stench
of misery, suffering, death, and hell

[Hotei]

While it is not Hyborian, or even Sword & Sorcery (and some will not even consider it real poetry!) I wanted to post something I did in tribute to one of the most fascinating events during World War I, the Christmas Truce of 1914. On Christmas Eve, in trenches only a few dozen yards from the "enemy", the Brits suddenly heard the Germans begin to sing carols. One thing led to another until men from both sides were meeting in No Man's Land, exchanging gifts of cigarettes, buttons, and addresses to write to once the War was over. This happened all along a fairly substantial stretch of territory. In some places hostilities resumed the next morning, in others the Truce lasted past Boxing Day. One can only wonder what would happen if all across the Front the soldiers had simply stood up and told their superiors, "No. We are done. If you want this war fought, do it yourselves!" and gone home to their wives, mothers, families.

I didn't do anything too special, simply composed new words (and not particularly well at that) to Clement C. Moore's "A Visit from St. Nicholas."

?Twas the Night before Christmas, and all through the trenches,
Not a soldier was stirring, as icy rain drenches.
They looked at each other, and ducked down for cover
Hoping the war would shortly be over.

Tommy and Jerry hugged No Man?s Land
Each company reduced to a small ragged band
The watch had just changed, the men chilled to the bone
Each one wanting no more than to simply go home

Behind wire barbed, their arose a new clatter
So very different from machine-gun chatter.
The Germans were singing, praising the Savior
While the Brits wondered at this new behavior.

Muddied and haggard, the Jerries crossed No Man?s Land
The rifles forgotten, gifts in their hands
They saluted their foes, and said with simplicity
?On this night at least, may we forget our hostilities.?

The Brits got up then, no fear for their lives
Fraternized with the enemy, that night at St. Yves.
To hell with the brass-hats, and the Kaiser verdammt!
They celebrated that night, between their two camps.

Tommy met Jerry, with friendship and mirth
And for one night, at least, peace reigned on the earth
The officers ordered them down, their mustaches twitching
But the men, those who fought, just ignored their bitching.

Like dry leaves before the wild hurricane rages
Laughter filled the air, for the first time in ages.
Teams were drawn up, and a ball was produced
And a soccer game played, during the truce

The swapped cigarettes, buttons, and addresses
Happy, for once, for all that war depresses
It dawned in their heads that all men were brothers
Regardless of nations, religions, or mothers

They were covered in mud, from their heads to their feet
And the gleam in each eye spoke no chance of defeat
Regardless of nations, this night they were friends
For the moment not caring who won the War in the end

Their eyes ? how they twinkled! Their humor so crude!
Their waists a bit thinner, their demeanor so rude!
No longer taking time to tuck in their shirts
And the beards on their chins were clotted with dirt
The butts of cigars they held clenched in their teeth
Tobacco smoke blown in rings, in lieu of pine wreaths
An officer joined them, red face and thick belly,
He?d snuck them a treat, fine raspberry jelly.

He was hairy and plump, a right jolly old Hun
And he offered the men some honey-glazed buns!
From the officers? mess, he snuck them, he said
His demeanor spoke plain; no reprisal to dread.

In a damn few short days, the killing would resume
And the trenches would again serve as a living tomb
Scratching my head as my hands turn the pages
I?d found this strange tail, near-lost to the ages.

Wondering what would happen, if the War had ended that night
That cold, lonely Christmas, the men refusing to fight.
And I was heard to exclaim, as I shut the book tight,
?Merry Christmas to all, and to all, a good night!?

[Strom]

My first foray into this great thread - I call it "Hyborian Rage"

It?s raining in Cimmeria
Cold drops soothe my battle hysteria
I know without question the end is nigh
I'm dying here where I lie

Hyboria is dark & red with blood
Her body lies still in the mud
I know now her death was not quick
Loathe my enemy, the savage Pict

Tracked the murderer all night
To Crom's land of barbarian might
Vengeance was mine, no matter my life
I killed the bastard Pict that murdered my wife

I looked to the sky as my life seeped out my chest
I look for Crom, knowing I?m only a guest
Mayhap with my death Crom will let me sit at his table
For cold vengeance was mine and this tale no fable

[Borumas]

Those were really nice, good job.

[PainBrush]

. I hate you guys !!!! I wish I could do that , I've got an imagination to rival Abdul Alhazrad , but I just can't think in words , it's all pictures & colors & sounds & feelings , but I can't even knock out a limerick .......pphhllllllpppttthhhhh !!!! - it's always raining & thundering in my head too hahaha , so I really liked the grim tone of that one Strom !!!

[Borumas]

On knarled ground I sleep in day,
while at night I roam and hunt
for unwary Northmen to slay
with my axe sharp and knife unblunt

the campfire leaves them night blind
as they stare into it and tell tales
of deaths they brought and goods they find
silently the axe hits home like driving nails

I leave them there to be found
a warning I'm coming for them all,
this place for them is unholy ground
twas them that made my kindred fall

I won't rest until their riegn ends
I will creap and slay as their due
the Viking's bane comes like wind
and his name is Brian Boru

[Strom]

Thanks for the kind words Borumas and Painbrush - I've really enjoyed your efforts as well! The poem was fun to write.

[Buxom Sorceress]

A big tough Cimmerian killer
saw that pulp mags needed a filler.
he was soon a best seller
for an inspired Texan fella.
all his tales are still a big thriller.
----
Mighty Thor with his new horn of power
did hammer the door of the tower..
..with muscular cries
she tried it for size...

<{POST_SNAPBACK}>

- naughty , bawdy , wicked , & great !

<{POST_SNAPBACK}>

many thanks for your enthusiastic kind words 'O Lord of the Brush'.
glad u are still tuned-in to my wicked wavelength.

encouragement like yours always gets my creative juices flowing again + again..
..Hyboria here i come again... [soon to rhyme again..]

[Strom]

Almost forgot...

By order of the Buxom One Here's my New Years poem moved from the New Years thread:

Drink deep of the mead tonight
For the morrow brings new delights

Adventure & knowledge we seek
For Conan.com's no place for the meek!





I think I was drunk but my memorys fuzzy...

[Buxom Sorceress]

..Tracked the murderer all night
To Crom's land of barbarian might
Vengeance was mine, no matter my life
I killed the bastard Pict that murdered my wife...

<{POST_SNAPBACK}>

dear STROM, delighted u have joined our hyborian poetry club.
u have a real feel for the grimness of hyboria with your 1st poem. well done.
thanks + big kisses from me ***
-----
MORE WELCOMES..
hey BORUMAS, 2 good poems already. a fine start.

hey HOTEI, u have proved your talent in WW1. now lets see u in hyboria please?

+ my thanks to u ALL for your hard work + fantasy creativity. more please?
our poetic 2006 has got off to a fine start indeed.
cheers guys ***

[Buxom Sorceress]

..but I can't even knock out a limerick...

<{POST_SNAPBACK}>

oh surely u can 'knock one out' specially for me [your fave buxom exotic dancer + bouncing lap-warmer..]?

please read it to me next week after my 'whirling Shem dervish' performance here at the packed 'Thigh-bone Tavern' in olde Tarantia?
*Then claim your reward
from the Mistress of bawd*

[PainBrush]

At your request Mz. B. - no bawdy limerick tho....


Leagues from home and many more to go
dig in for the night , out of the snow.
Beneath the drip-edge of an evergreen tree
cross-legged for hours , whetstone on knee.

Honing his soul by the moonlights eerie gleam
the night sky is much brighter than it might seem.
on the dry needle carpet the softest of footfalls
off in the distance , a small but hungriest of calls .

It's not brother bear , too stealthy for he
ah , green glowing eyes so low , again it is she.
The mother wolf who's followed all day long
the call , her small pups hungry night song .

She's only come after the food-fires light
has faded for hours gone out for the night.
He finds the squirrel bones in the ashes he sifts
and quietly slowly his hand he then lifts .

Not for an hour , not for two , finally after three
she begins to slowly approach the tree .
His arms past numb , but his eyes are alight
all the while she never let his gaze from her sight .

The starveling pups had the skinned hides
for the bones now , cautiously mother abides .
Concerned for his hand yet still unable to move
her thoughtful eyes do something beautiful prove .

With ears & tail low , and after so long staring
she quickly trots up beyond the point of caring .
Showing her teeth , yet ears still held back
it was clear she had no intent to attack .

As she gently takes the bones he held out
she's frightened & leaps away at his shout.
It's been a harsh winter and food has been rare
the next mans intents will not be to share .






- okay it was really summertime not winter , I wasn't only walking tho I was miles in the woods , I had my mountain-bike , it was really turkey sandwiches not roasted squirrel , & we have wolves in Michigan but I wasn'tthat far North , it was some coyotes . And oh yeah , I didn't have any of my swords with me to sharpen haha , but I had to make this a Hyborian thing (I need stuff to illustrate anyhow ) . But it was night , & tho wolves howl , - coyotes don't exactly , they sound like a woman crying in the distance in the woods & make the hair stand up on your arms & neck & your nipples hurt from the adrenalin goosebumps !!


p.s. I have to give credit where it's due , the first couple lines of Borumas' poem above 'gnarled ground' & 'campfire' & the 'Cimmerian rain' in Stroms poem started me off . I know this much , they tell writers "write what you know " - or it won't ring true , so for an hour tonite I was back in those woods !

Edited by PAINBRUSH, 12 January 2006 - 08:57 AM.

[Borumas]

That was damn good Painbrush, lol, I wrote that one you refer to cause I'm currently reading The Lion of Ireland and thought it would be cool to tell a little tale of him.

[PainBrush]

Thanks Borumas , the stuff you wrote was really damn good too , if you say mine was good , that's a real compliment indeed . - That was too much like work to keep the rythm & the rhyme , & I'm no singer !!