The War On Women III: The Dead Troubadour ©

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written April 11th, 2012

Listen here for my reading of “The War On Women III: The Dead Troubadour.”


A double summer brightness
Infuses these spring mornings
Born from late winter storms.
And the near hysteria of bird cries
Reminds Sir Laureate,
The King’s chosen versifier,
To dedicate again,
Those flattering strains,
Which tell His Highness
“Faith relies on Reason.”

Wet wood’s resinous musk,
And the smell of grass
Producing grasses
With the lusty fecundity
Of some green, pervasive animal
In rut, these seasonal urges
Might reconcile us
Even to Sir Laureate’s atrocities.
We might deign to dress for dinner
And re-enter those bland salons,
Devoid of spring’s entangling colored ribbons.
We might stare at the charcoal portrait
Of a lady, approving her bowed head
And lowered eyes.  We might slip our knife
Back in our trouser pocket,
And tight-smiled, join this Christian company,
Of the obediently self-anointed.

Maimed rhythms and unrhymed vendettas
Rebel against these blandest policies.

We have not forgotten the war against the bees.
We recall the stench of acres of burning grasses.
We remember the corpses of children rotting in ditches.

The government’s decrees be damned!

Sir Laureate lies naked in the grass,
His body desecrated, a mucilage
Of colored viscera, blasted by sunlight,
Plucked apart by birds.
The lady has escaped her black pastel,
Her green faith armed against the King’s red reason,
Her wild eyes starred with vengeance for her children.


Speak Your Mind


* Copy this password:

* Type or paste password here: