Chess Poems Anyone?

art is nothing but risque, post and let the chaste howl.

creation is not for the faint of heart
for, yes, a part of the heart is at risk, eh?

and imitation is but the feigned of art
and apart from the heart meant to lead astray

so i'll post this small smatter of tripe
too soon (does it really matter if its ripe?)

a buffoon wafting bad scents... turning the trolls
into uncouth curs that chase and prowl

after rhyming faux contents, churning the droll
they'll fear to look mean - so they'll praise the foul

I sit and stare:

The board is square.

I stare and sit:

It does not fit.

I stare and stare:

My king is where?

I sit and sit:

It's time to quit.

That's what I hate:

My king is mate!

Great sonnet, Pawnsolo. I have to admit, I haven't read the rest. I'll have to get back to those as well.

32 men standing on a black and white checkered board

Tactic after Sacrifice they play

Murdering and slaying all pieces, emptying the board

Until there is nothing left

Except for two lone kings, standing beside each other

They shook hands in agreement to a draw

Topic back by popular demand.
Stickied by The Man.
Conceived by The Muse.
Now pregnant with poems?
Deliver! Post art here -
Never post-partum fear.

Chess: All the kids are doin' it.

In a game recently,

The English got a chance

To try to win a game

And it failed not to entrance.

The opening went well,

Pretty even I would say.

However, my current plight

I endeavoured to parlay.

My position did infact improve

As the game went on.

I gained a central passer

And went up a pawn.

The game continued going

And my passer made his way

To the queening square

Which was deep into the fray.

The black troops fought hard

But my pawn was just too tough.

My white men were making

Black's situation rough.

At last the pawn was just

One single square from queendom.

I was very close to having

Three monarchs o'er my kingdom.

At last the fatal blunder

Arose in the form

Of the common knight fork

That won his queen so forlorn.

After that it went downhill

For black really, really fast

His scattered forces covered

By a white overcast.

My pawn would queen in one move more

And his king would be out of luck.

The game was just more proof

That, for the other guy, passers really suck!

                                        The Peon

                                      by Rob Anderson　

                                               Off on his own

                                           He stood to the side

                                      Defenseless and undefended

                                    Ignored by the swarming horde

                                  The peon witnessed the slaughter.

                                        Brave Knights cruelly slain

                                            Assaulting tall Castles

                                                  Impregnable.

                          Sacrificing their lives in defense of the Queen.

                            While Bishops bold and hell bent on revenge

                                           Raged in righteous fury.

                                           Baptized in cold blood

                                          They cross then re-cross

                                          Advancing and retreating

                                        Feinting left, attacking right

                                      They skirt the enemy defenses

                                    Probing, searching for weaknesses.

                              Breaching the wall to lay siege on the King

                           Trapped then behind barriers of his own design.

                        His Queen with her wandering ways too long delayed

                      No aid or assistance from her forthcoming and powerless

                   To halt the progress of the threat that advanced un-stoppable.

                 Un opposed, un hindered, nothing in his path, he rushes forward.

                Too long ignored and scorned in persuit of the King's high courtiers

               The peon in passing snatches sweet victory from the jaws of defeat.

Truly a beautifully written piece, Robert!

And etymologically correct! From: Wikipedia: The word pawn actually is derived from the Old French word "paon" which comes from the Medieval Latin term for foot soldier, and is etymologically cognate to peon.

Oh to watch the attacks in their priming!

Crescendos of tactics and timing!

As with glorious chess,

I aim for greatness

In the world of limerick rhyming!

The king sent his pawns out to war,

But there was nothing they hated more.

The knights boldly beat back

Their half-hearted attack

And sent them crawling away on the floor.

Very nice Robert. I've always been impressed by those types of poems even if I don't know the name for them. 

Thank you for the kind words, Writch and Electricpawn.  I don't know the name for this type of poem either, it just seemed to materialize in front of me.  I get lucky sometimes!

It is called a concrete. 

Not my favorite style, I feel it restricts meter and metaphor. Yours is quite lovely though. 

 Thanks Pawn.

The Black Knight - Rob Anderson

The enemy Knight in his ebony mail

Rode in on a steed that was armored as well.

The standard he carried was strapped to his saddle

And flapped in the breeze as he rode into battle.

He mowed down defenders like a scythe harvests wheat

And many a champion there met their defeat.

The sword that he wielded dripped rivers of blood

As he ripped through the ranks like a rampaging flood.

None that opposed him could halt his advance.

And many men died at the point of his lance.

None living nor dead were then spared from his wrath

As he trampled the bodies that littered his path.

The White Queen attacked but was blocked by his shield

And her Bishops were butchered and left on the field.

Her King was a dotard in a corner he cowered

Quaking with fear of this Knight's awesome power.

When the battle was over he surveyed the scene

And basked in the sound of the young widow's screams

Old veterans still shiver when they tell the tale

Of the enemy Knight in his ebony mail.

Well done! Granted, the only thing that makes it "chess related" is a black knight, but we'll let it slide. Anything else that would qualify it into the board/game space would discount it's impact. Take for example a substitution of "white player's" for "young widow's" - see? That greatly diminishes one's immersion.

Thanks, Writch! Thanks for the complement!  Like most of my work, I am constantly changing the wording and arrangement, even after I concidered it completed.  Your comment inspired me to further qualify it's inclusion in the Chess theme.

The White Queen attacked but was blocked by his shield

And her Bishops were butchered and left on the field.

Her King was a dotard in a corner he cowered

Quaking with fear of this Knight's awesome power.

The bishop ran up in his glittering steel

Wielding a claymore ice cold to the feel

His fingers were wrapped tight 'round the hilt

And his boots plowed through the soil and silt.

He approached the front lines and laughed in the face

Of a surly crusader who wielded a mace

He side-stepped his swing and struck at his hip

And then swept both his legs and made him flip

He then came upon a small, wiry man

Who wielded two knives, one in each hand.

He was fast and agile, but he just couldn't pierce

That endurant steel though his attacks were quite fierce.

After snuffing him out, the bishop pressed toward

The tent that housed the enemy lord.

Two guards blocked the way, both wielding spears,

But the bishop quickly ended their army careers.

Then he was met by a big burly man

Who swung a great axe whose handle was tan.

He parried a forceful overhead chop

And brought the man down with a bone-crushing flop.

Just inches from the tent's canvas door,

He was set upon by three sentries more.

One swung a staff, the second a blade,

And the third a warhammer studded with jade.

The swordsman fell with a stab to the heart.

The staff-wielder fled when his staff broke apart

The hammer man was hardy and strong but alas,

The bishop was just simply way too fast.

The hammer man fell with a sickening thud

Onto the ground and into the mud.

The bishop ripped open the tent's canvas door

And saw the king cowering on the floor.

The king begged for mercy, but received none at all.

With a mighty blow, the bishop beheaded the thrall.

The commander was dead and his mission was done.

Now it was clear that his army had won.

He exited the tent and saw that they fled,

The files of soldiers whose leader was dead.

He shouldered his claymore and started back toward

His own army's camp where he got a reward.

He was made general over all of the men

And his salary was multiplied by ten.

His deeds were sang of by minstrels abroad

And the citizens hailed him as if he were a god.

Go to any pub and you'll undoubtedly hear

Of the courageous bishop who showed no fear.

The enemy army still rues the day

That it dared to get in the Great Bishop's way.

These simple pieces haunt me.

They're not real- Though: I have bled the loss of truth whenever one is

removed. Like a newborn babe pacified on a tit suckling without control, I too generate a truth of being human in ways more openly and fully inward; yet my first movement is conceding  falsehoods, as all liars twist truth whenever forced into looking inward.

I decide to move as the milk drips into conscience purpose.

The lines of the word and the placement of desire are figurine.

Depth beckons me like death visiting a first breath. I know now that even in victory all is lost, and  that this contest will ever only tease me. Little gods. So vain as we match I. as if we shared each other of flesh is both temporal and constant.

Are we combined?

Is our spirit stretched and left stranded: dissolving into a game?

I'm afraid                                                                    That there are These little lines.

These tiny creatures who so overwhelm rationality, that passion alone dies when the next move comes knocking palely at a window.

I briefly open a reprised consolation.

I move my little delights and pleasures into the most unfortunate of situations. I indulge them  trivialities, dispositions. So continuous, that

There are times when it comes together perfectly.

No lacking of nuance without saturnine thoughts persuasive, nothing interrupts the madness of the free flowing sourced connected lines.

It is as if

time and space

separate together

and at once connecting all existence is some lonely creature self bent into repentance reflection as ennui-these minor positions act alone with  impropriety.  

And the combined understanding is lined touch separation,  conformity, continuation-

I am human, my words and my game are wholly not so.