Troubadour

This is an oldie! We read Canterbury Tales in English Honors during my senior year of high school and the teacher challenged us to create our own character in poem form. Most people did pimps and drug dealers, I kid you not. Man, reading this again...What a crappy poem. Lol. But here you go, anyway!

Passing into his second year in Brittany,
Here rides The Bard, hailing from far off Iberia.
Exotic is his scent, often wafted in an aroma of ginger--
His cryptic persona attracts many,
But that mostly of young dames
Whom he loves to flatter with his gentlemanly Chivalry.

Never is he claimed to one maiden,
And is usually the beau of many---
Without them any the wiser.

Though a charmer with his rugged looks,
It his skill with the mandolin and flute
That brings the most to his vanity.
Regardless, Aneirin would be jealous
Of this man's tales and melodies.

Any local troubadour or minstrel, I daresay,
Eyes this Iberian with scorn;
For his nimble fingers strike flawlessly
And his voice would make
Even the most pious choir ashamed.
Not one soul can escape the eerie tune.

Oftentimes, however, he looks over his shoulder
With a paranoid stare, always ever watchful of the horizon
But not for any envious musician.
Exiled was he, from his homeland,
With rising debts of gambling
And the squabble of angry husbands;
Quite the sinful man, it is rumored,
But prays louder than any priest or peasant.
Thus, habitual in pander,
But deathly frightened of Hell Fire.

His demeanor is something obviously foreign,
With colors of royal blue and sylvan hues.
A beret crowns his head,
Three quail feathers affixed to the right;
Quite long they are, as if to attract a mate.
His hair, black as night,
Always kept in a trail,
And away from bright green eyes---
A rarity among brown irises.

An overcoat he always wears, brown and tarnished,
Fox fur of white lightly wreath his collar;
Underneath, there is a vest of dark blue
And a tunic of emerald, buckled with an intricate belt.
Upon his feet, soft leather boots,
Stolen from a Highwayman that almost do not match.

His skin, a light brown on its own,
Brings a skeptical eye from lords and ladies
Of the courts he charms.
But soon after,
They are wooed by his songs.
Lastly, though, his smile---
Something is not quite right.
As it is rumored he was tortured,
His back molars being the price
To pay to live another day.

He is indeed a wanderer,
Always relying upon the charity of
Churches and rogues of the wood.
Not one court in all of Britain
Can claim owns upon him,
Though he prefers the lifestyle of a troubadour.

His name?
I heard it only once,
For he has many faux names, but indeed,
It is Narciso de Calixto.