Ah history bless’d and yet accurs’d.
To steal the words meant sole for me.
Abusing so mine own sweet heart:
Through inky depths he cannot see.
Oh for the days of oliphants
and rooms basked in an orange glow
where with hotter touch than making love
our better selves used words to show.
The path is dark
through twisted trees
where bracken trips
and rips the knees
Where all the heart
in shadows lay
with silence from
the birds and bees.
Darkness drapes
from every thing
and gathers mistily below
the places most men
pale have seen
and where many
have entrapped been.
Comes a brightness,
blazing sword
wielded by a winged one
followed by a spearman lone
as swordfolk follow
his baritone.
Silence broken by a song
piercing as the light of day,
and behind this fearless throng
one walks emitting shining ray.
Though there is burning
on the air
deeply breathing they do come.
The darkling things
gather close
to watch what may now
be undone.
Small the band
but great the heart,
blessed beings
brutal art,
come to lay the darkness down.
Michael’s brond
a blazing bears
the slaughter lighted
all around.
Those gathered
know not their true names,
but know their purpose
here is found.
The Spearman knows how to command
The Singer pushes darkness back
The Swordfolk long have fought this band
The Light a beacon in this foul black.
Not a one of us is pure
Human, fallen, each unsure
Bless us each as we rest
give us peace while we can
help us learn what path is best
to slay the darkness that hunts man.
Tales speak of the end in light
but also of the lengthy night.
while you walk
through the paths of canvas bright
through the garden of snapping flags
and shimmering firelight
while you walk
over drying fields of green
past grandest gates
and other things you’ve seen
while you walk
upon a cloth-soft floor
to lie upon your curtained bed
and dream of coming war
while you walk
upon the vanished land renewed
I see through your lonely eyes
for nothing they exclude
while you walk
the roads of grass and stone
or pound the hammer long
know that you are not alone
while you walk
and watch the stars to see
soon enough your eyes will rise
and with your star will be.
Just as I imagined
the space surrounding you
is uncluttered and solid,
a contrast of gold and black,
like the lightness and darkness
behind your eyes.
Was it for the things
you carried so many times
that this life calls to you?
A life on the Roman roads,
of tents and shields;
a field of rice tinged with blood,
and the smoke of gunpowder;
a forest filled with prayer,
faith used as a weapon.
The many battles,
the many taken,
the many lost.
Here, you root and grow.
Your hands do simple work,
surrounded by all you passed
on road after road:
hives of bees,
fields of wheat,
houses with beds and tables
and chairs with four legs.
You lay this life down
as an altar to whatever
domestic gods gather about you.
Fine offerings of honey,
of spice and soil,
of wax and feather,
of egg and grain.
All these things are,
as the gifts of Able,
pleasing in the eyes of the Lord.
Forgiveness
comes from out of the earth,
each tender shoot
a sign of absolution.
My feelings of this survey don’t reflect
The efforts that I see you all put in
Uncounted hours and slides you must collect
But in humor attempted find chagrin.
For while your wit is pithy live I’m sure
Within the context of the brightened screen
Regrettably it reads not as demure
but quite exclusionist and rather mean.
So in the future I would like to see
A survey simple that you just let be.
Where were you
when the first sword was drawn?
By northern hills in icy dawn,
Past fields of wheat and barley wide,
Where sweeping rivers meet the tide?
Where were you
when the first sword was drawn?
Near fighting men with heart and brawn
Who eagle-like flew o’re the sea
To make their mark on history.
Where were you
when the first sword was drawn?
Holding needle to jupon,
Or painting on the wooden shield
that men of valor take to field.
Where were you
when the first sword was drawn?
Marching toward a foreign lawn
Holding rippling banner high
Red and white beneath blue sky.
Where were you
when the first sword was drawn?
Waiting for the denouement,
Breathless as each one proceeds
to match his chivalry with deeds.
Where were you
when the first sword was drawn?
As one we rallied, king and pawn,
to show the many gathered nations
a tale to tell for generations.
Once a to a thistle came a bee
which upon his stem alighted
to consort with blossoms sweet;
the thistle was delighted.
Said the thistle to the bee,
You fear not my greeny thorn,
It is plain that you could love me
better than all others born.
I see you have a thorn yourself,
A maiden thusly self-protected
Could sleep so well upon my down,
By my prickles so unaffected.
The bee drank in his nectar fine
She buzzed her wings in gentle song
She danced her dance upon his leaves
And kissed each flower that came along.
Swooning in the highland wind
The thistle felt his joy ignited
But as his petals slowly drained,
He found his love was unrequited.
Gaily bedecked with golden pollen
the merry bee flew to her hive
And the thistle wept a milky tear
of love bereft now and deprived.
Young men and maids who hear this tale
Fall not in love with those who tarry
Be not the longing thistle here
who trusts to fast and is not wary.
And never be the flighty bee
Who samples each and every flower
with your stinger in your hand,
to nestle in and then devour.
In everything, be tempered true
And love will find you where you are.
Think of the thistle and the bee
E’re you set your heart too far.
Knew they not when sat to rest
that on a quest they were near sent;
already were they on a quest –
to seek the path where’ere it went.
The moonlight splashed across the leaves.
The path wove through a forest land.
The lady and the lord did weave
where branches bent to woodwright’s hand.
Faerie lights did mark the way
O’re bracken and the stony ground
but they could see as bright as day,
with eyes and hearts both looking round.
His hand was rough against her own
Her sleepy head his shoulder bore
The night belonged to them alone,
In softest, whispered tones they swore.
Her hand was soft upon his arm,
His chestnut hair against her cheek,
He swore her safety from all harm
She pledged no danger ere to seek.
Though darkness she might have to wrest,
She vowed he’d be alone no more,
holding his hand upon her breast
as over both pale light did pour.
These vows most solemnly were sealed,
a contract of the sweetest kind,
while in the scented pine they kneeled,
as hands and souls did gently bind.
The moon had made her red curls white
He noted as he raised her hand,
A fair fae king within her sight,
the noblest, she thought, in the land.
He walked her over rock and trail,
Unto her home where they then stood.
Their chivalrous bond never to fail,
so pledged and signed within the wood.
Knew they not when sat to rest
that purist courtly love they’d found,
and with it ended their great quest
within the forest’s dappled ground.
If I were a gardener
and you were the land,
I would draw sweet stems
over the ground of you,
with leaves drawn out
each by each
with the sunlight of my touch,
a blossoming kiss atop each one.
If I were a woodwright
and you were a tree,
I would lay you down gently,
remove your bark piece by piece
to slowly reveal the gold below.
I would run my hands along you
and envision all the beauty
my hands could make with you.
If I were a potter
and you were soft clay,
I would ask you quietly
what you wished to be,
move and dance with you
a pas d’deux of shoulders and wet hands,
spinning and dreaming
until we are both empty vessels,
waiting for fire and filling.