Sincere apologies, and some haikus

My goodly readers: all of you have my deepest apologies. My life has been somewhat-more-consuming than I usual, and I confess that my blog has not been highest in my priorities. Whether or not this will be the last confession and the last break from my weekly posts, I do not deign to declare.

I have just finished a rather absorbing book called 'A Song For Nagasaki', which I recommend to all who have the time for such jewels. The book clearly demonstrates what makes humanity great; and what can equally bring it down. Anyone, regardless of nationality, should take some time to read and reflect on this impressive work. But back to the second half of the title.

For those of you who have not heard of the suffering of the people known to the world as Yazidis, I suggest you utilize our ever-resourceful internet to learn more about their courage. And for those of you who already know about them, several of the following poems are dedicated to them.


A girl with a child;
On the news, from far away,
she looked like my friend.

Banners fall and rise,
sometimes black as a dark night;
raging against the sky.

Men scurry like ants,
ruthless with hate and weapons;
they seem small to us.

In summer fear spread,
In autumn courage fought back,
How will winter fare?

Jewels

If all the tears of yesteryear lined up to be wiped away,
They'd flood the earth and salt the ground and turn our sunshine grey.
But rather than build higher barns each year, to store our tears away,
we throw them up for God to bear, and wait for what he'll say.
Yes, each wet-streaked tiny handful, we offer up each day,
He takes from us, and keeps for us, in Jerusalem far away.

In some obscure sense of things, I don't think they shall ever fade;
but every tear shall be crystallized, kept on velvet, kept with jade,
placed on altars, revered, displayed-
And the saints will stride, like Solomon, with these jewels, all arrayed.

Every little child's cheek that feels a slipping tear,
shall feel the touch of he who holds his servant's blood most dear,
so know that he comes to wipe that tear, take it- store it away,
So that when gone are pain and fear, we'll find these jewels saved.

A poem for all the watchful eagles

Just this afternoon, I was walking down a somewhat secluded mountain slope, when a military plane flew over my position and discharged an air drop. I at first was somewhat hesitant to investigate the package as I may well have arguably strayed past the decaying fences that mark the limits of Area 51, but as no one, terrestrial or extra, approached the delivery, I finally decided it must be for me and went to investigate. I was not disappointed. The following 'poem', (so to speak) I arranged in no particular order from a series of telegraphs inside the air-drop. Whatever their meanings are, or why they were delivered especially to me, may remain a mystery for quite some time.


For all that is bright and beautiful,
for all things sane and wise,
for all who and kind and merciful,
let us clear for them our skies;
We can bring down wrath and fire,
we can sling down roars and smoke,
we can drop them food and blankets-
but can we give them hope?

We soar on celestial azure heights-
blessed to be free by God above,
we watch the world with an eagle's eye,
we descend down like a dove;
we claim the fortunes of the stars:
Fifty, dreams come true,
we plough the nations for fertile wars,
and spread our fearless tune.

From lofty, pristine eagle's view, we watch the world unfold:
fire, fear, ambition; strife,
we drop a crate, or take a life,
'till the smoke, with terror rife, proclaims that a war is told.

"What gives us such authority?"- we reason, from on high,
"why should we fight a stranger's war?"- we preach, while children die,
"who are our friends and who our foes?" we bluster to the wind,
"and why should we have hearts at all?" we muster, in our sin.

Oh proud, haughty, imperial eagle,
weep not for a crumbling Rome.
Shed not your tears for a witless land;
(lest they run from sea to murmuring sea,)
and salt the fields and flood your home, no.
Weep for those who know no flag,
fight for those who have known fear,
uphold those whose shoulders sag,
drain for them your lifeblood dear;
  
If those that loose their lives for love,
gain them back a thousandfold,
let us fight to stop this flood,
smite and strike their stranglehold;

Let rather our eagle fall for mercy, 
than be fatten, plucked, and encased in gold,
Rather we crack our talons smiting slave chains,
than watch as innocence is killed and sold.

Black against Blue

Dare the ancient azure sky above,
whether in cold contempt or gracious love,
defy the flags stretched black against her,
fluttering ghastly, to consume the world?

Though this cloud but dot our horizon,
barely the size of an outstretched hand,
it shall come grasping, groping,
 to smother and choke; to seize the land.

Let us not be idle against this darkness,
let our hearts not be cold to pain,
let us stand with our backs to the sunset,
face to the growing, gaping stormfront,
and face unblinking the slew of rain.

We must not let that thirsty desert,
shaded as it is, by swords,
to cast its lengthening, sharpening shadows;
Do we think it will be stopped with words?

The Street is Mine Tonight

As the title above states, this is not a poem. Apologies to all who may have gotten excited about the return of my poetic side, as far as I know it was last spotted purchasing a first class one-way air ticket to Costa Rica.

This is a rambling. It is the bizarre half-hearted sortie of my cold reasoning brain to create something attractive. For those of you who are in need of poetry in a desperate way, I prescribe Longfellow or Emily Dickenson.


The Street is Mine Tonight

The Street is mine tonight;
I alone share its company,
with the asphalt, with the gravel-rocks, with the street lamps burning orange in the dusk.

I listen to the comforting rhythm of my feet-falls, like the beating of a mothers heart,
Soft rubber on hard asphalt, two feet on a single road.
Ah yes, the street is all mine tonight, mine alone to cherish, to share with none. I alone see these dusky treetops, alone I smell the summer air. No one save my two pattering feet- afterthoughts of my wandering curiosity- serve to break the silence.

Perhaps it is a selfish love. Can love be both selfish and righteous? May I dare command: "Thou shalt serve no other wanderer, oh Road, thou shalt echo my footsteps only, shine your lamps for my two eyes alone?"
Can I hoard this sacred twilight, gather up the hazy purple air as treasure to be counted, stored?

Even as I wonder, the dusk fades into night; my manna melts as it passes its due hour. For a brief fraction of every day, God showers this dusk upon me; he takes it away lest in my greed I store up baskets of worms. I cannot command the evening air, I cannot silence the smallest cicada, hush the faintest buzzing motor from the distant highway. The purple trees do not fade into black against the stars at my bidding, the ochre rime of the sun's passing does not give way to the deep of space at my call.

I have been rebuked, and the rebuttal is just. I have no right to hoard this dusk: I am not alone.
The street ends and I turn and head back up my hill, my back to the purpled shadow of the sun. A blur of motion catches my eye, I look heavenward to see the picturesque silhouette of a bat, swerving wildly to eat his fill. By the time I reach edge of my forested home, the guardian street light has completely filled his hollow in the trees with orange light. Everything is painted in bold black and orange; two dimensions, like a manifesto.
I eat my manna. By the time I reach my door, my daily portion has already melted into night.

For the Grief Over Wordless Voices

I found this one on a little grave beneath a crab apple tree, left for a little furry rascal, that be he alive or dead, could not have read it if he cared. But I care, and so I copy it down here to remember. It was titled 'For the Grief Over Wordless Voices'


Weep not for me, word-ful ones,
waste not tears from your unseeing eyes,
I tread now on the smoothest stones,
free to explore the boundless zones,
that stretch limitless, beyond the skies.


I walk where the mist curls deepest white,
I tread in the dew before the dawn,
I watch the stars wheel through night,
and smell the wind before the light,
wakens to kiss the lawn.

When autumn writhes in golden death throes,
there I walk in utter peace,
on mountain slopes or spreading meadows,
through thick and dew-gilt bristling hedgerows;
I have at last found my release.


Look for me where the mist rolls thickest,
smell for me on the midnight air,
feel for me when the wind buffets hardest,
hear my call when the night is darkest,
and know that I feel, and see and answer;
all that you say to the midnight air.

A poem for the darkness

During a somewhat unsettling power outage a few nights ago, my librarian requested that I go examine an eerie noise emanating from a storage closet. Fortunately the power came back on and the noises stopped before I had to investigate the closet, but nevertheless I found this poem scrawled on a discarded copy of C.S Lewis's 'Mere Christianity'. Why or how the poem got there remains a mystery.

A poem for the Darkness

When darkness curls around your eyes,
when smoky swirls engulf the sun,
when your ancient friends take up reprise;
and you and dread are seamless, one.

When fears are met and formed in flesh,
when the empty darkness whispers back,
and horrifying your fears are meshed,
a consciousness that needs no rest;
will then you admit your hollowness, your desperate needing lack?

When only evils exists to speak,
when monstrosity walks the earth alone,
will you then beg for dawn to break,
to feel and see a God of flesh, of spirit, mind and bone?

If only shadows haunt your heart,
will you ask for a light to spring,
and cherish the fire that fights the dark,
the light that no darkness comprehends;
a simple, holy thing?

For when the light first shone in the black,
the darkness knew and feared,
For the knowing darkness comprehends it not,
And though it struggled, bit and fought,
will be purified, punished, seared.

Fears are but hollow in the sunshine,
voices are silent in the light,
Listen to the One who pours the wine,
and blesses his bread, righteous, divine,
And drives the darkness from your sight.

A short story: Highest Mountain

I am not in the business of mountain climbing. Bookshelf scaling is the pinnacle of my climbing prowess, so it is with acknowledgeable surprise that I confess I found myself upon the highest mountain in the world, Mount Everest, as the humans call her. I was partaking in a particulary nasty business involving a border dispute between a Tibetan monastery and a certain classified minority group, but in my involvement with was rewarded with a short story. The yetis sought to express their gratitude for my service, but since none of them have (so far) proved to be masters of any literary genre, they gave me this small transcript they had uncovered from the peak of the highest mountain. I place it here on my blog, for all of you goodly non-classified people groups to read.


Highest Mountain:

 Inside the penthouse of a very tall building, a tall man stood in the midst of a wedding party. Loud music was blaring over the feeble attempts at conversation, but the tall man wasn't conversing. He was walking very slowly through the crowd, smiling broadly and examining those around him. No one seemed to stop and acknowledge his presence, but the rest of the party goers would snatch awkward moments of eye contact with him, he seemed to be a familiar acquaintance no one was interested in engaging. He strolled to the elevator and pushed the 'Down' button, bouncing on the balls of his heels until the door ringed. In the elevator he pushed the 'Ground' button, still smiling. There was a mirror on one wall, and the tall man spent the long descent from the penthouse examining himself with interest. He wore a very smart dark gray sports coat, but over his tie he wore a thin scarf, and over his very bright eyes a pair of glasses that were pushed just a little too far down his nose. The result was rather a bewitching blend of styles and tastes that left one appearing both wealthy and intellectual, something men have been trying for ages with only varying levels of success. His beard was well trimmed, but not too well trimmed, and had a few graying hairs streaking the brown. Somehow, they made him even more attractive rather than less.

The door ringed and opened, and another man stepped in. They both looked each other in the eye and nodded slightly, very formal though they seemed to know each other well. Everyone seemed to know the tall man, and even if they didn't he always smiled at them as if they would. The door slid shut the tall man hit the button for the highest floor. The other didn't protest.

The other man was somewhat different than the tall one; while the first's clothing was well-thought and attractive, the second's was forgettable and nondescript. He was tall as well, only a few inches shorter than the tall one, but somehow in the close space of the elevator their height made a lot of difference. In fact, the tall, commanding presence of the first man seemed to fill the elevator, and dwarf the other. Presently they passed the penthouse and the dull throb of Katy Perry's latest hit touched their little cell.

“They're having a wedding in there,” the tall man said to his partner, smiling in his grand way. “quite a lively young crowd.”

The other stifled a yawn and blinked slowly. “I imagine so. Just came from a wedding reception myself.”

The tall man observed his cell inmate. “Long commute?” he asked.

The other nodded.

“Tired?”

“Very.”

The tall man laughed. The door opened to a narrow colorless hallway, the taller one took the lead towards a flight of stairs, quickly, with an excited gait. The other tried to keep up, though his weariness was more obvious as he climbed the stairs slowly, his shoulders drooped beneath his bland clothes. Presently they exited onto the roof, and walked through the night wind to the edge of the skyscraper. The clamor rose up from the streets was still strong, vague blaring of horns and squealing of tires drifted up to them, the throb of music boomed up through the floor, and a dozen other noises rolled into one.

“Noisy.” the shorter man commented.

“It's Friday night,” the tall man responded with a look of mischief. “come, look around.” he gestured to the city below them. The shorter man slowly came up to the very edge and peered down.

“This is the tallest point in the city?” he asked politely. It was obvious, the city stretched away beneath them, other sky scrapers dozens of feet below.

“Highest;” the tall man affirmed. “fifty stories. Quite a sight, isn't it?”

The other nodded.

It was quite a sight indeed. The orange city lights filled the air, in every direction they stretched off to what might as well be infinity beyond the horizon. The orange light illuminated the clouds and lit up the night sky, at first glance it looked as if the stars had fallen to earth and lit the ground below.

The tall man looked up at the denuded night sky. “Really bright, aren't they?” he commented softly. “Can't even see the stars.”

“I see two stars,” the other replied, pointing heavenward. The tall man laughed.

“Those are planets,” he corrected, “Venus and Jupiter. And even then,” he added quietly, “there can be no sabbath.”

he looked over at his companion, but the other continued gazing skyward.

“You can see much from up here. Does anyone else come to this roof?” the other finally asked.

“Ah yes, there was a girl who jumped off here last month; It was all over the news. Her partner cheated her, he was the new singer on the Naked Ids.”

“I imagine the news found that interesting.”

“You could jump off, you know, much harm it would do you.” the tall man added ruefully. “the news would cover that, you know. Now that would get their attention.”

The other gave his tall companion only a brief glance. “I'm not in the entertainment business.” he replied shortly.

“No! No you aren't!” the tall man suddenly yelled. “You refuse to feed them, so they hunt for scraps, you refuse to entertain them, so they look elsewhere for solace!”

he threw an arm dramatically over the city abyss. “Listen to that clamor, listen to that roar! Do you think they will hear you over that, do you think they will strain their eyes to see you past these lights? You shine light into the darkness and they multiply it, they make more and more until they finally blot out the ancient stars themselves. You give them bread to eat and they gorge themselves until they are sick to their cores. You turn water into wine and they orgy themselves senseless.”

The shorter man looked down at the city and did not respond. After a moment, the tall man continued with vehemence. “Look at the country you fostered; the perfect empire, of ideals. Where are those ideals now? You gave these people luxury, and they roll in it like pigs. You gave them peace and quiet; and they use it to invent new debaucheries. You gave them freedom,-” his voice shook with emotion, “and they prostitute themselves to idols. Look down at the Friday night fun around you! They spend the money they worship on stimulants and prostitutes, they squander the freedom they are given on self-destructive follies!

“Where are your pillars of righteousness, where are your saints of old? Everyone has gone in unison, in the glorious decay of being normal, into decadence! Do you think the old men hear you, over the talk of golf and employment rates and health care? Do you think the old women hear you, over their botox and hair treatments and children's recent divorces? Do you think the young women hear you, over their television shows about dashing men that don't exist, over the talk of their reproductive rights and health coverage rights and inherent disadvantages? Where are your righteous young men? Do they hear you over the cheap laughter of their guys, over the chatter of their video games and the shame of their pornography addictions?

They are rotten, sick, decaying to the core. They have twisted even the smallest things into lies not to be named, they build and build these mighty babels that would put Sodom to shame! And all these liars, these unfaithful murderers and deceivers and cowards ever want, is to just be normal. That's what they have done with your freedom. They have not learned in all the ages, they remain twisted, underdeveloped slaves to themselves. You cannot pull these wretches born of flesh into the heavens.”

The shorter man looked down across the abyss, and suddenly he seemed taller than his companion, very large, especially in his eyes.

“The darkness does not comprehend the light;” he replied quietly. “you may look until your eyes burn with sulfurous fire, but still you do not comprehend it. The truth is terrible, even you in all your splendor could not accept it, but they will know it, yes, they with all their folly, will see what you looked upon and could not grasp.”

The wind roared about the tower, and the tumult of the city was carried away by its might. The shorter man was suddenly alone in the wind, it whipped and rushed through the night sky about him, driving away the city-lit clouds, the haze that dulled the heavens. The lone remainder looked up at the sky, quietly, patiently, he counted three stars.

After a moment, he pulled a piece of stale bread from his pocket, and holding aloft, crumbled it into the wind. The wind thundered and buffeted about the tower, and it carried the crumbs far, far beyond the orange city lights, where they stretched for what might as well be infinity beyond the horizon.  

A poem for the Artists

This peculiar poem discovered me while I was writing a contribution for an encyclopedia while exploring the islands around Iceland. It appeared in my travel bag, along with several death threats and a one-way ticket back to my hometown, but I appreciated the effort of whoever it was that put this together. I gave the one-way ticket to a man trapped in a heavily regulated, first-world country and sold the rights to the death threat to a greeting card company, but I kept the poem for myself. Whoever wrote it, aside from the fact I suspect they are vegetarian, will most likely remain anonymous until the sun cools.


A poem for the Artists:

When rights are secured and respect is given,
when your colors are flown above every roof,
Will you at last touch the sign of heaven,
or struggle beneath it, panting, driven,
And envy its grandeur; secure, aloof?

When every child chants your heartsong,
when every sailor charts your star,
Will that make your weak soul headstrong,
and bold enough to stand high up, afar?

When all the masses come together, when they in unison work in cheer,
trying to chip a relief, a story, to please your mountain, cold and sheer,
will then your icy heart be melted, will then your soul of stone be free?

No. No words of recognition reach you,
no acceptance fills the aching cave that was your heart.
You may sit enthroned with honor, mad praises piled for your art,
But ever cold your heart grows harder, deafer too, your straining ears,
until gray be your mantel, gray your colors, gray the skies you paint with tears-

Wait! There is not one rose below heaven, whose seed was not sown by the Sky,
There is not one beautiful treasure, that was not crafted by hands from on high,
Empty, you declare yourself sinless, alone, you decree yourself free!
But can you sing the song of ancients, can you make your blind soul see?
What good is a rainbow to the sightless, what good are your colors when you are gray,
Can you write the true art, true song, sing the words that never fade?

At the door you stand uncertain, only within may you see the Source,
leave your luggage, heavy, crushing, stop your heartsong; it's made you hoarse.
Knock but once, and you'll be answered, ask but once, and you'll be free,
Enter the home of all your music; find the source of eternity.

Fear Not

Fear not the pounding ocean waves,

the soaking surf, and chilling spray,

Nor hungry fire that leaps; ablaze,

fear not the furnace nor the flames.

Fear not the roars of lions grown,

Run not from teeth and claws alone,

For they can rend but flesh and bone;

But fear the One who writes on stone.

Fear not the eagle from orders old,

whose talons red are dulled with gold,

Hoard not the things that are bought and sold,

Put not your trust in moths and mold.

Fear not the deep encroaching black,

the entropy of hungering lack,

the dark and freezing, aching cold;

they hide the pinions; silver, gold.

What if Hearts Had Windows

This a short poem from a discarded book I salvaged at the twelve penny book sale. The author is unknown, and the poem was never named. To be exact, it appears to be the reason the book was discarded, as it was written on the front cover in pink marker.

What if hearts had windows, what if souls could sleep?
Would all that passed beneath the sea be purified, entombed within the deep?
When Joan lay bruised on prison cot, when Carton surveyed his guillotine,
did they fathom some better lot, did they think that pain would make their hearts pristine?

No, no darkness would enwrap those two, no silence from Sheol,
no shameful peace with worms for sheets, no huddled company of kings-
No. First shall stand the smallest ones, towering robed, honored, crowned;

Let the weakest come forward first; of all our trials theirs were worst,
Let those who hunger, faint, and thirst- their drink by far is a sweeter thing.

A poem of Totalitarianism

This is a poem that I was fortunate to chance upon whilst discussing the meaning of life with a historian who studied the life of the Grand Inquisitor. After much disagreement and debate, he broke into my house last night and left several thousand copies of this poem in various places like the toilet bowl and refrigerator. Needless to say, it has been permanently burned into my memory. I put it here in the highly unlikely case that there are only few copies left in the world, calling it 'a poem of Totalitarianism'. A very dark and morose bit of literature, but I found it intriguing.



Why men are such a funny race, we change like faces in a crowd,
some grow teeth and growl like wolves, others shudder; huddled, cowed.

Come wolves, crack the whips,
come sheep, mold the clay,
We shall build where others foundered,
Bring the mortar, bring the hay.

How can they demand before the Pharaoh?
How can they see the statue and yet stand?
How can they look and not long to worship,
before our God amidst the sand?
Crush the dissenters with crimson boots,
choke their churches in an iron grip,
let nothing stand between us and progress,
let not the vision of our Godhead slip.

Kill the wise men in the palace, put the prophets to the sword,
slash down those who dare decry us, ignore their imploring to the Word,
pile up our tottering tower, heap up Hell that I might die,
but let me perish below my Babel, in desperate hope it will fill the sky.

A poem of thoughtfulness

I was given this poem by a friend.

What have the blue skies looked down on, what have these high hills seen?
 Where has the old wind wandered, before it is reborn young and clean?
The clouds have poured a thousand times, but I wonder whether not each sunset sees,
an evening as young and new as the sky, when it bends low touch the trees. 

A poem for strangers

Due to my somewhat unusual height, I tend to see the underside of desks and tables a lot more than most people do. While it is almost invariably an unpleasant experience to turn one's gaze upwards towards the clammy crowded mass of dried chewing gum, I had the luck today to come across a little bit of poetry somewhat had scribbled on the underside of a study table. Since I was already in the job of prying things off the underside of that particular table, I decided to take this one off too, and transfer it to the big wide world that is our internet.

This one was titled: "A poem for strangers."

I walk as I always have; head down, feet in front,
purposefully examining my shoes as I make my way through strangers.
What a tumult they are making, to their friends, to their phones, to the ones whose names have meaning!
Their faces have no names to me.

I walk as I am accustomed to; hands in my jacket, arms clutching objects, maybe a splay of fingers gripping two,
My focus is on the floor, hoping that I may pass unnoticed in this sea of strangers, knowing that I will and feeling small.
There is no ocean spray that lowers my hood as they do, no cold wind that does not turn my face as words between these nameless faces.

Perhaps that are not all happy, perhaps there are some like me; whose eyes are swimming for a shore of open space in all the comradie.
Perhaps they wonder at my jacket, at my hood and parcels, at my hurried furtive feet,
they wonder what my story is and who I hope to meet.

Maybe they are accustomed to pondering, speculating like me,
if all these bywords will make sense, if these faces can be friends, if names uttered, chattered, whispered, will give meaning and direction to my feet.

More poetry from ancient greece

This is some poetry I found while examining what I first thought to be graffiti on the node of a Grecian urn:

The crowds are dark and silent, like the storm that brews above;
There is no call for brotherhood, no laugh or word of love.
They wait in dreadful silence still, they know they are not wise or brave;
in fear we stand in huddled mass,
each small as a single blade of grass;
but one great wave.

This wave is dark and fearful now, the tide has turned against its strand,
each single drop of water flees,  it does not try to make a stand.
The crowd knows an execution waits, they know that there is death for some;
But we are an obstinate wave indeed; and we won't run.

What plotters scheme in secret talks, what mobsters yell to angered crowds;
What tyrants at frail freedom scoff, when fists are shaken at the clouds,
What rings soundless on our stubborn ears, toiling heat from the burning sun;
Oh we have seen these signs before, but we won't run.

The tide has turned a thousand times, countless grains have been ground to dust,
the heavy sand beneath us heaves, it hears the call and seaward leaves,
But to stand firmly in the draining sand,
to raise our stained and grimy hands, for we must stay and we must stand,
Because we won't run.

Let tyrant trumpets about us blare, let new orders brandish spangled flags,
Let the seamless empty oceans stare, let them call our banner rags;
Let their leaders pose and call themselves The One;
What motley fools we are indeed, for we won't run.

Poetry for Mornings without Coffee

After spending last night arguing about life in general with a large group of philosophers, I decided to unwind with a poem. This one comes from a small purple book I keep called "Poetry for Mornings without Coffee":

You Can't Drain the Sea

The golden chalice gleams aloft;
would any man dare fill it with his blood,
The cup that for a thousand lives was lost,
two thousand years of mystery?

Would that the flesh was crumbling bread,
would that your crown not prick with thorns,
how easy 'twould be to drink the sea;
when the serpent lies slumped in your drinking horn.

But no! The rocks don't lie, they keep silent watch,
as stars wheel by and nations hatch,
as kingdoms grow and good men die;
The stones sit still and the rocks don't lie.

Oh the ancient heaving hills beneath us hear,
they listen to every folly we breath beneath the sun.
They watch with craggy eyes and wonder at our fear;
for though our theories multiply; their origins stand as one.

The hills keep guard and the rocks don't lie,
God rebuilt his Word on the blessed morn;
would that giants fall from aching eyes,
But you can't drain the sea with your drinking horn.


And here's a smaller bit from a poem that used to be much longer- until my great aunt spilled coffee on the page. (Thus is the reward of unworthy readers.)

Enoch's bones never feared for rot,
Elijah rides in the pillar of flame;
Would that the fire consumeth not,
when the bush must be pruned for wise men's shame.

From A Monk

While visiting a good friend and viking historian, (a scandinavian nis, to be exact,) I had the rare opportunity to examine some interesting documents found within an excavation site off the coast of juteland. Buried in the turf amongst the various waste products of the Viking culture, (old bowls, sheep bones, select remains of one's enemies, etc...) there was this curious little scrap of vellum dating back to the eighth century, and carried a little poem that we can guess was written by a captive briton.

Since we hold the truth that this particular briton could write to be self-evident, we decided that he must be a monk, and so I call this particular poem "From a Monk".

"From a Monk"


The restless breakers toss and roll,
I think they will not sleep tonight,
the sullen clouds above them pour;
deep water hides my home from sight.

The ocean rain whips her guests with hate;
O tremble beneath my sodden  hood,
I have felt sharper whips of late;
the restless hunger for harmless blood.

Blood on axes, fire in houses,
unshaven men on the holy isle,
they're red with laughing, red with killing,
all golden grins and ruthless smiles.

Three the sacred Godhead rule,
yet our Christ alone cleansed Calvary,
Three of the brothers were bound like mules,
I alone survived for slavery.

I know not what purpose I'll fill for them,
whether altar blood or sweating hands,
but the fire of God has found dry wood;
so I'll light this land with burning brands.

Have You Seen the Things I Saw

Have you seen the things I saw, 

the hope that lights my eyes?

Have you known I the love I know,

the bright and young sunrise?

Hope is not hope that changes, 

Joy not a pool that drains;

I go to find things stronger,

than my passing weakling pains.

Oh give me not words of weariness,

songs of sorrow will change me none,

Let us walk where the joys are many;

and the authors one.

The Beacon of Your Heart

In the darkness swirls the cries: faces, follies, fears beside,
Growing like mold in a cavern deep, where the self-hate wretched sleep,
They spread like venom in a wound, a poison that will quick consume,
Oh wander in the shadow-paths, they never lead up to the sun,
Where the lies are many, the darkness makes them one.

Hold up the torch, boy, let the free wind fight it!
Raise it, the tussling breeze will feed it!
Shine it from your mountaintop, shine it at your door!
If they lie in loathings grip, let them lie in dark no more!
Wave the torch, boy, shake and shine it, signal from the roaring shore!

In the darkness lies the sickness, in the lies grows only gall,
In your hand you have the torch now, see it paint the cavern walls,
Hold aloft that fierce altar: burn the fire pure and bright,
coax alight that blazing beacon: the fire of your heart.

Another song from distant lands

Here is another poem, which I label 'from distant lands'. I discovered it quite by accident when at the international Obscure Librarian's Annual Dinner, I noticed a man in the corner who was scribbling something on his napkin. Since librarians are notorious for what they scribble on their napkins, I made sure to ask him about it, but unfortunately forgot until after the dinner was over the tables had been put away. I had no choice but to do what some humans I have discussed this with refer to as 'dumpster diving'.
I had the bad luck to pull my rope down in with me, and I might have spent the night trapped in such a place, had not a local hobo overheard my screams for help and delivered me. I'm afraid to say certain unnamed agencies liquidated that poor fellow's memory of me, so I could not thank him personally.

This is what was on the napkin:

High praise to the Empire, may her banners fly proud,

In the lands of her founding; fair Skyrim renowned!

May her children have freedom and peace all their days,

from the warfare of Stormcloaks, and all their traitorous ways!

All hail the Empire! She remembers her own,

And saves them from usurpers who covet the throne,

May her soldiers hold stations and guard us from ill,

From the weak-hearted traitors who seek only to kill.

But Skyrim's no land of the meek and the thrall,

we'll have our good freedom from Somerset Isle.

No elf will command us, to worship or serve,

They'll get what's coming, and what Skyrim deserves.

Oh Thalmor beware, of the men you call Nords!

keep watch for their war cries, and bitter sharp swords!

For Talos the man-god, his blood was our own!

And we'll best you in battle and bury your bones!

Long live the Empire, may Skyrim grow tall!

May her fallen meet honor in Shors mighty hall!

For she has been reconquered by Empire men,

May she never be sundered, or divided again!