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!

The Washed Shingles of the World

Just a few weeks ago I agreed to manage a neighbor's lemonade stand, when a stranger made a purchase and proceeded to drink it, only then to confess to me that he had no money. While I am not  confrontational by nature, I found it within my duty as a good friend (to the original manager, not the customer) to demand some form of payment, where then he gave me a poem he had found and I was persuaded to make the change with money from my own pocket. While I told my friend about the incident, he took no interest in the poem, so I have kept it and publish it here for your interest.

We like to pretend that what we see is brand new,

That the tales all around us are for only a few,

We don’t want to think of what history has told,

So we progress down a path two thousand years old.

Oh you can’t go down the unbeaten trail,

Without some hope that others before,

Have walked along, and thus belong,

To a tale and a fate that we carry once more.

The fires of armies are burning bright,

They are burning quick and strong,

But the flame of God is in that night,

And has smoldered here all along.

Listen, listen now! Hear the receding roar?

The tides of God are turning fair,

Its crimson foam leaving cleaner there;

The washed shingles of the world.

To the Friar

 

The morning’s rays are waking, the lark is loud and clear,

Your counsel he is taking, you are a friend to him, and dear.

He asks you what and why to do, your answer is layered, like a lie,

But did you realize, even you, of who and how would die?

Oh you know many mysteries, you read minds like a book!

Your wisdom is for everyone, your advice that young fool took!

But now you see and now you know, you cannot subvert Death’s roaring flow;

Of tears and blood that no scheme could save, no potions divert that angst and woe.

You cannot stop this useless feud, without telling them 'twas useless death,

Two more have adorned the streets today, their bodies devoid blood and breath.

No marriage vow so secret, could have stopped a rush of swords,

No swing of steel could be parried, by a hidden exchange of words.

They stand with torches like robbers, but they forgive as God forgave,

And once again we wonder, whether so much blood was worth these knaves.