Part 4
The night was dark beneath the sky;
the grass was tall and still;
The bard lay down for the night
atop a narrow hill;
He slept as deeply as he dared
but still not light enough;
They stole up from a shallow vale
and rummaged through his stuff;
They found the harp and plucked a string
that squawked into the night;
The bard awoke, alarmed, intense,
to see the strangest sight:
The creatures looked like human boys,
but only at first blush;
They stood no more than three feet high
with bodies built to crush;
“What are you?” the bard declared
as muscles held him tight;
“Leave my things alone!” he blared
beneath his captors’ might;
“We are dwarves,” said one of them,
his accent harsh as stone;
“What are you?” he countered back,
as if he didn’t know.
“I’m a man!” the bard replied,
his voice was filled with pride;
“Hey!” he cried in fear-filled rage
as they tossed his harp aside.
“Why?” The dwarf was curious.
“My harp—” the bard replied.
“Has value?” asked a bearded dwarf.
“Not much,” the bard denied.
“I play my music on it, dwarf,
It’s only value is to me.”
That was near enough to truth
the dwarf would ever see;
“Music?” A dwarf had found the wine.
“Song and wine?” the dwarf implored—
The other dwarves replied in kind;
The harp was brought before the bard,
“You will sing and play for us.”
How could the bard refuse?
They let him go and gathered ‘round;
his hands took up a tune;
He played a strident melody
and sung a boisterous song;
His gift to know his audience
had never proved him wrong.
The raucous strains of Angel’s Groom
frolicked through the air
to land on eager dwarven ears
that fell into his snare!
He changed the tune with subtlety
to mold a lullaby
that sent the dwarves to peaceful sleep
beneath the darkened sky.
At last the final dwarf reposed;
at last their snores were heard;
Except for one that feigned his sleep
and tricked the tricky bard!
As the bard retrieved his things,
a melody was played
upon a flute of tender pitch
so delicately made;
The tune regaled the lullaby
the bard had just employed;
He turned to see a flautist dwarf
that left him most annoyed;
The bard declared, “It isn’t done!
No songs unshared are stole!”
The dwarven bard—for which he was—
said, “So I have been told.”
He raised the flute to mouth once more
and kicked a dwarf awake;
He played a melody (of sorts)
the bard could not forsake;
The dwarven duo sang and played
a song so strange it hurt
And then the dwarven bard reached down
to grab a fist of dirt;
The dirt was flung into the air
and glowed a golden hue;
It hung, alone, above the ground,
and then the dwarf said, “You?”
The bard went deep inside his mind
and felt the song return;
He played the notes and formed the words;
His bardic power burned;
The dirt went flying in the air
and turned a rugged red;
It circled like a comet’s tail
about his weary head.
The dwarves were gone, but not the song;
it lay within his mind;
He thanked the dwarven bard he’d met
for leaving it behind;
His gear was gone—at least in part—
but he was not upset;
He packed the things that still remained
and sighed with some regret:
What other songs they might have shared,
this dwarven bard and he,
would surely build upon his fame
and bardic mastery!
At last he sighed and lay back down
to dream of things unreal
and made himself the greatest bard
that dreamland could reveal.…
The morning brought the scent of rain;
by noon, the bard was soaked;
He stood his horse on muddy ground
beneath a withered oak;
He rested while the rain increased
and wished he had some wine;
The dwarves had drunk their fill of it
and left no drop behind.
At last the weather broke in two,
the clouds divorced the sky,
The sun shone down on misty wood
as if it were an eye;
“Look” it seemed to whisper out,
“See what I can see?
The forest grows, my little bard,
around this sacred tree!”
The bard got lost in tangled webs
of purest fantasy
until a windy voice broke up
his soggy reverie.
The leaves had shaken all at once;
the branches bent and swayed;
The raindrops scattered to the ground;
his horse had run away;
“Hmmm,” the deep, sonorous tone
seemed like a heavy sigh;
The bard had thought he was alone
in his weary plight;
“Ah! I see,” the voice went on,
“A little manly thing!
It’s been a goodly many years
since last your visiting!”
The earth began to shake and stir;
the mud began to fly;
The tree bent down to touch the ground
and gave a friendly sigh;
“My name is Yurp,” the treetop sang
like rustles on the wind;
“And who are you that comes my way,
my new-found little friend?”
The bard looked on with wondrous gaze
upon the oaken trunk;
It held a dozen knotty eyes
that gleamed with sappy gunk;
“My name is unimportant, Yurp,
I’m just a lowly bard;
I play upon my trusted harp,
and measure out my words.”
He knew he’d stretched the rhyme a bit,
but who would ever know?
Besides, a bard was given leave
to stretch a word or note.
“A bard, you say? Unimportant?
Who measures out a word?
What is that, my little friend?
I know not of this bard.”
The bard let out a toothy grin
and gave a graceful bow,
“Let me play my harp for you
and sing my wares aloud!”
He freed his harp from leather case
and plucked to check its tune,
“The song I’ll sing is one I love,
it’s called Clarise’s Bloom.”
The notes were swift and light of air;
He danced a little jig;
He turned his body in the air
and sang as if a kid:
Clarise was a maid,
a maid of Inverness;
She wasn’t very old,
but old enough, I guess!
She liked the peasant boys,
but one she liked the best;
and brought him candied treats
She’d sneak out in her dress.
The candy that she brought
had melted on her breast
She let the peasant lick it off
And lifted up her dress;
The peasant boy was not too bright
but had experience,
and so he knelt on bended knee
to taste of other flesh;
He didn’t like the flavor, though;
It smelled of bitterness
But when he saw the cherry stem,
his will could not resist!
“Oh,” he chortled gleefully,
“My lovely virginess,
I’ll pluck your flower swift and true
for you, my dear Clarise!”
She squealed at first but not for long;
He passed her false defense;
She didn’t know he lacked in skill,
And he did not confess;
He plucked her flower from the vine
with too much eagerness,
and she let out a horrid scream
that woke her governess;
He fled before he got the sword
and left her in a mess;
She lost her maiden-head that night
and gained a baby’s dress;
The flower grew to bear some fruit,
much to her distress,
and so she fled into the hills
around Keep Inverness.
The bard betrayed some ill-at-ease
when Yurp did not respond;
He had expected laughter from
the silly rhyme he’d sprung;
Perhaps he should have sung a tune
that focused on a tree,
But, lo! Behold! He had no song
that he could duly sing.
Shortly after he had stopped,
Yurp looked down, stretched, and stood,
“My apologies, my new-found friend,
that wasn’t very good;
“Granted I am not so keen
on habits of young men,
but I have heard some others sing
with much more skill, my friend;”
The bard was taken quite aback—
Then further back he went—
He bowed down low and softly said,
“I’m sorry, Master Yurp.”
On that sad note, he went away
and found a muddy track
Soon he’d sing to men, again—
for which he had a knack.
It took three days of gloominess—
both weather and his mood—
Before he came upon the town
outside of Sheltered Wood.
He found the Inn of Corded Wood
and sat with ease at last;
He didn’t want to sing at first,
but word had spread too fast;
With wine and urgings from the folk,
he reluctantly agreed
to sing some songs for all of them
and sat with practiced ease;
He cleared his throat and strummed some chords
and eyed the gathered throng;
His voice was sure and strongly set
as he began his songs:
The secret life of Jeban Da,
The past of Grim DeFleece,
The Honor Guard of Hobart’s Claw,
and Widow Aster’s Feast.
These songs are sung from time to time
by bards who bear the right,
and I shall sing them, one by one,
for all of you tonight.
We’ll start with Widow Aster’s Feast,
and then move on from there.
The mood was struck by languished note
of morbid, dark despair.
The day began with drastic news:
The King lay in his bed;
At least his body still reposed,
but not his royal head!
The queen had risen with the dawn
while King and court still slept;
She poised above her royal mate
and not a tear she wept;
Her hands were strong and gripped the sword
and raised it in the air;
The downward stroke was keenly aimed
with utmost loving care;
The King lay still; his head did not;
it rolled onto the floor
and bounced about with mocking grin
until it reached the door.
The Queen was cold but felt no fear,
no grief or false remorse;
She plucked the head up by the hair
and, triumphantly, she cursed:
“If only I had done this deed
so many years ago;
I would not have felt such loathing need
to let my anger go!”
She laughed insanely for a time
and hid the head from sight
before she called the royal guard
to see his royal plight!
“Oh! My King! He yet does sleep
that long, eternal rest!
We must not tarry! We dare not dally!
Today, we’ll have a feast!”
The men, of course, were not too keen
to celebrate his death,
but when they saw the Queen insane,
not one exhaled his breath.
The feast was soon prepared with haste,
the Queen was bright with cheer;
She danced and sang with earnestness
until the morning neared;
And then she left to soon return
to call the feasters near;
When all were looking at the Queen—
Her gaze was crystal clear—
She said, “My friends of noble birth,
my husband now is dead,
but here I have his final gift:
I give to you his head!”
He paused amid a string of notes
to give them room to breathe,
and then he struck a sorrowed chord
that almost made them grieve.
Alas, my friends, the Queen was lost;
her madness was complete;
The nobles of her royal court
stumbled to their feet;
In haste, they freed their crazy Queen
from life’s tormenting grasp;
A knife was thrust by drunken hands,
eliciting a gasp—
“What?!” the Queen demanded—loud—
as blood began to flow;
She died in fury, rage, and hate,
and cursed the fatal blow;
Her son, it was, whom justice brought,
through tears too feigned to see;
“I’m sorry,” was his whispered lie:
His plan would now succeed.
The Queen was not her purest self;
her mind was not her own;
She died within unloving arms;
The Prince let out a moan;
The herbs supplied in deepest night
had brought about the deed,
and now the Prince would have the throne
to satisfy his greed!
Poor Aster, Queen of Turish Gra,
poor Erlic, King of same;
Poor Turin, Prince whose soulless plan
had driven her insane;
He held the throne for two short years,
then lost his head, as well,
when peasants stormed the palace gates
and sent him straight to hell.
The sternness of the bard’s sweet voice
held warning for them all:
If they were taken in by greed,
then by greed they’d fall!
His voice was husky as he chirruped,
“More wine to soothe my tongue!”
And when he’d drunk a hefty draught,
his fingers had begun;
“My friends,” he said, in hollow voice,
“I once was given leave
To hear a most uncommon tale
I still do not believe:
The tale began one foggy night
in some forgotten inn
when I encountered Jeban Da,
an old, decrepit man.
He moved on rusty-hinges legs
from armor ages old
and sat with such a heavy sigh
his story must be told;
I ordered wine for he and I
and lent to him my ear,
then listened to the strangest tale
that I would ever hear.
“How old am I?” He asked of me,
“Sixty-nine?” I said;
He chuckled wryly for a time
and softly shook his head;
“Thank ye kindly for the jest,
but I have seen far more;
One thousand six—or thereabouts—
give or take a score.”
There was no hint of humor in
those weary, golden eyes;
He whispered softly, more than sad,
“If only I could die.”
“You see, I’ve lived beyond my years—
indeed, beyond yours too—
And all the people that I’ve known
are dead—except for you.”
A touch of fear began to creep
from spine to quivered flesh,
but he continued to repeat
his fervent wish for death;
“One thousand times have I been slain,
one thousand times I’ve died;
But always, always, do I rise
hale once more inside;
“I’ve lived through battles none survived
and felt assassin’s blades;
I’ve fed so many beasts of prey—
and yet I am unscathed;
“I’ve witnessed miracles, my friend,
and acts of evil mien;
and through them all, I lived, I died,
again, and yet, again.”
He sighed so soft I barely heard
then shrugged the eerie mood;
“Do you wish to live forever?”
Then, I understood.
“I stole my way upon the lair
of Dragon-Keeper’s Sky,
and found a magic wishing well
and wished I’d never die;
“My wish was granted—this I know—
for soon, the Keepers came,
and I was captured by the men
and tortured past insane;
“They’d kill me in some fiendish way
through torture, pain, and woe,
and I’d return to wretched life,
which they would sunder low;
“Oh! The methods they devised
to test their skill and luck!
And so it went for untold years
until The Woodsmen struck.
“They came at night—or so I’m told—
and slew the Keeper’s men,
But when they found the dungeon cells,
I was dead again.
“They set me on a funeral pyre
and burned my flesh and bone,
but I returned to life, once more,
and found myself alone;
“I wandered, free, a hundred years,
and watched my body fade;
But when I died an ancient man,
my body was remade—
“I lived again, a youthful man,
of barely twenty-three;
And wandered through the lands once more
with hopes to be set free.
“Eternity is far too long
for any man to bear;
I know this for a fact of life;
I’m on my way to there.”
With those deep-set, golden eyes,
he held me in his gaze,
“Tonight, again, I’ll die once more
to wake in younger days.”
His eyes grew dark and free of life,
his body slumped and fell;
I prayed to all the gods I know
to rest his troubled soul;
But as I watched his lifeless corpse,
it shimmered like a dream;
And when it settled down once more,
a youthful face was seen!
His music died and silence fell
to linger in the room,
and then he played a solemn note
that stank of coming doom.
He rose from death to smirk at me
and clapped his hands with glee;
“Hello, Uncle!” he chortled out,
“Never fear! It’s just me!”
The music changed to impish pace,
his tone became a lark
As he resumed the final verse
with voice no longer dark;
I sternly glared before I laughed,
then gracefully, I bowed;
“A clever jest,” I said in praise.
“I’ll get you back,” I vowed.
He’d drawn them in the clever tune
and laughter fluttered free;
He drank more wine to whet his voice
then played a melody;
Its pattern wove a tangled web
of humor laced with cheer,
And then he sung the whispered words
that made them strain to hear:
His name I shouldn’t tell you;
His crime you soon will know;
His hair was crinkled like a sheep
and colored white as snow!
Today, I’ll call him Grim DeFleece;
Tomorrow? Who can say?
He walked among the sheep at night
and lay with them by day!
His father left him busy;
His sisters left him pure;
The sheep were somewhat leery, though,
for reasons left obscure!
He loved his ewes with pleasure;
He loved his rams as well;
But when he saw his special lambs
his heart would firmly swell!
The sheep were more than nervous;
The wolves were kept at bay;
The boy was said to have the gift
that kept those beasts away!
The day we met was shaggy;
The night we shared, unsure;
The sheep were bleating skittishly—
a sound almost demure!
I witnessed something tainted;
I saw it all that night;
What it was I will not say,
but surely it’s not right!
The morning came at midday;
The dawn returned at dusk;
The dour face of Grim DeFleece
had fallen gray as dust!
His father sent a message:
Today, the sheep would sell;
He gathered up the rams and ewes
to take them to the well.
The lambs, of course, had followed,
as sheep are wont to do,
and all were cut for butcher’s meat
or sold for mutton stew!
The shepherd’s son was dismal,
as if his love had died,
and all that night he lay awake
and cried and cried and cried!
Here he paused to build effect
and changed the tune once more;
A solemn beat resumed the song
with humor in the score;
I tried my best to comfort him;
I tried to ease his pain;
But when he got a bit too close,
I crushed him once again!
He bleated like a broken sheep;
He fled as horror-struck;
I fled, as well, away from him
and praised the God of Luck!
A f
ew more lively chords were played
to end his comic song
And then he sought the outhouse door—
the night was getting on;
A brief respite to eat some food
and drink some heady wine,
and then he’d finish out the night
and leave the town behind.
The Honor Guard of Hobart’s Claw
is one you all should know,
Written by an ancient bard
whose name was never known;
I met my mentor late one fall
When I was very young;
I grew convinced a bard I’d be
with every song he sung;
He taught me all the basic chords
and how to scan a rhyme
But, most of all he showed me how
to keep in perfect time;
The winter faded into spring;
his wanderlust returned;
I’d come to love him like a friend
and felt my passion burn;
I begged and pleaded days-on-end
for him to teach me more,
and then, at last, he cursed my soul
and gave to me this score:
The melody was simply strung,
the pace was slow and firm,
He gazed into the distant past
with old eyes, soft and worn.
A witch was drawn and quartered;
Her curse was fiercely thrown;
The king would die a dismal death
that none had ever known.
She died without repenting;
The king was furious;
The Priest of Onus came to prey
and left with many purses.
The thief was given penance—
A hand was all it took!—
but, after they had cut it off,
They let him have it back!
A thief whose hand is missing;
A witch whose curse was thrown;
The pattern of the king’s demise,
like wheat, was slowly sown.
When Hobart left the city,
He went to Onus’ shrine
and prayed for vengeance on the ones
who punished such a crime;
He’d only stolen money—
and not that much at that!
What right had they to do this deed?
He cleared his throat and spat;
Onus is an ornery god;
His follower was heard;
The hand was thrust in open flame;
Its flesh was quickly charred;
The bones were black with soot;
The flesh had burned away;
Hobart knew what he must do
to make the bastards pay!
Hobart sought an evil witch
and bought an evil spell;
He took it to the royal court
and sent his judge to hell!
The magistrate was drinking;
The king was telling jokes;
The feast was strong and lively
for all the royal folks;
The Hand of Hobart entered;
its fingers stalked the floor;
It leapt upon the magistrate
and squeezed with magic force;
He choked and sputtered madly;
He tried to breathe and failed;
The king was horrified, of course,
and watched the spectacle;
The hand released its victim
and dropped as lifeless limb;
The king called for the royal guard,
and they came rushing in;
The hand was tried for murder—
Its guilt was guaranteed—
The royal guard and royal court
appeased the nervous king!
The execution folly
embarrassed all who came;
The king was now a sorry joke
And laughter was his fame!
The curse had called for vengeance;
The king was bound to die;
The final blow would come at last
in every peasant’s eye;
The king was gently coddled;
His rule became obtuse;
His orders fell on deafened ears,
until he asked, “What’s the use?”
He hung his head in sorrow;
The hand had done him in;
He became the laughing stock
throughout his vast kingdom!
The day approached with fervor;
the time had come at last;
The king decreed his mental state
was lost amid the past;
His last request was followed—
in jest or pity’s sake?
He ordered all to send away
the life he couldn’t take.
A royal feast was gathered;
The peasants ushered in;
They ate the feast that was prepared
and walked back out again;
The courtyard filled with peasants;
Each brought a throwing stone;
The king stood in their circled midst
and all the rocks were thrown!
The smile on his dying face
put tears in many eyes,
but none were shed by Onus’ Priests,
who watched with no surprise;
Vengeance had been mollified;
The curse had been fulfilled;
The tragic death the king decreed
had left the peasants chilled;
The court was thrown in shambles;
No king could be proclaimed;
A dozen years of kingless rule
before one could be named!
The cousins didn’t want it;
The courtesans refused;
His children weren’t legitimate
and others were excused!
At last, a family member,
who’d drunk more than he should,
Proclaimed himself the rightful heir
and all said that he could!
The crown was thrust upon him;
The throne became his chair;
The curse befell their newfound king,
and he lost all his hair!
His sanity was questioned;
The doubts were softly said;
That king was called the Restless King:
In three months, he was dead.
The kingdom fell to chaos;
No rulers could be found;
The peasants flourished in their midst,
and so did every town!
Alas, the land was conquered;
Too many people died;
All because a witch’s curse
and Onus’ Priest’s combined!
His voice had gotten weary;
he played a few more notes;
He set his harp upon the floor
and rested while he spoke:
My friends, my stay has brought me joy;
I hope the songs I’ve sung
Have given you a brief respite
from the chill this day has sprung;
But, now that spring’s upon us,
I fear I must depart;
I long to go exploring—
although it breaks my heart.
The morn will find me leaving;
The night will find me gone;
But I will take you with me,
although I go alone!
He idly strummed some wayward notes
and tweaked a weary grin.
They begged him to continue on—
Reluctantly, he gave in.
This ballad plagues me to this day;
It sorrows me to tears;
It came to me one weary trade
in my younger years;
The bard who sang it was a eunuch
for the Queen of Sespetune;
His voice was lovely, filled with beauty,
holding to a tenor’s croon;
As he sung his tor
tured ballad,
with his lilting, boyish voice,
my heart grew heavy, cold and sad;
He sang with such remorse!
“Dunkirk soared the skies above
on wings of burgundy,
and then he dove with subtle flair
and perfect majesty;
“His aim was sure as archer’s bow;
It took him to his prey;
His talons struck with sword-like force
to steal the life away!
“His grip was firm as armored glove
and delicate as lace;
As he took flight, once again,
he climbed with haunting grace;
“He flew to me on tender wing
and landed on my wrist;
I took the rabbit from his claw
and sang with earnestness:
‘My lovely Dunkirk, I thank you
for sharing this with me!
I shan’t partake of it until
you’ve had your fill to eat!’
“He ate a slice of rabbit flesh
as if he were a king;
I set him on his wooden perch
and cooked the rest for me.
“We travelled on for quite some time
through rolling hills of grass;
I sang the ballads I had brought
to help the time to pass;
“A strangled squawk from Dunkirk came
behind a solid THUMP!
He fell in limpest, stillest form—
A dead, unmoving clump!
“I hesitated, lost and numb,
until the men approached;
I stared where Dunkirk had been struck—
His neck and wing were broke!
“The men were unaware of him;
I could see no more;
They dragged me from my startled steed
and rumpled through my gear;
“They took the coin that I had won
with songs a king could hear!
They took my steed and ate my food
and stole my battle gear!
“They gave me back my wounded harp,
whose strings they snapped in two;
I did naught to stay their hands—
What else was I to do?
“Then they left me standing there—
Alone with Dunkirk dead—
I vowed to Onus—and He heard!—
That I would have their heads!
“It took me many moons to plan
the vengeance that I sought,
but when it came, I was prepared,
and this is what I wrought:
“I sang a song with magic words
and built the imagery;
I turned the leader of the men
into a bird of prey!
“His body shifted painfully—
I relished every scream!
The feathers came through beautifully—
Golden sunlit beams!
“The brilliance of the gold he sought
was finally his to wear,
and he replaced what I had lost
as Dunkirk’s tragic heir!
“His flight was awkward to the eye;
His hunting skills were none;
And yet, I knew, he would replace,
my friend that he had wronged!
“He flew with me for many months,
and then an arrow came;
The archer disappeared too soon
for me to learn his name.
“So when they ask me of my bird
with feathers steeped in tea,
I tell them all my blackbird’s name
is simply Mystery!
“This ballad tells a simple tale
of birds of prey and men,
and how, with magic in our midst,
there is no gap between!
“But what of Dunkirk, first to be?
My bird of prey and friend?
He and I were travelling:
Two mercenary men!
“But in a tangled battle of
a war two kings had waged,
Dunkirk caught a magic spell
hurled by a mage;
“It changed him to bird of prey
of richest burgundy,
and I avowed to find a cure—
which wasn’t meant to be.
“The spell the mage had struck him with
also touched my harp;
When I sing a certain song,
his magic will erupt;
“It works its way with brutal force
from deep within my soul,
until I must unleash it all
in one melodic throw—
“I use this spell with utmost care—
sometimes it will fail—
For I am not a magic-man
who understands it well!”
He played a few more subtle notes
and set his harp aside;
He rose to leave, collected coins
and made his way outside.…
Epilogue
Three days later, all alone,
atop a swollen rise;
He cowered, panting, on the run
against a chilling sight;
He took out harp;
Began to play—
Would it keep
the beasts at bay?
He struck the chords
as they closed in,
composed the lyrics,
and began to sing:
Ensconced in armor wrought from flame
with swords of molten stone,
the warriors came upon the scene
in search of flesh and bone;
They left a trail of smoking earth
and stared with eyes aglow;
Their feral grins and rancid howls
were all we had to know;
We fled like dogs from cracking whips
as fear entombed us all
and prayed to gods that no one knew
that we would never fall;
But Rastus did and broke his leg;
We left him for dead;
His wretched screams pursue us still
and fill us all with dread!
At length our bodies failed us all,
as one by one we fell;
The monsters stalked unerringly,
those wretched beasts from hell!
All but me, the last who’s left,
witness to their acts,
but not for long, since they are near
and soon they will attack!
The smell of smoke surrounds me now;
No coward though am I!
The only thing that keeps me sane
is singing my next rhyme!
Their claws are cold and burn li—
Other Poems
A Visit to Valhalla
Odin came to me one night
to offer me a deal,
an eight-legged pony ride
to Valhalla for a meal.
In exchange for such a treat,
he didn’t ask for much:
Just my worship given free
for His godly touch.
You might think it rather odd
to see Him standing there,
But I’d studied Him so long,
I didn’t really care
if what I saw was really there
or just some crazy dream,
and so I said to Him, “Why not?”
to see what I could see.
He nodded once with slight incline
then whistled loud and shrill;
A cloud-rimmed portal opened up,
and He made good our deal.
From the portal’s writhing mass,
there stepped a wondrous beast,
an eight-legged brackish steed
to take me to my feast.
He whispered softly in its ear;
It bobbed its lovely head,
then came to nuzzle up to me:
> “Climb inside,” it said.
I didn’t understand at first
what mighty Sleipnir meant,
but looking closer I espied
a sight I won't forget:
The horse’s back was not at all
what I had thought to find;
Inside it was a coffin-stall:
its head-stone’s name was mine.
It was then I knew for sure
that this was not a dream;
Odin stood before my eyes
in our reality!
My steed’s impatience came to bear;
It nudged me with its nose;
I gently climbed inside its chest;
the coffin-lid slid closed.
You do not know what terror is
until you’ve been entombed
inside a horse from ancient myth
in unenlightened gloom.
A darkness deeper than the sea
collapsed about my form
but opened momentarily
as if I'd been reborn.
I found myself inside a room–-
the horse was quick away–-
with proper clothes and tools to groom
my beard of pepper-gray.
The mirror (too ornately made)
showed me who I am:
With helmet, shield, and unsheathed blade,
a striking Viking man!
I stood and stared in solitude
as moments came and passed,
then Odin came into my room
to see to my repast.
He guided me through ancient halls
and past fine tapestries
depicting battles, Viking ships,
and cities under siege;
He led me to an angled room
whose walls were far away
and seated me beside his throne
and told me not to stray;
The floor was wide and empty;
Where was the Viking throng?
A moment later, Loki came
with merriment and song:
“Thor, the son of Odin,
that store-bought hammerhead
is chasing in that dreadful boar,
so we can all be fed;
“But just in case the boar might win,
there is no need to fret,
for Loki is a warrior, too-–
though some of you forget.
“I've borrowed several odds and ends
from friends and foe alike,
in case I need to steal the scene
and enter in the fight.”
There came a yell of utmost rage,
as only gods might make;
Thor thundered through the entryway
on clouds of lightning blaze.
Loki chortled gleefully
and danced about the floor,
then tossed Thor’s hammer playfully
until there came The Boar.
The Boar was growling rabidly
and bounced with malice due,
but Thor fought on relentlessly
as weapons broke in two;
“The God of Thunder met his match
without the slightest pause,
and Loki, God of Mischief,
is surely not the cause!
“Do not blame your brother god
for finding what you lost;
I toss it now to your hand—”
and with those words, he paused.
Loki threw the Hammer true:
It sparkled in its arc
and landed firmly in Thor’s hand,
and soon it found its mark.
The boar was struck between the eyes
and staggered to its knees;
A second blow was all it took
to slay the massive beast.
“By the gods,” I muttered in dismay -–
then chuckled to myself:
Those gods were all about me now
in Valhalla's dale.
Loki turned to gaze on me—
a mirthless, brutal stare—
what courage that I still possessed
deserted me right there.
Then he smiled sweetly down
and honey from him oozed,
“What’s this?” he posed with earnest frown
that slithered and confused:
“A little man of living flesh
whose beating heart yet bleeds?
To visit Asgard for a time—
Will Odin lets him leave?”
Odin’s tone would brook no threat
as He replied in kind –
“He's my guest throughout the feast –
keep it close in mind!”
Loki’s face was much alive,
dancing with his thoughts;
I wondered if he might defy
the orders Odin wrought;
And then He smiled fiendishly
and from his lips there came
an offer to beguile me
with sights I’ve never seen:
“Shall we go to Jotunheim,
where the Giants are?
There are mountains you can climb,
but I doubt you’d get too far;
“The Giants like it none-at-all
when strangers come their way,
and if by chance you fail to fall,
they’ll push you anyway.”
I realized that he spoke to me
and Odin didn’t mind;
I finally found a voice to use
and squawked, “I must decline.”
Loki seemed a bit put off
but not for very long:
He found a seat of blackest stone
and whistled private songs.
The boar was butchered where it lay
and quickly sent to roast;
Flagons full of amber mead
were brought in for a toast;
But just before the flagons’ loft
there came into the hall
another god I recognized:
Tyr, the God of war.
The legends say he lost his hand
when Fenris bit it off,
but I hadn’t realized that
the bleeding never stopped;
It dripped and oozed from open wounds
of ragged, shredded flesh
and left a trail of spattered sound
with every godly step.
He wore the wound with stoic pride
and purest bravery –-
and came to sit at Odin’s side
with godlike majesty.
The flagons raised in unison
as Odin’s voice rang out;
A million voices echoing
one resounding shout.
I hadn’t seen them saunter in
with all these gods around,
But listened to their festive mood
as flagons were slammed down.
I joined in the revelry
and drank my fill of wine;
I ate of many wondrous foods
that helped to ease my mind.
Thor and Odin spoke of things
while Loki listened in;
I couldn’t understand their words:
they weren’t for mortal men.
Tyr, I noticed, seldom spoke
except when spoken to;
He sat in silence, like a stone,
and nibbled at his food.
Sometime in the midnight hour,
I drank one flagon more
and tumbled from my hero's perch
and passed out on the floor.
I woke in piercing darkness,
drenched in sticky sweat;
Once again, I was at home
in my double bed.
I lay in panic for a time,
but not for very long;
The memories came creeping back
like sluggish, drunken song;
It took some time to sort them out -–
Was it
real or just a dream?
One image I could not deny
was Odin’s one-eyed gleam:
It held within its omni-stare
a hope of things to come,
a resurrection of the gods
of mighty Viking men.
I finally shrugged it all away—
It must have been a dream—
But all that night I lay awake
beneath His one-eyed gleam.
When the morning sun arose
to race across the sky,
a jaunty ray of sunshine chose
to dance on Odin’s eye:
The statue seemed to match the gleam
and I could not deny
that it was shining on the patch
above his absent eye!
There is another tidbit
that I have yet to tell:
My visit to Valhalla
ended up in Hel!
I won’t describe the things I saw,
the grotesque misery,
but will repeat what Odin said,
spoken just for me:
“This is where the liars go
and those unfit to wear
the pride of Viking sword and shield
and robust Viking beard!
“A promise made had best be kept
until your dying day,
or here is where you will be sent
for endless suffering.”
Then he roughly brushed my brow;
I fell down in a daze;
I woke up next inside my room
beneath his one-eyed gaze.
I fully realized what I’d done
and what I must now do:
My worship to Him has begun
and always will be true!
Bloodlines
An evil moon shines down on me,
hinting of things to come,
concealing horrid memories
of the devil’s work that I have done;
Fangs unsheathed of canine teeth
and hair that’s lost control;
A madman’s lust for human blood,
unfettered by a soul;
I seek to sate my sudden need
with the first I come across;
I sink in deeply with my teeth,
ensuring that no blood is lost;
I rip and tear and rend with claw
while shreds of flesh surrender
to the rabid beast in me
that tastes the fresh blood of her;
Her screaming falls on eager ears;
Her blood goes racing faster;
Until the final scream cuts off—
I’ve sucked my lifeblood from her;
The blood is sweet as nectar’s breath
dancing on my tongue;
It trickles down my swollen throat—
too soon, the meal is done;
I revel in the luxury
of the massive high I feel,
but only for a moment’s breath
that makes it seem surreal;
I flee the scene that I have made
and find my way to home,
where I sit and ponder on
the dreadful deed I’ve done;
With the passing of the rush,
the fix’s potency,
I feel deflated, all at once,
and ease off into sleep;
I wake with blood dried on my chin,
no wound from which it flowed;
A rancid taste is in my mouth
that makes me gag and choke;
I cleanse myself as best I can,
discard my tattered skin;
I stare into the empty glass
at what I’ve always been;
I wonder if I’ll ever die—
Will peace for me be found?
The tears go slipping from my eyes
and fall without a sound;
Who will come to slit my throat?
Or plunge into my heart
a weapon made with finest skill
from simple, silver start?
Until that day, I sit and pray
with eerie dreams of death
and steal the sickened souls of life
that cling to barest breath;
I let their tainted blood to flow
to slake my endless thirst,
for finding where my next hit is
is always what comes first.…
Best Laid Plans
The bottles all were empty,
the fluid had been spilled;
The mice were licking up the drops
around the broken still;
My eyesight had gone blurry,
and I could barely see;
The mice were growing way too fast,
way too fast for me!
I’d studied through the journal
with caution and with care,
Assembled all the alchemy,
but I was unaware—
The title of the journal—
I hadn’t thought it true—
But I found out way too late,
as mice about me grew;
The cats were all in trouble—
The mice had grown so fast—
There was no hope that I could see—
Would the serum last?
The mice had more than trebled—
some as large as dogs—
But the biggest ones I ever saw
would rival even hogs!
When the mice had left me;
when I was all alone;
I cleaned up my equipment
and burned that wicked tome.
If you don’t believe me,
I will understand,
But if you do, I beg of you:
be careful what you plan!
sWORDplay
Have you ever heard of Moxy?
Or the words of Lexicon?
What of Medic with Apoxy
and the mighty Paragon?
They are heroes of the ages
spoken of with tragic note.
The greatest of the Sages,
Lord Encyclopedic, wrote:
“At his side was kindly Medic,
healer of the fallen men,
raising armies with his magic
by restoring life and limb;
“Their companion in this battle
was a finely spoken one;
He was often known to prattle,
did this wordsmith, Lexicon;
“Three in number were the fellows
who had sought Lord Paragon
to release him from The Bellows,
dungeon of The Burning Son;
“There they slew the evil dragon
that had captured Paragon
who had gone there on an errand
that was worthy of the man;
“Paragon had sought a treasure
stolen by The Burning Son
and returned with fullest measure
with the gift of truth he’d won;
“In the end, our heroes prospered –
Moxy, Medic, Lexicon –
They had freed our mighty master:
Truth was held in Paragon!”
Such it was and has been quoted
by the sages of our time;
Lord Encyclopedic wrote it –
perfect rhythm, perfect rhyme –
Now it’s time my song has ended
for my words are at a close;
Now my duty has been tended
for this circle’s bardic prose.
Payment in Full
The pouch of gold weighs heavily on me;
My thoughts are tangled in an evil spell;
If I do this, I never will be free,
And yet, I slowly creep in for the kill.
The voices sing and empty mugs are filled;
The King has joined in the revelry;
His voice is like a minstrel’s steady trill;
The pouch of gold weighs heavily o
n me.
I listen for a time in misery;
This indecision is a bitter swill;
I pledged to slay His Pompous Majesty;
My thoughts are tangled in an evil spell.
The jester starts to sing out loud and shrill,
in tones that ruffle every tapestry;
I make my choice, no longer feeling ill:
If I do this, I never would be free—
But what is freedom tinged by slavery?
A servant to a lord of evil will?
But, this assassin, I could never be,
and yet, I slowly creep in for the kill.
The knife is honed with mastery and skill;
The King is standing, swaying drunkenly;
I thrust the blade and feel his life-blood spill
and at my side there rests so heavily
the pouch of gold.…
A Ballade for the Peasantry
The trumpet bore a lingered tone
that floated to the valley’s core
and settled sadly in the loam,
delivering its painful chore.
The tone had come but once before
to tell the people to prepare
for chaos in the Noble court:
The King had died without an heir.
The King was scarce encased in stone
before there came a dreadful war;
So many craved the empty throne
that carnage ruled from shore to shore
and all the land was fiercely scored
by fires belching in the air,
and then the claimants numbered four.
The King had died without an heir.
The armies fought ‘til two, alone,
were strong enough to fight some more,
and when they met, it would be known
which claimant would become the lord
of all the Kingdom and the poor
and all the treasures that were there,
behind the sacred, vaulted door.
The King had died without an heir.
As was the case in days of yore,
too many died who didn’t care,
and all because the trumpet roared:
The King had died without an heir!
Conquest
It started when the King of Urlap died.
The line was split between the burly Prince
Dimitri and his cousin Ungar. Love
of power dominated as each man
attempted to become the one to rule
the kingdom. Enter: the Dragon Lord.
It had been decades since the Dragon Lord
had brought his armies forth. Some said he'd died,
so quiet he had been, but he still ruled
the Dragon Horde, waiting, watching, a prince
of darkest magic at his side. No man
was he, this Dragon Lord: He had no love
for man or elf or dwarf. His only love
was magic: It would make him overlord
of all the lands, but, first, the lands of man
would fall. So when the King of Urlap died,
he left his slumber and attacked. The Prince
was well-prepared for battle, claimed his rule,
and stood his ground. His cousin claimed to rule
as well but went to Urlap Keep. His love
of life was strong; he sent for aid. The Prince
of Elves, Ne'ween, despised the Dragon Lord
and came at once when told he hadn't died.
The battle for the world was fought by man
and elf and dragon in the lands of man.
The dwarves sat out; they had no need to rule
the upperworld. So many thousands died;
their flesh and bones became a swamp with love-
less thickets, bloody pools. The Dragon Lord
was met in battle by the Elvish Prince:
They fought with magic, sword, and bow. The Prince
was struck a mortal blow and fell. A man—
his name is lost—then struck the Dragon Lord
a lucky, deadly thrust to end his evil rule.
The dragons fled. Dimitri held no love
for Ungar, but was glad he hadn't died.
The Dragon Lord was slain. The Elvish Prince
had died. The balance was renewed, and man
returned to rule a world in need of love.
Bride Price
Embellished by an ornate seal,
The missive came by messenger;
It held her perfume’s strong appeal
but not the promise of dowry
that I had hoped I would procure
through clever words and gentle touch;
I read the missive to be sure
the price of love was not too much.
If I accept their modest deal
to wed the Lady I adore
for such a trifling of weal,
I would admit my hearth is poor;
Although my love for her is pure—
This nonsense! Oh! It is as such
that I have grown a bit unsure:
Is the price of love too much?
This is an effortful ordeal
to court the Lady and implore
with earnestness and love and zeal
when I am far more insecure;
This marriage that I would secure;
This woman that I yearn to clutch;
I’ve sought to find a simple cure—
The price of love may be too much.
In answer to her missive’s lure,
I shall accept the simple hutch
and wed the lovely Guinevere:
The price of love is not too much.
The Maiden
The lovely maiden knelt upon the floor;
Her dress of white was thrown about her sides;
The tears and fears she knew had come before
To many other warriors’ would-be brides.
The battle would be waged upon a hill;
His army would be fighting for His cause;
She prayed and prayed that He would not be killed;
For if He was, her life would soon be lost.
For three long days she waited for the word;
When dust-clouds could be seen beyond the moor,
she hurried down the steps into the yard
where she had stood so many times before.
But when the army’s flag was drawing near,
She saw her lord in front, upon a bier.…
Old Harridan’s Ballade
The tone was deaf to Eros’ call,
but Ares heard its biting tongue;
He sent a warrior to the ball
to slay the beastly Harridan,
who tried to thwart her lover Grun
from wedding Hobart’s daughter Mae.
The havoc wreaked was havoc hung
upon the feast of Judgment Day.
The Warrior met the castle wall
and fought the castle guardian;
His sword was sharp, his stance was tall,
and all about were pieces flung.
(A piece or two had tightly clung!)
With sword agleam from battle’s fray,
the Warrior entered on the fun
upon the feast of Judgment Day.
The Warrior, dressed in blood and gall,
approached the Lordling and his son,
then passed them by to stroll the hall
while all about, the bards still sung
the might of Grun, the Lord of Dunn,
who sat upon his throne, a-sway,
and reveled in his glory, stunned,
upon the feast of Judgment Day.
His sword was swift to Justice-done;
The Warrior took his prize away;
The head of Harridan was strung
upon the feast of Judgment Day.
the crumbling statue
The ruins of the villa
ge is in tears,
and none but I can hear her weary cries;
Her forlorn whimpers cradled by the years
have mingled with my heavy-laden sighs.
Our solemn wailing settles like the night
and drapes the valley with a tender dirge;
We pine for those who faced the tragic blight
that all their efforts could not seem to purge.
The bones of all the dead are buried deep
in dust of ages lost to tempered steel;
The ghosts of peasants march like milling sheep
on crumpled stone. The village streets are still.
The ruins cry, but do not cry alone;
I am her humble seneschal of stone.
Burly Hank and Me
[1]
There is no brawling in the Ceptic Tank
between the sewer rats that dwell in there;
The owner of the pub is Burly Hank,
whose muscles bulge too much to be ignored.
It’s said he crushed the skull of Iron Jake
for swearing oaths on Burly Hank’s dead mum,
and when he caught a thief who tried to take
his money from the till, Hank ate his thumb.
I saw him fight a dozen men at once—
he didn’t even break out in a sweat—
I knew that I would never stand a chance
of winning any money from my bet.
And yet, I stood my ground and, eye-to-eye,
I said to Burly Hank, “Today, you’re mine.”
[2]
Now, Burly Hank is not a man to laugh,
so when I spoke those words, his eyes went blank
until a dry and rancid epithet
escaped between the lips of Burly Hank.
At first, I didn’t understand the sound,
despite the intent creeping in his eyes,
and then I found myself upon the ground
in time to dodge his massive, bulky thigh.
His gleeful chuckles sang out loud and clear
as clapping from the patrons joined in;
The chorus of his stomping drawing near
was like a dirge in twilight for a friend.
I clenched my teeth and flexed my brawny fist
and wondered how I would get out of this.
[3]
I fought with all I had and then some more,
but all that I achieved was just a groan;
But as we battled on, this thing I swore:
If Burly Hank went down, I’d run for home!
I dodged until my face was turning red,
and swung until my arms were falling off,
then, just as I believed I’d soon be dead,
the mighty Burly Hank told me to stop.
Now, Burly Hank has honor for his soul
and honesty is marrow in his bones,
so I backed off and waited, dutiful,
as he sat down with muffled little moans.
He stared me in the eye with new respect:
“A draw?” he asked; I nodded – what the heck?
[4]
What happened next I could not understand:
The crowd had hushed to whispers dancing ‘round;
Then came a cry of “Burly Hank’s a sham!”
but it was quickly silenced by the crowd.
I drew a breath and glared with sternest eye;
My gravel voice broke through the Ceptic Tank;
“I challenge any man who will deny
the strength and skill of mighty Burly Hank
to show his face and say it to the man!”
The silence settled like a passing breeze.
and then the nervous crowd pushed out a man
who stumbled forth and fell down to his knees.
While Burly Hank just stared in pure contempt,
the foolish little man fell down and wept.
[5]
The sight was sickening for all to see,
but Burly Hank just nudged him with his toe,
and then he turned and winked his eye at me
to tell the little man that he could go.
He scampered off with groveling and bows—
appreciation showed with every move—
I know he’d learned to close his squeaky mouth,
but never will he learn to speak the truth.
So, Burly Hank and me, we shook our hands
and had our fill of wine and salty food;
We toasted through the night like new-found friends,
and in the morning didn’t feel so good.
That’s when I went to claim my wager won –
I’d bet that I would last until the dawn.
Tomb Raider
The darkness has covered my tracks – and my plan;
The Tomb of the Pharaoh is waiting for me;
I hasten to lever the stone from the door
and enter with lantern from which I will see.
The pitfalls and dangers I easily meet;
Too soon, I stand in the presence of God;
I push on the coffin to open the lid
and feel as though something is waiting inside.
I lift up the lantern the better to see;
A breeze comes from nowhere to blow out the flame;
The darkness is eerie, like death on the wing,
and I am regretting the reason I came.
The silence of ages still clings to the walls;
The scent of time passing still hangs in the air;
My moment of triumph has fallen down low,
and I whimper softly, “I’m sorry I’m here.”
My voice sends a shiver down hallway and spine,
Returning like clockwork on echoing time;
A teardrop and prayer I solemnly spend;
A voice in darkness responds: “You are mine.”
Abernathy’s Misfortune
I trudged through muck that crept up to my knees
and kept my eyes upon the starry night;
I felt a presence in the chilly breeze
and knew that something out there was in flight;
The screeching came from somewhere much too close;
Although I tried, I could not seem to run,
and then the odor tickled in my nose:
The haunting witch’s hour had begun!
The sucking of the clinging, muddy ground
was sending echoes through the eerie wood;
It seemed to shout to everything around:
“An idiot has come to be our food!”
A chuckle seemed to settle on my skin
before I felt its talons sinking in.…
Familiar Loss
When Abernathy met his strange demise,
I felt it as I would have felt my own:
The piercing talons gouging out his eyes
elicited much more than just a groan;
His psychic screams were loud and full of pain;
They rattled through my mind like broken glass;
I felt the creature striking out again
and went with him into the gray morass;
His screams turned into whispers on the wind
and faded slowly to a silent pall.
I felt his death and knew I’d lost a friend,
the closest, dearest friend among them all.
I crushed the tears that threatened to explode
and turned my full attention to the road.
The Summons*
Darkness, black with eerie fringe,
red and orange beneath me singe,
fiery hells surround the hinge,
and yet the door dost hold.
Arms akimbo, hands aflame,
no one speaks his hell-bent name
though they think it, just the same,
and yet the door dost hold.
Shadows flecked with bloody grime,
suspended thoughts in streams of time
anchored in a thing sub
lime,
and yet the door dost hold.
Demon with your sweetened smile,
hands held open, full of guile,
words unspoken still defile,
and yet the door dost hold.
Cloudbursts, sudden lightning strikes,
Rumble-thunder no one likes,
Flaming rains flood through the dikes
to crash against the door.
All the runes the spell demands
set within the pentagram
with finest skill and firmest hand -–
I cast the door aside.
Wisps of ash betrothed to fire,
Ghosts float past in gay attire,
Chaos reigns in firm desire
around the open door.
Laughter, cruel from sickly mind –-
How could I have been so blind?
A gentle shove comes from behind:
I meet the other side.
I fall as one within a dream
and turn to see his eyes agleam;
His laughter mingles with my scream:
He slowly shuts the door.
Moistened tongues that gently dab,
hands upon my shoulders grab,
cold talons, claws that deeply stab—
I look in hungry eyes.…