Onward

I am moving here under a different name. Six years is a long time, especially if it starts in college.

The Cry of The Wraith

When four and twenty shining stars
    Burn bright beside the sun,
And Venus fair and ruddy Mars
    The heavens wide do shun,

When waters of each sea and lake
    Shall burn with hellish flame,
And Earth the pastures shall forsake,
    The forests much the same,

When darkness shall blanket once more
    The land once of the light,
Then lost to creatures foul and sore,
    Pillagers of the night,

Then shall my word still well resound
    In broken tomes of stone;
By vagaries of time unbound
    Shall sound my voice alone.


(Written in a personal record time of half-an-hour)

A Song For The Seasons

Bring me in time of Summer sun
     A springing brook, a waterfall
Cool as the coolest shady copse
     Of misty pine trees looming tall.

Bring me in time of Autumn dearth
     The greenest of the greenest glade,
The freshest meadow damp with dew
     And leaves that shall not brown, nor fade.

Bring me in time of Winter snow
     An armchair by your fireside,
And tales of old and tales of new
     Told into old times' flowing tide.

And then in time of merry Spring
     Bring me from sylvan lore a song
That I shall sing into the sky
     And you, with me, shall sing along.


("The Four Seasons" happens to be my favourite theme of all, inspired, not in any small measure, by Antonio Vivaldi's magnificent work on the same. (don't ask how)
More to come.)

The Old Man in the Woods

One day, a warm and sunny day,
     I trundled lightly on my way
Down by the foot of some old hill
     That stood somewhere and does so still,
          Whistling a happy ballad
          Of chicken soup and salad.

There, standing in the shady wood,
     I saw an old man where he stood
Bending so low upon his cane,
     Sporting so white a shaggy mane
          That, "Oh!", I told unto me,
          "He must be old as the sea."

I strode along my path, it took
     Me pretty close to that dark nook
Where, still as any frying pan,
     There stood that crooked, strange old man;
          His eyes, to tell you frankly,
          Stared quite at nothing blankly.

A closer inspection revealed
     His tunic torn, ankle-skin peeled
As one that makes his way into
     A burst of brambles, perhaps two.
          And to myself I grovelled,
          "Well, well! This fellow's travelled."

I passed him by and went my way,
     For it was that time of the day
When I would take my laden sack
     That rested now upon my back,
          And for five pence or higher,
          Sell pine wood for your fire.

Then, "Hark!", a-sudden something loud,
     As loud as any thunder-cloud,
The voice, as I turned round to find,
     Of that old man I'd left behind;
          His eyes at me were staring,
          Still ghastly in their bearing.

I stood there gaping, thinking how
     So old a chap as this old cow
Could gather wind enough to shout,
     Or even breathe in and breathe out,
          When, "Come closer!", he muttered,
          Sour as morning's bread buttered.

"Come closer so you might hear right,
     And judge yourself this old soul's plight.",
He beckoned me on as he spoke
     Towards his copse of silver-oak.
          The Sun was marching onward,
          I had to further forward.

How late it was for me to sell
     My wood already I can't tell,
But something in his gaze, it held
     Me rooted there, somehow compelled.
          His eyes, still lost as ever;
          I, motionless as never.

"Someone should know before I die
     Of those strange things I have come by,
Of all those truths that have been hid
     All these past years in mortal bid.",
          So he said to, seemingly,
          Himself and smiled knowingly.

I stood staring at his old face,
     Those haunting eyes, that queer grimace.
I drew the deepest breath I could,
     Sat on a stump that nearby stood,
          And said in sign of clement,
          "All right, I have a moment."

Promise of the Champions

With darkest gloom upon us cast,
As failure fills our path onward,
A thousand defeats in our past,
More certain as we trip forward,

Time shall find not a taint of dread,
Nor faintest wishes of retreat
In hearts that, such as ours, were bred-
Amidst the worst to calmest beat.

Should dull and slow the wild creeks flow,
With hopelessness the winds resound,
Spreading wide despair as they blow,
And charms of luck be nowhere found,

On shall we march, high shall we hold
The pride that was, and will be, ours
Of standing fearless, brave and bold
On stormy seas, in raging wars.

And should we stumble down our way,
Burn fingers, bruise and scathe our knees,
We shall not falter, will not sway
In resolve deep as stone to breeze.

Far shall we go, to seize our day,
To win our share, to raise our bets.
We gather rosebuds while we may
For one more sun with each night sets.

Yes, mountains tall might mar our tracks
And valleys deep might stall our tread
While underneath, old dear Earth cracks
And thunder plots to char us dead.

And yet we strive, and yet we walk,
Battles we fought, farewells we bade,
For while no ship did sink at dock,
To sail all seas broad were they made.


(Inspired in part by Invictus, by William Henley, and The Psalm of Life, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.)
(And to be honest, I took a line from this poem by Robert Herrick.)

The Minstrel's Prelude

Let me spill forth a haunting tale of long forgotten past,
None such as which transpires today, nor did millenia last.
A story such as ne'er was told, and ne'er was nowhere heard,
And one as this was ne'er inscribed, nor was by no one read.

One of dark passion, one of woe, and one of great despair,
One of vile vengeance, wasteful wars, of duels foul and fair.
A tale of knights in plated steel, riding noble and brave,
Of traitors cold in blood and heart digging their master's grave.

A tale of castles, dragon lords, wonders that far surpass
The wildest, weirdest dreams of men, humble The Looking Glass.
A tale of worlds wide torn apart by unsheathed cruel steel
And tyrants' thirst for such power, with Satan would they deal;

Where witches cast their hideous spells, where mountains crawl with trolls,
And corpses feed on lives of men as each dreadful night falls;
Where werewolves wield their beastly ways as bright the moon's orb shines,
Which banshees with shrill cries do fill, mortals of Earth with whines.

Of priceless treasures shall I sing, of isles amidst the seas
That not once bore the foot of man in three score centuries,
Of thick, cold forests, forlorn shacks, deep, dark and dreary caves
Hiding hundreds of secrets lost, and loot of bloody knaves.

Of merry times then shall I tell, of springs, of meadows green,
About sweet sparrows singing songs of times when joy had been,
Of blossomed roses and sunshine, sweet lovers in earnest,
Preach of the best of golden dawns succeeding nights darkest.

So listen men and lasses all of wise or tender age
To one who wishes all you well, his dear patronage.
Listen well, for a tale as this nowhere else shall you find,
And wisdom that you thus shall gain, in flesh and soul do bind.