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Distinguished Bibliophile
Darkkin
Posts: 2,224
Registered: ‎08-15-2009

Re: The Doubting of the Lark

Little lark perched upon,

The lichen patterned stone,

Of the garden wall.

I see you looking out,

Your song quiet,

Your heart and will,

Your dreams...

So very, very still.

Little lark, looking out.

 

Little lark, looking out.

Perched upon the garden wall.

Beyond the lawn,

Ov'r the hill, passing the downs,

Through the meadows,

The dancing thistles...and laughing brook.

To the forest,

Your eyes drift.

Deep and dark and safe.

Hedgerows guarding, owls watching.

Little lark, touched by doubt.

 

Broken bird, you of bandaged wing,

From the thicket,

That olden hedgerow, once,

You did sing.

Calling to this dreamer, hated...

Through the woods and the dark,

How I ran, my breath bated...

Bitter words burning in my ears,

Cheeks scalded by my tears.

But to me, your voice did call.

Hold on tight, to each dream and hope,

No matter how insignificant or trifling,

No matter how faded or small.

Little lark, looking out.

 

Little lark, looking out...

Hear my voice as I hear yours,

Remember you hopes,

For that dream alone,

Can heal a broken wing,

Bandage a bleeding heart,

Let you feel the wind upon your face,

Lift your widespread wings,

And send you soaring,

Into a bright, sunkissed place.

Little lark, touched by doubt,

Don't still your voice,

When your heart and hopes,

Are singing out.

Little lark, looking out.

 

Little lark, looking out.

Little lark, head lifting up.

To the skies, the fading day,

She raises her song,

And like the old, forgotten poets,

To those watching over,

Looking down,

With each note and refrain,

Strength and hope, she does regain.

Like the song for childhood memory,

To the skies, the fading day.

She is the lark who is learning to pray.

Little lark, looking out.

Little lark, fading doubt.

 

Little lark, looking out.

The gentle sun upon your face,

The voice and hope,

A perfect and flawed,

Saving Grace.

Looking out into the wood.

Downed and broken,

You brought me back,

From the brink upon which I stood.

Broken bird, you heal now.

Broken bird, I feel hope,

Again, out of the dark,

Somewhere, somehow.

Little lark, looking out.

 

Little lark, looking out.

Lichen patterned stone, beneath,

Little taloned toes,

To the skies,

A flute like voice, a new tune,

A lilting, dreaming aire, goes.

Beating heart within my chest,

With these words,

I know hope goes on,

Even as the weary seek to rest.

Little lark, holding on.

Little lark, doubts now gone.

Little lark, trying now.

Soon you will fly once more,

Once you learn, you never forget how.

Little lark, eyes upon the sky,

A voice carrying,

Borne by the winds on high.

'Of wings and words and dancing milkweed seeds...'

Distinguished Bibliophile
Darkkin
Posts: 2,224
Registered: ‎08-15-2009

Re: Aster and Jack: A Verse of Autumn

Man in the Moon,

A Guardian of Olde,

Smiles down,

Clad in harvest gold.

Upon a sight, so precious,

So truly perfect and rare.

 

Lady of Autumn, his true love,

Comes...

The crickets' song, a whispered,

Hum...

Upon her auburn curls,

So tightly bound,

Rests a silver wrought,

Fae forged crown.

 

Lady of Autumn,

To the skies she lifts,

Her haunting face,

Floats forward, a ring of birches,

Her goal,

Floating with a haunting, ghostly grace.

To this place, once before,

She had come.

When she was young, so faire of face.

 

Lady of Autumn,

She did come to this jonquil clad,

Ring of birch.

When to that Man,

Within the Moon, to him,

Her troth she plead.

When among the stars,

Her heart was lifted,

To last forever, never knowing,

The touch of cold,

The last breath of the dead.

 

Lady of Autumn,

The Queen of Fall,

Comes to the spot,

Where the dance began,

When that Man,

Stole her heart, took her hand,

Stood before her, brave and tall.

Now she looks upon him,

A smile on her face,

For with her comes,

A daughter born of grace.

 

Lady of Autumn,

Soft and sere,

Looks upon her child,

So bright, no words are found,

To describe the sight,

A legend, new and speaking,

Into the tomes of lore,

Awaiting a winter's night,

To stretch their wings,

To let a child's dreams take flight.

The Harvest Moon, smiling down.

 

Following in her mother's wake,

She does come,

Looking up at her father smiling down,

Upon her flaming curls,

A veil of hoar frost, set with dew,

A wreath of gold, twisting round,

Amber, ivy, a flight of moths,

Light upon her crown,

A gown of snowflakes,

And the spiders' finest art,

This day, she to another,

Pledges her clean, pure heart.

 

Lady of Autumn.

The ring of birches, she does reach.

The raven calls the faithful there,

The owl, the vicar, presiding,

Deer and dryads, the attendants,

Peeking...One by one,

Their places seeking.

A symphony of reeds and crickets,

Plays...a song, lilting and sweet,

Down the aisle, no whisper,

No sound of approaching feet.

 

Eyes, those of the does,

Those of the dark,

Those of the faithful,

Peeking. Seeking.

Looking for the princess,

Of this fading glory.

For this is her story.

Lady of Autumn,

A smile, lights her face,

Her child comes,

Moving with haunting grace.

 

In awe and wonder,

The gathered stare,

At this woodland child,

She, who had grown,

Into a lady so gracious and faire.

Born in the spring,

When the days were brisk,

The sky was bright,

Chasing butterflies through the downs,

Around each corner, another adventure,

Another game, another risk.

With the bear, the deer,

The red fox kits,

She chases and played,

That innocent child, so small,

So sweet and wise,

Blossomed and grew before their eyes.

 

Summer came with contended bliss.

Now half grown,

Red hair streaming down,

A reed slim back,

Eyes so bright and blue,

Pieces of the sky,

Taken when a star was born,

She traversed vale and glen,

In the company of the Unicorn.

Innocence, shown in her face,

She was a beauty, a wonder,

An otherworldly grace.

In these long and lazy months,

Stealing in among,

The warm and hazy bliss,

Was Robin Goodfellow,

Come to steal a kiss.

 

That cunning, jaded flirt,

To her alabaster cheek,

His lips did go...

From her, that day,

A kiss he stole.

Frightened by the tease,

The woodland child,

Fell, weeping, to her knees.

Blue eyes drifted shut,

The bees around her,

They did hum...

Flying after Robin, seeking,

To sting him on the thumb,

For their princess, he did hurt,

Left her kneeling in the dirt.

 

Somber and quiet,

She became,

As Lady of Autumn, her mother, glowed,

Then faded to a stately dame,

Gold and crimson and amber, too.

The heart of fall, painted the wood,

Cloaking the green,

Leaves drifted with the stream,

Beside, which the princess stood.

 

A leaf of the ginkgo tree,

Jonquil gold, the colour bright,

A blue moon was to shine that night.

So to the tree, she did go.

A gown of jonquil hued ginkgo leaves,

Sown together, before the spiders' sleep,

That night, into the Fae Masquerade,

She had sworn to creep,

Without her mother's knowing,

Where she was going.

 

With the coming of the fall,

Was the annual Fae Masked Ball.

This woodland child,

Was a young lady, grown.

Flaming hair and glowing eyes,

The Fae Court to a sight was treated,

For from all watchers, had the princess,

Long retreated...

Since that single stolen kiss,

Along the stream, when he,

Robin Goodfellow had stripped,

Away the summer's bliss.

 

A mask of scarlet maple leaves,

Studded with dew and fireflies,

To her angelic face, she affixed.

A cloak of cobwebs, clad in dew,

With clasps of amber,

About her throat was set,

Upon her flaming curls, a crown of ivy,

Green and gold, did glow...

Through the wood, following the stream,

To the clearing with the ring of birch,

She did go.

She was the Red Mask,

The Maple Voice.

A chance to laugh,

To dance again,

Was there any other choice?

So in the company of the doe,

In the light of the Unicorn’s glow,

Down the path,

Out of her mother’s sight,

She crept to the ball,

The Blue Moon shone,

Twice as bright,

Twice as long,

As the Lark began her song.

Her steps were silent,

On the dew drenched moss,

She laughed aloud,

Allowed her curls a saucy toss.

A rebellious youngster,

Running free,

To a place where wonder,

Hums and buzzes like the protective bee.

Fireflies and lunas,

Show the way,

On the wind the scent,

Of balsam, lavender,

And drying hay.

 

By the light of the moon.

By the glow of  a bug,

She entered the clearing,

Loosened the clasp of amber,

Surrendered her shimmering cloak,

With little more than a shrug.

The trees of the wood,

Shone like flame.

A fae borne light,

That cast the sun into shame,

Mysterious and soft,

It caressed her porcelain skin.

Her bare feet made no sound,

As the Lark’s voice rose,

The haunting notes of a lover’s waltz,

The only one of the night,

Was set to begin.

The cobalt sea and living flame,

Maple Voice…

Her hand, in a dance,

Did a boy, no older than she,

Claim.

 

Silver and white and grey.

He was slim and graceful.

Elegant and playful and free.

His hand was cold,

But his eyes and heart,

Were warm.

Her hand, she allowed him to take,

Her sadness and fear,

She at long last, did forsake.

Into the steps of the luscious dance,

He twirled her lightly,

Behind her mask,

Her skin and eyes,

Sapphire and pearl, glowed,

Oh so brightly.

Beneath the Blue Moon,

Young lovers danced,

This is how true love is born,

This was a romance.

 

Cold hands and a glowing heart.

Robin Goodfellow stared after the dancers.

His jaded heart,

Twisting in the oddest way.

As he realized,

The Maple Voice was she,

From whom he had stolen a kiss,

That fateful summer day.

Behind his back he hid his thumb,

Which because of the guardian bees,

Was still sore and numb.

She danced like a will-o-the-wisp.

Casting the rest of the Court,

Into the shade,

How she tempted that cunning jade,

Robin Goodfellow,

But even he knew,

That because of the Blue Moon,

He could never come between these two.

 

The dance was haunting,

Perfect and dark.

Swirling and whirling,

To the voice of the Lark,

The accompaniment,

Of the crickets and the reeds.

The bass of the bull frogs,

The quivering of the milkweed seeds.

Round and round and round,

The edge of the birch ring,

They waltzed…

Lost to the world,

In the beating of their own hearts.

Young love, living art.

Not even death, could these two part.

 

Softly and gently as it began,

The song of the Lark faded,

The last notes,

Leaching from the land.

All round hands were clapping,

A grin split many a face,

For never had the Fae Court,

Witnesses such perfect grace.

The young gentleman smiled,

At this young lady,

He knew to be the woodland child.

Slowly he undid the scarlet mask.

So in her light,

He could bask.

Eyes so bright and speaking,

It was her heart,

Her hand for always he was seeking.

Jack Frost knew,

She to him was bound,

Her name a glorious, musical sound.

Aster,

The Blue Flower of the Fall.

Aster.

To his heart, her soul did call.

 

Beneath the Blue Moon,

To the Man he did speak,

His Aster’s hand,

He did seek.

Unto Olde Man Winter,

The Snow Queen, too…

Finally the Lady of Autumn,

Did Jack and Aster, go.

To one and all,

These parents, so proud,

Replied.

Love is a treasure one should never hide.

Life is a wonder,

With the right partner at your side.

 

So to the clearing,

On a brittle, frost kissed morn,

Came Aster,

Carried by her faithful friend,

The Unicorn.

Beside her mother,

The Lady of Autumn,

Waited her beloved Jack,

The Snow Queen smiled,

At his back.

Her lacy veil, the Queen’s handwork,

Covered her curls,

With joy, a heart suffused

Did hum.

Down the aisle,

Like a leaf upon the brook,

She drifted down,

Her father’s light,

Shining off her hair and crown.

At last her Jack,

She did reach,

The Owl, the vicar, began to preach.

The troth was spoken.

The veil drawn back,

Words sealed with a token.

A kiss, gentle and tender.

As the Lark began to prayer.

Man and wife,

Aster and Jack,

Were made this day.

'Of wings and words and dancing milkweed seeds...'

Inspired Correspondent
Open-Peacemind
Posts: 155
Registered: ‎11-19-2011
0 Kudos

Sometimes I wish

Here is a poem that I thought up:

 

Sometimes I Wish

 

Sometimes I Wish many things,

On a single shooting star,

I wish for a house full of riches;

and wish to get rid of rowdy witches,

I might even wish for a mountain of candy.

I'll wish for all my dreams to come true,

of being able to run free,

to be free from my mother's wrath,

to not care if my dress is dirty,

or not to care when I am not mannerful at the table,

to be a person in government,

not a normal useles woman who tkes care of children,

to be able to take care of animals,

to walk in the streets and have every gentlemen and lady,

look at my beauty and my intellegents,

and every gentlemen look at me,

 wishing too, for I, to be their partner for life,

For the ladies to look at me in jealosy or inspiration,

I'll even wish for many silky dresses,

made from the best of the silks,

for shoes made for me,

no other can have,

But at the end of every shooting star,

I wish for the best for my family,

And I go into a peaceful sleep,

Knowing that none of that will ever come true.....

There is only to believe.....

 

 

 

I am settting this peom in the 1800s..

This poem(sorry if I give this away) means that  if you believe, it is real......


“You know you're in love when you can't fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams.”
― Dr. Seuss
"It's your decision:
are you going to do the right or the wrong?"
~me
Distinguished Bibliophile
Darkkin
Posts: 2,224
Registered: ‎08-15-2009

Re: These Fears...

These fears...

Be it pain,

Be it rage,

Be it doubt,

Be it an enemy, a friend,

Or an unknown voice...a choice.

 

These fears...

A source of a power,

Great and mighty

Hidden in their depths.

Seeking hearts and searching eyes,

Reaching deep into the soul.

 

These fears...

Make us who we are.

A tenet point from

Which we spiral,

Outward in a twirling dance.

A place to start, an obstacle, overcome.

 

These fears...

These dark and foolish fears,

That have driven us to our knees,

Made us bleed,

Shedding countless tears.

These fears, they are a source.

 

These fears...

They are the source,

From which a power grows.

This power, it is a skill,

Learned through pain and love,

Garnered by a child, carried by a dove.

 

These fears...

To our knees, they have driven.

To the skies in the blackest night,

Our eyes lifted and that source,

That power found,

In a quivering soul, begins to pound.

 

These fears...

The quaking, aching soul

At long last does face.

A flower, nourished and treasured,

Sheltered since its birth,

Begins to bloom, here

In darkest reaches of doubt and doom.

 

These fears...

Are the seeds of the glowing blossom,

A flower of courage,

The power to stand firm.

A voice calling out...

Enough. Let my hope live.

 

These fears...

Ghosts of the past.

A shadow of ourselves,

A history, around which the story,

Of life and love are written.

The seeds from which the flowers,

Of courage, of respect, spring.

 

These fears...

They are the source of all,

From great and mighty deeds,

To the soft spoken voice even the wisest heeds,

For without fear,

How can courage live?

'Of wings and words and dancing milkweed seeds...'

Distinguished Bibliophile
Darkkin
Posts: 2,224
Registered: ‎08-15-2009

Re: Moonlight on the River

Moonlight on the river.

Starlight on the snow.

An angry tide, arising...

The screaming of a soul.

 

Moonlight on the river.

Starlight on the snow.

Bitter winds, ablowing...

A desolate crossing, now.

 

Moonlight on the river.

Starlight on the snow.

Blood upon her hands.

Tears now stain her face.

 

Moonlight on the river.

Starlight on the snow.

A single line of footprints,

Pressed into the sand.

 

Moonlight on the river.

Starlight on the snow.

Alone she walks,

Upon a foreign shore.

 

Moonlight on the river.

Starlight on the snow.

Blood dry upon her hands,

Tears, a salty, lingering trace.

 

Moonlight on the river.

Starlight on the snow.

Alone, wayfarer adrift,

Trapped in a cold dark place.

'Of wings and words and dancing milkweed seeds...'

Distinguished Bibliophile
KathyS
Posts: 6,898
Registered: ‎10-19-2006
0 Kudos

My tribute to Whitney Houston

http://prosetryinmotion.blogspot.com/

 

 

Whitney Houston


 

You can fly, you can fly, you can fly!
Lift up your wings my little bird
Lift up your heart and sing to the sky
 
You have wings that will take you far beyond the earth
Into the realms of glory’s birth
 
You have wings that will lift you to places you’ve cried
You have wings that will free you, a peacefull reside
 
Lift with air, lift with care, lift my little one away, away, so you can sing like a song bird, bursting with glory you’ve left behind. Away from your demon, away from your troubles, there you will find your truest freedom.
 
Passion
Inspiration
Determination
Humbled
Sparkle

I will always love you


Inspired Bibliophile
GS2991
Posts: 2,590
Registered: ‎04-21-2011

Re: My tribute to Whitney Houston

Thats cool I liked it.
Silence is golden,
Duck tape is silver.

Book Sharks: No need to breathe, just read!
Distinguished Bibliophile
Darkkin
Posts: 2,224
Registered: ‎08-15-2009

Re: Strangeways to Nowhere

Strangeways to nowhere,

Ducky, faded yellow rubber,

Whirling down a drain.

A paper boat floundering,

Amidst a gutter's torrents, swollen by the rain.

 

Promontory jutting out, cleaving from the coast,

Far below, the teeming brine,

The broken tears and agony,

Ripped from the breast of a faded ghost.

A single line of footprints pressed into the sand.

 

Pixie dust brushed away; a faery, here, lies dead.

All because a single line, no longer spoken,

A simple phrase no longer dreamt or said.

Poison in the water, poison on the wind.

Strangeways to nowhere, a dead end path ahead.

 

Strangeways to nowhere, spoons bending in the night.

Things that should and shouldn't be...

Things done wrong and a few, maybe, done just right.

Doorways, pathways, highways, byways,

No ways and right ways.

 

Footprints in the sand, stemming from a place.

Following the wailing, chasing an ancient duck,

Still floating, drifting with the eddies,

A head above the water, watching for a beloved face,

Who remembers the strangeways to nowhere.

'Of wings and words and dancing milkweed seeds...'

Distinguished Bibliophile
Darkkin
Posts: 2,224
Registered: ‎08-15-2009

Re: Lion of Winter

[ Edited ]

Lion of Winter

 

An indigo sail kissed by molten riches,

Billowing to a high and mighty breadth,

Unfurled and blowing, small rents peek and glow.

Eyes opened by a comet's flight,

Fading stars chasing down the morn'

Voice of the nocturne,

Wafting down the way,

The way,

Strangeways to Nowhere,

A path hidden by the light,

A way known only to the dreamers,

The chasers of a certain, drifting duck,

Who have followed it through the night.

 

Voice of the nocturne,

Singing with sail,

The snap and billow,

The mourning of a siren's words,

The verse of a willow,

As by the bank it stands, weeping.

Gone beyond its sight,

The duck and the dreamers passed

Chasing the Strangeways to Nowhere,

Searching for a half broken, full glass.

Looking and seeing,

Quicksilver forged.

 

Within these paths,

These Strangeways to Nowhere,

The duck can only take them so far.

In the tail of a comet,

Through the eyes of a star,

To the heart of a storm,

The Glass of Looking and Seeing,

The answer to a riddle's true form.

There is only one,

Alone, this one, alone,

Who knows the path between,

The Strangeways to Nowhere.

A figure of Legend,

Hewn of the Living Stone,

Endowed of wings and words,

A mane and a ferocious frown.

 

Outside a place of endless wonders,

Over...

A portal to the Strangeways,

A mighty legion of steps and stones,

The Stepping Stones,

He mounts an unceasing guard,

Wakened by the Voice of Nocturne.

A dusting of snow his haloed crown.

In the heart of the cold,

In the dark of the night,

The beating of a silent heart,

Does sound,

An echoing, clarion pound.

Nine the Rampant, a Lion of Winter,

Born of the Living Stone,

Blinks eyes of amber and flexes claws,

Molded of ivory, encasing bone.

The Living Stone,

The Breathing Art,

Loosed upon the Strangeways to Nowhere,

To the aid of the Night Galleon,

He has been called,

To guide the dreamers, one and all.

 

Against the ice, binding down his wings,

Nine begins to fight,

Sheening coat, limbs crack and flow.

Freedom from the pedestal,

That has bound him,

Tail and mane and bone.

Locked in a hardened, breathing prison,

Known as the Living Stone.

By the Voice of the Nocturne,

The Call of a Crow,

The Tear of the Owl,

By the Blood of the Snow.

To the defense of the Dreamers,

Onward and forward,

Massive paws gather, bound into the night,

Over the virga, chasing the stream.

'Of wings and words and dancing milkweed seeds...'

Distinguished Bibliophile
Darkkin
Posts: 2,224
Registered: ‎08-15-2009

Re: The Sound and the Fury

[ Edited ]

The Sound and the Fury,

The Fury of the Sound...

Silenced before it was born,

A voice stifled far too soon,

Never to grace the morn'

 

The Sound and the Fury,

A Quiet Rage in eyes, dark

Speaking, calling out in pain.

Quiet Rage, ascreamin'

As they learn to dream...

 

The Sound and the Fury,

The Echoes of the Silence,

Ringing down the day,

A dreamer's light, a single star,

Oh, so far away...

 

The Sound and the Fury,

Blood upon the Snow...

Of Roses, Red and Briar, born,

Of a Swan and Seven, bound,

Over the fallen, the forgotten, the forsaken,

A Strangeway to Nowhere, found.

 

The Sound and the Fury,

The Echoes of the Silence,

The whispers of the snows,

Into the Stacks passes a Lion of Winter,

Nine the Rampant, the Pathway, only he knows.

'Of wings and words and dancing milkweed seeds...'

Distinguished Bibliophile
Darkkin
Posts: 2,224
Registered: ‎08-15-2009

Re: It Is...

It is...Words born from a quiet whisper.

It is...The courage found in the face of fear.

It is...The will to stand when others fall.

It is...The touch that sends ripples blossoming to waves.

It is...The light within the shadows.

It is...Forgiveness for a bitter wrong.

It is...The hand reaching to the downed.

It is...The damaged heart, beating still.

It is...A second chance to try.

It is...Life and what we make of it.

It is...A Strangeway to Nowhere.

'Of wings and words and dancing milkweed seeds...'

Distinguished Bibliophile
Darkkin
Posts: 2,224
Registered: ‎08-15-2009

Re: Shadow in the Corner

[ Edited ]

A Shadow in the Corner,

Revealed by a lamp,

A dusts, beloved survivor

Of a chipped and broken pair.

 

Nearly at the ceiling,

Tracing a line too fine

For those mortal eyes, apeerin'

Looking too hard to see.

 

A Shadow in the Corner,

A tiny, swift sure form

Clinging to a thread of life,

Fighting against the fall.

 

'Neath a frame guarded,

By a sea of glass,

Wherein masked figures dance,

Eyes beckoning, saying. Come.

 

A Shadow in the Corner.

The tippet of a tail,

The fragment of a feather,

The whisper of a vail.

 

The sea of glass it ripples,

Twisting with the time.

Into it a hand presses,

Catching the waltz's rhythm, dancing with the rhyme.

 

A Shadow in the Corner,

Becomes a familiar face.

Amber eyes aglowin'

A smile filled with grace.

 

Nine the Rampant, nods,

Snow drifting from his coat.

At last he finds a dreamer,

Her breath bated in her throat.

 

The Shadow in the Corner,

A Strangeway to Nowhere, found.

On the dreamer dances,

Whirling and waltzing 'round.

'Of wings and words and dancing milkweed seeds...'

Distinguished Bibliophile
Darkkin
Posts: 2,224
Registered: ‎08-15-2009

Re: The Highwayman of Kettering Shore

[ Edited ]

Pirates' Moon araisin'

The Banshee haunts the moor.

Nocturne's voice drifting from the cove.

Slim fingers upon a handle press,

Releasing the terrace door.

 

Through a sea of glass,

Into the heart of a lost masqued ball,

A dreamer slipped and took up the steps.

Transformed into a Lady,

Beloved by one and all.

 

Onto the terrace she passes now.

Nine the Rampant, steadily pacing

With her gentle stride.

Silken whispers of her skirts and on the shore, far below,

A sight that sets her heart, a'racing..

 

Pirates' Moon aglowin'

Reflecting off the sand.

Sea and brine billowing out, cloaking a form,

A shadow from the deepest reaches,

A Beastie from the No Man's Land.

 

But it is not the Beastie,

Which has caught the Lady's eye,

It is a great ship upon the water,

A galleon, upon a sand bar, stranded,

It's crew prepared to die.

 

Pirates' Moon swallowed,

By shrouds of fitful clouds, entombed

Down the shore, a plague of greed,

Comes sweeping in, a tidal surge,

The Lady, watches, knowing the galleon doomed.

 

A tear from stormy eyes,

Drifting down her cheek,

Quickly she whips it away,

Now is not the time for tears,

For they show that she is weak.

 

An indigo sail kissed by gold.

The ship, the galleon, trapped upon the bar

It is the fabled Night Galleon,

A treasure, beyond price kept within her hold.

A relic of a bygone age, more precious than a star.

 

The Lady watches fingers clenched,

Upon the balustrade of stone,

Nine the Rampant at her side,

As the Moon Cussers swarm, toward the Night Galleon,

Their hearts carved out of bone.

 

The Beastie in the shadows lurking,

Waiting for its chance to spring,

Fast and swift and sure.

It knows the origins of the Relic in the hold.

One chance, alone, it has to beat Nine the Rampant to sky and wing.

 

Behind the Lady, the ball progresses,

The dancers a maddening blur.

Among the masked, there is a Knight,

Clad in the Highwayman's rags, of worn boots and black,

And a silver rapier that has ended many a mannerless curr.

 

From the stranded Galleon,

A great ring does arise.

The clanging of the ship's bell,

As the Moon Cussers, converge.

Seeking to claim their coveted prize.

 

Through the doorway, away from the ball,

Passes the Knight as the Highwayman, clad.

His fingers trace his Lady's cheek.

Nine the Rampant, Keeper of the Strangeways, coming to the fore.

Blade at the ready, mask affixed, wings unfurled, violence to be had.

 

Nine the Rampant, before the Highwayman bows,

Snow drifting from his crown.

Wings unfurled unto the fullest,

The Highwayman of Kettering Shore upon the Living Stone is mounted,

Waiting with bated breath for the Lion's flight down.

 

With blade in one hand and mane wound 'round the other.

He pressed a kiss upon his Lady's cheek.

Still pale and moist from those tears,

Those hated tears...

That made her so weak.

 

Pirates' Moon aglowin'

Glimmering off the sea, reflecting from the stone.

The Highwayman of Kettering Shore,

A living ribbon of Quicksilver, forged.

A single strike and it falls away, flesh and blood and bone.

 

Blind with greed the Moon Cussers,

Intent upon their prize,

Fail to take note,

Of the Highwayman of Kettering Shore borne by Nine the Rampant,

Baring down to darken, forever, their covetous demons' eyes.

 

The Captain of the Night Galleon, a horn, to his lips is raised,

A call to arms, knowing it might be his final song.

As Nine the Rampant, over the balustrade leaps,

His wings flaring wide and silent,

His heart beneath the Highwayman's knee, steady and brave and strong.

 

As the Highwayman and Nine, spiral with the gathering storm,

The Lady can no longer keep them back,

This tide of tears, in torrents they fall.

One by one by one joining the rushing of the sea.

From the Night Galleon a cannon erupts, shattering the stillness with a mighty crack.

 

The Moon Cussers, two dories down,

Continue to press the Galleon, beached.

From the shadows, the Beastie of No Man's Land,

After Nine the Rampant chases,

The end of its patience, reached.

 

All hands on deck!  To arms!  To battle!  To the cannons, boys! 

Quickly! Quickly! Now!

Aim for the leering sneers of greed.

Sight in tight and true and sure.

Come on lads, you know how.

 

Protect the treasure, the Relic,

Carried in her hold.

The half broken, full glass, Quicksilver forged.

The Glass of Looking and Seeing,

More precious than all the world's gold.

 

It was the Key to the Strangeways,

The Pathways of the Lost.

Up and down the Stepping Stone,

A secret to be guarded from the Terror,

Kept safe no matter what the cost.

 

So it was out to sea into the gale, raising

Nine the Rampant, Lion of Winter swept.

Upon his back the Highwayman of Kettering Shore,

Wielded his blade left and right and back again.

Felling Moon Cussers, risking all, while his Lady wept.

 

The cannons barked and roared,

An angry beast at war.

Onto the deck of the Night Galleon,

Moon Cussers swarmed, greed at the fore.

Hands and eyes searching, their empty souls calling more.

 

Into the midst of the melee.

To the heart of the fight,

Nine the Rampant, the Lion of Winter,

Delivered the Highwayman of Kettering Shore,

His mighty claws giving aid to the Knight.

 

The Knight and the Lion Rampant,

Claws and blade, singing,

So busy with the Moon Cussers,

Missed the Beastie of No Man's Land,

Which to the Night Galleon was winging.

 

The Lady, through her tears, she saw.

She knew the Terror, she knew the Law.

Should the Beastie, this Terror born,

Lay hold of the Glass of Looking and Seeing,

Evil would triumph, snuffing out hope 'neath a demon's paw..

 

There was no time for warning,

No words to be had.

She knew this Old Terror, this Nightmare's swift form.

For decades it hunted her, a shadow in her mind.

She knew if she didn't move fast things would get bad.

 

She swallowed her fear and took a leap.

Over the balustrade, fingers reaching for the sky.

Like a river of new milk, warm and soft and white,

Her fingers closed around a bow, a sliver of the crescent moon,

Her arrow, a comet mounted, her fall broken by the Owl, source of the Nocturne's cry.

 

The Lady upon the Owl, settled,

Nocturne's flight a whispered hush.

She closed in from the rear.

Coming in upon the Terror, she had one chance to do this right.

As the wings beneath her carried her toward the Beastie in a steady rush.

 

Upon the Night Galleon the battle raged.

Moon Cussers fell dead, left and right.

But still they would not surrender.

They would not abandon their prize.

Not while there was still a man remaining to fight.

 

Into the hold a Moon Cusser broke.

Down to the bowels of the ship, after the treasure, peaking.

Through the struggling sailors and the cannons' roar.

Through the smoke and the grit, he was looking for something.

For the Glass of Looking and Seeing, he went seeking.

 

From the bowels of the Galleon to the bloodsoaked deck,

He carried the Glass, brandished high.

The Moon Cussers cheered, thinking they had won the day.

When the Highwayman of Kettering Shore, cut them to the ground.

As the Glass clattered to the deck, victory was nigh.

 

This was the moment, for which the Terror,

The Beastie of No Man's Land had waited.

Now was the time to strike.

Folding his wings the demon dropped.

But blocking his path was the Lion of Winter, Nine the Rampant, the Guardian, hated.

 

The Glass shimmered and swirled like a firefly tide.

The Terror lunged, talons slashing.

The Lion of Winter was driven back, the Beastie cackled, the goal so close at hand.

Only Nine and the Knight stood in the way

Until the Lady, her arrow, a comet mounted, sent the Terror crashing.

 

The Beastie of No Man's Land, bled out upon the deck.

As the Highwayman of Kettering Shore, his blade sliced a final bone.

The Captain of the Night Galleon and his crew raised up a cheer.

For the raiders were all dead, the Glass was safe once more.

All that remained was to free the Night Galleon, a job for the Living Stone.

 

Great streamers of cloud and moonshine,

Woven into ropes, the indigo sails to unfurl.

The fallen tears had lift the trapped ship.

Off of the sandbar, holding.

To the Nocturne and to the Lion, were harnessed the twisted strands of pearl.

 

With a leap and a heave into the air.

A rush of wind and the might of wing.

Back into the cobalt sea,

The Nocturne and the Lion of Winter, drew the Night Galleon,

And with it now sailed the Lady and the Knight, a well contended pair.

 

The Terror of No Man's Land,

Was vanquished there that night.

The Strangeways to Nowhere, once more protected.

Children now smile at the grinning moon,

Knowing there is no cause for fright.

'Of wings and words and dancing milkweed seeds...'

Distinguished Bibliophile
Darkkin
Posts: 2,224
Registered: ‎08-15-2009

Re: Mermaid's Course

Mermaid's Course

 

Night Galleon sails unfurled,

High and proud and tight.

A slender form breaches the sea,

Silver and cobalt and raven's night.

 

Sea spray and mist whirling.

Overhead clouds and stars,

Wheeling and twirling.

Up from the depths she comes.

 

Night dark velvet, a curtain of hair,

A course flowing down her back.

Cobalt eyes shining like a deep sea star,

Chart the course, set the track.

 

In the wake of the waves,

Before the leeward side of the gale,

The albatross, her herald, drifts,

Weaving in and out of the Night Galleon's sail.

 

Finned yet not of the fish or beast,

A breather of both sea and sky,

A daughter of Triton, a child of myth,

In a sleek, long leap, silhouetted, about to fly.

 

The eagle ray, the dolphin, and seal, barking,

Along the shore and between the stones,

With the tide and with the surge,

She swims, the song of the sea in her bones.

 

Amidst the spray and above the cheer,

Comes the her voice, a legend, spoken.

Sweet and bright and clear.

Some call her the Siren, others a Guardian.

 

A Guardian and Keeper of Things.

Things Lost and Things Found.

Some Things Forgotten by all, but a Legend

Long gone into hiding deep in the Ground.

 

Breach and splash, the seals bay...

Night Galleon, hard to Starboard,

Draw sail.  Quickly now!  She is the Way.

Silver fins and shimmering scales.

 

Upon the land, Snow White,

Some have called her in stories, Lost,

But in the Sea she a Rose, a Compass, true.

Her knowledge gained by a duck, a Pearl of priceless cost.

 

Marianna of the Fathoms Deep,

Is the name this Guardian of the Strangeways, bares

Such are the secrets of Things Lost and Things Found, she does keep,

A Navigator of the Strangeways to Nowhere.

 

'Of wings and words and dancing milkweed seeds...'

Distinguished Bibliophile
Darkkin
Posts: 2,224
Registered: ‎08-15-2009

Re: Fingerprints and Angel Feathers

[ Edited ]

Fingerprints and Angel Feathers

 

A minor chord, a major rift,

Fingerprints and angel feathers,

A dark radiance in the rain,

A language cast in ivory and ebony,

The soft, sad voice of a lost refrain.

 

Fingerprints and angel feathers,

Reflected in wood and glass,

A pair of hands, elegant, clenched in pain.

A soft, sad voice, the angel calling.

Wings fallen and folded, bedraggled by rain.

 

Reflected in wood and glass,

A mask, now twisted and sad,

A soul, a thousand shades of grey,

Ivory and ebony, a chord minor and dark,

Footprints pressed into the sand, seeking a way...

 

A mask, now twisted and sad,

Began, a dark radiance in the rain,

An angel in guise, who cloaked in grey,

Shimmered in the darkness, a night blooming flower,

Shown like a star, imbued of a glory to rival the day.

 

Began, a dark radiance in the rain,

A source of footprints, a single line,

Into the sand, pressed deep and clear.

Fingers across the ivory and ebony, fly,

A lesson too precious for the crass mortal ear.

 

A source of footprints, a single line,

Pressed into the sand, in the shadow of a promontory,

A dark radiance in the rain, a cloak of feathers trailing.

The language of a minor chord, ivory and ebony, cast.

Angel, fallen in the rift, all around the westerlies beseeching, wailing.

 

Pressed into the sand, in the shadow of a promontory,

Passes a shadow, a thousand shades of grey, sweeping in,

With the tidal surge, over a bar, the sand of shattered dreams.

The Night Galleon, its sails small upon the horizon.

Angel upon the shore, forgotten and fading, no one listens for the screams.

 

Passes a shadow, a thousand shades of grey, sweeping in,

Those waves upon the shore, washing away the stain,

The mar of those footprints in the sand, feathers bedraggled by rain.

Above the roaring surf, a voice, high and sweet and clear.

Tears tracing mortal cheeks as the angel takes away the pain.

 

Those waves upon the shore, washing away the stain,

Of things done wrong, of words unsaid, promises broken...

Fragments of hope, long thought to be dead,

Fingerprints and angel feathers, footprints in the sand.

Dark radiance in the rain, stars crowning her bowed head.

 

Of things done wrong, of words unsaid, promises broken...

The minor chord, ivory and ebony, cast, reveals the truth,

Blows the ashes from the past, back to the rift when she went her way.

A voice alone upon the shore, but to the sky, the words,

Her words take flight and soar out with the coming day.

 

The minor chord, ivory and ebony, cast, reveals the truth,

Forgives a past, of wrongs and doings, oddly done.

Fingerprints and angel feathers taken by the sea.

A Strangeway to Nowhere, written by a radiance, hidden by the rain.

A final verse of Nothings, a dream of you and me.

'Of wings and words and dancing milkweed seeds...'

Distinguished Bibliophile
Darkkin
Posts: 2,224
Registered: ‎08-15-2009

Re: Footprints of the Puppet

Strings broken and dangling,

Painstakingly, tenderly gathered.

Tracing through fingers, slim and calloused.

Deftly, those same fingers fly,

Weaving a web, intricate and strong.

A cloak of strength, a net to break a fall.

From those strings broken and dangling,

Strings that once held the puppet,

Bound and strangling.

 

Free of strings and stings,

Of words, weighted and barbed.

One step, cautious and teetering.

Unaided and reaching, a wobbling fall.

The ground rushing up to kiss her chin.

Iron paints her tongue, gravel dots her hands.

Fire lights her eyes, not an easy journey,

Making a path, forging through the dark.

Learning to walk, discovering one's own wings.

 

With a cloak woven of the pasts broken strings,

A heart echoing in her ears,

The puppet pushes up from the stones,

Dashes away the salty, stinging tears.

Gravel tore her hands, iron taints her tongue,

But for this fallen puppet, her journey has only just begun.

Another step, head held high,

There is no stopping, her soul crying, begging her to try.

Wobble and teeter, arms flailing about.

Down again, stones biting, tear and scrapes stinging.

 

The puppet, handprints become footprints, pressed into the sand,

As the rain begins to fall, clouds pressing into a scowl.

Upon a shore strewn with sea glass formed of broken dreams.

She takes another unsure step, eyes upon the sky.

The weeping virga brushes a cheek, still damp from a recent cry.

This is the cold dark place, where it all began, when she fell,

Those damned strings cut and dangling.

Alone, but for the song of sea, the whisper of an owl.

The storm hides the stars, her compass on this course.

So the puppet, patient and learning, folds slim, cold hands.

 

Even here in this cold dark place,

A gentle light is found, traced by lantern's breath,

Eyes alight with hope, an inner bright fire,

The reflection of a far off star, shining in the puppet's face.

The edges, sharp and cutting, of broken glass...

These treasures of the sea, are softened by the waves, the raw stripped away.

Upon the cobalt sea, floats of glass, blown and bound by net,

Shimmer in the night as the clouds break, the breeze freshening.

And from the shadows comes the puppet, clad in a mantle of trembling, coltish grace.

 

Her feet beneath her, moonshadows stretch ahead...

Reaching out beyond the end of sight, rounding an unseen bend.

There is a softness to the breeze, a touch hovers in the air.

The merest hush of sound ruffles her windswept hair.

This is no goblin, no ghoul from the dark.

It is a verse, the song of a lark,

Possessed of a broken wing, she who is learning to pray.

A hand, torn and hesitant, reaches out...

Plucking the wayfarer from the shore near a faery, who lies dead.

 

The fallen litter the shore as the puppet passes by.

Floats and sea glass reflecting constellations,

Light a course amidst the water, sand and stone.

The remnants of a battle, a tale carved into the echo of a bone.

The waves, of tide and time, have washed away the gore.

But she, this puppet, knows the lores of those that came before.

Of the Last.  Of the Lost.  Of the Legends, gone.

She, this puppet, though she knows it not, is a Keeper,

Of a most curious place, pathways and byways, a Keeper of the Strangeways.

 

This puppet, a dreamer, once fallen on her face,

Glances back at her footprints in the sand.

She has come long way, often in the dark without a star.

The lark, pressed close, singing upon this foreign shore.

A pathway along a desolate stretch now shows the way.

But for this Keeper, her journey on this beach is done.

The net woven from those tattered strings from beneath her cloak is drawn.

The moon now sinks, swallowed by the sea, patient, still as stone she waits...

Until the Phoenix, a comet in the sky, comes streaking into the net, whisking the Keeper to a far flung place.

'Of wings and words and dancing milkweed seeds...'

Distinguished Bibliophile
Darkkin
Posts: 2,224
Registered: ‎08-15-2009

Re: Crossroads of the Puppet

She has come far,

Her footprints spiraling out,

In the sand and stones.

It is a pattern, a dance,

She twirled through alone.

A Puppet on her own.

 

That path has ended now.

The Phoenix lifts her high.

The Crossroad has been reached.

There by that stretch of sea.

There upon that sand and stone.

Her courage has set her free.

 

With a net, woven of broken strings,

She cast out high and hard.

And within that gossamer web, she caught a living star,

The Night Phoenix, the Herald of Dreams.

And as his wings spread wide, her feet lifted free,

The Puppet's voice, a muffled scream.

 

The Night Phoenix laughed as he soared.

The Puppet cluched her net, fearing to look down.

'Look not down, but up instead...'

Whispered the Night Phoenix.

'Look not down, but up instead...'

So echoed the voice of courage, in her heart and in her head.

 

The Puppet shivered, her fear a very real thing.

But beneath her, a heart, bright and warm,

A steady cadance kept.  The Night Phoenix.

He was a beacon, a tenant point found.

Now, swallowing the fear gathered in her throat,

The Puppet opened her eyes, enraptured by the stars, so far from the ground.

 

The wind traced across her face, soft and warm, a mother's kiss.

Her fingers loosened, their grip upon the net.

That shimmery veil fluttered in the air, as if seeking to fly...

'Keep it close and safe...That net of your's. The strings of the past, a Heartwork veil.'

Night, the Phoenix said. 'For should a storm ever drive you down...'

'It is the Heart Strings that become your shelter, lifting you up, becoming your wings and sail.'

 

The Puppet, she, tucked that net away, tight to her chest.

Fear faded to a distant memory, courage lighted the way.

And for when it was all said and done, she, the Puppet...

Knew she had to look, not up but down...

To see the footprints of her path, pressed into the sand.

To see her history, her story, before she left this land.

 

Night felt the slight shiftings on his back, saw the Puppet looking down.

Now was the time, for her to learn, to know and try...

With a rush of wings he tossed her up into the air.

The clouds parted and swirled, swallowing her in a rush.

Her muffled scream, stolen by the Albatross.

Night watched as she battled back the fear, courage washing over her in a gentle hush.

 

So through the clouds and stars she plunged, spinning with the wind.

'Now child,' Night spoke. 'Here and now is where it all begins...'

'Spread your wings and let your soul free...Try now...'

'I can't!' She cried. 'I am nothing but a Puppet with no soul or pride.'

'No.' Whispered the Phoenix, wise. 'A mask you wear, one now stripped away...'

'Others have seen you, free of the mask, shining bright. A Dreamer with no place to hide.'

 

And with those words, something shattered, the truth ringing out.

The heavy mask, the Puppet wore, the final lingering seeds of doubt.

Fell away. The Puppet was gone to breath no more...

In her place now glowed the Dreamer's Morph...With wings of cobalt, sea, and stars.

The Mask was broken, and she, this dark butterfly, spread her wings...

Reaching out her smile shining, touching many from afar.

 

Butterfly. Dragon. Faery. Angel.

One and all and all and one.

She, the Dreamer's Morph, could become anything she dreamed.

Her course, by her constellations, charted.

Night, the Phoenix had shown her how to fly, now it was up to her to show the way.

A voice high and sweet rose from the sea, Marianna of Fathoms Deep, breached, waiting to get a new adventure started.

'Of wings and words and dancing milkweed seeds...'

Distinguished Bibliophile
Darkkin
Posts: 2,224
Registered: ‎08-15-2009

Re: The Waif

The Waif

 

In the heat of the day.
Away from the light...
Here in the high midsummer.
Eyes, watchful, ever bright...

A shimmer of water...
A sprinkler...on.
Laundry flapping upon the line.
A flicker, a whisper...gone...

Bloody sky and cobalt rags...
The air, a hot bath, gone cold.
Between the trees, the grass, unmowed...
A shadow...a something...that story...told...

The high midsummer's fading light...
Provides a cloak, allowing dreams to form...
A ripple, spreading on the reflection of night.
Curling flame, glowing eyes, gleeful...the coming storm.

Laundry fluttering, butterfly wings...
A child, pauses amid billowing sheets.
Banners of war, the storm wind sings...
Betwixt the white, above the black,

A pair of eyes...Peers right back.

The Waif...A pixie lost...Guardian of pools,
Of cool, damp glades...
Best friend of the child, with no one to play.
Found in the haze...at the end of the midsummer's day.

'Of wings and words and dancing milkweed seeds...'