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Distinguished Wordsmith
Fleetfoot
Posts: 495
Registered: ‎05-14-2011

Re: Sacorum at the Gate

Fleetfoot: Sacorum at the Gate

 

One foot...planted.

Two feet....leading.

Three feet...gather.

Four feet...leaping.

Running.  Bounding. Racing.

Down the road.

Bordering the brook.

From whence came the bone that Lily took.

Now.  Now.  Now.

How that bone did sing.

A phantom legion pressing hard,

For the deepest heart of the great black Horde.

Fleet feet flying.

Tufted tails, cloven hooves, glowing horns.

Aerial dancer for aeons had raced alone.

Now she ran,

Leading those of neither flesh nor bone.

Beneath her giftedly swift feet,

The road, a golden line cleaving the green, was strewn with stones.

Pebbles bounced.

Gravel skittered.

The dancer's stride did lengthen.

Lily's courage began to strengthen.

The Great Gate rose before their eyes.

Beyond it lay the prize.

The factions of the Elven.

The foot and cavalry did wait.

But in their path a grievous shape did rise.

A figure, ancient and hated.

A beast who drew all eyes.

Sacorum at long last appeared.

Clad in skins and a rank, stinking beard.

Fleet feet continued to race.

Aerial dancer...with Lily holding tight,

Increased the pace.

One foot...catching.

Two feet...holding.

Three feet...pounding.

Four feet...bounding.

No feet touching.

One hand...clutching.

One sword...waiting.

Two gazes...locked.

Burning, hating.

Eyes of orange and deepest blue.

Met and held.

A bitter, grating laugh filled the air.

Lily shook back her shorn and bloodied hair.

Took aim and settled tight.

They had one chance to get this right.

At her back hooves echoed upon the stones.

Fleetheart's plea sounded in her bones.

The Herd was holding the Horde at bay.

Now.  Now.  Now.

This was Fleetfoot's day.

Her mother dead.

A deed undone.

All hope, should they fall, would die with the coming of the sun.

One foot...striking.

Two feet...gather.

Three feet...touching.

Four feet...leaping.

The singing of a string voiced its life to the wind.

Fleetfoot's charge...did finally begin.

As Rowan's arrows took to flight.

Their path...

Long and true and tight.

Chasing Fleetfoot's course down the road.

Passing, soaring...

A legend, tense.

The tips of the arrows sliced the night.

Their points, Elven crafted and Dragon forged, glowing gold.

An eye for an eye.

Seek the Hammer.

Take the Head.

Fell Horde.

See.  Them.  Dead.

Lily caught the gaze of the Troll King.

Fury burning in her heart.

For this was the beast that had made Fleetfoot the Last.

A livid, vivid piece of flying art.

For the Bone.  For the Horn.

For the Unicorn!

She screamed unto the stars.

By the Blood of the Lores...That Horn is ours!

Blade at the ready.

Eyes on the target.

Arrows coursing.

                                                         Fleet feet flying.

'Posted: Do not feed the Trolls, not even reindeer flattened fruitcake...Feeding of Trolls will result in gnome revolts, gremlin induced chaos, and other strangeness...' - Darkkin, the Tedious
Distinguished Wordsmith
Fleetfoot
Posts: 495
Registered: ‎05-14-2011

Re: The Harbinger, the Herald

The Harbinger, the Herald

 

Fleetheart's Plea...

Had raised a Legion Lost.

Smoke and mist and rolling fog.

Down the rise and ov'r the vale they did drift.

Flowing, racing,

Unto the shore, unto the sea.

Lily, astride Fleefoot knew,

If the song died...

So the denizens of the Tower would, too.

 

By blood begun.

By blood undone.

Two returned unto one.

Such was the legend.

Such was the verse.

And when to them all the worst,

Had come...

As the world cried

The magic died,

And souls went numb.

An understanding of the olden Lore,

Dawned in Lily's agile mind.

Kind of one, one of a kind.

She knew now what needed to be done.

She knew where to find the One.

 

With a toe she touched the sleek side,

Of her fleet footed friend.

And to the parapet they raced again.

Overlooking the Horde,

And the blundering troll.

Of the Legion Lost she needed to take control.

Once more the blade, to the side was laid.

Upon her flute, Lily, began to play.

 

Sharp and clear and angel bright.

Lily's song spread its wings and took to flight.

Spiraling up into the clean, cold air.

Above the battle, the blood, she played.

Lily, Elven princess, dark and faire,

She with the shorn and bloody hair.

Her verse began where Fleetheart's faded.

Touching the hearts of even the most jaded...

It called to the Legion Lost.

Called above the din.

So once more did Lily's Song begin.

 

Lore breed and Elven born.

And by a life debt, bloodsworn,

To Fleetfoot the Last Unicorn.

By blood, Lily had become blood.

And so she knew the songs.

She knew the Lore.

She knew the legends of those who had come before.

The Legion Lost unto her melody did heed.

Twisting round.

Sensing, knowing Lily's dire need.

Up the rise and down the loam.

Cloven hooves wheeled,

Following the song that called them home.

One foot...twisting.

Two feet...rearing.

Three feet...turning.

Four feet...surging.

A thousand and more feet renew the charge.

Swift feet.  Fleet feet.  Running hard.

 

Out of the Western Wood, they had come.

East they had flowed, following the river coursing down.

Now unto the Legion Lost, called the ordained of the Elven Crown.

Her song rose as Fleetheart's died.

Hers was the voice of the lost,

The warrior child, who refused to hide.

Away.  Away.  Away.

She stood her ground.

Holding strong.  Holding true.

As out over the cacophonous mass,

Her flute's refrain flew.

The Legion Lost, a thousand strong.

Fleet feet flying.

Pressing hard, heeding the song.

Retrace the steps.

Reverse the flow, rushing in like a tide they go.

And with the verse.

And with the turning.

They find the reason for the run's reverse.

There at the edge of the great wood, eyes burning.

Seduced by shadows and by night cursed,

Was the beast that set a bloody fury churning.

 

The Harbinger stood upon the rise.

Staring down at Sacorum with furious, blazing eyes.

He was the Last of Two,

But with one horn lost unto to a tree,

As he had battled to break free.

He stood alone upon the ridge.

Watching the Troll King blunder about the bridge.

It was because of this beast his horn was gone.

The bloody, great fool would not live to see the dawn.

The Last of Two,

Pawed the loam, took aim,

Prepared to drive his remaining horn home.

But as his graceful cloven feet sliced the grass.

A song tickled his ears...

And ov'r the rise. Down the vale,

Came a legion of dancers' strides and tufted tails.

The smoky pearl and opaque foam of a past.

That had driven him to run himself to the bone.

 

By blood begun.

By blood undone.

Two returned unto one.

A wave of mist and manes and shell like hooves,

Came pouring down in a torrent,

Ov'r the rise to the Harbinger's holding.

With a coveted horn missing,

He was vulnerable, open for healing.

Purging and molding.

The shadow's hold upon this soul.

Was fractured.

No longer whole.

Thus the words had spoken true.

The tide of the Legion Lost washed over Harbinger.

Catching hold and seeping in.

A miraculous change in that moment did begin.

Where red had been, blue...

Now flowed,

Shifting gold into silver.

Black into white.

By the blood of the herd...

They ended the Bicorn's fight.

 

Beneath the light of the moon and the stars' muted glow.

The Legion Lost...

Healed and reclaimed a soul.

The Harbinger's fight,

Had come to an end.

From the past and the endless flight

A foolish war, a world of wrongs, finally set right.

For where had been the Bicorn,

A Unicorn now stood.

Shadows forsaken, a soul changed for the good.

 

The Harbinger had been redeemed.

The Herald,

Now stood blowing steam.

Gleaming white and argent glow.

There was precious little time left,

To deliver the final, fatal blow.

One foot...pawing.

Two feet...reaching.

Three feet...gather.

Four feet...surging.

A warrior's mighty stride.

He hit swiftly, lightly...

His blue eyes at long last alight with pride.

The shame striped away.

Fleet feet flying.

One heart trying.

He felt the weight of his coveted horn.

Took aim and answered the call,

Of Lily, with hair bloodied and shorn.

Not a sound did his cloven stride make.

As ov'r the stones,

Of the bridge he flew.

Fleet feet flying as hope flowers anew.

In the blood.

In the bones.

A gathering of hocks and a mighty charge.

The Herald's horn,

Pierced deep and clean and true.

In the blood.

In the bone.

Sacorum, the Troll King, fell dead upon the stones.



'Posted: Do not feed the Trolls, not even reindeer flattened fruitcake...Feeding of Trolls will result in gnome revolts, gremlin induced chaos, and other strangeness...' - Darkkin, the Tedious
Distinguished Bibliophile
KathyS
Posts: 6,898
Registered: ‎10-19-2006
0 Kudos

Re: A Poet's Life

[ Edited ]
Distinguished Wordsmith
Fleetfoot
Posts: 495
Registered: ‎05-14-2011

Re: A Poet's Life

Fleet feet flying, the battle, half done.  Sacorum is dead, leaving only the one.  Eroc, High King of the Goblin Horde.  The brain remains as the brawn cinders.  This is Second Volley: Hunt for the Head.

 

Seek the Head, Herd the Horde.

 

A dance of swords.

A flight of arrows.

The tide of war.

The way before the Tower laid open.

The hammers ring,

Pounding, rushing to remove the bars of iron,

Barring the Great Bronze Door.

Down from the causeway.

Fleet feet striking.

One foot...leading.

Two feet...reaching.

Three feet...striding.

Four feet...leaping.

Lily, astride, once more,

From the scabbard her sword is ringing.

Fleetheart's song fading.

Hunting call...

The clear, clarion horns of the Tower are singing.

The bars are lifted.

The Gate...

Outward swinging.

 

To the Legion.

The Elven forces, legendary, mighty.

Lily, the Elven princess, dark and faire.

She with shorn and bloodied hair.

Calls.  Beckons.  Entreats.

Elven heralds...

Warriors.  Archers.  Knights.

Draw steel, nock the bow...

Drive the great, putrid Horde form our sight.

Ride fast.

Ride hard.

Make for the heart of this seething black mass.

Keep them from Eroc's pass.

Drive down...

Unto the shore.

Herd them...

Beast and minion and servant dark.

To the shore.

To the sands.

Make them pay for the bled and wither lands.

Now go.

Ride.  Fight.

Elven banner to the Tower holding tight.

 

But what of you?

A knight queries.

What path, which trail...

Down what road will you go.

Lily's eyes, deep and dreaming.

Spat sparks, a dormant soul,

Once more teeming.

Unto the Legion.

Warrior.  Archer. Knight.

She spoke.

I chase the crow.

With Fleetfoot's aid.

We have the Hammer.

I, alone, shall seek the Head.

By my hand.

By my blood.

By my blade.

This is a task I will not trade.

Now.  Now.

Loose the hounds.

Heralds with me.

The Horde to hell.

 

A hail of arrows...

Flaming searing brands.

Tears of smoke and fire.

Soaring out into the Horde.

Back they fall.

From the bloody Gate.

Seeking to avoid Sacorum's fate.

Down and away.

Toward the gorge.

They begin to run.

Fires roar.  Demons fell.

Lily's voice rang out.

An edict banishing the Horde to hell.

Fleet feet, iron shod, ringing.

The call of the legendary horns, singing.

Volley upon volley,

Through the ebony night, winging.

The bay of the hounds.

No, hell breed these.

But greyhound and whippet.

The noble mastiffs,

All faster and agile as a breeze.

A flash of grey.

A crimson cloak.

A line of silver.

A lethal stroke.

 

Into the dark.

Leading by firelight.

The Elven Legion...

To the bridge.

After the Horde, they do ride.

Upon the hill,

Fire glints off a snowy hide.

The Herald,

Watching, waiting.

Done and washed,

Freed from aeons of running and hating.

Down and away rushes the Horde.

From the shadows, Lily spies.

Fleetfoot, holds steady.

Patient, dreaming eyes.

A dance of swords.

A flight of arrows.

A flood of blood.

A legend, tense.

Waiting for the moment.

Knowing the sign.

For cunning is the Goblin King.

Seeking the head, unto him will Lily bring.

In the shadows he watches.

                                                  Eroc, of the Goblin Horde, High King.

'Posted: Do not feed the Trolls, not even reindeer flattened fruitcake...Feeding of Trolls will result in gnome revolts, gremlin induced chaos, and other strangeness...' - Darkkin, the Tedious
Distinguished Bibliophile
KathyS
Posts: 6,898
Registered: ‎10-19-2006
0 Kudos

The Straitjackets Fall Edition

[ Edited ]

http://straitjacketsmagazine.com/index.htm

 

 

The Straitjackets
Fall 2011
Table of Contents
 

Staff
Editor: Carrie Elizabeth Allen
Contributing Editors: Jim Hitt, Harlee Lassiter, Mary Jane Kruty,
Raymond Strait
cover art: "Crater Lake" by Vicki Allen-Hitt

Revolving Editor

Column:
A Look at Books

Column:
Books Into Films


Novel Excerpt:
Red Flag Warning
by
Kurt Kamm



         Personal  Commentary on 9/11:
Between Friends
Written and Compiled
by
John Alexander and Laurence Wilson

Poetry:

Michael Mira


Classic Short Story Reprint:

The Story of an Hour
by
Kate Chopin



Photo Essay:
Carrie Allen


Short Story:
The Circus of Pain

by
G. E. Shutt

Essay:

Errol Flynn
by
Ray "Rusty" Strait


Short Story:
Sitting Pretty 
by
Colin Campbell

                    

Poetry:                   
Kathy Shattuck

Short Story:
A Beach Full of rocks
by
Lauren Dean


Novel Excerpt:
Sinful Liaisons
by
J. C. Gardner

Essay:
Artists At Risk
Portraits and biographies of four artists at odds with their governments
by
Ed Seeberger


Short Story:
My Life for You
by
Misty Reigenborn



Featured Poet:
Alan Britt

Previous issues
 
Submissions

          previous page           next page
Distinguished Bibliophile
Peppermill
Posts: 6,768
Registered: ‎04-04-2007
0 Kudos

Re: The Straitjackets Fall Edition

Thank you for the link to your poetry, Kathy.  I sent it on to a handful of friends this morning.  Pepper

"Seize the moments of happiness, love and be loved! That is the only reality in the world, all else is folly. It is the one thing we are interested in here." -- Leo Tolstoy
Distinguished Bibliophile
KathyS
Posts: 6,898
Registered: ‎10-19-2006
0 Kudos

Re: The Straitjackets Fall Edition


Peppermill wrote:

Thank you for the link to your poetry, Kathy.  I sent it on to a handful of friends this morning.  Pepper


Thanks so much, Pepper!  The magazine is always looking for readers and new people to submit their work.  Doing a little promo, here.  :smileyhappy:  I'll probably drop it around the boards, too....so, if you see it....that's why. 

 

K.

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

Re: Lady of Autumn

Lady of Autumn

 

Echoes in my head.

Whispers in my soul.

Verses of the trees,

Carried by the autumn wind.

Gold and green and blue.

 

Leaves cavort, a laughing dance.

Of the graceful, fading year.

Gold and silver and flame.

Poplar. Oak. Maple.

Upon the wooded slopes.

The dancing leaves, tumbling...

Forming a lady's cloak.

 

The deep green of the fir.

The scent of balsam, fallen and dying.

The blue of spruce and the soft white pine.

Full of squirrels and squabbling jays.

The last refrain of the crickets' strings.

A languid flutter of tattered monarch wings.

 

The laughing chatter of the happy brook.

The dark velvet of moss across the stones.

Lady of Autumn,

Of flaming hair and golden cloak.

She whispers a lullaby to the bears.

Gone are the spots of the fawns,

With a single, gentle stroke.

 

Beneath the leaves.

Tucked in warm and safe.

Are the small creatures of the world.

The first flower of the spring.

To wake with the Zephyr's return.

The Lady of Autumn.

A keeper of nature's heart.

 

The Lady of Autumn.

A beauty at her peak.

All eyes upon her...

A cloak and gown, shifting and changing.

By the week and by the day.

Little by little,

Her laughter, her joyous colours,

Soften and drift away.

 

Gone is the brilliant cloak,

Of the Lady in her prime.

The serene white of the birch bark shines.

The rich earth glows with heady peat,

Hints of amber and the cling green,

Of the lasting moss.

Her curls of ferns are deep red,

And tightly bound.

 

Hers is a peaceful beauty.

Aching in its perfect, sere grace.

Slowly she smiles...

The touch of Jack Frost,

An angel's kiss upon her face.

In blacks and perfect white.

She smiles her last and fades.

The trumpeting of the departing flocks.

Her last dance.

The final song.

 

Echoes in my head.

Whispers in my soul.

Such is the Lady of Autumn.

So on her story does go.



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

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

Re: Lady of Autumn


Darkkin wrote:

Lady of Autumn

 

Echoes in my head.

Whispers in my soul.

Verses of the trees,

Carried by the autumn wind.

Gold and green and blue.

 

Leaves cavort, a laughing dance.

Of the graceful, fading year.

Gold and silver and flame.

Poplar. Oak. Maple.

Upon the wooded slopes.

The dancing leaves, tumbling...

Forming a lady's cloak.

 

The deep green of the fir.

The scent of balsam, fallen and dying.

The blue of spruce and the soft white pine.

Full of squirrels and squabbling jays.

The last refrain of the crickets' strings.

A languid flutter of tattered monarch wings.

 

The laughing chatter of the happy brook.

The dark velvet of moss across the stones.

Lady of Autumn,

Of flaming hair and golden cloak.

She whispers a lullaby to the bears.

Gone are the spots of the fawns,

With a single, gentle stroke.

 

Beneath the leaves.

Tucked in warm and safe.

Are the small creatures of the world.

The first flower of the spring.

To wake with the Zephyr's return.

The Lady of Autumn.

A keeper of nature's heart.

 

The Lady of Autumn.

A beauty at her peak.

All eyes upon her...

A cloak and gown, shifting and changing.

By the week and by the day.

Little by little,

Her laughter, her joyous colours,

Soften and drift away.

 

Gone is the brilliant cloak,

Of the Lady in her prime.

The serene white of the birch bark shines.

The rich earth glows with heady peat,

Hints of amber and the cling green,

Of the lasting moss.

Her curls of ferns are deep red,

And tightly bound.

 

Hers is a peaceful beauty.

Aching in its perfect, sere grace.

Slowly she smiles...

The touch of Jack Frost,

An angel's kiss upon her face.

In blacks and perfect white.

She smiles her last and fades.

The trumpeting of the departing flocks.

Her last dance.

The final song.

 

Echoes in my head.

Whispers in my soul.

Such is the Lady of Autumn.

So on her story does go.




Lovely, lovely, lovely!

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

Re: Bleeding Ink and Stars

Bleeding Ink and Stars

 

Headlong.  Headstrong.

Running fast and hard.

The words a gift.

The touch of the Muse upon a soul.

Fingers flying.

Bleeding ink and stars.

 

Headlong. Headstrong.

Tumbling down and away.

The words are silenced.

Missing...Curse the coming day.

Then I see it, the stain upon the snow.

The Muse, tangled and broken.

Felled in the prime of her flight.

Bleeding ink and stars.

 

Headlong into the ground.

Wrath building in my heart,

At the world I scream.

Why?  Why?  Why?

Every dream.  Every breath.

You seek to bring me down.

Art, fractured and vibrant.

Bleeding ink and stars.

 

Music pounding in my ears.

Seeking for my Muse.

Chest tight and burning.

Fighting back the hated...tears.

Weakness...?  I scoff.

I can do this on my own.

Focus now, you foolish child...

A soul, bruised and darkened.

Bleeding ink and stars.

 

What is left?

Now in this bleak, shadowed place?

The rage, the anger, and dark, dark things.

This is all there is.

This is all I have.

Hope slew the Muse and took the light away.

Now the pain and the nighttime beings.

Nothing bars the way.

So once more fingers are flying.

Bleeding ink and stars.

 

These words, so dark and pressing.

Swallowing the light...

Blotting out the stars...

Limned against the billowing shadows.

Lightning streaking across the night.

The black velvet of deep dark things.

A child's cry of fright...

Fingers flying.

Bleeding ink and stars.

 

Fingertip to fingertip.

The ebony flow of the pen.

The pure, perfect shining...

A star above the storm.

A beacon in the dark.

A hand catching, a deep breath drawn.

Fingertip to fingertip.

Two hand holding, two minds thinking...

Weaving ink and stars.



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

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

Re: Bleeding Ink and Stars


Darkkin wrote:

Bleeding Ink and Stars

 

Headlong.  Headstrong.

Running fast and hard.

The words a gift.

The touch of the Muse upon a soul.

Fingers flying.

Bleeding ink and stars.

 

Headlong. Headstrong.

Tumbling down and away.

The words are silenced.

Missing...Curse the coming day.

Then I see it, the stain upon the snow.

The Muse, tangled and broken.

Felled in the prime of her flight.

Bleeding ink and stars.

 

Headlong into the ground.

Wrath building in my heart,

At the world I scream.

Why?  Why?  Why?

Every dream.  Every breath.

You seek to bring me down.

Art, fractured and vibrant.

Bleeding ink and stars.

 

Music pounding in my ears.

Seeking for my Muse.

Chest tight and burning.

Fighting back the hated...tears.

Weakness...?  I scoff.

I can do this on my own.

Focus now, you foolish child...

A soul, bruised and darkened.

Bleeding ink and stars.

 

What is left?

Now in this bleak, shadowed place?

The rage, the anger, and dark, dark things.

This is all there is.

This is all I have.

Hope slew the Muse and took the light away.

Now the pain and the nighttime beings.

Nothing bars the way.

So once more fingers are flying.

Bleeding ink and stars.

 

These words, so dark and pressing.

Swallowing the light...

Blotting out the stars...

Limned against the billowing shadows.

Lightning streaking across the night.

The black velvet of deep dark things.

A child's cry of fright...

Fingers flying.

Bleeding ink and stars.

 

Fingertip to fingertip.

The ebony flow of the pen.

The pure, perfect shining...

A star above the storm.

A beacon in the dark.

A hand catching, a deep breath drawn.

Fingertip to fingertip.

Two hand holding, two minds thinking...

Weaving ink and stars.





Believe me, I feel the pain.

Moderator
dhaupt
Posts: 11,865
Registered: ‎10-19-2006
0 Kudos

Re: Lady of Autumn


Darkkin wrote:

Lady of Autumn

 

Echoes in my head.

Whispers in my soul.

Verses of the trees,

Carried by the autumn wind.

Gold and green and blue.

 

Leaves cavort, a laughing dance.

Of the graceful, fading year.

Gold and silver and flame.

Poplar. Oak. Maple.

Upon the wooded slopes.

The dancing leaves, tumbling...

Forming a lady's cloak.

 

The deep green of the fir.

The scent of balsam, fallen and dying.

The blue of spruce and the soft white pine.

Full of squirrels and squabbling jays.

The last refrain of the crickets' strings.

A languid flutter of tattered monarch wings.

 

The laughing chatter of the happy brook.

The dark velvet of moss across the stones.

Lady of Autumn,

Of flaming hair and golden cloak.

She whispers a lullaby to the bears.

Gone are the spots of the fawns,

With a single, gentle stroke.

 

Beneath the leaves.

Tucked in warm and safe.

Are the small creatures of the world.

The first flower of the spring.

To wake with the Zephyr's return.

The Lady of Autumn.

A keeper of nature's heart.

 

The Lady of Autumn.

A beauty at her peak.

All eyes upon her...

A cloak and gown, shifting and changing.

By the week and by the day.

Little by little,

Her laughter, her joyous colours,

Soften and drift away.

 

Gone is the brilliant cloak,

Of the Lady in her prime.

The serene white of the birch bark shines.

The rich earth glows with heady peat,

Hints of amber and the cling green,

Of the lasting moss.

Her curls of ferns are deep red,

And tightly bound.

 

Hers is a peaceful beauty.

Aching in its perfect, sere grace.

Slowly she smiles...

The touch of Jack Frost,

An angel's kiss upon her face.

In blacks and perfect white.

She smiles her last and fades.

The trumpeting of the departing flocks.

Her last dance.

The final song.

 

Echoes in my head.

Whispers in my soul.

Such is the Lady of Autumn.

So on her story does go.




Brava, beautiful Darkkin.

 

ps Pepper shared your poem on General Fiction

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

Re: Something Wicked This Way Comes

Something Wicked This Way Comes

 

Something wicked this way comes.

So the saying goes.

A tale murmured by the wind.

Rumors drifting with the brook.

A lore form the forgotten pages.

Of a beloved, tattered book.

Something wicked this way comes.

 

Something wicked this way comes.

A shadow beneath the birches.

A whisper between the pines.

Errant curls and dancing eyes...

Watching from a window.

Peering 'round the stones.

Something wicked this way comes.

 

Something wicked this way comes.

In the dark, baring starlights' kiss.

Velvet softness of the twilight.

A lithe figure bounding,

Through a cobalt haze.

A cloak trailing in the mist.

The crunch of leaves beneath a foot.

Something wicked this way comes.

 

Something wicked this way comes.

Firelight and moonshadow, merge.

Upon the edge of the wood.

Falling leaves and drifting voices,

Carry on the breeze.

Capes of velvet, dark and warm.

Woolens, bright and crisp,

Swath many a small form.

Something wicked this way comes.

 

Something wicked this way comes.

Gather close and tight.

To hear this lore.

This legend, a tale.

Old and dark and tall.

Gather close and settle in.

Something wicked this way comes.

 

Something wicked this way comes.

Ghosts of autumn.

Phantoms' of the night.

With the fading days,

The lengthening of the twilight.

Comes the witching hour...

Listen. Listen. Listen.

Something wicked this way comes.

 

Something wicked this way comes.

The speaking of the leaves.

A cloak of summer's bounty,

Littering the grass...

Across this bright carpet...

Feet are passing, crunching...

Something wicked this way comes.

 

Something wicked this way comes.

The witching hour, nigh.

Stars like pearls,

Scattered on inky plush...

No whisper.  No sound.

Except heartbeats...

Surging to a rush.

Something wicked this way comes.

 

Something wicked this way comes.

'Round the fire, gathered close.

Pressing tight, hand in hand.

Nose to shoulder, eyes averted...

Waiting...Waiting...Seeking.

Something wicked this way comes.

 

Something wicked this way comes.

Time hangs suspended.

Spiraling, stretching long.

A shadow form the wood, emerges.

Warbling a tune...

As she drifts along.

Shrieks of fear, a squeal of fright.

A laugh...

Crisp and clear and clean.

The pixie's face shines,

Gleeful in the light.

Humour, her gift to those who know her.

Wicked.  Quick.  Bright.



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

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

Re: Broken Bird

Broken Bird

 

An Emperor's gilded, golden toy,

Tireless and perfect in a silken box.

Always singing,

Wings flutter and glow.

Studded with gems and jewels.

Shining and perfect.

Empty and cold.

 

Little lark in the deep, dark wood.

A stone, cast by a malicious hand.

A broken bone, a melancholy lullaby.

Beneath muddied feathers, a heart.

Warm and bruised...

Beating in the shadows.

Even downed with a shattered wing.

From the thicket,

Oh how she does sing.

 

The beauty is in her life.

The passion she gives unto the world.

Far from glowing, flawed and tattered.

She shines with an inner light.

No gem or precious metal can mimic.

Flesh and bone and heart.

A soul with bright, dreaming eyes.

From the thicket, she stares at the skies.

Where she flew,

Where her song, carries still.

 

Little lark in the deep, dark wood.

Lifted your head, you are the hope,

Of the lost, the forgotten,

The utterly misunderstood.

This song you sing, the refrain and round.

We listen to the echo,

Weaving words, seeking to make sense,

Of our own twisted verse,

Breaking the silence with a gentle sound.

 

Broken bird. Token bird.

Little lark of the deep, dark wood.

Always there, singing on.

A moment of violence.

A shattered music box.

Scattered gems and stolen jewels.

A splintered mirror, fragmented dreams.

But in the shadows, you still sing.

 

Little lark in the deep, dark wood.

Little lark with a broken wing.

A gentle hand reaches out,

Lending aid, even as you sing.

A splint. A cast,

A broken wing, healing fast.

Little lark in the deep, dark wood.

Broken but breathing,

On and on, you sing,

And one day soon,

You again will fly.

Wings spread wide among the clouds,

In a sun drenched sky.



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

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

Re: Lark Song.

Lark Song

 

Laughter, odd and perfect.

Drifting through the dark.

Music glimmers in her ears.

A sweet, clean sound...

That once made her cry.

Now, she knows the source,

It is a silvery echo, begging her to try.

 

It is no love song, no great ballad, told.

This is a simple refrain of times,

Long gone, when the world was new,

It was lulled each night, by this melody.

Golden, older than the stars.

It is no love song, no great ballad, told.

It is a quiet voice, one perfect,

Clean and clear but never cold.

No love song, but a lark's song.

She, the little lark of the deep, dark wood.

 

Sing little lark of the deep, dark wood.

Into the air young wings stretch.

Hands spread wide, hovering close...

Ready to catch you if you fall.

Little lark, eyes bright and dark.

Under the argent moon,

With the dreamer upon the bridge,

Staring at the star clotted sky.

Flutter.  Jump.  Flitter.  Stumble.

Flitter.  Leap.  Flitter.  Fly.

Wings catch the breeze, flaring out.

Lifting up into the night.

 

Beneath the languid smile,

Of the guardian,

He, the Man in the Moon.

She takes to the skies,

Chasing the stars, touching a cloud.

Her song an echo to a heart.

As bruised and warm as her own.

The dreamer, watching from the bridge.

The reflection of the stars,

The tracing of a cloud,

In the trickling waters of the napping brook.

 

Laughter, odd and perfect.

Drifting through the dark.

Music glimmers in her ears.

She is spinning like a dervish,

Laugher, odd and perfect.

Drifting through the dark.

With the moonshadows, she dances.

Loving the song of the lark.

Free and dreaming,

Tears glowing in her eyes.

On the lark song carries,

                                                             Begging her to try.



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

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

Re: Spinning

Spinning.

 

Round and round and round.

Feet moving too fast to see.

Whirling and twirling and swirling.

Skirts, flaring and dancing.

With the lark's joyful voice.

 

Hands spread wide.

Eyes on the sky.

The wheeling stars, a shower,

Of silver streaks, racing.

Feet moving too fast to see.

 

Whirligigs and pinwheels.

Leaves and snowflakes.

Raindrops in the breeze.

Whipping and zinging,

Round and round and round.

 

Spinning. Spinning. Spinning.

Feet moving too fast to see.

Skirts, flaring and dancing.

Laughing and dizzy,

She twirls and spins,

All tumbled curls and shining eyes.

 

Spinning.  Twining.  Twisting.

Webs of life, of circumstance,

The great circle of time.

Like a spoke,

The thread of a spider's weaving,

Each life touches countless others,

Before turning on and away,

Shifting and changing, some fading,

Some growing stronger by the day.

 

Round and round and round.

Hands spread wide,

A smile, lights her face...

Spinning 'round, this innocent child.

Reminds us, life is not a race.

 

Spinning. On she goes. Spinning.

Laughing at the stars.

Dancing with the leaves of autumn.

Waltzing with winter's grace.

Welcoming the touch,

Of the merry spring rain,

Upon her sweet, angelic face.

Spinning. Round. Spinning.



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

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

Dear Luna

Dear luna,

I am lost,

I am alone,

I am invisible,

I am unheard,

I am hurt.

 

Dear luna,

my light within the night,

in your sea of stars,

what do I do,

where do I go,

when, how or should I?

help me.

 

Dear luna,

help me,

my only light in the dark,

guide me through,

this pit of darkness,

this cage without a key.

 

Dear luna,

 I watch you every night,

through bars,

through glass,

every night,

I await your answer,

every night,

I hear nothing,

nothing but a wolves cry.

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: The Puppet's Rage

The Puppet’s Rage

 

I know you worry.

I know you interfere,

Because you care or think you do.

But open your ears.

Listen to a word,

A voice besides your own.

 

For years I’ve gone on.

Alone.

Holding out, pressing forward.

These actions you take.

The presumptions you make.

This is my life.

To make of it what I will.

I am no child.

I am no puppet.

I am no toy,

Loved one moment, cast aside the next.

 

I know you worry.

But you interfere,

When help was not sought.

No words spoken,

In pain or fear.

Had you listened,

My mind wouldn’t be reeling,

My heart in a blind rage.

I am no puppet.

I severe the strings.

Here and now.

I stand my ground.

 

This is my life.

Such as it is.

I go on a day at a time.

A dream in my head.

A goal in my heart.

A delicate balance you seek to pull apart.

You never understood.

You never talked to me,

You take action.

Steamrolling over one and all.

Never, ever just letting things be.

A puppet in a rage.

 

Now I stand.

Alone in the face of this.

Cutting the strings.

Breaking free.

I found a balance.

Tenuous, but mine.

A world built on a thread.

Woven with hard work.

A dream that would not die.

A hope, I alone, know.

That carried me through the dark.

A hope that knows my words.

Knows my tears.

 

The puppet’s rage.

I feel it, a stone upon my heart,

But where others have tumbled.

I find the strength to say,

Enough.

None will point a finger,

Saying go.

There to this spot now.

Do as I say.

Your voice is not one to heed.

Foul.  I cry.  Foul.

Heed these words for once.

Know I have a choice.

I have a voice.

I have strength in a hope you have never known.

 

It was there for all to see.

The words shining in the lines,

Had you taken the time to read.

Now.  Now.

My words scream.

Leave it be.

Let it alone.

A puppet, free of its strings.

I step away.

Gently close the door.

A child gone.

A favored toy, lost.

Never to be reclaimed.

A puppet, free of its strings.

Like the little wooden boy,

By a faery blessed,

I step away.

My heart twisting in my chest.

 

I stand on my feet.

I listen to my heart.

With these words I speak.

The lament…

The pain coiled in my chest.

I know you interfere,

Thinking it is for the best.

Step away.  Step away.

Listen to me now.

As I speak,

A bald and brutal truth.

 

My damned, stubborn pride,

I inherited from you.

By it alone, I have held on.

Through thick and thin.

It has brought a dream,

Within a pixie’s breathe of reality.

Pulling from nothing,

Going on blind,

These things I have done.

I leave your edict behind.

I go my own way.

Even if it means goodbye.

Listen before you act.

Before you make,

                                                         Even the puppet cry.

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

Distinguished Wordsmith
Fleetfoot
Posts: 495
Registered: ‎05-14-2011

Re: Takillikan Glade

Takillikan Glade

 

There is a place in this ancient wood,

Protected and sacred,

Untouched by mortals,

Time or blood.

Only the legends,

The fleeing lores know of this deep green place,

Those of dreaming eyes,

And lethal, ghostly grace.

In the heart of the Vale's heartwood,

Rests the glade,

Where Fleetfoot was born.

The birthplace of the Last Unicorn.

 

To the beginning, fleet feet have brought, the end.

For this is the place where a power,

Is born.

Clean. Perfect. Clear.

Unbridled love in its purest form.

Such is the gift of the Unicorn.

All around the labyrinth spans,

Farther than a lore can see.

A honeycombed warren of pools,

Trees, of a ten man span,

Nets of moss and clusters of ferns.

Dividing the pools,

Hiding secrets, forgotten and lost.

Massive branches dapple this glade,

Tinted leaves, hoar frost,

A gossamer mist all glow,

Even in the depths of the shade.

 

There is no sound here,

Except the song of a lark,

And the steady, beating drum,

Of Fleetfoot's heart.

Never before has another seen,

The maze of mirrors,

And magical pools,

Still and cool and green.

The largest trees,

Cloaked in swaths of lichen, moss, and peat.

The heady loam beneath cloven feet.

Takillikan Glade.

The whispered name of this place.

 

Takillikan Glade.

The name unknown to all but a few.

Time flows with the will of the blessed,

Who have called this haunted hollow,

Home.

Few were they in number,

Fewer still are those who linger on,

Awaiting the return,

Of the Aerial Dancer...

Her ethereal, graceborn stride.

It was here,

In the depths of Takillikan's golden seeped gloom,

With the fabled Dire Wolves,

At her heels pressing,

She did learn to run.

To leap and cavort.

To fly across the earth,

As no other creature has done,

Before or since.

The dance of life,

An entire world was beginning.

 

'Ere the rising sun's early light,

Leached from crimson to incorporeal gold.

A reflection, mirror bright and flowing,

Appears in the pools,

Edging Takillikan Glade.

Pearl and silver and black.

Cobalt and violet and starlight.

One foot...lifting.

Two feet...gather.

Three feet...touching.

Four feet...leaping.

The clarion ringing of the Dire wolves' howl,

A symphony renewed.

Lily's Song, a memory fresh,

The tears still shimmering on the ground.

Now at the start of this final dance,

Two courageous hearts, do pound.

In the shadows,

Bordering the mossy edges,

Of the pools, 'neath the trunks,

Of the great, olden trees,

The pack moves, softly as the breath of death.

 

Of the scent hounds there is no sign.

But the sight hunters,

Have followed Fleetfoot's line.

Now their forces,

With those of the wolves are joined.

Lurking among the heaven reaching heights,

Are the archers of the once great Horde.

Holding ready.

Waiting now.

Creaking of alder,

The song of a bowstring plays,

The reflection takes the first step,

The opening dance,

The symphonies of the world,

Begins to play.

 

One foot...stretching.

Two feet...gather.

Three feet...springing.

Four feet...reaching.

Aerial dancer of Takillikan Glade

Cloven stride parting with the ground.

The leap of faith,

From the shadows into the frost kissed light.

Stretching long and tight.

Whippet thin, argent bright.

Takillikan Glade,

Magic imbued by the lores,

Gone on,

Now shows its true face.

Reflections within reflections.

A hundred fold.

A thousand more.

Refractions...

Mirroring each motion.

Mimicking each minute action.

Where the forest starts and the ground begins,

Up from down.

Down from up.

Passing forward, only to come back again.

 

A labyrinth of reflections,

Muted, dappled light.

Aerial dancer of Takillikan Glade,

Soaring out into the pools,

Reflections shining,

Mimics and fragmented rules.

One dancer, but not alone.

A thousand leaping with the Aerial Dancer.

Which is the real?

That is the question begging an answer.

Will the arrow find its mark,

Sinking deep, plunging home?

'Posted: Do not feed the Trolls, not even reindeer flattened fruitcake...Feeding of Trolls will result in gnome revolts, gremlin induced chaos, and other strangeness...' - Darkkin, the Tedious
Distinguished Bibliophile
Darkkin
Posts: 2,224
Registered: ‎08-15-2009

Re: Some Know

Some Know

 

Some know pain.

Some know fear.

Some know things,

No one should ever,

See or hear...

 

A rhythm, dark.

A delicate step.

Mourning clouds,

Tears misting down.

Windswept trees,

Moorland. Vale. Town.

Some know things,

Secret. Precious. Rare.

 

Faery song,

Written by the lark.

A rhythm, rain drifting down,

A delicate step,

A beating heart.

Moorland. Vale. Town.

I know things.

Some, no others know

Secret. Precious. Dark.

 

Word. Thought. Deed.

A rhythm, rain drifting down.

Amorphous cloak, concealing all.

Moorland. Vale. Town.

Delicate steps in the dark.

Some know them,

As I do...

Secret. Delicate. Art.

 

From the hedge row,

A voice does call...

A child's round, a simple song.

Laughter after a fall.

A wish upon an unseen star,

A breath of hope, carrying far.

Silvered voice, mended wing.

Some know.

Some pretend...

 

Some know pain.

Some know fear.

Some have wiped away,

That final tear...

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