Poem – The Flowering of Ruins

Aqua flower here it blooms

nestled in a thrown of reeds

luminescent on a pond

buried neath a sky of trees

 

soft and faerie, light it shows

the path through broken column rows

a thing of beauty, that knows no day

the lovely child of decay

 

for it was once pruned

from midst walkway stone

but aside from ghosts

is now alone

 

with majesty

it stands,  a stave

an epitaph

on an empire’s grave

Poem – Temple of a Dead god

Yawning mouth of stone

and eyes once set alight

the vacant home of false gods worshiped

still stands here day and night

 

here poor imitators,

were worshiped all the same

blood coursed down these stone’d steps

in a scowling blood god’s name

 

all his worshipers are ashes

rites unremembered dust

nothing but this tomb of sin

remain of misspent trust

Poem – Stone Soldiers

Sworn in life to serve their land

they died, but lost their way in death

stolen from that final light

and to them granted a new breath

 

but breath unnatural, breath of steam

breath stored in a marble seam

cut from stone they rose once more

to follow kings of flesh to war

 

in facsimile of armors made

armed with spear and sword and glave

with heavy tread marched forth the dead

to keep their former nation fed

 

called from slumber a last resort

in a desperate time of fire and blood

stone does not bleed nor does it burn

but souls of men for peace they yearn

 

motionless as their faces lay

their torment grew each sleepless day

thus slowly they forgot themselves

and crushed the land where ruins dwell

 

so if you see a man of stone

atop a plinth, in his ruined home,

recall and fear that mortal sin

of calling back departed kin

What Makes Fantasy Good?

Taste and temperament are the obvious answers, but that is not the good that I refer to. What elements move fantasy from mere delusion to something uplifting?

What makes a fantastic story inspirational instead of a siren call?

I look around and see so many men buried alive in paper and have to wonder if the lore they consumed was deadly to them.

Is this the work of the zeitgeist, the method of delivery, or is there poison in the myths they read?

Perhaps the true heroic narrative is unknown to them.

Perhaps the combination of extreme discipline and wild fortunes that makes heroes in reality is rare in the stories they choose.

If we take the hyper abstraction of reality that most fantasy is and boil it down to its more grounded elements, perhaps we would find that the good narratives have ingredients that lay out a path to greatness rather than day dreaming about it.

Does this speak to the character of the author?

It certainly displays their presuppositions.

Poem – Foolish thoughts to Ponder

I bow my head in supplication, to the King of every nation,

the one who holds all men’s hearts

in his hand.

On my knees earnest intent,

I speak the words of a man spent,

when before the master of all I dare not stand.

 

Here I am at the throne of God

and here,

I think,

of money.

 

Here I kneel to the King of Kings,

and my tongue,

it longs,

for honey.

 

Of such sweet things my vain mind sings

how can I know such distraction?

When be-fore almighty God

of whom I know but a fraction?

 

What is more enticing than, the mind of my Father?

How can I consider somthing

other than the potter?

When God is near,

His creation here

for me in awe to wander,

how is it that,

I find other

foolish thoughts to ponder?

Poem – Death of a Poet

Based on events from A Throne of Bones

A mortally wounded flier, upon returning to his forest home meets the weeping bride of his distant youth. Instead of relishing these precious moments he icily reacts to her desperate attempts to soothe his passing with song. His bitter knowledge of the coming ruin speaks through this final soliloquy.

Sing to me your swan song

sing to me your lie

spread your pretty lips let out

the swaying locust cry

 

drown out all the ringing in

my battle damaged ears

let it soothe the killing wound

and soon reali-zed fears

 

I want to now feel hopeful

for hopes lost yesterday

lie to me, sing your sweet lies

until I pass away

Poem – The Four Horsemen

all the world shall then be trampled
neath the hooves of horses four
in due response the mouths of man
in woe will sing a fruitless roar

that final note of undue pride
will sound the end
of sin’s cruel song
And God will let his justice ride
four beasts abreast
four horsemen strong

Poem – Miss Sten

shake for me baby
shake in my hands
I want to hear your bones rattle
I want to hear your metal spit dribble
onto the concrete floor
scream for me
anguish and love
bark like an animal
shudder with passion
I want to feel you kick with every touch
to rock with every round
to fight with every pound

Poem – Twang

Sultry southern belle

I watch you sizzle in the sun

light

 

my steaming frozen gaze

is stuck to suffocating clothes

tight

 

pistol in the shade of your

soft abundant hip

bullets damn near boiling

bandoleered about your tattered slip

 

heated red across your face

eyes that whisper sex and grace

 

meet me at your blinding dawn

we’ll burn away the sky

 

Poem – Electric Engine Motorcycle

It’s economical

it’s friendly

hipster boys will think you trendy.

 

crouched on its faux leather seat

not “cool” par-say, but neat

feet an inch above the street in plastic cones…

 

but does it roar?
does it sing that animal song?
does it make the weak seem strong?

does it scream through thrumming pistons,
biting at the road?

can it sit all alone,
glare with growling eyes of chrome
yet charm you like a lost dog
make you want to take it home?