The Muse and the Poet: Part III

Fates’ Finale

(Scene opens on a dark stage, surrounded by black Ionic columns with lit candles upon them and cut out silhouettes of trees scattered about. A pool with three stones around it sits at center stage front, with one ionic column specifically set at far back, equal distance from the pool as both side stage entrances. Lamia hides behind it. Faint chanting can be heard in background, either Gregorian or native (director’s discretion). A loud gong sounds the beginning of the play.)

MORA (enter stage left with yellow spotlight following): We are the Fates.
NORNA(enter stage right with green spotlight following): We are the Fates.
LAMIA (step from behind pillar with red spotlight following): We are the Fates.
(all take three steps towards center pool in unison)
MORA: I am Mora, she who spins the wool of existence and crafts the thread of new life.
(all take two steps towards the center pool in unison)
NORNA: I am Norna, she who weaves the strings of lives together and apart again.
(all take another step towards pool)
LAMIA: And I am Lamia, she who cuts the threads when they have reached their determined length!
ALL(all should reach pool by this step, raising arms above heads while intoning): We are the Fates! (and sit down as respective lights turn off and a single blue spotlight shines from pool)
MORA (truning to sisters): I have called this meeting of the Fates for a specific purpose. Its concerns the Muse and the Poet.
NORNA (gazing into pool): Ahh, yes. I remember them. I wove their lives together with that of another girl. Do you recall her name?
LAMIA (with proud smirk): Hmph! She is not important. She is not the one who has called us accursed!
NORNA (with evident shock): But none would dare curse us! We are the Fates!
MORA (to audience): Yes, and it’s a foolish wager to curse the Fates unless your thread is already cut!
LAMIA: The point is, we must reassess what we have done!
NORNA: I see. For a human and a muse to both call us accursed, either they must be mad, or their fate may be wrong.

(Lights change from blue to purple to red at Norna’s comment as Lamia rises slowly and serpentine from her seat.)

LAMIA: We are the Fates.
OTHER TWO (trembling): We are the Fates
LAMIA (with thunder and roaring in background): We are destiny! We are purpose! We cannot be mistaken! We SHALL reassess the situation, for we are bound by oath to, but as for the curses, they mean nothing coming from corpses!(Lights return to blue again after Lamia sits donw.) Now, I think you should start Mora.
MORA (shaken but still smiling): Oh, yes! Of course. Well, the poet was still a young man. He was in love with a girl, not our doing, I’m sure. But you know how humans can be. (nervous laugh). Anyway, yes, the young man drank too much one night, and thought that he actually saw his Muse.
NORNA (interrupting): Excuse me sister, but you are mistaken.
MORA (smiling venomously): What are you talking about?
NORNA: Well, there was a Muse. I wove their life strings together myself. I even wove the love into the Muse’s string.
MORA: That’s impossible! There was no new Muse string that I wove. The rest are all accounted for. There was defiantly no Muse. It was merely a figment of his imagination, becoming so real to him, that it must have made a thread of its own.
NORNA: Ha! Please! I may not make the thread, Mora, but I know threads don’t appear out of thin air!
MORA (philosophically): Stanger things have been done by the human mind. We may control their destinies, but the inner workings of their minds and their potential shall always remain a mystery.
NORNA: There was most defiantly a Muse. The Muse fell in love with the poet and then caused him to see the first girl for the evil she truly is! But that caused the Muse to die before he could return in time.
LAMIA (stage whisper to herself): Interesting
MORA (stands up and light changes to yellow with her standing): Listen, both of you! This tale is about the Poet! He fell in love and sacrificed his own sanity to gain the love of the girl. But she scorned him and derided him and so he ran and then fell into darkness. It’s a tradgic tale of scorned love (to Norna) which doesn’t need imaginary Muses to make it better. It is a warning of the dangers of love.
NORNA (stands with light change to green): Well as nice of a story as that was, it is only a story. For the tale is not about the Poet but the Muse! She did exsist! She loved the Poet, she would have done anything for him. But he was blinded by lust and could not see it! She made a way for him to see the evil one’s deception, and for that she sacrificed her life! She saved him from untrue love and a life of suffering by sacrificing her own!
MORA (jumps up, lights don’t transition smoothly, instead flash instantly to yellow): The Poet gave his life for love! How can you tarnish that with this absurd fiction!
NORNA (jumps up also, instant color change to green): You would call such a great sacrifice absurd fiction!?
BOTH (ad lib arguments at the same time as lights flash green and yellow, getting louder and louder)
LAMIA (stands up and lights go out completely as she yells): Enough! (after a 10 seconds of darkness and silence red light fades back on. Lamia is seated on the left, other two are on the right, clutching each other fearfully while quaking.) You are both wrong. This story is not about the Muse or the Poet. Can’t you see (to audience) it’s about us.
OTHER TWO (in shock ad lib): What? That’s impossible! What do you mean? Etc.
LAMIA: We, those who watch into the story of the Muse and the Poet, it is really about us. It is a mirror, reflecting back our own helpless ability to intervene in our destinies.
MORA: But we are the fates! All of us shape our own destiny! Each one us forms their own path through our decisions!
LAMIA: And why do you make decisions? Why? You think that you make your own decisions because you view the various factors of your life, and then decide the best route based on the interpretation of your heart or your head. But who’s to say that your mind or your instincts are truly your own? If they were not, then those who decide you fate would keep you ignorant of that fact!
NORNA (slowly): So… you’re saying, sister, that the words I’m speaking, right now, are not even truly my choice? How bazaar…
LAMIA (to audience): We have looked into the tale as if we control the Poet and the Muse’s actions, but whose to say our actions are our own? That our minds can be trusted to be true, or our hearts to be pure and untouched?
MORA: I will not believe it! There was no Muse.
LAMIA: Does it matter if there was? Will it change anything for you?
MORA: No one controls my words or actions!
NORNA: What if they merely controlled the circumstances? So that, in the end, we could only make one decision, the one they wanted…
MORA: I have had enough of this foolish speculation! I declare the investigation into the lives of the two (to Norna) or three, closed.
LAMIA (still to audience): True, you can just leave and forget all about this. No one will ever make you think for yourself. But that is then the question, can you ever really think for yourself? Where do your thoughts themselves come from?
NORNA (standing): We are the Fates
MORA (standing): We are the Fates
LAMIA (standing): We think we are the Fates.

(all exit stage right, as lighting from pool turns to white and “Ave Regina Cælorum” can be heard chanted in background by full choir.)

The Muse and the Poet: Part II

Poet's Poem

Listen man, and listen well
The tale I am about to tell
Broken hearts, as you will see
How the Fates have cursed me.
For purest love I had found
But tragedy to it was bound.

I walked between the blooming trees
Wond’ring at the meaning of these
When suddenly I did discover
There came walking another
Her hair of flaxen golden hue
Her brown eyes sparkling with due
She walked along with poise and grace
I loved her the second I saw her face
I found her name, Fair Rosalyn
Living out upon the glen
Her father, pompous, rich and fat
Let her be about like that
For many a heart she put a-flutter
While words of love she easily uttered
And with her eyes that ever sought
I was by her love-net caught

I rushed home to my chambers dark
Where I practiced my sacred art
And there, with trembling candle stick
I paced the room with burning wick
For hours and hours all I did was pace
As I meditated upon her face
What words would ever be adequate?
To show my love, to reveal it
No food then did pass my lips
Only wine taken in small sips
No sleep found my weary eyes
I simply thought with weary sighs
With stylus in my heavy hand
Block before me, ever bland
Twas midnight of the third day
Before I found the words to say

But here, kind reader, I must pause
And of course I wish no alarm to cause
For when I say I saw a muse
Know I wasn’t mad or confused
The muse was there before my face
As if to give me a soft embrace
But breathed instead so coolly
Inspiration swirling upon me
And barely had it action done
Then I was writing until rose the sun
My work of art so precious, dear
To win Fair Rosalyn, to draw her near
I ran then straight unto her home
And there I gave it to her alone

For many days I had her heart
Enraptured by my splendid art
But then her flame began to fail
For the words no longer would avail
So once more I came into my cell
And drank so more the wine so well
And called upon the Muse so sweet
To come and give my words heat
And it came, but slower this time
But wonderous was its precious rhyme
It moved my heart and teared my eyes
It made me laugh and gasp with surprise
This was it, the final sign
Soon Rosalyn would be all mine.

I triumphantly brought forth the poem
Once I reached her fair home
She read it smiling bright at first
Then dropped her face as if cursed
She threw the parchment at my face
And called my writing a great disgrace
My heart was broken and anger stirred
For this foolish woman should not be heard
Her foul voice spoke of what it knew not
And now my love had changed to rot
I left that place in great fury
And returned home in a great hurry
For her mind was now made crystal clear
And her face I wished would disappear
Then came I to my darkened lair
I was not ready for what I found there

My Muse, it lay upon the ground
Pale and sickly, a writhing mound
Enlightment came from above
That maybe, Muses could also love
I drew near where she lay so still
Wondeirng what a Muse could kill
Through broken lips the whisper came
Though all I could hear was my name
Rosalyn must have done this foul deed
When another poem she did need
For she spent my Muse, my precious one
And now I my Muse is gone and done
I was left utterly alone
There in the darkness of my home
No Rosalyn, all my Muse did give
No reason left for me to live

Listen man, and listen good
Muses require no food
Yet poison still they can find
If it comes by way of your mind
So guard now your Muse well
And that is all that I shall tell.

The Muse and the Poet: Part I

The Muse and the Poet:
Muse's Monologue

Today he came home sooner than before. His face flushed with excitement, his curly black hair disheveled as he ran. He looked about with a wild look in his eyes, a wild fire in his blood. I have never seen him like this. This way, the way he is now.

“I have found her!” he cries to the empty courtyard. “I have found the girl of my dreams.”

What a dagger to my heart. That he would say something so ruthless and cruel with so much joy. But I shall wait and see. Maybe this is but a passing folly. One of Cupid’s foolish arrows gone astray and easily healed. But what if it isn’t?

The days pass and all he does is dwell on her, thinking of her constantly, talking of her constantly, even daring to dream about her only. For years, years I have served him. And now he does this. And now he would use me, merely as a tool for his own purposes.

But that’s all we muses are, aren’t we? We exist as tools for humanity. Tools for them to shape their love and then to be thrown aside and forgotten. Never a thank you. Never a good word. They even have the audacity to take credit for our work. Without our inspiration they would be nothing!

Yet, there he sits, with stylus in hand and block before him. He is begging me, pleading with all his soul. All he wants is a simple poem. A poem of spring time and flowers and the things that so sweetly grow. Should I give it to him? Will it satisfy the greed of this strange girl? Well in the very least, if I give it to him, and he gives it to her, it shall allow me to read her heart. Being a muse does have a few advantages.

A simple poem, a modest poem, but one that would make any girl’s heart flutter. This will do, at least for now, so that I can look at her heart. And what a heart. A shadow, conniving twisted heart. A malicious and sulpherous heart bent on nothing but slavery and dominion and the twisting of the hearts of men. I am so repulsed that I grow sick at what I see in her.

How does he miss it? How does he not see it so clearly? In what she says? In what she does? It cannot be missed, even by an imbecile, and yet he is smart and wise and witty as well. No, then it must be true. No stray arrow but a well placed barb of Cupid’s desire. He is truly in love with this… this heart of darkness.

It hurts. I don’t know why, but it does. What is this pain I feel so deep in me, that the very marrow drains from my bones? Could it be… no, that is foolishness. But what then, what causes my entire being to grow so heavy and makes my heart stoop to the ground? It must be… yes, the pain, the throbbing, beating pain, it can only be… am I? Am I in love?

Yes. Yes! I am! I am in love! I am in love with this mad, genius, beautiful, stubborn poet! And that is why it hurts. It pains my heart that the one I love… that he would love another. Oh, its not the labor that causes my wrath to grow. No, if he would love me for it, I would give him a hundred poems. No, but for who the labor is made. For he does not dream of me.

And yet, yet he shall require another poem of me. What will I do? What is there to do? Either refuse him or give him another. Those are the only options before me. Yet one would be worse than the other. They are both abhorrent and unfriendly to my soul.

I love him, I do, and will not let her have him. If I refuse and give him no more poems, she will soon grow weary of him. And then she shall shun him and no more shall she threaten my happiness! I shall refuse him because I love him!

But yet, I love him, and if I refuse and he is shunned, the pain and grief that he will experience may easily kill him and definitely me. No, I cannot harm him. I cannot steal his happiness away. If it means his joy, then I shall give him another poem, because I love him.

Oh Cruel Fates! Why mock ye, me so! No, I will not leave him and I will not be the breaker for his heart. If only there was a way for him to stop loving her. If only there was some method to make him see her vile and fetid heart. That’s it! Her heart must be revealed. I shall reveal her heart.

He comes today and begs another poem of me. He sees me and yet all he sees is a tool. No other man has seen a muse as clearly as he. And yet he sees nothing. He wants a poem and I shall give him one. One that all men would praise. And indeed he is pleased. Good, go now, little poet. Go and take your poem to her whom you call beloved.

He goes, even now in my minds eye’s I can see it. He will read it to her. She will, at first be enraptured by it. But then, as the honey is still upon her lips, it shall turn to bitter, burning, venom. For though the poem is crafted so that all men approve, unto all women it is the gravest of insults and most horrid to hear. And she shall tell him so. And he shall see her for who she truly is.

Ahhh! The pain in my chest, it deepens and widens. Is love such a cruel master? Is love such a horrid fate. Even now, I feel as if I were dying, lying here in my poet master’s chamber. Why does love burn so hot? Why does love crush like lead?

He enters. His face is red again, but this time from anger. He has seen her face, her true face. He as seen the light and now has returned in righteous indignation. He sees me. And in his eyes there is a light. A moment of realization, as the man who realized he has found a long lost ring upon his own finger.

“What’s the matter?” he must see my pain.

“I am dying. I gave you a poem to reveal her wicked heart to you, my love. But it has cost me greatly. My oath, as a guardian of love, was to ever cherish and nurture sweet love. And if I were to break it, then so also I would be broken.”

He speaks, but his words sound distant. Far off as an echo in the breeze. This is not love. This is death. Why am I dying? I am an eternal muse? Why am I dying like a common human? But still, death is better than to be separated from my beloved. The light grows dimmer. The world feels so cold. So very, very cold. His face is fading and I hear my heart beat one last time. And then there is silence. Oh, sweet silence. Cover me from the pain of his broken heart.

Trusting Glorious Dust

Uncertainty clouds about
Unsure about everything at all
Questions hanging in blank space
“Why?” asked too often

Do I dare, dare do this thing?
Would I actually, right now
Trust you with my heart?
Trust you with everything?

An unsure step out of the boat
An uncertain leap of faith
When the world crashes in around
Where exactly will I be found?

Where? Here. Right here in this place.
In your arms, your sweet embrace
My heart I entrust to you alone
Because no one else would understand

Trust is fleeting, flying, and solid
Trust is blind and yet can see
Trust is sure in the uncertain
I trust you now, more than myself

I trust you with this glass heart
Kept within its locked cage
I trust you now with this glowing coal
When will the fire be stoked again?

Oh how beautiful, how glorious
How wonderful is this trust
Ashes to ashes and dust to dust
When all turns to rust, I will trust.

23 and me

The LORD is my shepherd, the one who watches over and guides my path and protects me from the dangers of the world, therefore, I shall not want.

He makes me to lie down in green pastures, the places where I shall have more than enough provision, and leads me beside the still waters where I can find peace in Him and then through Him, He restores my very soul.

He leads me in the paths of righteousness, where I could not walk on my own, for His name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, no matter where His path may take me, I shall fear no evil, for You, LORD, are with me.

Your rod and staff, Your word and spirit, Your conviction and Your dicipline which guides, corrects, and protects me, are a comfort to my soul, because they show that You love me.

You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies, because with You nothing can touch me and I have peace in my spirit.

You annoint my head with oil, because You have a plan and a purpose for me and a calling and a mantle for my life.

My cup runs over with blessings, because You will provide all I shall need or desire as long as my heart is turned towards You.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for great length of days until eternity.

A Psalm of Supplication

When the world turns colder,
You are my pillar of fire
When the storms rage around me,
You are my secret shelter
When all the world turns to shadow,
You are my guiding light
Now when all hope has abandoned me,
Be my comfort, O God
In this hour and day of darkness,
when the sun rose black in the sky
I have looked only unto Your face,
O Keeper of my life
Guide me now, in Your beautiful way
Guide me LORD and let me not loose my way
Once Your servant called wisdom a woman
Crying out in the streets to all who would heed
Where are you wisdom? I would take your words
And cherish them all my days
Where are you, now that my inner most being
Is broken, abhorrent to my very soul?
When hope dies, God, You are my Strength
When love fails, Jesus, You are my Loving Arms
When sorrow comes, Spirit, You are my Comfort
O Father, heal my heart, as only You can
I will wait upon You, even if I must wait all day
I will remain here, in this place, and wait
I will wait for Your promise and purpose
And when the world turns brighter, still, I will wait for You
For without Your love and hope now, I will die

The Teaching Sea

One morning clear, two figures were seen walking along the wet sand beach of the Isle of Ember. Two dark silhouettes against a background of the grey-blue waters, foaming and crashing and running up the tan sand. The one was an old man, bent and stooped, who leaned on a cane as he walked. The other was a young boy, sharp eyed and clear minded, who ran ever back and forth with the waves.

As the two walked the boy asked the elder, “Old man, why are the fishing boats not upon the waves today?”

“My son, they have the wisdom gained, from many years of experience.” Spoke the elder with a sigh, motioning towards the ocean. “They know that on bright and beautiful days like this, the fish can see deeper and swim farther away from the nets. They must wait for overcast skies or twilight’s hour before they can catch fish.”

“They must all be terribly wise then to know so much about fish and their manners.” said the boy, unearthing a stick from the sand and releasing it to be carried by the waves. “Though I would never see them as wise men.”

The old sage looked at the drifting wood as it was pushed and pulled across the coarse sand until finally the craft was taken up by the waves and into the sea. He spoke then slow and clearly for the young boy to understand:

“They are very wise men. The wisest you shall ever meet. For their teacher has been life, and a hard teacher she has been to them. And their tutor has been the sea, and much knowledge he would give to all, if they would simply reflect upon the deep things of the mighty waters. The seas would even teach you more of these men (and here he motioned to a half buried shell) for they are like shells, buried beneath the sands of the shore. Some seem whole, but are actually broken. The smallest seeming may in fact be the largest of all. That which appears plain, holds a pearl deep within its folds.”

The boy stopped and pondered the sayings of the old man, picking at a few shells to confirm the old one’s tale. And it was so. That which seemed one way was many times different once he began digging into the enclosing sands.

“So you see.” Continued his elder after a few moments, “They are as the shells… just as all men are. They seem plain, but great wisdom has been granted them by the ocean.”

“What is this great knowledge the ocean has given them? I would like to have some, if I may.” said the boy following the old man again.

“Hohoho. Well that is a question. There are so many. Here, help me sit. Good, there we are. Now, sit beside me. There, now I want you to look out upon the sea. What do you see with your eyes?” The elder asked.

The boy furrowed his brow as he thought, “I see the ocean. I see the waves beating against the sand and running back and beating against it again. They come and go and come and go, they’re always changing. Never stopping, never resting.”

“Ahh. You have stumbled upon a wisdom. Life is like those waves. It ever crashes against us and seeks to pull us down. But if we can endure the morning tide and the waves of the day, then the evening tide will come. If we endure the hardships and witlings of life, then we shall find that life also adds to us, enhances us, gives us beauty and experience and memories and happiness, just as the evening tide casts the pearls and the rainbow shells across this sandy beach after dark.”

“What else can the ocean teach me?” asked the boy taking a piece of driftwood and jabbing the stick into the sand as he said, “Can it teach me of fighting?”

“Yes.” The elder replied gravely, “Which sea are we looking at today?”

“Well, some call it the Northern Sea because its so far north. Others call it the White Sea because of its summer foam and winter icebergs. It has three or four more names that are given to it.” answered the boy, dropping the stick.

“And what do you call it?” asked the elder.

“I call it the Ocean of Dolphins today because I saw many dolphins this morning.” spoke the boy proudly.

“To those south of this sea it is the Northern Sea, but to those north of it, this is the Southern Sea. Its name changes depending on your perspective. Yet it is still the same sea. Some generations call it the White Sea, others the Red Sea, and yet other still the Black Sea, yet it is still the same sea. Never let your perspective change the facts. Many have fought for their fiction, never seeing the actual fact.”

“But what about my enemies?” the boy said standing up angrily.

“The ocean washes all things smooth… with time. The things which makes us enemies now will be smoothed away with time’s steady flow. Building a sandcastle is much harder than breaking one down into a heap of sand, yet its rewards are much more fulfilling. So also, building a friendship is much harder than breaking an enemy, but the reward and fulfillment of friendships is constant as the waves on the strand.”

“I think I understand.” said the boy, casting his stick into the waves, “The morning is still cold. Let us make a fire and warm ourselves.”

They walked a bit further till they found a place where they could build a fire. They began gathering drift wood, when the boy called to the elder, “I think I have found more wisdom!”

“What is this you have found?” the old man asked.

“When making a fire, we must gather as much wood before we start it, otherwise we will waste the fire’s warmth running around to get more wood so it doesn’t die. So also we must wait before making an opinion, gathering as much information as we can before taking a side or a stance.”

“Yes, otherwise, we waste our energy trying to defend the ill-chosen stance, and our passion is wasted.” Finished the old man smiling.

They lit a fire and warmed themselves as they continued talking. The young boy gazed into the smoky fire as he spoke again, “Wet wood abounds on the beach, while dry wood is hard to find. So also friends abound in the world, but a good friend is a treasure who does not cloud your vision with the smoke of their own troubles, but brings warmth to the soul.”

“Yes, that is a Great Wisdom.” Spoke the sagely old man.

The two sat by their fire on the dry sand, watching the waves break upon the sand. Clouds came and went, the sun shone and was clouded and shone once more. Dolphins could be seen far off, leaping into the air and disappearing beneath the waves again. Gulls cried and the cadence of the ocean’s roaring upon the rocks added to the symphony of the seaside.

They sat there, reflecting upon the sea and its deep wisdoms for hours, neither speaking, neither moving. They sat and watched and waited and pondered until the sun began setting upon the waves. Golden light danced upon the waves of the sea as colors sprayed across the sky, interwoven by the blue clouds and the faint twinkling of silver stars.

The young one sighed.

The elder closed his eyes and listened to the changing of the wind’s flow. “So did you find the answer? I know you sought my wisdom for a reason this day.”

“I think I have. No, I know I have. As I gazed upon the ocean today, I saw the waves crashing, the birds wheeling, the winds howling, the clouds coming and going and all moved about in chaos and disorder. The sea is always changing, moving, never still, never quiet.” And here the young one’s eyes seemed to dance with tears held back, “But beneath it all, there is a constance. The ocean’s boundaries are set, the currents flow ever onward, and the tides that come and go are still ordered by the guidance of the sun and moon. Here there is chaos, or so it seems, but beneath it all, so thinly veiled, a greater power yet experts its influence and guides the waves.”

“And this is the answer to your question?” asked the elder as he gazed upon the full moon rising serenely above the coming and going waves.

“Somewhat. Though waters pull back and the tide goes out at the sun and moon’s bidding, still there remains the promise and hope. That when the tide goes out, it will come back in again and the sea will return to the shore. With patience, the tide will come again and my heart will find that which it longs for. This is the answer that I sought, the peace my soul yearned after.”

The two sat beside the smoldering fire, as a thin column of smoke ascended into the sky. They watched the moon rise above the waves as the waves came closer to the shore, washing driftwood and shells upon the sand. A large white pearl rolled across the wet sand, throw up from the deeps. They watched it roll to a stop and watched it wash back into the sea, and knew they had gathered much greater treasures from the depths that day.

When Love Lost Home

Broken glass falls through naked darkness
There is no more love left in this crimson shade
Where will the rivers run if not to the sea?
But what happens when the sea disappears?
What happens when love finds no home?

When you loosed your bow’s arrow,
Did you think I would not bleed as well?
Men bleed with their hearts and hands
And suddenly I find myself here in hell
See what happens when love looses his home.

Shatter on reality, shatter onward and break
Time has ever been my friend and enemy
Yesterday was bleak with a glimmer of light
Today you have killed the light, the sun
And all turned to numbness

Time for another mask to be made
Crafted smiled and eyes that dance with pain
I have worn masks before and know how to die
While smiling on the outside, and rotting
Breaking, shattering, smashing

Where has the sun gone?
Where is the sea?
Where has your love run?
Why have you killed me?

Blood Red Feathers

In a small little farmhouse, on a small little farm, there sat a solitary cage, with a white turtledove inside. The small yellow farmhouse with its bright green door stood basking in the afternoon sun, the brown dirt road baking between the groves and stands of olive trees. In the gilded cage the dove raised her head and gave a low coo.

“What is it Hope?” asked the little boy, squatting on the floor with a small beetle in his dirty hands.

“Amos! Where are you?” called a low woman’s voice.

“In the house Mamma!” he answered as he stood and fed Hope a few crumbs.

A woman in a large blue dress with a white apron came bustling into the small room of the farm house. Her sleeves were still pulled up from washing the laundry outside and she wiped her red, wet hands on the white apron. Her normally contained brown hair was hanging out of her bun in several places as she rushed in.

“Come here! Quickly, my son!” she called as she pulled him to her and held him close.

Something about the way his mother held him made little Amos feel frightened. Her heart was pounding and as he looked up he saw a tear fall from her cheek.

“What’s going on, Mama?” he asked looking towards the window.

“They have come.” she said as she held him close to her again.

“Who, Mama?” Amos didn’t understand. No one could take him from his Mama.

“The same men who took your Papa away.”

There was silence in the small farm house as Amos and his mother walked across creaking boards to the latching window. Outside, the sweltinerg summer sun baked the earth and the groves so that heat waves danced across the world. And then little Amos saw them. They were walking between the trees. He saw the men dressed in shadow.

“Mama we have to go! We should run! Here, I’ll take Hope and you and I can escape out the back!” The small childish hand grasped at three of her fingers.

“No. Your Papa tried running. It didn’t do him no good. They’ve already circled the whole house.” Mama said as she showed Amos the dark figures in the woods behind them.

“We can’t just give up Mama! There has to be something! What if I hide!” Amos said as he began pulling at the floor boards.

“Its no good. I took you and hid you as best as I could. We’ve been hiding from them for years now. No ones has ever laid eyes on you Amos. And still they found you. No, there is no place to hide anymore. Today hiding and dying becomes the same things.”

There was a rustling from the gilded cage. The white dove was thrashing wildly in her cage, beating feathered wings against hard iron bars. Amos ran to her, but even as his small hands opened the latch to take Hope out, the bird settled on the ground and convulsed before going deathly still.

White feathers, sticky and wet with red blood floated to the floor and stuck where they landed. Amos stood opened mouthed, wide eyed, tears coming unbidden to the corners of his dark brown eyes.

“There, there.” Mama said as she placed a work worn hand on his shoulder. “They killed her. They had to. With her as our peace offering, we could have appealed to the King. Then they couldn’t take you. But now. Now Hope is dead and so is hope.”

“What are we gonna do Mama?” asked little Amos with teared streaked face.

“We will smile. We will face our fear and our future. Wherever they may take you, you will smile. You will be strong, my little Love. You will be strong and you will smile and none shall know that you’re Hope has died.” Mama spoke as she wiped his tears on her apron. “Because Amos, you are like Hope there. You do not see it but for many you are their Hope. You cannot die as well. So live, smile, and bury your Hope.”

Then the men in the dark capes with the pale faces came. They took little Amos. He never saw his Mama again. He never saw the farm again. And he never stopped seeing Hope’s bleeding feathers before him again. He escaped from the men with the dark clothes and pale faces and became a man. He became strong and he smiled even when his Hope was dead. And he stopped the men in the dark clothes from ever taking anyone else again.

When is Soon

The wind whipped hard upon the willow branches, catching raindrops on silver leaves that trickled down into the wide and rushing stream. Grey waters gushed in foamy white billows, tripping hard over water weather rocks, smooth and cool beneath it. The thousand silver-green boats of willow leaves sailed the endless rapids of the small swollen creek, a thousand little boats following where the stream may take them, or break them.

The curtains of rains played the water like a harp and a drum, an endless cadence of natures cleansing song, sending the willow leaf boats on their way. The willow decked banks were heavy and full as the clouds began pulling back, and the sheets became curtains and then parted for the ever triumphant sun.

As clouds rolled back, endless white behemoths of the clear blue sky-sea, the sun shone down, glistening light upon the world of a million diamond-drops. The spider’s web in the branches, lined in crystallized sunlight, shone down upon the still rushing stream. And as a far off swallow called, nearby dove answered, and the chorus of bird-rejoicing began, the trees lines with all manner and color as they flew to bathe in the fresh tears of the sky.

Beneath bird song and sunlight there came a strange thing. The birds chattered on and on at the curiose sight, while willows bent lower till branches swayed gently in the flow, to see what was the thing coming down the river. It was bright, and white and the sunlight seemed to catch and shine and radiate from the white thing.

It was a boat, no a coracle more, of sturdy pine and painted with brilliant white. The sunlight diffused off of the coracles sides and the white glowing boat floated gently down grey currents to where the willows leaned and birds sang. And in the boat there was a woman and a man.

No, not a woman but a girl, not a man, no, a boy-man rowed the boat, with sleeved pulled up high. She sat there, smiling smiles just for him, her bright yellow parasol like a second sun in the stream. He had no cover and the water from the rain steamed off him as the sun glinted off his face, and he smiled smiles just for her. And they crept along the current, of grey gleaming waters, nearing the place where the willows leaned and birds sang.

No words were needed. No actions other than theirs. He rowed and smiled, she sat and smiled and together they smiled and smiled. And in that sacred place no words were needed and no words would ever be enough. They floated and bobbed till came the coracle to the place beneath the willows where the birds were singing.

He stood and parted the willow-curtains, silver-green blades lined with intricate gold veins. The birds stopped sang softer in the place beneath the willow’s branches. The water was stiller here, the current stopped, they sat beneath the willow’s arms and watched and listened and smiled.

The golden sun was setting far below the circles of the world, the stars were coming out of hiding, the clouds were now far away. And there in the place beneath the willow’s curtains where the birds sang, it grew darker too. The crickets began calling, one then another answered until the chorus of cricket cadence filled the air with the song of night’s coming and sun’s passing. And as answer to the coming of night they came.

First one, then another, a floating star upon the waters. They came more and more, the like a golden galaxy of lights that rushed along the water to where the small coracle floated. The fireflies came, swift and strongly shining like ten thousand balls of light. They whirled and twirled and danced for the two. She clapped and exclaimed, he thanked his little friends for their wondrous show.

The fireflies settled on the white coracle, like small lights covering the white boat, as it drifted out from the willow curtain and on down the river. He rowed slower now, but smiled still to lend her strength. Her smile had faded as they came out of the willows and she saw the house looming in the distance.

It stood tall and solid and black far off. Light shone from large windows with iron bars and heavy curtains to keep out the light. The walls were high, and thick and made of hate and even now she heard their gates slamming behind her as they always did. He touched her hand, she looked back at him, he smiled a smile just for her. Words were not needed, words would never do in this sacred place.

The stream would take them further down, further to where the gates were. The coracle would stop at the small deck. She would walk back in, into the cold world where they said she belonged. Into that place called home. Where would he go? Where did he go? When would he go? A tear rolled from the corner of her eye.

“Soon.” He said, one word, a word so powerful the heavens seemed to roar with him, the stars agreeing in silent choruses of light.

And it he was right. Soon the clouds would come again, the rains would fall in sheets and curtains and all other manner of cloths. Soon he would bring the white coracle for her again, and she would gather her yellow parasol. Soon they would float down the grey creek to the place where the willows bend and the birds sing. And soon he would tell her the words neither dared to speak yet.

“Soon.” She said and stepped up from the boat onto the deck and walked through the gates in the thick walls of stone.

“Soon.” He breathed as she was gone, and he was alone once more.

Food Practices of Encircled Lands

Alexandria:
Alexandria is mainly comprised of small farm communities that raise large expanses of flowers for export around the world for medicinal, aromatic, and display purposes. Most families also maintain a small vegetable garden, though trees are not permitted. The average Alexandrian diet is composed of seed porridge made of flower seeds, vegetables (such as squash, pumpkin, lettuce, and spinach) and very few ground fruits, such as strawberries. Alexandrians for the most part do not believe in eating anything grown beneath the ground such as roots and tubers. The only meat source they consume is goose and chicken, and eggs are also large part of the diet.


The Royal Household does eat differently in that they do maintain large orchards in the castle garden and therefore have fruit in their diet. They also import breads from Wreath as a delicacy, though meat and dairy has never caught on.



Wreath:
The many nations that comprise the Wreath Confederacy are characterized by two kinds of lifestyle, city and country. The country lifestyle is characterized by a diet of fresh breads; goat's milk, butter, and cheese; fresh vegetables such as cucumber, olives, tomatoes, onions, and garlic; and lots of fruit such as grapes, pomegranates, apples, and melons. Meats such as beef, poultry, and fish are eaten in small quantities. Wine is a staple as is milk and fruit juice.


The sedentary city lifestyle imports many of the grains from the country for bread and pastry baking. A high proportion of the meat eaten in Wreath is consumed by the city folk, while few vegetables or fruit are eaten at all, mostly in preserved states such as pickles or jams. Butter and cheese are consumed in abundance but milk is not widely used. Alcohol is drunk, along with teas and coffees in the city, and fresh water is seldom found.


Insular:
The diets of Insular are primarily distinguished by people group. The Dray, the Wren, and the Three Kingdoms all have very different dietary preferences. However, even then there are certain foods that all of Insular shares, and that is common fare provided where ever one goes. These general fare foods are called, Illfar, and consists primarily of corned beef, baked porridge, and a wedge of yellow nut cheese. Illfar is eaten by all of Insular during the month of Ælax, and also on holy days and feast days, and at important gatherings and meetings.


The Dray do not eat, except when partaking of Illfar for the sake of their host/guests or meetings. Illfar contains no vegetables because of this courtesy. The Dray are very strongly against what they call "brethren-eating", and many former-Dray Queens still retain a highly anti-vegan diet.


The Wren peoples are very religious and rely on auguries and bird calls for daily life to function. They have a special connection with birds, and those of their land are very intelligent and have personal awareness and cognitive function. Therefore, the Wren have always had a strict code against the slaying of or eating of birds, or eggs for that matter. While they know that birds outside of Insular are dumb animals, they still look down on all who eat poultry or eggs.


The people of the Three Kingdoms (Albia, Merca, and Gwayllen) all consume large amounts of beef and lamb, as well as corn porridge and steamed vegetables such as broccoli, cauliflower, cabbage, kale, collard greens, and brussels sprouts. The various kingdoms have individual dishes as well that set them apart. Albia has a long tradition of making stews and sauces from the innards of cows, sheep, and chicken. Gwayllen is known for its wild bird game that is a staple, such as pheasant. Merca is known for the diet consisting of beaver, porcupine, and hedgehog.


Sylvania:
The Sylvanian diet was mostly constant, though there were some variation between what was eaten when home vs. when on a voyage. The Sylvanian home dishes were buttery breads, sausages, root vegetables such as beet, turnip, and parsnip. Almost all flour is potato flour and most of dishes include it. The Sylvanian home dishes are also accented by lots of fatty and buttery foods, as most of the home food is eaten during the winter months when none sail. Stews and soups are also made, though less common. Dried and jammed fruit is also common.


Travel fare usually consists of hard buttery biscuits, cured meats, sausages, and pickled vegetables for the first few months. After that, the diet switches to a largely seafood diet consisting of fish, squid, and seabirds. There are also many kinds of seaweed that are made into stews and porridges. The one common drink whether on land or sea, is lemon mead, a drink laced with lots of lemon to prevent scurvy.


Teaul:
The diet of Teaul is much less civilized than the rest of the lands, but that is because Teaul is still very much a wild land. The majority of the people eat what they can get, most crops cannot survive and most animals escape or fall prey to wolves. The settlements on Teaul, located near the coasts eat a variety of shellfish, fish, wild berries and nuts, as well as imported flour and pickled fruit, vegetables, and meats. The settlements also eat a large amount of veal and wild game and birds.


The Sedna settled on the cliffs eat fish, shellfish, and eel. They also eat a wide variety or mushrooms, berries, nuts, and acorns. They regularly hunt turkey and other wild fowl, though they do not eat any other animal other than wolves, which they eat for ceremonial purposes and not actual as a staple of their diets.


The wandering Sedna do not adhere to the rules listed above and will eat anything they can find, often robbing supplies from the settlements. They do this out of desperation, being ostracized from the settlements they become desperate and will eat what ever they can before they are also eaten. Some have even been desperate enough to eat the meat of the sacred caribou.


Rho Ghul:
The Rho Ghul eat according to their various cult belief. The worshipers of Athium believe in a strict seafood based diet and will not "taint their pallets" by eating of animals not created by Athium's music. Part of their cuisine includes exotics such as shark, ray, turtle, and jellyfish. The followers of Enca eat a vegetarian diet with lost of grains. The followers of Humh are pastoralist that have large flocks of sheep and goats that they herd across the valley. They eat what ever comes from their herds and from their serroundings, shunning foreign food. The followers of Miphilphime are known to be excentric and often will fast for long days on end, drinking only treesap. When they eat they only consume nuts and berries and often look pale and unhealthy.


The rest of Rho Ghul are followers of Borgia the goddess of plently and believe in eating as much as possible, importing foreign food which is seen as food that has made a pilgrimage to reach them. They especially eat foods that are covered in sweet, tangy, or spicy sauces. This is not true of the Queen and concubines of the emperor, who are expected to maintain beautiful bodies. They eat mostly fruit and vegetables and some would say they are followers of Orithea.


Wyht Ghul:



The Wyht Ghul are different in that they are a single people group that migrated into Rho Ghul. After ruling over them for years, the Wyht Ghul separated and were corupted by the Silver Tower. As with all subjects of the tower, they began to thirst for meat and blood. The Wyht Ghul are strong carnivores, raising all kinds of meat but especially pork, which they prize as the sweetest meat. Their diet is completely meat centered and most of their nurtition comes from the entrails they eat, or the animal blood they boil their food in, when they cook it.



A side branch of Rho and Wyht Ghul are the canyon dwellers, also known as the followers of Yvel. The mistress of the canyon is said to have come teaching that all foods are now acceptable for Ghuls to eat, but only in moderation and each in its season, so as not to harm the earth. Their diet is generally frowned upon more than that of the Wyht Ghul.


Woodlings:
Woodling diet and that of their guardian Elfs is primarily various kinds of mushrooms. Sometimes they also incorporate berries and nuts, but in general their mushrooms are enough, having all the nutrients they need in the many many different kinds. Some are long, thin, and sweet like cakes. Others are wide and red and taste savory to the mouth. The mushrooms of the forest are one of the best kept secrets of the Woodlings and they do not often share their fare with strangers.

Psalm of Frustrations

What is this inside my heart?
Look beyond the veil if you can
A weight weighs down so hard
Frustrates me, I don’t understand
What is this thing God?
Why does honey turn bitter at the taste?
Hands that yearn to grip their tools
Despise their labor as mere waste
This hidden thing so deep
In my soul it frustrates to no end!
God! God! These hands cry out!
In mercy, let Your answer send!

Silence.
A drop of that which is precious to You.
Silence.
What can I, a mere man, do?

I am frustrated! But by who? By what?
No with you Lord, definitely not
Only goodness, kindness, and mercy
Have I ever from You got.
With my family? No. Friends? No!
With my life? My love? My place?
No! No! A Hundred times no!
Am I frustrated at my own face?

A breakthrough. A glimmer.
A silence one more time.
A hit close to the mark.
Missed it barely by a dime.

I see my face. I see their faces.
They all suffer and I am man.
What is this true burden?
What I’d do. I can’t but would can!
Faces before me of starving children
Crying for a tender word, or act
One thing to show Your love exists
That it’s beyond consolation. Fact.

This is my frustration and birther of others
This which seeks to show them tenderness.
But my arms aren’t wide enough.
Time my enemy. My heart is not endless.

A whisper. Your whisper.
And all the Heavens grow still.
My being is broken before Your coming.
My soul in terror and thrill.

“Your arms are not wide enough.
But mine can reach them all.
Your love is not deep enough.
Mine springs up, bright and tall.
Your heart is not big enough.
Yet it is still after Mine.
Align your hands also now.
No more to wrestle with time.
Not by might, nor by your power,
Never was it to come from you.
But by My Spirit and My Love
Will I work the work of love through you.”

Now I sing because I am happy!
And I sing because I am free!
I have brought to Him my burden
And He has laid it upon me!
Who is there that have eyes to see?
Is there to be found anyone?
That can see into this mystery
Of what the LORD has done!

Art in LDT

The Haikus

The wind blows strongly
Upon the unmoving stone
But has no affect

Silly howler ape
In your treetop evergreen
Yelling at the sun

The small fire ant
Though tiny, with its one bite
Moves the elephant


The Lament of Boredom
O Weary Load of Loathsome Wind!
When, O when will this river end?
It runs and runs ever forth!
Tossed neath currents, drowned by froth

O Mountain lacking any snow!
How far will your river go?
Crashing, breaking, pouring waves
On and on and on for days!

The wind blows hard upon the ground
But when gone, where will words be found?
Empty echoes on memory's deaf stone
Where wind goes by and all is alone.

Analise and the Moon

It was bedtime in the big white house on the corner of Lakeview and Pine St. It was a big house with a bright yellow door and big windows that let out the light inside. Inside of the big house with the yellow door lived the Crescent family. There was Mr. Crescent, Mrs. Crescent, and their children, Andre and little Analise Crescent.

Analise was five years old and carried her teddy bear George everywhere she went. Every night when it got dark and the stars came out, Mrs. Crescent would walk into the room and tuck little Analise in. When she tucked her in she would sing a beautiful song, while she turned on the night light next to Analise’s bed. Then Mr. Crescent would come in, check under her bed for monsters before giving her, and George, a good night kiss.

It was bedtime again and Mr. and Mrs. Crescent had tucked Analise in for the night. They both walked out the door. Analise’s eyes grew heavy as she began to nod off. But just as her eyes were about to close she heard a gentle voice whisper next to her ear.

“Are they all gone?”

“Yes, I think so.” Then she sat up, “George I never knew you could talk!”

“Oh. Why yes. I can. Funny I thought you knew.” Said the teddy bear, who seemed to have grown a bit in size. “But never mind that Analise. We have to go! We have to go! Quickly the blanket!”

And with one quick move the teddy bear had hoped off the bed with Analise and grabbed her pink blanket. He quickly folded the blanket around her arms and took her hand. They walked towards the window. George threw the window open.

“Come on Analise! Its time to go! Its time to fly! We have to go!”

And the two hoped out of the window. As the wind made the blanket billow out, Analise saw she was flying across the sky. The bright city lights were all under her and the bright stars over her.

“George! I’m flying!” she yelled.

“Good! Flap your arms like wings! Flap! Flap! There you go! We’re almost there.”

“Where are we going George?” Analse asked.

“To the white castle. Look up! Do you see? The moon is missing.” George said pointing up.

“Its gone.” Analise said with wide eyes. “Where did it go?”

“Well, a mischievous little boy stole the moon and hid it far, far away. The only way to get it back is to go to the white castle. There we can ask the Queen of the Moon where it is.” George said as they flew down farther.

They flew and the flew, across mountains and streams, over forest and meadows and houses and cities. They flew until they came to the great Star Forest. They landed and began walking into it. The forest had giant trees with big stars on them that shone like Analise’s nightlight.

“Why are we in the Star Forest, George?” asked Analise.

“Because, we have to get directions to the castle. In this forest is someone who can help us.” said George.

But then from above them they saw another person land in the forest. It was a boy, with messy brown hair. He had a blanket tied around his neck like Analise’s, but his was blue and had its corner torn. He reminded Analise of her brother Andre.

“Oh! A little girl and a teddy bear? You two aren’t trying to get the moon back are you? Because you’ll never find it. I hid it far away. And, this forest has the big, hairy, tickle monster in it!” Then the boy spread his blanket and flew away.

“Oh no! George! The tickle monster! What will we do?” said Analise afraid.

“I don’t know. Wait, what’s that?” asked George pointing to someone coming towards them.

It was a man, tall and in shining armor. He rode on a big brown horse and he had a long lance in his hand. The Knight walked towards Analise and stepped down. He took of his helmet and his face reminded Analise of her daddy’s.

“Hello there little one. What are you doing in the Star Forest this time of night? Shouldn’t you be in bed?” the Knight asked smiling.

“Yes. But someone took the moon. George and I are going to the white castle so that we can get the moon back.” Said Analise. “But now we are in the Star Forest and we don’t know which way to go. And there are tickle monsters out there.”

“Tickle monster?” the Knight said smiling, “Don’t you believe the stories that boy told you. There are no such things as monsters. But here, you and George can ride on my horse and I will take you out of the Star Forest. You don’t have to be afraid, I will protect you.”

“Thank you.” Analise said, and got on the horse with George.

They rode and they rode across small creeks and big trees. They rode until they came to the very end of the Star Forest. And there, at the very end of the Star Forest was the big mountains. They were very very tall and reached up and up. Their tops were covered in snow and there was no way over them.

“Don’t worry Analise.” Said the Knight. “I will take you to the road that goes between the Mountains. There is a small house that you can rest in.”

“Thank you Knight!” Analise called as she and George flew across the path to the House.

The path was long and winding as it moved towards the big mountains. Analise and George were getting tired and hungry as they flew. When they couldn’t go any further they had reached the house. It was a small cottage and the smell of delicious cakes were coming from inside.

“Hello?” called the small girl.

“Why hello there.” Said an old woman that walked up to the door, “I’m Grandmother Celeste, but you can call me Granny.”

“I’m Analise and this is my bear George.” Said the girl with a curtsey.

“Ahh. I thought I recognized you.” The old woman smiled, “I never forget one of my own grand children. Come in, come in. Its almost tea time.”

The girl and the bear were carried on a large pillow by four big cats, each gripping a corner with their tails. The four cast carried the two up the path next to the cottage, and there they came to a small white gate. The gate opened up the beautiful garden and in the middle of the garden was a table and three chairs.

“Come here Analise. You too George.” said Granny Celeste who was already sitting at the table. “Come and have tea with me.”

They two came and sat with the Grandmother and they talked and ate cake and drank delicious tea together. From where they sat they could see far away the sun’s light at the horizon. It was almost dawn and Analise had not found the moon yet.

“Yes, you must hurry. When we are done with tea my cat-servants will show you the way to the Full Moon River. There you must follow the river until it comes to the Moon Lake. Where the Lake and the Pine Forest meet stands the White Castle.”

“Thank you Granny.” Said Analise with a smile.

“You’re very welcome. And I have a present for you too.” Granny said as she reached into a box beside her. “For George, a red balloon, to carry you where you need to be. And for Analise, a pair of ballet shoes. When you dance with these shoes magical things will happen.”

Then Analise was wrapped firmly in her pink blanket and kissed on the forehead. She flew from the mountain and followed the cat-servants that were jumping from cloud to cloud. Behind her George was holding on to his balloon as the wind blew him back and forth.

They soon came to the Full Moon river. But there was no way to cross it, and no boat for them to ride to the Lake. But Analise remembered her Grandmother’s special ballet shoes and put them on. She began to dance and as she danced she danced right onto the water. But as along as she was dancing she didn’t fall in, only danced on it like it was not water but ground.

Analise danced all the way down the river to the big Lake. She danced all the way up the shore of the lake back onto the grass. Then she fell down in the grass laughing. She really loved to dance. George floated down beside her on his red balloon and soon they were on their way. They finally came to the place where the Lake and the Pine Forest came together. And there it was. The White Castle.

It was a giant castle with a giant yellow gate and large windows. From inside the castle they heard someone singing. They walked in and there they found the Queen of the Moon. She was sitting in her big chair singing a sad song. She stopped when she saw Analise and George come in.

“Hello Your Majesty.” said Analise with a curtsey.

“Why hello little Analise. What are you doing here?” said the Queen.

“George and I have come to save the moon. Do you know where the bad boy hid the moon?” Analise asked.

“No, but I can call the moon with a song. But the problem is, I need four people to sing the song with me for the moon to come back.” Said the Queen.

“I know who can help you sing the song Queen.” Said Analise.

“I can help.” Said George with his red balloon.

“I can help.” Said the Knight from the Star Forest.

“I can help.” Said Granny Celeste from the Mountains.

“And I can help.” Said Analise.

“You will all help me bring the moon back?” said the Queen. “Thank you.”

And then they all sang the song. It sounded like something Analise had heard before. It began with the words “twinkle, twinkle little star..” Analise saw the Queen carry something to the castle wall. It started to shine. It was a night light. The light became brighter and then the big white moon jumped out of the night light and floated up to the sky.

“Good night Analise.” Said the Queen.

“Good night, Mommy.” Analise yawned.

“Sleep tight Analise.” Said the Knight.

“Good night, Daddy.” Said Analise.

“Don’t let the bed bugs bite!” said the Bad Boy.

“Andre! Go to bed little mister.” said Mrs. Crescent.

“Sweet Dreams.” said Granny Celeste.

“Good night Granny.” Whispered Analise as she fell asleep.

The Winner

The dark figure stood in the field of rippling wheat. A shadow mark upon the face of the golden landscape, it stood as still as the earth it was upon. And the figure’s face turned to the northern sky as the first flash lit up the heavens. The visage of an old, leathery faced man peering at the distant sky where the storm was boiling.

He had stood there before, many times before, as he faced and weathered the storms of the plains. He knew how they came, how they raged, how they left. He could foresee the coming cloud mountains, dark behemoths riding upon each other’s backs. He could almost smell the crackle of the lightning as it rippled through the heavens.

He planted his lithe, muscular figure firmly in the middle of the field, drawing strength from the bedrock far beneath the ground. He was a titan. An ancient titan of the earth, born of the rock and raised by the stone. He had more dirt in his veins than blood. He stood defiantly facing the storm as it approached nearer and nearer.

His grey green eyes fell upon his small field of wheat, heads of corn bobbing and swaying in rhythmic motion to the warm gust of air. Somehow, with the swaying wheat and the greenish hue of the sky overhead he felt as if he was underwater. He swayed slightly with the tumbling waves of wind then caught himself. He steadied himself firmer in the field. His eyes didn’t leave the approaching wall of purple and black now. He was intent on standing, no matter what.

The storm came. It howled and raged and beat and blew and thundered across the great plain. The old leathery tan man raised bone worked hands to the sky as the warm winds whipped his long grey hair around his face. The rains then came, drenching the world in the warm late summer rains. Large drops fell and splashed and ran down the old man’s skin onto the dusty ground.

Soon the solid figure, yelling and raising his fists to the heavens, was beginning to slip in the mud. It began ever so slightly, bit by bit, as his footing was lost. The lightning peeled overhead its victory cry as the storm continued to batter the old titan. But even as he fell into the mud, he raised his head up from it and cursed the storm. And he stood once more and cried out once more and the very waters that had threatened to overcome him now washed away the filth.

But he did not seem to notice the filth. For he was, after all, a son of the dust and a man of the mud. Even as his feet sunk deeper he sat stronger and drew his strength from the firm earth itself. And the storm grew weary, its thunder died down. The rains stopped as suddenly as it had started, and the clouds rolled on past the little field.

The old man pulled his legs from the sucking mud, already drying from the sun playing between the clouds. He turned around and gave a loud crow of victory to surrounding emptiness. Then he turned in his victory and surveyed his empty field of battle.

The wheat had been flattened and had left empty patches around him. Some places the mud had claimed all of the crop, but others still stood as strong and firm as him. He smiled as he looked at them, seeing future hardier, stronger crops in their seeds that would abide the empty world much better.

Then the old man walked back to his home, his empty little shack. The roof was near caving in, the walls were all bent and buckled. The bent door hanging on one hinge opened into the empty room with the empty bed and the empty table set with three places, three empty places. The old man walked and sat down in one and leaned back.

He had done it. He had weathered the storm. He had stood his ground. He had been victorious and now he could enjoy the sweet fruits of victory. He gazed around at the empty room, and felt sorry for it. No room should be left bare and alone, he thought. So he walked across the bare floor to the empty bed and lay down wearily. He was the winner. He was the winner. I am the winner, he thought.

A Psalm to the Creator

Great is the LORD! How great is He!
Who thought and caused the universe to be,
He smiled and stars came into the night
He spoke and there was purest light

He breathed the sun into the blue sky
He gathered the clouds and taught them to fly
He laughed and the thunder's roars did abound
He danced and the Northern Lights danced around

Great is the LORD! Great is His hand,
Who reached into water and brought forth the land
Who touched the earth and made green things grow
All this a mere fraction of His greatness to show

He kneeled in the mud, that eath to bless
He shaped a figure, in His likeness
He sang as His fingers made the secret things
He gave His own spirit to make humans into beings

How great is the Father, His love He has shown
To give us a world, this planet as home
With the clear blue sky, and the deep blue sea
The green grasslands and the forests of trees.

How great is the Maker, the Great God of Heaven
Who made atom and supernova in days less than seven
How great is Creator God, to YHWH be all praise
His glory was there before and will continue always