Certain Kind of Sadness

There is a certain sadness
That aches my ribs
Running lightning fingers
Across their creaking cracks
That certain kind of sadness
That turns my stomach
My core rots inward
And I feel the slow implosion
It draws near, that sadness
Burns my cheeks
A fire of shame and anger
Disgrace flames my lips
Now comes that sadness
And pains my eyes
With tears that won't flow
I lose my voice
And my desire subsides
Like there is a deep darkness
A hole in my chest
Sounds so cliches right now
But this emptiness
It is the only description
For that certain kind of sadness
That smothers me tonight

Just say it

I meant it

When I said goodbye

"We" was not meant to be

Nearly as soft as some people say

You and I had our time

We spent the hours long and lonesome

You are the one that wanted to go

You are the one that made the pain

Don't come back to crying times

Now the sun has gone

And night cannot be stopped

Clocks only run in one directions

Rivers don't flow uphill

Fires do not make pictures

Memories cannot be forgotten

You should have left then

When you heard me say "good night"

But you just had to stay

And have your say

And now look where we are

I won't pretend regret

I can't fake remorse

You brought this on yourself

I am not sorry

But I also didn't seek it

The bed was made

By most careful hands

Yours

Now its past bedtime

And the sheep have all gone home

Where will you go?

This is not the end of compassion

This is the start of "apathy"

Don't lie too long in regrets now

Just say "Good night" to me too

Just close the door

On your way out

My Friend

I watch you fall
Like sand through my fingers
I can't seem
To hold on to you anymore
No matter how hard I try
These wounds too soon forgotten
You break away once more
And don't return a single call
You're taking a path
Where I cannot follow
You're becoming a person
Who I've never known
Where once stood firmly
A pillar of integrity
Why could I not see
that you were made of sandstone?
When your life began to crumble
The hourglass has now been turned
The past cannot be unmade
Or wasted time recovered
But please, please. Please!
Hear my calls!
Don't waste your life
before it is over!
Don't throw away your future
because of the past!
Don't take a path
where I cannot follow...
Remember the days
When I was still called
Your friend.
Don't say it's all over
Don't say you're alone
Don't say its the end
It isn't
Since I cannot hold
On to you any longer
I will trust that my Jesus
has you safe in His hands
That He will lead you onward
Till you come back again
But until that day
Though it pains me to say
Goodbye until we meet again
You'll always be
My friend

Lonely Lullaby

There she stands
Outside in the pouring rain
There she stands
Trying hard not to show the pain
There she cries
And I don’t know what to say to her
There she stands
And begs for that old lullaby

About the prince that charged in
Just in a nick of time
Who swept her up
And told her all would be alright
Who gazed in her eyes
And told her she was beautiful
Wipe away the tears she cried
And she would never be alone

I watch her go
Through her days pretending all is fine
I watch her grow
Walking on for miles and miles and miles
But still she stands
Right on that same spot she stood before
And I cannot lie
It frustrates me to watch this old line replay

As she thinks she finds that prince
From her lullaby
And trusts her heart again
For who knows the how many-th time
And I just wanna scream
Or turn my back and not care anymore
But then I see the tears in her eyes
That loneliness inside

So, there she stands
Outside in the pouring rain
Trying one more time
To hold all her tears in again
I’d walk up beside her
Umbrella in my hand
To shelter her from this world
Until she runs… one more time

Please don’t misread
These lines from a man’s heart
This urge to shelter
The father, brother, husband’s part
Mine is a love
Pure, platonic but true
And this is why I cannot act
These things I would want to do

So while she stands there
I’ll stand beside her
And when they hurt her
I will hide her
Till finally she finds him
That missing puzzle piece
Only then ends my watch
When she finds peace

Red Memories of the Moon in June

Come, come, come to me my children
For I have a tale that must be told
Of a far off land of greatness and splendor
Where dwelt the dragon emperors of old

Oh the sun rises red over mountains blue
Plum blossoms drift in the sad breeze
A song echoes through forest of bamboo
Who can remember, who can forget, these

In this far away land there was a place
The greatest courtyard of stone ever seen
Two ancient gates and an ancient palace
Stood beside it, and all the ancestors between

Oh the sun has risen into the fair blue sky
Withering the blossoms of the precious plum
The day had come and the night had died
Where are you, O white shirted one?

They gathered there the bright eyed youths
To mourn a hope fallen and gone
They came in thousands to light candles
And to honor him with their hope songs

The Sun is setting, the light fades away
The breeze is cold now, the stars unmade
The heavens are red at the dying of day
And foul shadows cast now inky shades

They broke down the statue of fair liberty
They shot all the students in the square
They ran over bones and bicycles in their tanks
They told the world no one should care

Yet in darkest night rises fair Chenge’e
Yue’s silver face of hope in the night
And so their memory and bravery shine true
And no army, red or blue, can extinguish their light

Remember Tiananmen
Remember the Square
Remember the Young Ones
Who gave their lives there

Remember Tiananmen
Remember the place
Remember your principles
Do not, their memory, disgrace

Red Stains

Single, Red, Carnation
In a cup of glass
Wilted petals in the water
Turn to murky, scummy, red

Apollo sips this brew
Each ride the level drops
Water gone, caked scum remains
Red stains upon the glass

Will I daily add more water,
Draw from yesterday’s deep well
And let waters ever fester
With vile, undrinkable pollutants?

Shall I let Apollo drink,
Drink deep and take his fill
Letting all turn to crustedness
Hardened upon the walls?

Must I discard the wilted flower
Pour out my grievous flow
Till no single drop of red liquor
Stains these walls or Apollo’s lips

Yet more rain from cloudy eyes
Must then bless this crystal vial
Till no trace of red remains
Even washing memory

Too Much...

God
I humbly
Come before your throne
And ask
Not for
Anything anymore
There’s just too much
You know
Too much
And its all
Too much
For right now
I can’t go on
Its all too much
The pain
Too much
And the laughter
Is gone
Dear God
Too much
The pain and the song
The heart won’t go on
When the love has all gone
Too much
God
I know I was wrong
It was all too much
And too late it seems
To be enough
I followed your words
And now I see
That pain is coming
And killing me
You’re making me
Into a man
But the road is long
And the pain too much
Too much
Turn it down
Just a bit, just a tad
Cause it’s all too much
And I can’t go on

Bon Voyage

I stand here. You stand there. All that is between us is space and time. The dock’s wind brushes through it, catching the edges of your cream colored dress. Your gloved hands, like two delicate doves, fly down to straighten the wanton winds’ creases. As you look up from beneath the shade of your wide brimmed hat, my eyes catch yours.

Today the sea is a dull, ashen color that I really don’t care for, pale foam cresting the green-grey hills. The smell of salt, and fish, and coal smoke waft through the calls of gulls and chattering people. The great ocean liner stands here in the background, large smoke stacks like to ancient Grecian pillars rising heavenward. People are already walking up the gangplank, faces beaming in anticipation of the voyage.

But for now, all I see are your eyes. Your eyes which are so mysterious. Your eyes which like the weather and the wind, changes and dances and laughs at me. Your eyes whose color I can never catch; the deeper person behind the colored lenses always drawing me in. Drawing me in and drowning me beneath waves of passion and love. Those eyes that now sparkle with anticipation, and a tinge of fear. But exhilarating fear. Why can’t you read my eyes as I can read yours?

Your suitcases and trunks are all packed, ready for the voyage. I knew this day would come. I could see you longing for it. I saw the signs, heard the hints, caught the longing in your whole being. You really want to do this. You really want to go on this voyage. And I like to think that you’d like me to come along.

But I can’t. You think I won’t. But I can’t. My father has not given me leave. There are matters to be attended to. I won’t bother you with the details, I don’t want to burden you. My cares are mine to bare… for now. I must attend to my father’s business before I can be free to travel, before I can go on a voyage like you are embarking on now.

“Well Liza, you seem packed and ready.” I smile, even though I don’t want to.

“Yes! I’m so excited. All of my friends took the Grand Tour and kept telling me how amazing it was and how I was missing out. I’m glad I decided to take it as well. Even though originally I was somewhat apprehensive. But now I’m going and I’m glad I am.” Your smile is genuine; my heart breaks that it is genuine. Will you miss me at all?

“I was in a similar place. My own family wanted me to take the tour. But my father. Well he said that this wasn’t the best season for me to take this voyage. He suggested I wait a year or two. I’ve wanted to go since I was ten. I guess I can wait a few more years. But you go and enjoy it for the both of us.” Here I need to take a breath; otherwise my emotions will begin to surface. My true emotions. “Well, it seems that today’s weather will be perfect.”

“Oh yes! It’s simply marvelous! I can’t wait!” I just want you to be happy.

“Liza! It’s almost time to go!”

I don’t feel any particular way about Julian. A school friend, he seems like a decent specimen of man. But him traveling with you? That is what makes me sick to my heart and leadens my stomach. If you had only waited, we could have taken the voyage together.

“Julian! I’m coming! I’m just saying goodbye!” you call back. Your cheeks go bright red. Mine go pallid.

“Well, if you’re really sure you want to do this.” I don’t want to burden you. I won’t say the words my heart ache to say. No, all I will say is goodbye… for now.

“Well….” Your eyes draw me for a few seconds, my heart rises. “Yes. I’ve decided. I’m going with Julian.” And everything comes crashing down inside me. But I’m still smiling.

“Alright. Well, I’ll be here when you get back. Don’t forget to write. Bon voyage.”

“Goodbye. I’ll write to you about it all.”

And so you walk away, your white parasol in one hand, the other wrapped around his arm as he leads you towards the gangplank. I stand here watching you both go. It feels like I can barely breath. I remind myself of my father’s words and wisdoms, but it doesn’t help the pain. Not at all. I still stand here. You still stand there. So much time and space between us.

The Tea Set

Just a short little something I wrote for my writing class:

The Tea Set

How do I begin to describe my Oumie to you? First, I should probably say that Oumie is a term of endearment, used by the Boer people of South Africa to refer to one’s great-grandmother. Although I’m nineteen, my Oumie is not even 90 yet. Obviously my family believes in marrying young and having children ASAP. When my parents and grandparents and great-grandparents married they were all less than twenty years old, and according to them I’m running out of time.

But enough about me. This is about her. My Oumie. The best way to describer her to you is to give you a snapshot. A day in the life. Or more accurately, a few hours that I spent with her on my last visit to South Africa. Nothing paints a clearer picture of who she is.

It began, as all days do, with the sun rising. But this was one of those days, those African days, where the sun scorches the air, burns the grass golden, and cracks the red African ground into powder. The powder get into the air and you can almost feel it coating the inside of your mouth and throat as you breathe. But it has a pleasant, sweet taste that lingers on your tongue, and even now, I can taste its memory. To say it’s like a drug would not be too far off.

On a day like this, we drove from the region close to the Cape, leaving the rainforest and banana plantations behind, and crossed the large expanse of the golden plains of central South Africa. It’s almost savannah but not quite, there are just enough trees for it not to be. The land is flat, stretching out far and wide until it disintegrates in the heat waves dancing at the edges of the world. At the end of our long road was the city of Welkom.

Welkom is an odd city. We drove for miles and miles of flat, uneventful plains of sun-yellowed grass when suddenly we enter an entire area that is lush and green. Well, as lush and green as you get when you’re not at the coastline. The entire city has no stop signs or red lights. Instead, some brilliant civic engineer has left his mark by making every intersection, big or small, a roundabout. This makes for extremely fluid, though sickening, driving. Luckily we reached the house in less than five minutes.

The house is not her house of course. It belongs to Oom Willem. Here I should probably also add a side-note that “Oom” means Uncle in Afrikaans, the language of the Boer people, and that normally all older, males that are close to the family are referred to as Oom whether or not they are actually your uncle. Oom Willem is my great-uncle, one of my Oumie’s six children. Since people in my family get married so early on obviously they will end up with a large brood.

Anyway, Oom Willem is Oumie’s current caretaker. I say caretaker because she happens to be living on his property and he feels that it’s his responsibility to take care of her. However, she is not some sickly old lady that needs taking care of. If anything, she would be taking care of him if it weren’t for his wife. But more on that later.

We got to the large house, enclosed in its high brick walls, lined with electric fencing and all. South Africa has the highest crime rate in the world and not having an electric fence, alarm, and watch dog is considered moronic. Behind the walls was a very neat house that smelled like lemon, mahogany, and musk, and was always cold, no matter what the weather.

I was escorted to the back of the house where a stone courtyard spread out towards a small cottage. The courtyard was partly roofed and partly shaded by large palm and fig trees. There was a large barrel for collecting rainwater, to use for the small spaces of greenery that had been delved between the courtyard and the high walls. At the side was a dove cage that resembled a wardrobe made of chicken wire.

The white door with the peeling paint opened and Oumie stepped out. She wore one of her handmade outfits, a dark color just between blue and purple, with small white pearl buttons. Her completely white hair fell in waves down to her ears, and she looked practically regal with the white and purple contrast.

Her face was wrinkled, bones projecting from her cheeks. Her fingers were all shriveled and thin, but still warm with life and activity. Her entire frame was small, compact, and yet she did not seem frail at all. In fact, if we were both knocked over right then, I would not be surprised if she ended helping me up. Its not that she is that lithe or springy, she just has that look of preparedness and activity in her eyes.

When she walked, she half shuffled and half glided, as if she were on ice. She smiled a smile that is slightly crooked, revealing mischief and tenderness all at once. I ran to her and gave her a hug, surprised how light she had gotten. I knew she lost weight but this was concerning. As I put her down she answered me before I could say anything.

“You’re looking good, my child! So handsome and fine! But so thin! I’ll make you some of my vetkoek (South African deep fried pastry eaten with savory ground beef) later. But first let’s have some tea. Then you can tell me all about America.”

We sat out on the stone courtyard by the small metalwork table. Its top was covered in a fine grained mahogany, and set with a perfectly white lace tablecloth. Some of the things she had been allowed to keep after my Oupie (great-grandfather) died. The maid, whom she calls Tandi, comes out with the tea and biscuits.

Tandi has been a part of the family for almost five years now. The previous maid, Sara, had been with them for twelve years before she got married. The one before that, Mary, had been with my Oumie for almost 40 years. Tandi already knew how Oumie liked her tea and biscuits served when there are guests, and continually refer to Oumie as “Tanie” or aunt, and me as “klein baas” or little master.

She left after bringing the tea out and Oumie began pouring the tea. The tea set is extremely old, hand painted pink roses weave around the white porcelain cups and saucers, while golden vines and accents surround them. The rims are also golden, as if the maker thought our lips would be too good to drink from mere porcelain.

“So, tell me Oumie, are you happy here?” I ask as Oumie adds cream and sugar to my cup and stirs it before handing it to me.

“Oh, yes, very happy. Your Oom Willem as been so generous to me.” She said as she made her own cup of tea, took a thoughtful sip before saying with her eyes sparkling, “They still think I don’t know, do they?”

“Know what?” I asked, taking a sip from the tea too to give myself time to think of an answer.

“Hehehe. They think I don’t know they want to put me in a home for the elderly.” She said as she gently offered me the biscuits, “You know I’ve been to those places before. Several times, in and out. Every time your Oom’s wife convinces him that I have to go. Then once I’m gone, he feels so bad that he takes me out again. It’s all rather funny.”

“But you would rather stay here?” I ask, nibbling on a biscuit absentmindedly.

“What I want, is not to be a burden. Frankly, it seems that whether I’m here or there I’m still a burden so both ways, I’m not happy. But enough of me, why did you come visit me?” she asked as she dipped her biscuit in the warm tea.

“Oh, no reason.” I lied, “Just to spend time with you.”

“Thank you.” She could tell I was lying, “You’re so considerate, just like your Oupie. And you look like him too. Sure, you have your father’s eyes, but the rest are all Oupie. And you’re just as stubborn as him, if you’re mother is to be believed.”

“I can’t help it. Its in my blood.” I said relieved that the focus was off of my reason for visiting.

“It’s true. He was so stubborn that he even refused to take his heart medication. He said that if God wanted him to live then the medicine wouldn’t make a difference.” Here her smile returned, “So I would grind his medicine up, and mix it into his tea every night. In fact, that was his cup you’re drinking out of right now.”

“Really, wow.” Kinda creapy, but cool, I thought.

“Yes.” She smiled a slightly nostalgic smile as she continues, “That tea set has also cause a lot of commotion through the years.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, back before you were born, during the years of segregation I would insist that Mary, and later Sara, use the same tea cups as me when we had tea in the afternoons. You know all those other ladies from the church nearly had a heart attack when they learned that I wasn’t forcing Mary and Sara to drink from the tin cups. You wouldn’t have believed all the calls I got about my ‘unhygienic’ practice.” And here she laughed. “After that I had trouble getting any of them to come over for tea again.”

“That’s incredible! You mean this tea set helped play a part in bringing down apartheid?” I had always wondered about my family’s role during that time in our nation’s history.

“That was one of our people’s greatest sins. Not a day goes by that I don’t find myself asking forgiveness for our people’s sake, from those we wronged and from God.” She said before the twinkle returned to her eye. “But now they’re trying to kill us, so I guess in the end, all humans are just cruel, not just us.”

“Why don’t you come live with us in America?” I asked. “It’s safer there. You can actually walk down the street without fear of being mugged. There’s barely any crime compared to here, and you can actually sleep soundly at night. There’s none of the fear.”

“Thank you, my child. But you forget how old I really am. As much as my heart would go with you on this new… adventure, my body refuses.” She said with another sip from her cup.

“Now you’re the one not telling me something.” I said smiling.

“It’s nothing. Like I said, I really don’t want to be a burden. Whether physically or emotionally. So, lets just keep drinking tea, and we’ll pretend you’re just here because you wanted to drink tea with me, and that I’m just staying here in South Africa because I like the weather better.” She smiled that same smile, and for once, I see the slight bitterness to it, the bitter sweetness of her soul.

So I didn’t ask her all my questions about our family history I had come to ask. I suddenly realized just how painful it must be to delve into the past for her. She smiles all the while, but all she has left of her life is the memories. She would answer my questions too, if I asked. Like she said, she doesn’t want to be burdensome, and now suddenly I feel that the feeling was and is mutual.

That afternoon, when our tea was done, I helped her make one of our traditional Boer dinners. She showed me techniques that she had passed on to her daughters, and granddaughters, and that she had feared would be lost, as none of the great-granddaughters showed interest at all in cooking. Luckily for her, she has one great-grandson who was willing to learn.

Then she asked me to show her some of the things I had learned in America. I made a tiramisu, and she continually walked from her pot of savory curry beef to come see what I was doing, making mental notes. We both laughed when my grandmother and mother came in and reprimanded us both for stirring the food with teaspoons and knives instead of with ladles. Neither one of us did it consciously. Some things must just be in a person’s blood.

When we left, and drove on that long, straight road across the golden plains, I could feel that same bittersweet smile on my own lips. I now understood what it meant to say goodbye and know that it was very easily for the last time. I had learned so much, but most of all, I had learned that I did not have nearly enough time. Enough time to spend with the ones I loves, enough time to do what I wanted, enough time to change the world.

Driving on that straight and narrow road across the African plains, with the billowing blue and green clouds above me, I had an eye opening moment. Life is short. Time runs fast. People leave too soon, and tea cups are too fragile. In that moment, as the rain fell on the parched, red dust and turned it to mud, my eyes were opened. And I wept. I wept for the time I had wasted. And I wept because the light was too bright.

Of Soups and Breads

He shuffles across the hard linoleum floor, a shuffling gate that relies more on his right then left leg. He stops, old wrinkled hands reaching for a can of soup, next to the Ramen noodles. He grips it in his quaking hands, desperately trying to recall the strength they once had. But he can’t, and the can drops from trembling hands.

His eyes may have once been a deep, charming blue, in the days when they viewed distant shores and his beautiful newly wed wife. But now, now all that remain are empty, ice blue windows that peer into a distant soul. She is not with him today. Is she still with him at all?

He tries to bend down to pick it up, but stops half way. A sigh. And he slowly rises. You can almost hear the bones popping, breaking. Shaking hands reach for the shelves and scans the price tags, before retracting back. He prices everything, carefully calculating with those distant eyes, the cost. What will he give up this month? He shuffles along. Apparently it’ll be tomato soup.

Walking further, he passes a young woman with chestnut brown hair. He tips his cap to her as he passes, a crooked smile on his face. There was a time, when that smile would get them all giggling at the dances. Now she doesn’t even make eye contact, looking the other way and walking past as fast as she can. Did she remind him? Did she cause him to recall a summer long gone when he did not shuffle, but ran with the wind in his face? Who did she look like?

He stops to decide between two kinds of bread. Long ago, he may have looked with the same concentration at two rounds, deciding which to put in his gun. Yes, his blue cap tells his tale for him. Across it, spread like neat golden soldiers on the parade ground stand the shields and miniature badge pins. He was there. On that day. When they landed the beach, and ran across the blood stained sand. Is that why he didn’t take the tomato soup?

His eyes scan the same label over and over again as if trying to recall the meaning of words, or is it, the meaning of life? He takes the bread on the left, and shuffles along. What happened to his leg? Is it his momento from that day? Is it the price he had to pay? Small price compared to the others sprawled on the sand. He walks along, still ignored by all.

A couple walk up from behind him. They are impatient, and rightfully so. She is pregnant, hands resting resolutely on her protruding stomach as if she carried humanity’s only child. Her companion is not very patient today. He scowls, muttering curses under his breath at this old man. Why is he so slow, the man asks her irritated.

Maybe he doesn’t hear the man’s comment. Maybe he can’t. Maybe he chooses not to. Maybe he’s heard similar comments so many times before, he simply doesn’t care anymore. Is this who he risked his life for? Is this what he fought to protect? The three behind him?

He pushes his cart along, picking up toothpaste, pain killers, frozen peas, and canned tuna, all to go into the cart with his bread and his milk. He walks on further to the check out stand. He waits in line, far off eyes seeing what? Long lost friends and relatives slipping into forgetfulness? Distant battles on distant shores among fallen brothers? Her? His fingers touch on the ring on his finger as if it’s a raw wound. It must have been her.

The woman behind the checkout stand scans item after item, loud gums smacking as false fingernails and false eyelashes flash across a false smile. She doesn’t even see him. A loud demand for money, and he pauses. Trembling hands take out his wallet. He counts out each bill, like a year of his life, smoothing creases before handing them to her. She flips through them carelessly, and gives a pert smile. A disgusting smile. He doesn’t have enough money.

Those frosted eyes that once looked screaming enemies and mortar blast in the face now quiver with fear. Did he miscount? Is he now recounting in his head, all the prices swimming together in a cacophony of confusion and arithmetic in his mind? He gulps a few times, seeking air in our underwater world. Then there is a sigh, and his trembling finger points to the bread he chose so carefully.

He shuffles along, taking his small brown paper bag with him. A few feet and he’ll be out of the store. A few feet and he’ll be out of your life. A few feet and you’ll forget him, like everyone else have. Is he sorry that he fought for you? That he saw his friends die for you?

No. Never. And that’s is why he is a true hero. Wounded, despised, forgotten, ignored, and yet through it all he wears his cap with pride. And that is what makes him a true hero. Now, will you simply forget?

“Blessent mon coeur d'une langueur monotone…”

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.

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.

The Lament of the Depths

Where are their eyes,
blackened by ink?
Veiled is the ocean
In inches they think

Numb is the heart
Beaten for sound
Grey are the days
When only inches are found

The shovel lies there
The pick and the axe
No hand holds them now
All just relax

Let benelity rule
Riches cast to the sea
No light to linger on my words
Washed away eternity

Drums and Bass

The music was loud, the crowd cheered louder, the world was dark and bright and neon. The night was cool but the crowd made it humid, the wind was gentle but the music made it buzz. The band had come, they had rocked the town, and now they were saying good bye.

The bass player plucked a few notes in the song. The electric guitar picked it up with a gentle strum. Then as the drummer counted them off, they rocked once more. They played and swayed and jumped and jammed and smashed and screamed and cursed. They sang of chaos, anarchy, and the coming end of the world.

In the swaying crowd of humans and punks, stark faces raised in ecstasy, the lighters swayed as one whole creature, a swarm of fireflies caught in some strange dark sea. They screamed and worshiped these perfect strangers, and would sell their soul to be noticed. But the three players were that, just three players and all they ever did was play.

They played that night like never before, a screeching hiss of serpents at war. They didn’t see anything else, but they saw everything else. They didn’t hear anything else because they didn’t hear anything else. They were there and they were not. They were playing but they were also playing. They were in a stark and black Neverland, painted with streaks of ash and blood.

As they played they didn’t see him. They never saw him. He was always there and that’s why they couldn’t see him. He was the fourth wheel, the one last friend. The one who should have been playing as well. But he wasn’t. He didn’t. No one quite knew why.

He stood where he always stood, in the spot to the side where the gleam of the lights brushed across his face but never stopped on him for long. He stood where he always stood, in his black t-shirt and black skinny jeans, his long black hair hanging in his face.

He was hearing the song but he wasn’t at the same time. He was hearing his song as they played it all wrong. The wrong way which the crowds loved but still the wrong way. He had birthed the song, he had travailed long and hard to put his sorrow to words. He was the supreme architect of Neverland. But people preferred the ash and smoke and burning buildings of blood.

He walked through the desolate fields of embers and saw in their burning the last glimmers of life. The lives he had made, crafted, and loved. The words he had spent hours and hours to find. Gone and done and embers in the ash while the smoke rose heavenward on a staircase of wind.

But the songwriter knew what they did not know. He knew that the words carried power and life. He knew that they would no longer be safe, singing his songs now badly deformed. He smelled the smoke in the crowd of ash people and knew that there was something coming.

His song, his song, his precious song, wrought with fire of passion and life. Now was a number one money maker, breeding the very things that caused him so much pain. He was there, along, together with them. And his song was slipping through fingers of glass and sand. He gave it away, like a father gives a daughter, and now he regretted it with all his being.

The drummer hit the cymbals, and it brought his mind back. He saw the ash rising in the pit of the people. He knew what was coming, the long dread beast. The thing he fought and wrestled with every time he heard it. The song that was his and wasn’t and would never be. It was coming. It was coming. It was coming ever closer.

He smelled it before he saw it, the ash and the smoke, like walking into the house of a chain smoker. It grabbed his chest, and his lungs constricted, while he was torn by the urge to gag or breathe deeper. The smell of something dead and burned. And then he saw it arise.

Long grey wings that flecked and fluttered as ash flew from them into the sky. Long white body, impressive but sterile, with no beating heart or tears to cry. Its scaly feathers shimmered and shone as limelight flickered between its plates. The black feet were grasping, clawing, seeking, ready to tear or rip apart. Its beak wide open, glowed as a dull red coal. Its eyes were wet and grey, no life left there anymore. It was a dead thing clothed in life and decked with ashes of its former self.

And so this thing, this hideous thing, this horrible, terrible, unbearable thing, arose from the crowd and the songwriter’s own heart. It was silent and terrible as it swooped ever closer, closing the gap, its intent clearly seen. Ready, ready, ready to kill and tear those three on the stage, the vengeance of Neverland had come on at last.

But he knew he should, could let it fall, tearing and baring to the fans all. Let them see what lay beneath the façade of the three Peters. Let all go down in fire and ash even as they burned his song. But he knew he should, and could, but the question was really if he would. He looked at the thing and the three and himself, and thought of the purpose that was greater beyond all. The picture that seemed bigger because his eyes were so smaller. The picture that laughed at his best laid plans. The larger Neverland that was the father of his song. Should he, its mother, let it be destroyed?

The thing swooped low and then drew back, its claws and beak ready to attack. But the man in the black t, and black skinny jeans, extended his arms, and behind them large ebony wings. With a flap and a jump he was into the air, he flew and he flapped and he dove towards it. He had pulled out his drumstick and his pen.

Then as the thing neared him, its jaws opened wide, he thrust both into its heart as it screeched and cried. But no one saw him, no one heard. No one would praise him. No one even cared. He had saved the three, and the song and the band. He had kept the illusion alive in the crowd’s mind. He landed so softly, he walked on so slowly, his wings gone once more, a shadow again.

The band was finished, the crowd went wild, but the guitarist/singer seemed distracted as he came back stage. He called the group together and told them something strange. He could have sworn as he played, a black angel feather had fallen in front of him. And he has an idea, an idea for a song. A song of an ebony angel who was bound in chains of ash.

The song was a hit, they toured three times more. Both songs were immortal, and known by the world. And he sunk deeper into the shadows as his baby grew up and went into the world. Hand in hand with the song of the angel and the chains of ash that he heard every day for the rest of his life.

The Tragedy of Brandur and Perlise

In honor of valentines day I finished my epic poem about the tragic love of Brandur and Perlise. Side note: Brandur is pronounced BRAN-dir, and Perlise is pronounced Per-LEES. Also, yes this happens about 7 or 8 generations before my main story.

The Tragedy of
Brandur and Perlise


Canto I: The Beginning

When earth was young and heavens bright
Great light and dark strove in fierce might
Men and elves and sorcerers too
Rallied with purpose: darkness to undo
The world divided waged war on itself
And slowly corrupted earth’s glorious wealth
Till finally, with blood, the gateway was sealed
And the land once more began to heal
But darkness and light took different forms
The light as men and the night, wyrms
Fell beast that lurked in places dark
Leaving evil and destruction as their mark
But Carolman, the sorcerer’s home
Rose to fight the wyrms, alone
And soon was thought, with great fame,
They had vanquished all in light’s name
And so they grew and prospered well
And the world loved their tales to tell
But in this time of bliss and art
Arose a tale made by the heart
A tale of tears and greatest grief
When things forgotten came as a thief
A tale of desire and great passion
Love given freely without ration
A tale of evil and dark deeds
Men driven by great evil’s needs
A tale of many adventures grand
Rough sailors sailing to distant lands
A tale of love so true yet sublime
It all began “Once upon a time…


Canto II: Perlise the Perilous

In Carolman lived a sorcerer old
Who had a daughter fierce and bold
She spoke with authority and great power
And even the strong before her did cower
In tower high wrought of white ivory
Surrounded by silks and golden finery
She sat on her couch of vixen firs
Watching the stars whose keep were hers
Her eyes were violet like breaking dawn
Her hair was white, from moonlight drawn
Her teeth were straight, her fingers long
In her shape was found nothing wrong
With beauty she tempered wisdom deep
Reading tomes whilst others did sleep
Her mind was quick, her wit was sharp
Her words as thunder or soft as a harp
And from her forefathers she did receive
A gift that one could scarce believe
Foresight of a peculiar kind
The future wound its way in her mind
And so looking forth she did behold
That from her womb might greatness unfold
But mark she well whom she chose as mate
For they would steer her perilous fate
So men and sorcerers like the rest
All came unto her and were put to the test
But none found favor, heartbroken were all
And still she waited for love to answer her call
Perlise the Fair, whose beautiful eyes
Shamed the bright stars in the skies


Canto III: The Beast in the Shadow

Far across the deep blue sea
Beneath the shade of the evergreen trees
In a forest ancient, evil and dark
Something had left its shadow mark
A wyrm of old, from the wicked days
Who had even turned men unto it ways
They worshiped the beast in its cave
Sacrificing children, the life it craved
And so it grew stronger each dark night
Crafting stranger darkness with its might
It twisted the mind of one man to its will
Its high priest and herald, the victims to kill
And began to form in the wicked man’s mind
A plan and desire to journey and find
A maiden strong that it could transform
A suitable mate so more wyrms could be born
The wicked man left and crossed the sea
A cloud of darkness in the lands of the free
He sought for days and nights and hours
Till came he to Perlise’s tower
And ascending the mighty ivory keep
He found her on her bed asleep
And beholding her knew at once it was she
The one to share his master’s destiny
But she awoke from troubled dreams
And seeing the man gave yells and screams
Her father’s guards were awoken from slumber
And saw the tower alit with thunder
But once, to her chamber they did come
They found Perlise the Perilous was gone


Canto IV: The King’s Commission

Wilts a great feast was held in his halls,
The sorcerer, Perlise’s father, heard her calls
And ere the guards entered the great hall
He fell to the ground, weeping before all
“What ails you so, O son of the light?
What makes your face turn pale with fright?”
But the words had not yet flown from their tongues
Then the guards entered the chamber of great ones
The tale was told, the darkness inferred
All was silent, but the Great King was heard,
“Now from among us, swiftly go, one must
To save the maiden, and bring the beast to dust.”
And many brave men and sorcerers great
Were ready to arms, casting all unto fate
In silence the assembly stood at the table
Till came forth a young man with hair as sable
“This task is small for such great a host
And much power here, rightly we boast.
And verily so the beast shall also know
And so catching her up, away he shall go.”
Then all were amazed at the young duke’s perception
For he had seen through a part of the beast’s deception
And seeing the youth’s mind as sharp as his sword
Stepped forward the King, his ruler and lord,
“Now, young duke, wise words you have spoken,
And truly the beasts’ plan you have broken.
For he does not expect a single man
Would dare to come into his land
Therefore you go forth now and save her,
Your quest before you, young duke Brandur.”


Canto V: The Ballad of Brandur

Brandur followed the trail to the dark cave
And before it he saw the altar to the knave
But no moment for reflection on the ghastly rites
There stirred in the cavern a roar and strange lights
A long serpentine head extended outside
Its eyes were black like some thing long died
He stepped forth, with his brave sword ready
But then spoke the beast in voice low and steady
“Be gone, thou man, thy kind shall fail,
Think not thyself safe, boy, with thy sword and thy mail.”
But Brandur charged with his sword strong and gleaming
The vile fiend’s mouth opened with smoking and steaming
From its jaws came forth a column of fire
But Brandur merely raised his shield up higher.
But before the duke could move to strike true
A clawed hand descended and clove his shield in two
And then the creature with its talons of steel
Grabbed the duke and would have made of him a meal
But as the large toothy mouth stood ready, agape
The duke pulled forth his dagger from beneath his torn cape
And struck true and hard at the mighty beast’s face
And as the blade entered its eye, so died its race
For with the one blow, the villain was undone
And changed into nothing but smoke in the sun
The brave duke staggered forth, his wounds grave
But he had to endure for he had her still to save
He found Perlise bound and set her free
Then she tended his wounds, as slept did he
Then by sea they returned with greatest speed
While born in their hearts was true love’s seed


Canto VI: In the Glade of Selene

When returned Brandur and Perlise
There were many a celebration and feast
And all would hear the daring tale
Of how the light once more prevailed
But in the morning’s early hour
The two met in a secret bower
For in the woods of sweet dreams
They found the hidden Glade of Selene
And there in dawn’s violet light
The world was soft, not dark or bright
As moon, sun, and stars mixed above
The two whispered softly to each other of love
Their eyes met and their hearts beat as one
In time with the sky, and the earth and the sun
And they pledged their love for eternity
Bound their fates with all certainty
Perlise had found the one she had sought
Brandur, a treasure for whom he had fought
He was the night and she was the moon
And daybreak came always too soon
And so they met on in the secret glade
Where laughter and love would never fade
The mornings were short they had together
Yet their memories were locked in their hearts forever
Wed in secret in the mixing of the light
Their love and future then seemed so bright
But this time of bliss was not to last
For one day her servant followed them in the grass
There saw them in the Glade of Selene
And reported to her father what he had seen.


Canto VII: When The Walls Were Raised

The aged father of Perlise the Fair,
An olden sorcerer with greying hair
He called a council of the many wise
To hear what ways they would advise
But ere they spoke of the two lovers
They first brought curses upon others.
They called for their mantles and staves
And spoke their words like roaring waves.
“Men of Tara who hid in the shade
Be thee and thine children now remade
For hiding the wyrm in the green trees
Be forever more bound unto these.
But only to honor the great King
Who sent Brandur to make right everything
In marriage to his sons alone
May thine daughters leave their arboreal home!
But thou, O man who took Perlise
Thou shall find no sweet release
Be thou bound unto they corpse-lord
Till madness take thee forever more.”
Then called they to the ever blue deep
“Rise now a wall, our lands to keep.
Let no more man or beast enter here,
Let all be shut out, never again draw near!”
Then rose up the glorious white wall
Fierce and magical but worst of all
Perlise and Brandur were now separated
For the elders saw together they were ill fated
She was locked in her white tower
While he was cast out in that same hour.


Canto VIII : The Shard of the Shadow

Brandur the Heartbroken dwelt by the wall
And would no more answer the Great King’s call
But Perlise appeared in his troubled sleep
And told him a secret power kept deep
And with this power in his hands
He could gain access to the locked lands.
Brandur sent word to his faithful friend
Einri the Navigator who sailed to worlds end
And soon to the land of Teaul they came
Brandur alone set out with one aim
And in the forest he found the Sedna way
In days when a friendlier people were they
They welcomed him in, and showed him their home
The secret glades where they dwelt alone
For the caribou people were once Elvenkind
Charged and bound to make sure no man would find
The ancient crystal wrought by the old elves
When deep into darkness they had delved
And Brandur knew this was what he did seek
For in the dark crystal remained power weak
But even at the crystal’s faint glow
The mighty walls of Carolman would be brought low
So in night’s shade he broke of a piece
And fled that place as shadow was released
The vines of darkness burned his hands
But he did not stop running till he left the shore’s sands
And as he sailed away on the ship so bright
He felt his mind slip further into the night
For the crystal began burning away at his soul
Only recalling Perlise’s light keeping him whole


Canto IX: The Breaking of the Walls

Then came Brandur wreathed in shade
And the seas before him were even unmade
And he reached out and touched the white wall
And it cracked and then began to fall
The void swallowed all that towards him fell
And soon there rung the warning bell
And all the sorcerers gathered in all their might
To stand against him with all their light
But Brandur covered in the darkened smoke
Tears flowed as in hoarse voice he spoke,
“Where is Perlise? Where is she kept?
For long have I longed for her face as I slept”
And thinking to deter him they all lied
“As soon as you left in great sorrow she died.”
But overcome with grief to the crystal he gave in
His body turned black and took the form of a raven
Then flew he over the gathered mighty host
Who did in their scheming and lying boast
His tears fell like a foul rain of oil
And burned man and beast and plant and soil
His anguish scream of loss on the air
Echoed around, traveled everywhere
Perlise heard it, and thought him in pain
And found a great light did in her remain
She flew from her tower and came to the wall
And there she cried when beheld she all
For Brandur lay there broken on the rubble
She came to him and removed the source of the trouble
And with the crystal pried from his fingers
His soul returned for a few moments to linger


Canto X: The Fall of Brandur

Perlise wept as she cradled his head
For she knew in her heart that soon he’d be dead
The darkness had taken a part of his heart
And torn his soul completely apart
But still she held on with all her might
And shone brighter still with a pure light
The breath remained still in his chest
And he still remained, did not go to rest
For he saw the shard and knew its mind
So when he saw it quiver he pushed her aside
The dark shard found him its target instead
He had saved her once more and he then said,
“Good bye, my love, my light, my wife.
I gladly give, for you, my life.”
Then a roar fell from the skies above
And a creature grabbed Perlise’s love
The corps of the wyrm bound to the madman.
Was drawn by the shard from across the land
But even as he grabbed Brandur’s still form
Perlise’s light burned him and so fell the wyrm
The beast-man perished within the great waves
They beat him against the rocks for days
Brandur and the shard came into the hall,
Of the Seakings so mighty and tall
The shard was thrown back onto the shore
For they knew its evil would make the depths war
But Brandur’s body was kept in the deep
And there for three years he did sleep
While sweet ocean waters washed away the shade
Until he was once again, a man made.


Canto XI: The Fall of Perlise

Perlise the Widow lived for three years
And saw the wall rebuilt amidst more fears
Her twins were born that same fall
And sent to live in their father’s great hall
They had the dark hair of Brandur their father
But white skin and violet eyes of their mother
They grew up there away from her sorrow
For she knew not if she would arise in the morrow
When three years had passed to the very day
She found herself atop the walls some way
And sang her lament for all to hear
Of love, and light, and shadow and fear,
“My water is parched, my food is dust
The sun grows cold, the flowers to rust
Since the day my love was taken from me
By cruel fate and its uncertainty.
In our arrogant pride we had thought
That love could be steered, bribed, or bought
But, lo, the price that foresight does bring
For I have lost him, and so lost everything!
My children shall carry the weight all their lives
And their children too shall have sorrowful eyes
Yes, I have foreseen that this cruel fate
Shall be a shadow of sorrow and hate
Until my Brandur comes back once more
And turns back even fates strong door.”
Then finished was she, she stood on the wall
At the high tower where it was so tall.
And threw herself from the ivory seat
Taken by the sea, her Brandur to meet.


Canto XII: The Reunion

Many years later, the sorcerers wise
Hearing the full tale only then realized
And repented when heard the part they had played
Wishing deeply they had but let Brandur stay
Still knowing the past was gone and done
Instead they gathered everyone
And called unto the Seakings of the deep
In whose halls the two lovers did sleep
The Seakings rose with a great host
For in their lands they loved the two the most
And would not let the Sorcerer’s come
And take the two, or even just one
For the tale of the two was well known
And the seas were called their final home
So then the sorcerers, to honor their love
Wished to do something worthy enough
And so they met with the High Seaking
Who hearing their plan, approved of everything
The sorcerers with their staves shining bright
Began weaving magic with all their might
The light wrapped round the sleeping forms
Scales upon their bodies, heads crowned with horns
Mighty wings which with the rainbow did shine
Bodies stretched far, into straight lines
Arms now long, with golden webbed claws
Silver sharp teeth lining their jaws
They were remade into the dragons of the sea
Who would live now together for all eternity
Guarding the seas by the great white wall
And so their love continued forever more.


Canto XIII: An Ending

This tale of love, truest and strong
Tells of many rights and wrongs
But more so still it tells the tale
Of two lovers whose love would never fail
Perlise the Moon and Brandur the Night
Who loved each other with all their might

To the Serene Moon

As evening came upon a green hill I lay
The stars appearing at the fading of day
As I looked upon night’s inky hue
There among cold stars I saw you

You arose to heaven clothed in light
Stars even faded as you shone so bright
O Lamp of the Night, your face so fair
Yet deep in your eyes I saw sadness you bare

O Evening Light, as you stepped into the sky
Your face was changed, I know not why
But this change in you has filled me with fear
For it threatens the night hours held so dear.

O Luna, say not that your face has turned,
Nor speak of anything but philos yearned
Daughter of Diana there cannot be a way
For I’m a Son of Apollo made to love Day

O Sorrowful Artemis, hear my words clearly,
For you are sister to Aurora, whom I love so dearly
Bow of the Eve, let not Eros draw his own,
For I wish not the Moon be heartbroken and alone.

Drip and drop

Tear drops in the rain,
Why are you forgotten?
Drip drop, drip drop
From where comes empty pain?
Tears by pain begotten.

Tear drops in the ocean,
Why does it all seem so wide?
Drip drop, drip drop
This steady rising emotion.
When pain and emptiness coincides?

Tear drops falling uncaringly
Or is the salt still upon your lips?
Drip drop, drip drop
Why are you crying little bumble bee?
And make the earth of your sorrow sip.

Tear drops flow like life’s blood
Where do we go from here?
Drip drop, drip drop
When walls rise in like the flood.
And the tears become laced with fear.

Drip drop, drip drop,
Drip drop, as time stops
Drip drop, drip drop
Who has wiped away your little teardrop?
No more to drip and drop