Skies

Spoken softly to the skies,
the word is vacant to the wise,
escorted by some gentle breeze,
it rises from the tallest trees,
floating up among the mist,
for once removed it can exist.
In this place beyond the real,
it does not boast or cry or feel.
It cannot be or be not there,
if one, the other, to be fair.
A place beyond all sin or fault.
It thrives until a rain of salt.
Looking back, one might despise,
speaking softly to the skies.

Gunther's Great Campaign

Gunther sat upon his throne,
and sighed a long and lazy groan.
"No siege, no war, no plague or threat,
how boring can a kingdom get?!"

"No ramparts flecked with clanking swords.
No raids from savage, shrieking hordes.
No banging drums or ramming logs.
No droves of oinking battle hogs."

Just the lightest, wistful breeze
softly buffeting the trees.
Gunthor sulked, he shed a tear.
A king's agenda, free and clear.

So he mastered tic-tac-toe...
and bought a fiddle for his bow...
carved a totem with some ruffles...
trained his hogs to hunt for truffles.

He even bought a royal boat
to sail around the castle moat.
But no hobby would suffice,
or any toy, at any price...

Then the royal crier shouted.
"Lord, some dissidence hath sprouted.
Subjects do not care to pay
to watch you sail your boat all day."

Gunter sulked, he had to frown.
He did not mean to let them down.
If only bygone foes would wake.
Just one more siege? For old time's sake?

Alas, not one hostile flea.
And subjects would not let him be.
"Make it better" was their call. Wait!
Was he needed after all?

"The folks all say that change is good.
Improve my kingdom? Yes, I should!"
And what makes a kingdom great?
"Great people! These I must create!"

Council, tell me, please explain
the traits of whom I shall ordain.
What describes our kingdom's idol?
Drumphle, what deserves this title?

"YOUR MAJESTY, SO GREAT AND STRONG
NO NEED TO DRAG THIS OUT TOO LONG!
POWER, MIGHT, AND COURAGE REIGN!
FOR MEN AND KINGDOMS, BOTH THE SAME!"

“It isn’t so, your highness fair,”
objected a most proud Pierre.
“Grace in speech and looks that shine,
without these what can be divine?”

Gunther saw each point of view,
but couldn’t decide between the two.
“Melvin, oh so shrewd and old,
which man’s words shall I uphold?”

"Royal highness, wise and just,
for this I grant eternal trust:
Of greatness, one above his brother,
not one soul can best another."

The king was dour, and not amused.
He did not like to be confused.
So the three received their orders:
“Find the greatest in these borders!”

Drumphle shouted: "LET'S BEGIN!"
A soldier entered, tall and trim.
"WELL, GOOD EVENING TO YA MATE!
TELL US WHAT MAKES YOU SO GREAT!"

"DRAGONS SIRS, YES, TWO NOW SLAIN!
I ITCH TO FACE ONE YET AGAIN!
I AM GREAT BECAUSE I FIGHT!
I DO SO EVERY DAY AND NIGHT!"

Drumphle smiled, his thumb went high.
"GENTLEMEN, WE'VE GOT OUR GUY!
NOT ANOTHER IN THE LAND
HAS SLAIN ONE DRAGON WITH HIS HAND!

Pierre abruptly shook his head.
"Drumphle, look, his shoes are red.
No, it's just, this cannot do....
Heavens no, his socks are blue!"

Melvin turned, but would not say.
"My thumb need not go either way.
For one so great all must agree.
My vote, it would not count, you see?"

And in they came, all through the night.
Pierre and Drumphle, black and white.
Melvin dropped his lazy head.
He slept the night away instead.

Morn arrived, he felt a tap,
arousing Melvin from his nap.
Both their hands came into view.
Not one thumb was up, but two!

Melvin shook his head and sighed.
His thumb went down, the last, denied.
"Greatness is not ours to buy
not for all the Earth and sky."

Gunther stormed right through the door.
"I see not one could make the score.
None has greatness as he ought?!
This is far worse than I thought."

"Drumphle, front and center, please.
This kingdom has a bad disease,
each poor soul whom you dismissed,
into your army, will enlist."

"And you, Pierre, to fix this scourge
will take the ones among your purge.
Lead them from the stone ramparts
and train them in the finer arts."

"Go now, fix this awful mess.
Greatness! I demand no less.
Repair this broken population!
Or, endure harsh reprobation."

Pierre did what his king had said.
Exchanged their swords for spools of thread.
Guards and archers, strong and nimble,
traded gauntlets for a thimble.

Drumphle marched the student body
through the mud, unkempt and bawdy.
Took their brushes, pens, and locks,
and sent complainers to the stocks.

Progress swiftly underway,
it hastened through each night and day
"Do your best, for Gunther's sake!"
The kingdom's greatness was at stake.

Pierre was skilled and Drumphle bold,
but training soon required gold.
Gunther trusted their advice.
"Greatness! Yes! AT ANY PRICE!"

"Glitter Wagons? Oh what fun!"
But who needs glitter by the ton?
"Giant doilies? What is this?"
Something, plainly, was amiss.

"Lordship! Help! We have a mess!
A kingdom under great duress!"
Gunther nodded, filled with fret,
descended promptly into debt...

...

Greatness had all but expired.
Something drastic was required.
"To arms!" Gunther called the three,
"A war on mediocrity!"

Melvin gasped, "with due respect.
Reason prompts me to object."
Greatness, sir, comes from within.
A war to gain it cannot win!"

While they pondered Melvin's notion
Outside hummed a loud commotion.
Subjects gathered in the square
Demanding what was just and fair.

Gunther feared he was a goner,
having spent all but his honor.
Blunders rife, and widely known,
he surely would be overthrown.

But the sight was not so grim.
Their demands were not of him.
They knew what was fair and just.
It came from one another's trust.

Spindly builders offered tools
to husky tailors for their spools,
sewed some nifty shirts to swap,
and in turn received a shop!

Everywhere was restoration,
town alive with inspiration.
Building, fixing, helping others,
former subjects now like brothers.

"A lovely and forthright surprise!"
Greatness sprung before his eyes.
But poor Gunther was forlorn.
He'd only ruled, since he was born.

So he walked into the bustle.
None were looking for a tussle.
On a stump so all could see,
he offered his wholehearted plea.

"No, a builder I am not,
I can't even tie a knot.
But my service, it is yours,
How can I help your homes and stores?"

The people, an ambitious crew
had thought about his function too.
They handed him a special doily,
which he raised before him coyly.

"ON THIS DOILY, LOOK TO SEE
THE SUM OF YOUR AUTHORITY:
WHEN THERE IS NO SIEGE OR THREAT
YOU MUST NOT MAKE ONE! DON'T FORGET!"

"YOUR DUTY, SIR, IS TO PREVENT
ALL RULING WITHOUT OUR CONSENT.
NO TAKING SWORDS, NO GIVING SPOOLS
NO BREAKING THESE IMPORTANT RULES."

"IF YOU PLEDGE TO LET US BE
TO BUILD OUR KINGDOM OF THE FREE
YOU CAN HAVE YOUR HOME AND MOAT
WE'LL EVEN LET YOU KEEP YOUR BOAT."

Scanning each and every word,
he was amazed and reassured.
"The doily rules! Yes, I'll respect it,
preserve, protect, and defend it!"

All the people cheered and sang,
and up above, they heard a bang.
Glitter sparkled from the sky.
Throughout that warm night in July.

Gunther walked back to his throne.
The smile on his face had grown.
"No siege, no war, no plague or threat,
how greater can a kingdom get?!"

Grace & Henry

Grace and Henry lived alone.
Grace preferred it from the bone.
Duck or chicken, broiled or rare,
Grace left not one rib to spare.

Just like clockwork, table set,
Grace beside the quaint dinette.
From the kitchen Henry chopped,
rubbed and sliced, hammered, bopped.

Finally with the perfect spread,
"Dinner's served" so lightly said.
Henry's platter full and wide,
presented for her, placed with pride.

Then, beside her, he would sit.
Candles all around them lit.
From his breast a linen cloth,
around her neck for drops of broth.

Then, a piece he took with care,
tender, juicy, very rare,
placed upon her tiny plate.
He could not bare to make her wait.

With a surgeon's poise and calm,
knife securely in his palm,
Henry cut the choicest part.
It fell just like a work of art.

Then the fork he pressed within
emitting juice so briny thin.
He lifted to her lips in haste,
as to let none go to waste.

Henry watched her bite the meat.
Her smile was his most precious treat.
No sweeter was the richest fruit,
for all was done in its pursuit.

After one she asked for more,
sunk her teeth just like before.
Henry watched her chew so well.
He was defenseless to her spell.

Ate, she did, but hunger small,
Grace would swallow at a crawl.
Henry patient, at her will,
gave her time to get her fill.

But with every single bite
in a manner so polite,
Grace did not refuse his hand,
and soon consumed with full command.

Juices dribbled down her chin,
pleasure beaming from within.
Washed with gulps of cherry wine.
It was not in her to decline.

To share was proper, and was right.
Grace proposed he take a bite.
But of this he would have none.
"No, my dear, not till you're done."

Henry fed her in a trance.
An irresistible romance.
Giddy with her stark delight,
He fed her late into the night.

Then, as Grace was craving more
his eyes turned sour, face was sore.
All the meat had been consumed.
Dinner could not be resumed!

But her pout was so intense.
He watched her in the saddest sense.
No, he must regain the smile.
She must eat more, just for a while.

But what was he to prepare?
All the cupboards now were bare.
There was no food, not ev'n a scone.
And surely nothing on a bone.

Then, he watched her eyes were stern,
looking with such desperate yearn.
Then he saw what caught her gaze,
his eyes burned with fiery craze.

Yes, there was more meat in stow!
Upon the table's shadowy glow.
The cut, the highest in demand.
It was the meat upon his hand.

Then her eyes grew bright and glad.
Henry's wild, obsessed and mad.
Yet tonight her smile he'd see.
A bargain for his misery.

First the pinky, small and fine.
Red and raw, she took her time.
Next the middle, skip the ring,
Oh, such flavor did it bring.

Through his tears he watched her grin.
High and wide as ever's been.
Appetite now full and large,
she had taken total charge.

Next the index, then the thumb,
Red and tender, like a plumb.
On the fifth he left a stub,
his ring required just a nub.

Each was savored ever more.
She groaned and sighed and kicked the floor.
Begged with all her strength of mind.
She never knew he was so kind.

Digits somewhat undercooked,
it did not matter, she was hooked.
All the treasure in the land
could not beat his delicious hand.

Bandaged up to stop the squirt,
the others now would be dessert.
But, he could not have his druthers
with no hand to slice the others.

Since those fingers now were goners
might she shrink to do the honors?
But he could not ask a dame.
Such a thing would be a shame.

So he sadly bowed his head.
He felt so hopeless, filled with dread.
Had he given wee too much?
Would she take him with a crutch?

Then he gazed with eyes so sad.
He would need her help a tad.
Given to his puppy eyes,
she agreed to sooth his cries.

So, her touch caressed his fist.
He looked at her and got the gist,
dropped the knife and felt a tear.
So joyous, gone was all his fear.

Then she raised him to her lips.
Against them brushed his calloused tips.
She seemed to savor every inch,
and clenched her teeth, a lovely pinch.

"What greater pleasure could there be!"
he thought, his smile filled with glee.
"How better could my love be shown,
than my flesh torn from the bone."

But Henry felt her jaw relent.
"Grace, you have my full consent."
But she paused in resignation
or perhaps in contemplation.

Henry shook his head with worry.
Thoughts so wild and in a flurry.
"Won't she take my finest gift?
Will she reject me?" Henry sniffed.

But then he saw her placid gaze
was focused on the candle's blaze.
Yes she would take him, she was hooked,
and only asked her meal be cooked.

He was relieved, and all the same,
she held his flesh above the flame.
A meal Henry would present her,
juicy, hot, pink in the center.

Just three minutes on a side
She marveled at his yummy hide.
Then deep within his index slid.
Sheered with one decisive bid.

When all ten had been consumed,
meal over, he assumed.
But she was only getting started.
Her taste for blood had not departed.

First his ears befell her teeth.
Next, his toes, and then beneath.
Every bite, her smile grew wider,
wrapped around him like a spider.

Then, as Henry's legs grew weak,
tongue so parched and breathing meek,
he saw young Grace remove his liver,
chomp a bite and with lust, shiver.

The cloth around her neck was small.
The blood seeped through onto her shawl.
Henry thought himself a fool.
The tiny napkin, something cruel.

Then she reached deep in his chest
Removed his beating heart in jest.
Asked him if he'd take a taste.
"No, my love, it's yours to waste."

The Inconvenience of Admiral Stanley

Admiral Stanley had some twine.
He wrapped it round his wrist.
No telling if he was in time.
He hurled it through the mist.

The loop must have found the stern,
He pulled as if to tow.
It would be too late to learn
Upon the rocks below.

Mates aboard, they hollered back
"Leave us Admiral Stan.
Ya done enough ya worthless hack,
Now let us to our plan."

Reaching for the solid pier,
He tried to tie her tight.
Argh the end was oh so near,
He pulled with all his might.

But the ship was far too great.
He could not slow it down.
He thought about the awful fate,
How could he let them drown?

Tied securely to the dock,
A rope was strong but short.
Tied around strong as a lock
His foot the last resort.

Not a moment could he rest
The length it shortened still,
Other end around his chest
He tied it with great skill.

Soon it pulled him off the side
And robbed him of his breath.
Body stretched he winced and cried,
But kept them from their death.

For a minute, maybe two
But then he left the dock
Leaving more than just his shoe
Not mentioning the sock.

And while he began to fall
The twine, the crew did sheer.
Ker plunk he went, and heard by all,
They bellowed with a cheer.

On the bank young Stanley crawled
Belt tightly round his stub.
Warnings to his mates he called,
Alas, not but a snub.

Then downstream a scarlet hue
The crew reduced to bait.
Seen or listened, if they knew,
Of either awful fate.

Darkness

Darkness.
Flint in one hand,
Steel in the other.
Blind and still,
Within the giant powder keg.
A brisk scrape
Reveals the truth.
The door.
The Prize.
The truth is there.
Right there.
It haunts,
Intrigues,
But most of all,
Frightens.
Not the truth.
But the carnage.
We scrape gently.

Descent

ok, one more, then I'm done :)

Fluffy looks up from her mail
Then disappears into the fog
To forge a way, to take the helm
The choices tend to overwhelm.
A tipsy leprechaun appears
Stumbling on the holes and ruts
Lifts his leg high as his belt
Splash, he faceplants into mud
The local terradactyl looms
So into fog the beaten way
I blaze my new trail into gray

Descent

White hot paranormal activity does wonderful things for consciousness...and, unfortunately, psychosis. But, maybe the paranormal isn't even necessary...

I rewrote the final stanza of Descent with this in mind (added links between the stanzas). I think it's done now. But I don't know if we can ever escape from the ridge in real life. I think it tears many of us both directions all the way down into the endless valley as the sides gradually blend together in this soup of uncertainty, where normality loses all meaning...especially these days when what was impossible yesterday is part of everyday life the next.

The possible is no longer plausible.

The Stone

La la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la
La la la la di da la la la la la la la la la la
La la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la
La la la la di da la la la la la la la la la la

Does that purple stone look pretty
Do you want to hold it in your hand
If you do it's such a pity
If you don't it's something grand

Grand and lovely little stone
Do you want it, do you dare
If you thought you could resist it
You could take it you wouldn't care

La la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la
La la la la di da la la la la la la la la la la
La la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la
La la la la di da la la la la la la la la la la

If you only weren't so pretty
If you had been scratched before
If you had a tiny speck of dust
Within your wondrous core

If I run ten thousand miles
And shovel several tones of shit
Then one day I could afford you
Then one day I wouldn't abhor you

La la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la
La la la la di da la la la la la la la la la la

Everyone wants you little stone
Everyone hates you little stone
You're the carat, you're the cause
The biggest stick with teeth and claws

La la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la
La la la la di da la la la la la la la la la la

Does that purple stone look pretty
Now that you can hold it in your hand
But isn't it such a pity
You just smashed it into sand

Descent

<
Weak grip I tumble down.
Hard fall, stars fade to land.
Behind me rests the towering peak,
It climbs into the clouds.
This could be what I seek.
No way to be sure.
Waves ascend a sloping sea.
Fluffy retrieves his mail.
How could I know the journey's end,
Was when I knew it had begun.

All truth passes through three stages: First, it is ridiculed, second it is violently opposed, and third, it is accepted as self-evident. -Arthur Schopenhauer

Darkness haunts and will pretend
That power trumps truth in the end.
Some will feed it even still,
From their souls, their broken will.

Dreams that starve it are of glass,
Fragile stems and blades of grass.
Hold them high they're sure to shatter.
Lock them up they cease to matter.

Bring them to a special place
To install reinforcing brace.
Tenacious care to make them swell,
To trounce the darkness, fears dispel.

Descent

<
Sir Fluffy the Wonderpillar
I ride among the silver snow,
A soft heart clad in spines and steel.
Hands grasping tufts of fuzz,
I'm lifted high and glimpse the path,
Then buried down into the powder.
The earth shakes, his roar is louder,
Gracious as his breed allows.
Closer by the inch my dream,
A toehold on the other side.
>

Descent

<
Evergreens adorn the path,
and browns, and teals, and pinks.
I reach a giant chocolate cone,
and save it for a rainy day.
Its weight and promise a wash.
Crossing bows are over head,
I swing from one but climb instead.
It begs me higher to the top.
I drop before the way is clear,
Onto a giant fuzzy battle caterpillar.
>

Descent

<
I labor, surrounded in the fog.
Daylight fades, feet riddled with pain.
Somewhere from the gray, a haunting voice.
The invisible song of insanity.
It warms one cheek, chills the other.
I turn, chin against my chest.
Infinite silence fills the rest.
I must resist.
A bead of sweat finds a tear,
and drops gently into the sweet unknown.
>

Descent

What beautiful, billowing clouds I see, floating harmlessly.
They seem not to mind what's beneath.
My rocky path winds in front of me, disappearing into the white.
I shiver. The cold thin air pushes me down.
I shiver for what lies beneath. But it calls me.
I place a foot in front of the other with care. I must not fail.
To one side a dragon's tail.
To the other, a 737.
I fear the dragon less.
If I lost my balance, it would be in that direction.
The path curves away from it.
>

Read

Thunder roars among the crowd
our hats against our hearts.
The echo of the anthem's snore
before the evening starts.

Our voice does drone among them,
repeated words by rote.
We chant the question once again,
vibration in our throat.

There, from the rafters up above,
its huge unfurled clout.
A hundred-thousand stand and stare
without a trace of doubt.

But when a spotlight couldn't be aimed,
its adversaries near.
Some new ideas loved by some,
its stripes inspired here.

Persistent so were these ideas,
the symbol so admired,
no shrewd thief could resist its cloak
when some of us grew tired.

Picked from the dawn that morning
and placed among the drove,
propositioned by his own fresh words,
what findings he would loath.

So, while there is no doubt today,
it does yet wave indeed.
Will those of us who chant away
beat those of us who read?