Hear the toll of broken bells
Over hillsides
Down the dells
Angels sing in seven hells
Dead things crawl up out of wells
Demons crack their human shells
Ringing din at midnight swells
Night air’s rife with graveyard smells
Devils laugh discordant knells
At the sound of broken bells
Vanquished now,
I return
to find
all bare of life,
and stilted, stifled purpose
laces the air that has
disguised her
earthy scent,
rank loam in the ruins.
The stones of my home,
my fence,
tumbling
atop each other,
as my men
from their horses,
ungainly unseated,
and skewered
for their lack of skill,
or a champion.
Grasping, bare, black branches soon
reach to pull me into
the shadows
of my mind.
As did she.
Merciful
was the
headsman’s ax,
and swift.
The sky and ground
joined hands
to somersault
in sun-dappled motley
before my eyes.
And
I returned home,
now
Vanquished.
The history
of the world
decays within
these vaunted halls.
Bones of men
whose legacies
have long passed into dust,
now scattered,
or drifted into drains
to swirl and sink
amid the sewage
These vaunted halls
of vainglorious scholars
and savage soldiers,
This labyrinthine lair
of painted women
and holy mothers,
running children
and feral dogs
This ornate gauntlet of
open secrets and
private trysts,
This once- proud venue,
where learned men
hammered out their thoughts and beliefs,
vociferous in their ferocity,
gesticulating like tribal dancers
This enviable marketplace,
with its bright colors, shady deals,
and the rush of winning a well-wrought
haggling session,
Is now the place I skulk,
and stalk, and catch the rats
that bite me in my sleep,
and take the bodies and coin
of unwary travelers.
My kingdom,
a silenced ruin of
damp and crumbling marble,
dim sunlight,
and solitude.
These vaunted halls
will return to their glory,
stone by stone, page by page,
man by man.
But for now,
I feast.
Kairi comes down
by the
moonlit water
to play for
me
on random summer evenings
Not of this world any longer,
I cannot hear her,
but I can see.
Ah, there she is.
Fair and dark are her features,
Dark and fair is her song.
Spinning, playing a bright flourish,
she smiles at a memory,
and I feel the press of its
warmth against my molding bones
as if she hugged my spirit.
I wonder if she feels
my presence?
At times, when she plays,
there are tears.
I long to take them away, to
wipe them tenderly
and tell her all is well,
before we kiss,
before we part.
I hold onto that moment
that never was,
never will be,
and it will ever have to be
enough.
As Kairi turns to go,
the melody is severed,
and the notes are interwoven
with the stars.
I feel what I can only call
a smile pervade my being.
No, there will be no tears tonight,
just the song, dark and fair, it’s plaintive echo
traveling through the lichen covered
headstones of the forgotten, as Kairi, fair and dark,
vanishes into the mist, and over the hill.
Check out the latest chapter of Making Warr.
He’s in WAY over his head, but that’s where he thrives…
Making Warr:
Warren Bradley was retired, the victim of a failed experiment that not only would have increased his strength, but his intelligence as well. When a decision is made to re-launch the project, a botched attempt to bring him back in by force results in his wife being killed.
He is now determined to obtain and destroy the information that led to her murder, and get the people responsible.
There’s just one problem: The information’s been stolen and taken overseas. And an ex has re-entered his life on the side of a rival agency. And the chemicals in his system are starting to degrade. Okay, that was three problems…
The struggle to breathe
grows harder and laborious,
and soon, not worth the effort.
The heartbeat softens to a
padded thudding
of arrhythmic improvisation
The light, both sun and lamp alike,
grows dim
And the features
of your faces
so familiar
are now only
sketches in sepia
drawn by rheum,
inked in cataract,
and blindness creeps with
a serpent’s crafty slowness
to seize small sight
in its unrelenting
coils of darkness
But the memories
of grand carnivals,
of dire hurricanes,
laughter, tears
prizes, penalties
trials, victories
unity, dysfunction
safety , strife
holiday dinners
and birthday songs
pride and humility
for good or ill
all said and done
except the last
goodbye
and giving the last remnants
of my love
The days were few and happy,
and the honor of growing
beside you
made it all
worthwhile.
Ah, look you, men of iron will.
See, fools of tender heart.
Behold, those of noble birth.
Attend, lowest of the low.
In all majestic splendor,
the gentler orb turns
soft and saddened eye
to sodden field.
There is no one to greet her,
to write a sonnet to her beauty,
no one left now even to ignore it,
or wish in hope upon it.
Yet on your ancient quarrels,
as she always has, she rises,
and gazes on your stillness,
wonders at your silence,
and cries the falling stars
to soak, and cloak the folly
of your war-filled hearts.
The ancient moon,
in tranquil glory,
in timeless diary,
writes once more…
They do not love.
You haunt the lake now
Melody?
What are you searching for?
You cry aloud so mournfully!
It pierces to the core…
I see translucent tears aglow!
How can a spirit cry?
It’s me you look for,
Melody?
I didn’t want to die.
I ask forgiveness,
Melody,
for holding you below
The dark and murky
water where
you didn’t want to go.
Do not approach me,
Melody,
with eyes of fire and hate
You said you loved,
but I did not,
and now it is too late.
So I insisted,
Melody,
that we could both be free;
I didn’t know the
end of you
would be the
end of me.
Approach in reverence,
my friend.
You are most welcome here.
The fires will light your way
to me
and calm your doubt and fear.
Long years have we been waiting for
your soul
to bring its light.
And patience is its own reward.
Now welcome
to the night.
For when the doors are opened
friend,
there will be no return.
And hidden from
celestial sight
you’ll burn
and burn
and
burn.
Do the
bones of men
remember days
of brave and
daring deeds?
Do they long for
love and battle
when they rode their
noble steeds?
Do they mourn
the silent rhythm
of a strong and
beating heart?
Do they miss the
lilt of melody
and master works
of art?
Do they once recall
the clamor and the clanging
of their toil?
And the scent of
perfumed women
and the seasons
and the soil?
Do the
bones of men
remember night
and moon and sea
and star?
Do they contemplate
the faulted flesh that made them
what they are?
Do the bones remember
holding onto children, home
and wife?
Do the bones remember
anything at all of
loving life?
When we return to dust
I pray our bones will only sleep,
instead of dreaming
of the things of life
we couldn’t keep.
Beyond Panic 