Riddle Box Sketch 3

Sing in me, O Muse

of the dark that hides,IMG_0254

quiet and calm

in the center of the

riddle box.

Open the lid and

let the two travelers inside.

This is not their mystery,

but they are the clue

lost among the echoes

of now

and long ago

and yet to come.

Will you ever know,

will you ever really be sure,

that the shadows give way

when you turn on the light?

Do they retreat

or do they wait?

Riddle Box Opening Verse [ Sketch 2]

Have you come to play a game?

All the pieces are marked

all the clues will  appear

one by two, two by one,

running through the

weightless halls of the manor.

You have come to play a game,

the killer and the killed.

Blood on white marble,

blood on shadowed wood,

blood on blood,

blood on fire.

The game has come to play.

Follow along, the string in your hands,

the song in your ears.

Eyes sharp, hearts dark.

The two travelers step through the door,

the door shuts behind them.

Forget the names and play the blood,

sing Tomorrow and hold back the flood.

When the two sing together, they shiver apart.

No better tutor than fire-blasted heart.

Leave your tears

it has already  happened

we merely pick up the pieces

and put the board away.

Riddle Box – Opening verse [Sketch]

The door shuts

behind you

and you sit down

at the banquet

and sit down

at the show.

Have you come to play a game?

Artist Unknown
Artist Unknown

All the pieces

are marked

all the

clues

will  appear

one by two,

two by one,

running through the

weightless halls

of the manor.

You have come to play a game,

the killer and the killed.

Blood on white marble,

blood on shadowed wood,

blood on blood,

blood on fire.

The game has come to play.

Follow along, the string in your hands,

the song in your ears.

Eyes sharp, hearts dark.

The two travelers step through the door.

The door shuts behind them.

Open the game and play the blood,

sing tomorrow and hold back the flood.

Welcome to the Riddle Box.

World Under Construction – Tone Poetry

Artist Unknown
Artist Unknown

The secret roads of Night
the falling leaves of Autumn
the bright blade
shining in the dark.
Farewell to kith
and farewell to kin
we go forth into the Forest
hunting monsters
and singing strange songs
in the bower of Dawn.
We have no family
except each other
no story
except this one.
The fire burns in the night,
but is ashes come the morn.
Will you come and ride with us?
Will you come and die with us?
This is no time for heroes,
but the road calls all the same.
This is no time for heroes,
but we will remember your name.
— Swordkeep’s Song by Tyrol Limmermere
First Bard, Court of Pondegrance 1501

 

Something there is…

Something there is

like black iron

in the spine of humanity

fragment uit ‘123 DOOD’ Artist: illustrafrieke
fragment uit ‘123 DOOD’
Artist: illustrafrieke

not always, not forever

but enough

enough to preserve

to stand in the wind

enough to unbend knees

and grit teeth

found when we seek

proof again

that we are

to be feared

a horror of human will

great weapon of the mind

skeleton-metal and unbroken

singing in our bones

how terrible

and certain

the salamander birthright

of the children

of man.

Abracadabra

Art is a magic spell.

With each line, each lyric, each spatter of paint, each glob of clay we cast it. Careful and mad we summon the spirits once again, the true power of our race, that we may act as conduit to the Unknown. Even the dullest brute among us calls out to the demi-god of the television remote, the demon of the freeway, the howling eidolon that lurks in stones and stars and the thousand turns of dumb luck.

But artists are the true shamans.

We need it to mean, we need it to matter. With matter we shape the energy latent, the paths untaken. Some see God in the scratch of the violin, some seek God in the twist of wire and glass. Others just want to show the pain, the rain, the song of the train. All energy, all magic, passing through our hands in an instant then gone.

But if we cast proper, cast careful, cast well…the spell can linger. The shape and form of enchantment can suck in air, and its hands close as if by reflex and it shambles forward into the world to wait for a new victim, a new audience. What we make with true hearts can ward and weave the world, sing it quiet into a better form, shine as a light in the dark, cage the dark beast for a time, hum and giggle like a wine-drunk fairy.

So take it serious, take it real, pound your bones to meal. Stomp and stammer and crash and clamor.

Sing a song, write a tale, draw a thing. Dance or build or break or live.

Make it. Make the thing. Cast your spell and keep your eyes clear. Open the gate in the back of your spine and let the magic work.

Fleeting

image

We work so hard to build this little world. A better world, a world of lights and shadows. The world we all want to live in. Our Twilight Kingdom.

And it is fleeting. From its birth, it begins to decay. To fall through the sand-glass. We pour energy into it, it shines. We dance, we sing, we appear. We wear the clothes of our better selves, or the masks of our hidden villains.

But then it ends. Fade, extinguish,explode. One way or another. We leave the Kingdom with nothing.

So be it.

Come and burn with me.
Come and fly.
But only for a little while.

Oh Noetry Day

Jonas Burgert. Deed Marked / Tat markiert, 2009.

The Ritual of Tears

Druid-born and wild-blood meet
In roots of stone beneath the feet
of Six-Branch tree and seal the pact
made in love at Eld World wrack.
Last of all, a true-hearted knight
Breaks sword of green, ends winter’s blight.
Now weep and wail, and keep the Word
Sorrow-song forgotten, but always heard.

 

Some flavor-text from my current Pathfinder campaign, Titan’s Wake. I’ll try to do some more substantive blogging soon — but, I’m editing, intrinsically lazy, and tearing my way through Homestuck…so….yeah…. and it’s National Poetry Day!]

 

 

 

Haiku on Demand?

The beard of pain falls.

A meteor ends the foul

bug-eyed shinobi.

 

 

The famous  red can

is my soul’s mate and lusty

metal sin. Chomp chomp!

 

 

 

 

 

[Kind of a cop-out, I know — but they’re haiku!  You have to like them, or you are disrespecting thousands of years of Japanese culture. With regrets for H.N. and Jeremy.]

Sea-foam madness

here I stand, once more
on this rock at the edge of the sea
alone and laughing
arm crooked ’round an outcropping
drunk on power
singing my song, tossing words idly into the surf

finding glory in my destruction

another night, another time
a different wind will blow
and i find my heart
sere and hollow
but tonight
I am supported
held aloft by
this bubbling froth/
sea-foam madness
that makes me sing
and summon leviathans
to drink of my reckless tears

come, Poseidon
carouse with your acolyte