Poems - 3

E.V.E.N.M.O.R.E. Poems

A Start

I spoke, into the empty air,
Cold before the risen sun,
A hocus-pocus word or two,
A conjuring begun.
I looked into the sky.

A mound arose in the grass
And broke up into clods.
Fluid, thick and briny,
Bubbled over in a flood.
My feet got wet.

After an hour it was gone.
The fluid dry, the ground even.
An unimpressive start
But a place to begin.
I am an apprentice.

Turok

We stood tall and proud, as always, that night.
The green carpet around our knees was soft,
And about us, our brothers, on the grassy, rolling hills
Beneath the breeze that held the Ibad sky aloft.
And sounds of streams and flitting, chirping birds
That sparkled on that breeze that swept our floor
Were masked by mumbling, rumbling grumbles
From our hefty, greenskin visitor from the moor.

He was there when men had fled before them,
And fire had burned the houses and the homes;
When spits o'er flames were common stars at night,
And fat dripped hot from limbs of elves and gnomes.
But times that change not just the coloured leaves
Bring mountains and the giants of stone to knees.
And they, like frightened squirrels from their fires,
Came hiding 'neath the arms of we, the trees.

Sitting on a stump he nods his head
And knows the difference they don't.
"The land is changing, lads," he says.
He says, "The things that would? Well, soon they won't."
And scratching at a wound behind his ear
He takes in rocks, sky, river and their fire.
"Their balance is a-changing, lads," he says.
He says, "The brighter rose outgrows the lonesome briar."

And all the mystic, mythic majicks from his past
Had found a final resting place in memory.
And where the castles once had glowed with auras dark or light
Were only stone and clay that sat for centuries.
The spires that held the Princess or the Dame
For balls of fire or siege machines to smash asunder
Now stood tall and dark, with window lights like smiles
That threats of crashing now were harmless as the thunder.

The legs that carried armies o'er the glades
Now slogged the ragged slow retreats from man's expanse.
And eyes that sparkled flecks of fire from savag'ry
Looked dazèd-on like zombies in a Lich's trance.
Where blades once cleaved a trail of bloodied death
The hoes and scythes now cultivate and feed.
For what was easy prey for rampant Sithe
Is now the closing fist upon a numbered breed.

And, spitting out the feathers on the fire
He picks up his club, and they rise, too,
And says, "We're just a part of all that's been,
"Like temporary footsteps in the dew."
And, when they're gone their history begins,
And where their fire once blackened Earth and stone
The grass grows in a brilliant-bright green,
As though the finer things were all we'd known.

Shirts

So I asked her, "Why not me?"
And it struck her as funny,
Though I didn't see the humour. 'Course, I'd
Had a buildup on her to 6 or 7 a day.
I was hooked, what can I say?
A lack of faith tripped me up.

I wanted to judge the shirt
By dropping a hint. What a dumb
Thing I did. And I guess I pay.
Though if I had and hadn't ignored her
Looks, I would get
All my information straight.

And leave.

The Cavaliers' Song

"Gut, Guzzle and Wench, for tommorrow we die!"

To those who do not get their share
Of women young and free
I give a toast of gleeful thanks
'Cause that leaves more for me.

The Cavaliers are still not right
Though closer than are most.
The Vikings were by far the best,
To their rapes and killings I toast.

And of these very ladies ask I
Keep your loose-fit lace,
For there's nothing like the feeling
Of the capture and the chase.

The sun glints on the sharpened sword
The lances blaze with light.
Burnished armor spreads its glory
Ready for the fight.
The chargers stamp the grass below,
Hungry for the battle.
The trumpet sounds the awaited call,
For knights to test their mettle.
And at the dusk, the conflict done,
A single man stands high.
Then, looking down on the havoc wrought,
He quietly starts to cry.

God he is a merry man
Who gives us what we need,
He gave us many women
Just to love, kiss, cook and breed.

I am but a pauper,
Who spends his life in thought,
Of good wine, food, and women,
All that can be bought.

These women and their E.R.A.
Should stop their useless bitchin',
To learn it one time and for all
Their place is in the kitchen.

With this idea I must agree,
They don't know bloody shit.
They're only good for food and bed,
And for sometimes less are fit.

But heed my words, make sure they're heard
Stay clear of their corruption.
For women are not just a star
But tool of man's destruction.

Each one is an exquisite fake,
Appearing as a gem.
Alas, you cannot see their flaws
Until they've done you in.

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