One horse charged and then another, Lance’s clashed, a sound like thunder, There was a clang of swords clashing, Bodies slammed together bashing. Twas hard to tell friend from foe, Fields covered in bodies and snow. The grim reaper had a busy day, Two by two carrying the knights away. Few thought it would come to this, Except perhaps the lady of the mist. Who long ago possessed a sword, That now was fighting among the horde. No one knew this battle would be the last, The final string cut, fates die was cast. A mortal wound leveled upon the field, A king and kingdom’s fate both sealed. A king lay dying, in death’s grasp caught, His loss spelling the end of Camelot.
NaPoWriMo Day 20 Challenge: Write a poem that depicts a historical event.
Okay, so I may have cheated a bit, but I couldn’t help but go a little Arthurian here. Though this is a great prompt that I look forward to going back to when I have more time. I’ve written many historical pieces before and look forward to doing so again.
It hunts me, my wasted, delayed life, It hunts me, all that I’ve given up, sacrificed, to be nice. Kind. Devoted. Loyalty really isn’t worth much in the end. What is? The answers hunt me. Life hunts me. Stress follows me like a wretched shadow with claws waiting to devour its prey – Me. Hope, a dim withered husk growing ever more distant, impossible to reach, a taunting, hunting wisp in the wind. Where could I be, had I not remained tied to the choices of someone else? The answers hunt me. The pain of wasted years and wasted dreams dog my steps like a seething wraith out for blood – Mine. My soul aches with burning sadness trapped within the dark confines and cavernous cracks of my ever more calloused heart. Time, wasted on someone else’s dreams, cannot be bought again. Yet, I still waste it believing that one day, things will be different. Better. Good. Happiness is a false notion promoting delusions that it can be attained. A fleeting friend that comes so briefly as to wonder if it had ever been there at all, like a ghost, hunting the very soul. What is the point? The answer hunts me. Rhyme and reason defenestrated out of the window, indeed, if ever they existed at all – Ours is not to reason why, perhaps our fate is but to wither and die, hunted until the end by endless possibilities never realized despite the very best of intentions. It hurts to have dreams. It hunts me, the road not traveled. All the different paths just waiting to be availed, all of the many ships, waiting to be sailed. R.U.Me2? It hunts me. The life I could have led, the life I still could lead. The pain of unrealized dreams, is intense. Letting go of sunk costs is pricey and not for the faint of heart. Hope is not for the faint of heart. Dreams are costly creatures that cost us our lives, often with little to show in the end. Thoughts such as these hunt my hypothalamus in the dim light of evening on days when life intensely demands more than we bargained for. They hunt me. What hunts you?
NaPoWriMo Day 19 Challenge: “What are you haunted by, or what haunts you? Write a poem responding to this question. Then change the word haunt to hunt.”
Skin like iron, a steely hide, broad, thick neck, eyes set wide, talons sharp, upon my fingers, deepest voice, carries, lingers. Untold wisdom, in my mind, inner peace that few can find. Sturdy shoulders to handle weight, Strength to conquer any fate. Arching wings, a mighty spread, To soar the world overhead. Eyes sharp, day or night, Can get the best of any fight. Kind to those who mean no harm, a quiet protector of country and farm. Masterful strategist, calculating, Heart full of passion, radiating. Tougher than any word can pierce, Heart and soul, mightily fierce. Wise beyond years, yet older than ages, Unbroken will, no matter the cages. Take to the skies, never stop flying, An example to others, always keep trying. Hope to survive all the strife, Oh, to be a dragon in another life.
Nothing is so loud as absence – Nothing echoes like a void – There is nothing so illuminating as darkness, no better friend, remains. Narrow is the path so wide, darkness is no place to hide, slowly creeping like a friend, can’t tell beginning from end, silences beats on, in the loudest of refrains. Hearts grow fonder, they say, when the coveted is away, but restless dreams disturb, the void, so keenly heard, absence aches beyond the drum, recompense, gone, but for the sound, beating loudly, can’t be found, narrow path upon the ground, of cobblestone. Alone beneath the lamp, no wishes left, just cold, just damp, no sign of life, philately visions enduring. White noise gone, the tone of nothing, still scoring. No pain so deeply felt, as notes disintegrate from view, names disappear, ears, no longer hear. Words formed, but never said, sound, all but dead. Except the sound of the absent void, the echoes deafening, as darkness consumes, everything in silence. Resiliency can be born, in the silent pain, the thorn, a crown woven, tarnished with time, the strength is conceived, not from joy, but in the deepest silent reservoirs of long suffering hearts. No absence felt so keenly, no void so cavernous, nothing is so loud, as the deep, disturbing sound of silence.
Fresh cut grass littered like flower petals down a center church isle, White, flowing clouds conversing across the sky, a large seeming smile. Gentle breezes coming and going, here and there a great gust of wind, The edge of a storm never fully realized. The dogs, fighting again.
NaPoWriMo Day 16 Challenge: “write a poem in which you closely describe an object or place, and then end with a much more abstract line that doesn’t seemingly have anything to do with that object or place, but which, of course, really does.”
A born legend, Christian Kane has had many names and lived many lives. Each one more distinctive than the last. He took down the fifth letter of the alphabet with his brain. His intelligence, granted to him by the powers that be, made him a lawyer in his prime. He worked for evil overlords until his one true love, who he never knew, was raised again, not on the third day, from the dead. He lost his hand, protecting a priceless scroll that would’ve cost the seer her life. He lost his life, protecting a city, learning the hard way never to trust a green goblin or angelic vampire, and, more imperatively, that no good deed goes unpunished. At some point, he made a deal with a Devlin and rose again, in 2008, having been a punisher who takes the punishment, and forgot about good deeds. A retrieval specialist cannot let something remain un-retrieved, so he found it again. His soul restored, though never again clean, he joined the world’s most modern Robin Hood gang. Using leverage, he worked his way across the world, righting the wrongs of those who took what they wanted, much like the wolves without a heart. Using violence as an appropriate response freed him in the end to discover a love of art from the pit of the beastly oil fields where he single-handedly fought not-ninjas in Oklahoma at the behest of the library. Serving the crown of King Arthur he made the world safe for reading, once again fighting evil and magic, and crooked letters. He and Tex Mangrove sang many songs but none of them were lullabies because that would be too dangerous for a librarian. Retirement found this legendary figure lounging on a beach in what was sure to be a peaceful life – it was almost paradise until the garrote encircled his throat prohibiting his concentrated effort to follow the voices in his head telling him calmly to breath in and breathe out. Paradise isn’t everything. Neither is redemption. But that is a food truck for another story, as cooking in Kane’s Kitchen is a dangerous task. In following the house rules, this story now comes to a close, but that’s just me, thinking of you. In parting, recall that you cannot believe everything you hear or read, unless it comes from the pony express. Legend claims he once killed a man with an appetizer and just a hint of lemon. Beware fighting at weddings. A minor thing, but worth waiting for.
Rhyme N Review 