When he had covered the grave he jammed a piece of wood into the ground at the head, on which he had crudely scratched some words:
“They looked like drifters, or homeless,
and I didn’t know their names.
A woman and a boy.
They looked for some warmth
of a winter’s evening and found death instead.
I’m sorry, but I did it.
-Jack Daw”
Before he left, Jack made sure there was nothing to identify him at the scene. He poured the rest of the ‘sugar’ into a bucket of water, enough to dilute it past the danger level, and poured it on a rocky patch of ground behind the house. He wiped the tear tracks from his face with a lace handkerchief, being careful to avoid the scar and the edges of his beard. Finally he examined himself in a small metal mirror he produced from a sleeve pocket. Satisfied, he went to collect his horse.
Above, the trees stirred restlessly in the chill breeze, seeming to shake their skeletal fists at him. He ignored them and rode for town. He had a reward to collect.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Jack Daw Part Two
The grave was dug, and the man crawled out of the hole to the bodies. He took the taller one first, picking it up easily and placing near the edge. The smaller corpse seemed almost heavier, but he placed it on the opposite side. He knelt down at the foot of the grave and tears filled his eyes once more, blurring the grave to an earlier scene…
** “Nothing like hot sugared tea to take the chill out,” said the bearded man. In contrast to his bland garb before, he now wore a green flowery coat with a double row of buttons on the front, with lace dripping from neck and wrists. His vest was silk, and the buttons on it appeared to be solid gold. A fancy-looking short sword rode one hip, and a spiked buckler rested against the wall. His high leather boots were shined, and his tri-corner hat had a long feathery plume sticking from one side. A waxed moustache complemented his beard, and the scar rode up around his right eye in a wicked and jagged half circle.
The short man sitting opposite him at the lone table only grunted. He had a whippet’s lean look and a panther’s smile, when he chose to show it. Today was not one of those days. He wore loose red linen for the most part, with a sash of black velvet. A long knife depended from the sash, and he had a smaller version tucked into one boot. He had a number of pouches at his belt, and he restlessly fiddled with things inside them between drinks of tea. The clinks of small metal objects came from within.
“Can we get on with this? I have an appointment afterwards, and I don’t want to be late,” said the short man.
“Of course. More tea?” At another grunt, the bearded man poured the shorter man’s glass full once more, and then spooned sugar from the bowl on the table into it. Two scoops, and then he sat back and began to describe the job.
The smaller man listened attentively, and had the other describe in detail the buildings they would be encountering, with an eye for decorative stonework, ease of gripping, projection on which to catch a grapple and such. But as they talked, he found it harder and harder to concentrate, and had to ask more questions to figure out what their next move would be…was it the target building that had the stucco face? Was it the one next door, or did that one have the gargoyle statue on the roof?It was all … too …much.
The bearded man watched the other closely, and was ready to catch him when he fell. He eased him to the ground and quickly checked his pulse, then raised one eyelid and let it slide shut.
“You’ll be out for a little while, my rooftop crawling friend. Long enough, at least.” Grabbing the body under the arms, the bearded man dragged the body out into the cold. **
Eyes still red, but weeping finished, the man dragged the taller body into the grave. It thumped down with solid suddenness. He tried to arrange it as best he could, and then turned to the other body, and gently pulled it into the hole. He set it down next to the other, and pushed them close together. Then he slowly pulled himself from the hole for the last time. He said a few words, in a halting voice, but they seemed to go unheard amongst the pines and the cold, and he soon stopped.
The first shovel of dirt hit the smaller body, and the top of the sheet jerked down enough to expose a child’s face …
** By the time the bearded man returned to the house, now scruffy from travel and wearing a stained great cloak over his nicer clothes, it was far too late. The son was dead already, and the woman was in convulsions that would soon lead to madness, if not death. It took only one look at the sugar bowl, next to now knocked over mugs, to see the culprit … Or a look in a mirror. They had come in from the cold and taken a drink to get warm, figuring that no one would begrudge them that small favor. The woman was injuring herself as she thrashed, and her eyes were wide and bloodshot. Her tongue had swollen and her fingernails were ice blue.
He held the woman down and cut her throat to end her pain…there was nothing else he could do. **
** “Nothing like hot sugared tea to take the chill out,” said the bearded man. In contrast to his bland garb before, he now wore a green flowery coat with a double row of buttons on the front, with lace dripping from neck and wrists. His vest was silk, and the buttons on it appeared to be solid gold. A fancy-looking short sword rode one hip, and a spiked buckler rested against the wall. His high leather boots were shined, and his tri-corner hat had a long feathery plume sticking from one side. A waxed moustache complemented his beard, and the scar rode up around his right eye in a wicked and jagged half circle.
The short man sitting opposite him at the lone table only grunted. He had a whippet’s lean look and a panther’s smile, when he chose to show it. Today was not one of those days. He wore loose red linen for the most part, with a sash of black velvet. A long knife depended from the sash, and he had a smaller version tucked into one boot. He had a number of pouches at his belt, and he restlessly fiddled with things inside them between drinks of tea. The clinks of small metal objects came from within.
“Can we get on with this? I have an appointment afterwards, and I don’t want to be late,” said the short man.
“Of course. More tea?” At another grunt, the bearded man poured the shorter man’s glass full once more, and then spooned sugar from the bowl on the table into it. Two scoops, and then he sat back and began to describe the job.
The smaller man listened attentively, and had the other describe in detail the buildings they would be encountering, with an eye for decorative stonework, ease of gripping, projection on which to catch a grapple and such. But as they talked, he found it harder and harder to concentrate, and had to ask more questions to figure out what their next move would be…was it the target building that had the stucco face? Was it the one next door, or did that one have the gargoyle statue on the roof?It was all … too …much.
The bearded man watched the other closely, and was ready to catch him when he fell. He eased him to the ground and quickly checked his pulse, then raised one eyelid and let it slide shut.
“You’ll be out for a little while, my rooftop crawling friend. Long enough, at least.” Grabbing the body under the arms, the bearded man dragged the body out into the cold. **
Eyes still red, but weeping finished, the man dragged the taller body into the grave. It thumped down with solid suddenness. He tried to arrange it as best he could, and then turned to the other body, and gently pulled it into the hole. He set it down next to the other, and pushed them close together. Then he slowly pulled himself from the hole for the last time. He said a few words, in a halting voice, but they seemed to go unheard amongst the pines and the cold, and he soon stopped.
The first shovel of dirt hit the smaller body, and the top of the sheet jerked down enough to expose a child’s face …
** By the time the bearded man returned to the house, now scruffy from travel and wearing a stained great cloak over his nicer clothes, it was far too late. The son was dead already, and the woman was in convulsions that would soon lead to madness, if not death. It took only one look at the sugar bowl, next to now knocked over mugs, to see the culprit … Or a look in a mirror. They had come in from the cold and taken a drink to get warm, figuring that no one would begrudge them that small favor. The woman was injuring herself as she thrashed, and her eyes were wide and bloodshot. Her tongue had swollen and her fingernails were ice blue.
He held the woman down and cut her throat to end her pain…there was nothing else he could do. **
Jack Daw Part One
The legend of Jack Daw started on a blustery grey morning in the transition from fall to winter, in a cottage on the edge of the woods. The trees still tried to hold the fading remnants of their colorful crowns to the sky, but their skeletal limbs brought to mind dripping bits of rotted flesh instead, and the crows made a gruesome spectacle as they flew amongst the standing corpses.
The only sound to be heard in the chilly air was the crunch and swish of a shovel. The ground was frozen hard on top, but the man working had broken through with a pick and was down to his chest now, no longer cold from the work. Runnels of grey dirt trailed from his red-rimmed eyes, and he shook occasionally with more than cold. Next to the hole lay two sheet-covered bodies, blood stains visible at the throat of the taller one. The shorter body was small and thin, surely no more than a child.
The shovels of dirt hit the ground next to the cottage with clockwork precision, and the man in the hole couldn’t help but remember…
**“I’m Jack Daw. I’m looking for a second-story man.”
The man speaking was dressed much like the other patrons of Sam’s Seaside Bar, which is to say ‘all in black’. He wore the same anonymous black domino, as well, and his hair, assuming he had any, was concealed by a bandana, a muffler, and a black floppy hat. The only thing that marked him was a large ferocious beard and the edge of a scar peeking from under the domino.
The one he spoke to was dressed similarly, but rough shaven and scar free, at least to outwards appearances. He carried a natty-looking cane of polished mahogany that almost certainly concealed a blade, and his domino had a certain mark at the edge, just to the side of the right ear.
“Might be I know someone. What’s the pay?” The man with the cane kept his voice low, despite the hidden nature of Sam’s Seaside, requiring two tunnels and a search to get in. The clients of Madame Brevity’s Brothel, through the thin floor above, sometimes had sharp ears, after all.
“The pay’s 3 large in advance, 2 after, with a 10 percent bonus of the take if the job’s quiet. It should add to maybe 800 all told if it goes well.” The bearded man raised a finger in warning. “But no amateurs, you hear? I understand you have at least one good topper around, and I need talent for this job.”
The cane twitched slightly at the total, but the man who held it stayed impassive. “I know a guy,” he said cautiously, “but he’ll ask for more than that, even with the bonus. He’ll want maybe 5 up front, 5 after, plus the bonus.”
The bearded man scowled under the domino. “13 large? I can get 20 scags and roust the house for that.” He scratched at his chin under the beard and spat at a tin on the floor, hitting the edge.
“You can’t get this quality for less, though. The guy I got is good, and worth it.”
The bearded man grunted a laugh. “How do you prove it before he drops a dagger into my foot while he’s up?”
“You hear about the Danziger job?” The man with the cane studied the other man’s face and seemed satisfied with what he saw. “I thought you might have. That’s the guy.”
“Him, eh?” The bearded man seemed to be trying not to appear impressed, but having a tough time of it. “Alright. 5 up front, 5 behind, and the bonus. I’ll drop the front at Brevity’s in an hour. The job’s two nights from now, but I want a go-over tomorrow to set the plan.”
The man with the cane nodded, pleased. “I’ll have him meet you at…?”
The bearded man thought for a minute. “The old Borgman place in the woods. It’ll be secluded enough that we can talk without interruption.”
With a flourish of the cane, the marked man got up and nodded, then left towards a side room. The man with the beard finished his drink and then went to begin the crawl back outside, unremarked by the other customers. **
The only sound to be heard in the chilly air was the crunch and swish of a shovel. The ground was frozen hard on top, but the man working had broken through with a pick and was down to his chest now, no longer cold from the work. Runnels of grey dirt trailed from his red-rimmed eyes, and he shook occasionally with more than cold. Next to the hole lay two sheet-covered bodies, blood stains visible at the throat of the taller one. The shorter body was small and thin, surely no more than a child.
The shovels of dirt hit the ground next to the cottage with clockwork precision, and the man in the hole couldn’t help but remember…
**“I’m Jack Daw. I’m looking for a second-story man.”
The man speaking was dressed much like the other patrons of Sam’s Seaside Bar, which is to say ‘all in black’. He wore the same anonymous black domino, as well, and his hair, assuming he had any, was concealed by a bandana, a muffler, and a black floppy hat. The only thing that marked him was a large ferocious beard and the edge of a scar peeking from under the domino.
The one he spoke to was dressed similarly, but rough shaven and scar free, at least to outwards appearances. He carried a natty-looking cane of polished mahogany that almost certainly concealed a blade, and his domino had a certain mark at the edge, just to the side of the right ear.
“Might be I know someone. What’s the pay?” The man with the cane kept his voice low, despite the hidden nature of Sam’s Seaside, requiring two tunnels and a search to get in. The clients of Madame Brevity’s Brothel, through the thin floor above, sometimes had sharp ears, after all.
“The pay’s 3 large in advance, 2 after, with a 10 percent bonus of the take if the job’s quiet. It should add to maybe 800 all told if it goes well.” The bearded man raised a finger in warning. “But no amateurs, you hear? I understand you have at least one good topper around, and I need talent for this job.”
The cane twitched slightly at the total, but the man who held it stayed impassive. “I know a guy,” he said cautiously, “but he’ll ask for more than that, even with the bonus. He’ll want maybe 5 up front, 5 after, plus the bonus.”
The bearded man scowled under the domino. “13 large? I can get 20 scags and roust the house for that.” He scratched at his chin under the beard and spat at a tin on the floor, hitting the edge.
“You can’t get this quality for less, though. The guy I got is good, and worth it.”
The bearded man grunted a laugh. “How do you prove it before he drops a dagger into my foot while he’s up?”
“You hear about the Danziger job?” The man with the cane studied the other man’s face and seemed satisfied with what he saw. “I thought you might have. That’s the guy.”
“Him, eh?” The bearded man seemed to be trying not to appear impressed, but having a tough time of it. “Alright. 5 up front, 5 behind, and the bonus. I’ll drop the front at Brevity’s in an hour. The job’s two nights from now, but I want a go-over tomorrow to set the plan.”
The man with the cane nodded, pleased. “I’ll have him meet you at…?”
The bearded man thought for a minute. “The old Borgman place in the woods. It’ll be secluded enough that we can talk without interruption.”
With a flourish of the cane, the marked man got up and nodded, then left towards a side room. The man with the beard finished his drink and then went to begin the crawl back outside, unremarked by the other customers. **
Haiku - First Set (Poetry - Haiku)
Strange, I feel these days,
My disconnection grows:
I wish I could sleep.
Cherry blossoms fall,
Obscuring the frozen ground-
Would they be so kind?
Rain filters the sky
Through a graying lens of clouds
Spring waits patiently.
Neo’s dilemma
Is a laughable display:
Take both pills at once!
Death Beaver rages
Why is life so endless?
Killing takes all day.
Never is so long;
But perhaps, not long enough
To give up on you.
*(this was the original inspiration for 'Never Everending')
A dark penumbra
of loathing, waits patiently
New prey will come soon.
One, toe, tree, fo’, five:
The Dope Man talks in Jive,
All the good day long.
Ties choke off the screams
Of souls, tortured to their deaths:
In Office We Trust.
Martians, coming here;
Would cry aloud in their glee:
They’ve conquered themselves!
Smokers cough their last-
dying in the midst of life,
for nothing at all.
Dancing with my dreams,
I waltz to the tune inside;
And don’t miss a beat.
In the beginning
I was wrong: But not so much
As I am right now.
Whiskey calls to me
In songs I cannot silence;
in dreams I can’t end.
My disconnection grows:
I wish I could sleep.
Cherry blossoms fall,
Obscuring the frozen ground-
Would they be so kind?
Rain filters the sky
Through a graying lens of clouds
Spring waits patiently.
Neo’s dilemma
Is a laughable display:
Take both pills at once!
Death Beaver rages
Why is life so endless?
Killing takes all day.
Never is so long;
But perhaps, not long enough
To give up on you.
*(this was the original inspiration for 'Never Everending')
A dark penumbra
of loathing, waits patiently
New prey will come soon.
One, toe, tree, fo’, five:
The Dope Man talks in Jive,
All the good day long.
Ties choke off the screams
Of souls, tortured to their deaths:
In Office We Trust.
Martians, coming here;
Would cry aloud in their glee:
They’ve conquered themselves!
Smokers cough their last-
dying in the midst of life,
for nothing at all.
Dancing with my dreams,
I waltz to the tune inside;
And don’t miss a beat.
In the beginning
I was wrong: But not so much
As I am right now.
Whiskey calls to me
In songs I cannot silence;
in dreams I can’t end.
Anansi (Prose - Not quite Neil Gaiman Fanfic... Not Quite)
I will tell you the story of Anansi, who was both a normal spider and a normal man at the same time, and a god as well. These things used to be possible, a long time ago, before everything became complicated.
Anansi was known as a great trickster, and as a great storyteller, and after he stole all of the stories from Tiger and made them his he became very famous. This story takes place before all of that, when he was just another god, trying to find his place in the world.
Anansi had a desire for a certain type of grape, a large purple kind that grew only on very high vines, where they got the most sunlight. They were just bursting with juice and flavor, and they washed away the dust that blew all around better than anything else in the world. Naturally, they were jealously guarded by Hawk, who though he ate mostly small furry creatures, occasionally liked a little grape to cleanse his palate. But Hawk didn’t eat very many, and the rest grew sour on the vines and fell to the ground, where the other gods and animals would fight over them in the hopes that this time, it might be just blown from the vine early, and still sweet. And every once in a while there was a sweet one, and it would be fought over fiercely until one victor would retreat with the prize to their cave to eat.
Now, Anansi was not a great fighter (though he was a tricksy wrestler) and he never got any of the grapes, sour or sweet. So he decided that he needed to come up with another way.
First he tried jumping, which he was rather good at, and thought he could jump over everyone else and grab a grape on its way down. But when he succeeded at grabbing one he was attacked after he hit the ground, and the grape was taken away from him. Even worse, there were better jumpers, and Rabbit and Mara (who was a woman and a kangaroo) started jumping for grapes higher than he could reach.
Next he tried spinning a web across between the trees, over where Mara and Rabbit could reach. But Hawk saw the web and ripped it up so that he could reach the small furry animals on the ground more easily. (Rabbit ran away at this, but Mara was too big for Hawk to eat, so she kept jumping)
Anansi almost gave up at this, but the grapes looked so juicy against the sunlight that he felt that he just had to have one.
So Anansi looked up at the grapes silhouetted against the sky and he had an idea! Everyone knew that all creatures fled the hawk’s shadow…
So Anansi built a kite, the biggest kite ever seen, and he strung it off of his own spider line, and he flew it up above the field where the people, or gods, or creatures, waited for the grapes to fall.
And the shadow created by the kite was so big that all of the creatures fled, and Anansi scurried over to the field to wait for grapes to fall.
But Hawk saw the kite. And Hawk, not being the smartest of all the creatures in the world, thought his territory was being infringed on by another bird, and so he spread his mighty wings and chased after the kite to do battle.
Anansi, seeing this, raced right up into the tops of the trees and started eating grapes.
And oh, they were such grapes. Grapes like no one but Hawk had ever had, sweet and succulent and juicy and above all – plentiful!
Anansi gorged himself on grapes until he was fit to burst, and then tucked more in his pockets for later, hoping that they would not be unduly harmed by his climb down.
But Anansi, for just a few seconds, forgot all about Hawk. Hawk, who had ripped the kite to shreds. Hawk, who had figured out that it wasn’t a real bird after a few minutes. Hawk, who was very angry.
And you only get one chance to see the hawk before it strikes…
Later on, of course, Anansi became very famous, and was fed all the grapes he wanted by people (or animals, or gods) who wanted to be on his good side. And once, he stole all of Hawk’s tailfeathers, to get back at Hawk for having killed him when he was young and hungry.
But that is a tail for another time.
It was a time long ago, when things were much less complicated, and it wasn’t unusual at all to be a man, and a spider, and a god – even all at once.
Anansi was known as a great trickster, and as a great storyteller, and after he stole all of the stories from Tiger and made them his he became very famous. This story takes place before all of that, when he was just another god, trying to find his place in the world.
Anansi had a desire for a certain type of grape, a large purple kind that grew only on very high vines, where they got the most sunlight. They were just bursting with juice and flavor, and they washed away the dust that blew all around better than anything else in the world. Naturally, they were jealously guarded by Hawk, who though he ate mostly small furry creatures, occasionally liked a little grape to cleanse his palate. But Hawk didn’t eat very many, and the rest grew sour on the vines and fell to the ground, where the other gods and animals would fight over them in the hopes that this time, it might be just blown from the vine early, and still sweet. And every once in a while there was a sweet one, and it would be fought over fiercely until one victor would retreat with the prize to their cave to eat.
Now, Anansi was not a great fighter (though he was a tricksy wrestler) and he never got any of the grapes, sour or sweet. So he decided that he needed to come up with another way.
First he tried jumping, which he was rather good at, and thought he could jump over everyone else and grab a grape on its way down. But when he succeeded at grabbing one he was attacked after he hit the ground, and the grape was taken away from him. Even worse, there were better jumpers, and Rabbit and Mara (who was a woman and a kangaroo) started jumping for grapes higher than he could reach.
Next he tried spinning a web across between the trees, over where Mara and Rabbit could reach. But Hawk saw the web and ripped it up so that he could reach the small furry animals on the ground more easily. (Rabbit ran away at this, but Mara was too big for Hawk to eat, so she kept jumping)
Anansi almost gave up at this, but the grapes looked so juicy against the sunlight that he felt that he just had to have one.
So Anansi looked up at the grapes silhouetted against the sky and he had an idea! Everyone knew that all creatures fled the hawk’s shadow…
So Anansi built a kite, the biggest kite ever seen, and he strung it off of his own spider line, and he flew it up above the field where the people, or gods, or creatures, waited for the grapes to fall.
And the shadow created by the kite was so big that all of the creatures fled, and Anansi scurried over to the field to wait for grapes to fall.
But Hawk saw the kite. And Hawk, not being the smartest of all the creatures in the world, thought his territory was being infringed on by another bird, and so he spread his mighty wings and chased after the kite to do battle.
Anansi, seeing this, raced right up into the tops of the trees and started eating grapes.
And oh, they were such grapes. Grapes like no one but Hawk had ever had, sweet and succulent and juicy and above all – plentiful!
Anansi gorged himself on grapes until he was fit to burst, and then tucked more in his pockets for later, hoping that they would not be unduly harmed by his climb down.
But Anansi, for just a few seconds, forgot all about Hawk. Hawk, who had ripped the kite to shreds. Hawk, who had figured out that it wasn’t a real bird after a few minutes. Hawk, who was very angry.
And you only get one chance to see the hawk before it strikes…
Later on, of course, Anansi became very famous, and was fed all the grapes he wanted by people (or animals, or gods) who wanted to be on his good side. And once, he stole all of Hawk’s tailfeathers, to get back at Hawk for having killed him when he was young and hungry.
But that is a tail for another time.
It was a time long ago, when things were much less complicated, and it wasn’t unusual at all to be a man, and a spider, and a god – even all at once.
With You? (Poetry - Rhyming)
I’ve lived a long time all alone with my thoughts,
And expected that life would bring more of the same;
No one I found could draw ME out of hiding,
This truth was my bulwark, my safety… my shame.
This shell was the source of my pain.
Oh, sometimes I’d surface - I’m not made of stone,
I’d offer my essence to those who were there;
And they would take notice, and be very thoughtful,
It wasn’t as if my good friends didn’t care-
To say less of them wouldn’t be fair.
But there’s always been something that lacked in those moments,
An indefinite feeling I couldn’t tie down;
A nebulous thought or a zen-like emotion –
A noise you could see, or a light made of sound:
A ghost, binding me to the ground
No matter how violent my fight with this phantom,
It wouldn’t retreat, yet it wouldn’t attack -
It sat in the background and laughed at my efforts;
How could I win if it would not fight back?
Well it’s tough, is the obvious fact.
I’d almost resigned to a life without contact,
A miserable loneliness growing inside,
I stood in the doorway and looked at my future,
But a chance-met companion convinced me to bide -
And step back, with one glorious stride.
I told her a joke – with a twist, (which I liked)
That I was a god, one of knowledge and sight.
And I had no fears in disclosing this secret,
For no one would listen – Cassandra’s sad plight.
None would believe she was right.
A joke it was, only – But she laughed in wonder,
And something inside me responded with glee
Not to the joke, or the laugh, or the moment
But something about her was calling to me:
A sound I’d been waiting to see.
She was dating, (a friend) and lived far far away,
But I made sure to see her if she was nearby:
Not to meddle, or woo her, or cause any friction,
But to learn what had caused it, this noise in my eye,
So perhaps I could watch for its cry.
Through the years I watched closely, and saw in brief glimpses
How this wonderful girl danced with life unashamed
Her mind always seeking, her spirit unconquered
And I sought for the one who’d make me feel the same
Who could light for me love’s simple flame.
But the years passed uncaring, and the girl went through changes
A Lady now, carefree and wild, and uncaught
And all of my logic, and science, and feeling,
Have failed to define it, this nebulous thought;
This thing that Cassandra had brought.
Through the years as I’ve watched her, the feeling has strengthened;
It’s a part of my life now - the Lady is too,
And for all my lone searching, I have yet to find it –
Perhaps there is something more I should do?
Perhaps I should seek it… With you?
And expected that life would bring more of the same;
No one I found could draw ME out of hiding,
This truth was my bulwark, my safety… my shame.
This shell was the source of my pain.
Oh, sometimes I’d surface - I’m not made of stone,
I’d offer my essence to those who were there;
And they would take notice, and be very thoughtful,
It wasn’t as if my good friends didn’t care-
To say less of them wouldn’t be fair.
But there’s always been something that lacked in those moments,
An indefinite feeling I couldn’t tie down;
A nebulous thought or a zen-like emotion –
A noise you could see, or a light made of sound:
A ghost, binding me to the ground
No matter how violent my fight with this phantom,
It wouldn’t retreat, yet it wouldn’t attack -
It sat in the background and laughed at my efforts;
How could I win if it would not fight back?
Well it’s tough, is the obvious fact.
I’d almost resigned to a life without contact,
A miserable loneliness growing inside,
I stood in the doorway and looked at my future,
But a chance-met companion convinced me to bide -
And step back, with one glorious stride.
I told her a joke – with a twist, (which I liked)
That I was a god, one of knowledge and sight.
And I had no fears in disclosing this secret,
For no one would listen – Cassandra’s sad plight.
None would believe she was right.
A joke it was, only – But she laughed in wonder,
And something inside me responded with glee
Not to the joke, or the laugh, or the moment
But something about her was calling to me:
A sound I’d been waiting to see.
She was dating, (a friend) and lived far far away,
But I made sure to see her if she was nearby:
Not to meddle, or woo her, or cause any friction,
But to learn what had caused it, this noise in my eye,
So perhaps I could watch for its cry.
Through the years I watched closely, and saw in brief glimpses
How this wonderful girl danced with life unashamed
Her mind always seeking, her spirit unconquered
And I sought for the one who’d make me feel the same
Who could light for me love’s simple flame.
But the years passed uncaring, and the girl went through changes
A Lady now, carefree and wild, and uncaught
And all of my logic, and science, and feeling,
Have failed to define it, this nebulous thought;
This thing that Cassandra had brought.
Through the years as I’ve watched her, the feeling has strengthened;
It’s a part of my life now - the Lady is too,
And for all my lone searching, I have yet to find it –
Perhaps there is something more I should do?
Perhaps I should seek it… With you?
The Coming of the Light (Poetry - Non-rhyming)
I have reasons to fear the coming of the light.
They are waiting now, in the darkness
And I sense them shuffling unheard feet.
I fear that any change will break this stalemate;
will precipitate action again on a large scale.
And so I fear the coming of the light.
On a hilltop I stand, and bodies line the paths that lead to its summit,
Wracked by pain and death; and their blood mingles on my blades,
But there are more to come. Now, for this short time they wait,
And I breathe in the darkness as if I could pull enough inside to disappear.
And I fear the coming of the light.
It could be a mercy to see them, to know who and what it is that screams as my blades pull the life from their bodies.
But I am one man, and I have but two arms with which to slay.
The darkness is my ally, it confuses their attacks,
It causes them to wound each other as I snake in and out and twirl between deaths.
And so I fear the coming of the light.
The battle has forced me away from friendship, from love,
It drives me to reach the summit above, to the goal, to the prize,
Though I know not what it is, or what may await me in the darkness.
Its urgency pushes me onward, and I ignore all else,
Except my fear, of the coming of the light.
My fighting is free and unrestrained; I have abandoned myself to the slaughter,
For I have no friends whom I might wound, and each precise thrust spills foe’s blood.
My only questions are moot by now, for even the asking could spell death.
Who is it that I fight, in my unending battle? Who is it that screams when I thrust; whose breathe rattles out into the night?
I fear the coming of the light.
Lonely I stand, in the midst of many. My touch only wounds, my comfort lies in blood.
And for now, they stand away, and wait.
But battle will be rejoined soon, I hear the growing impatience in their ragged breaths.
And my own mirror them.
But still I fear the coming of the light.
The reason for this battle escapes me; I fight because that is what I have always done.
And I wonder if those arrayed against me know this secret drive,
Or if indeed there is reason at all.
Do we all fight so that the fighting will continue?
Do we all fear the coming of the light?
I have heard, in the darkness, those who have given up.
They throw away their weapons, and walk towards the summit unarmed.
I have heard them cut down, by others or myself, but it seemed as if;
Perhaps the darkness was less while they lived.
Did they, too, fear the coming of the light?
And what if, however insane it might seem, they were not alone,
And many threw down their arms and walked together?
Surely it would only mean their deaths… Surely;
Because this is a battle, this life.
And we must fear the coming of the light.
But as I wait for the fight to resume, with my weapons in hand,
I cannot help but remember, how the darkness seemed a little less,
And think that maybe… If there were enough who worked together,
Could the darkness be driven back?
Does it, too, fear the coming of the light?
Those around me move closer, and I throw down my weapons.
I know not why, nor how, nor what will happen to me.
And I fear the consequences of my actions, but at least I have chosen them,
And no longer, not today nor evermore,
Will I fear the coming of the light.
They stop for a moment, those hungry souls,
And I see what they see, what causes them to hesitate.
I cannot help it; it is all around me… The darkness has lessened.
And as I walk towards the summit, no longer afraid, I know.
This is the coming of the light.
They are waiting now, in the darkness
And I sense them shuffling unheard feet.
I fear that any change will break this stalemate;
will precipitate action again on a large scale.
And so I fear the coming of the light.
On a hilltop I stand, and bodies line the paths that lead to its summit,
Wracked by pain and death; and their blood mingles on my blades,
But there are more to come. Now, for this short time they wait,
And I breathe in the darkness as if I could pull enough inside to disappear.
And I fear the coming of the light.
It could be a mercy to see them, to know who and what it is that screams as my blades pull the life from their bodies.
But I am one man, and I have but two arms with which to slay.
The darkness is my ally, it confuses their attacks,
It causes them to wound each other as I snake in and out and twirl between deaths.
And so I fear the coming of the light.
The battle has forced me away from friendship, from love,
It drives me to reach the summit above, to the goal, to the prize,
Though I know not what it is, or what may await me in the darkness.
Its urgency pushes me onward, and I ignore all else,
Except my fear, of the coming of the light.
My fighting is free and unrestrained; I have abandoned myself to the slaughter,
For I have no friends whom I might wound, and each precise thrust spills foe’s blood.
My only questions are moot by now, for even the asking could spell death.
Who is it that I fight, in my unending battle? Who is it that screams when I thrust; whose breathe rattles out into the night?
I fear the coming of the light.
Lonely I stand, in the midst of many. My touch only wounds, my comfort lies in blood.
And for now, they stand away, and wait.
But battle will be rejoined soon, I hear the growing impatience in their ragged breaths.
And my own mirror them.
But still I fear the coming of the light.
The reason for this battle escapes me; I fight because that is what I have always done.
And I wonder if those arrayed against me know this secret drive,
Or if indeed there is reason at all.
Do we all fight so that the fighting will continue?
Do we all fear the coming of the light?
I have heard, in the darkness, those who have given up.
They throw away their weapons, and walk towards the summit unarmed.
I have heard them cut down, by others or myself, but it seemed as if;
Perhaps the darkness was less while they lived.
Did they, too, fear the coming of the light?
And what if, however insane it might seem, they were not alone,
And many threw down their arms and walked together?
Surely it would only mean their deaths… Surely;
Because this is a battle, this life.
And we must fear the coming of the light.
But as I wait for the fight to resume, with my weapons in hand,
I cannot help but remember, how the darkness seemed a little less,
And think that maybe… If there were enough who worked together,
Could the darkness be driven back?
Does it, too, fear the coming of the light?
Those around me move closer, and I throw down my weapons.
I know not why, nor how, nor what will happen to me.
And I fear the consequences of my actions, but at least I have chosen them,
And no longer, not today nor evermore,
Will I fear the coming of the light.
They stop for a moment, those hungry souls,
And I see what they see, what causes them to hesitate.
I cannot help it; it is all around me… The darkness has lessened.
And as I walk towards the summit, no longer afraid, I know.
This is the coming of the light.
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