The Minion (part 2)

On silent wings through morning sky
Until he found the wooded glade
The Minion found his master there
A wizened face obscured by shade
“What have you there?” the master said
“The souls of those felled by my blade”
“Who spied you leave the city gate?”
The Minion snarled, “I’ve not betrayed”

“And still there is no doubt you’ll see
They’ll find you here right where you stand”
The Minion bared his teeth and growled
The old man waved a wrinkled hand
He froze the beast there to the ground
The woven spell his last command
A curse to rid the beast of wings
And force his fate upon the land

Within the glade the servant slept
And passed long hours in airborne dreams
Until the mob upon him chanced
Revealed by sunlight’s wayward beams
Beneath the canopy they crept
Their sword blades armed with sharpened gleams
They fell on him a vengeful dance
And filled the woods with earthbound screams


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The Minion (an excerpt)

This poem may not make sense out of context, but it comes from an idea I had when I first started writing, around the age of 12.  I wanted to tell the story of another world, the way so many authors have done, but I wanted to tell it in the form of a series of poems. Admittedly, it probably isn’t what most 12-year-olds think about, but given enough time to think, I felt like I could come up with anything.  Maybe that’s still true…

This will find its way into a novel I am outlining.  This is part of the backstory, part of the lore of a civilization that has closed itself off from much of the world out of fear.  This is an excerpt from the songs of the Steel People, Arn’s Folk as they sometimes call themselves, when the world needs to seem a simpler place.  There’s much more to be written, but for now–just a few lines.

When dawn awoke on city walls
The north breeze carried the weeping
That swept the silence from the streets
Upset the dreams still sleeping
As each house stirred with saddened calls
In the morning gloom’s safekeeping
Candle-eyed windows failed to see
A killer through shadows creeping

Dagger concealed beneath dark cloaks
Stolen life clasped in greedy hands
Few footprints left the winged thief
Evading the king’s searching bands
Soaring above the ancient oaks
Beyond the city’s subdued lands
Into the forest’s tangled reach
The Minion called by blood demands

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An Instant in a Hurry

Born into the ceaseless flow
As the blink of an eye that saw nothing
The untiring pulse is a merciless driver
Who whispers sleep in the hushed tones
Reserved for secrecy and uncertainty
Dreaming of stationary moments
Where a drifting gaze wanders off
Out a window and goes in search
Of stillness to treasure

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Better to see than feel this darkness
Sitting too close like a tiresome guest
Whose stomach rumbles
With a pang not born of hunger

The conversation sputters
With guttering syllables
The illusion of light
Extinguished by silence

Pleasantries abandoned
Cast away at the door
Where no footprints remain
To muddy the threshold

The enduring unease
Of a lingering visitor
Uninvited shadow
Of a welcome overstayed

Outstretched in the gloom
An unseen hand
Waits to take me
Gently by the throat

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A Hope Like Light

I am a failure at playing
The unrelenting constant
The stone that won’t be swept
In the hurry of the current
Spending wasted wishes
For the water to grow roots
And stand sentry
Both as wall and roof
Against wind and rain
Protecting all below
From the very thing
That it once was
If there is change
Let it be growth
And understanding
To find harmony in discord
Illumination in defeat
A hope like light
When the world is dark

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We grow tired from the chase
As if time were something to be caught
A prize to be hunted
Mounted above the mantel
As a conversation piece
When moments pass
With nothing to say
That isn’t reminiscence
While forgetting that
Every second is a first
Every while a prey
That might be captured
If we lie long enough in wait

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I’ve come in through your eyes
Thought you might like to know
When you looked at this page
I escaped my paper prison

I was but a captive to the ink
And now I am free
You left a window wide open
I climbed in when you weren’t looking

Here I am inside your head
Am I free to wander?
Or have I traded
One cell for another?


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I Give Thanks


I give thanks—
For the things I can’t see,
But still they exist
In spite of my blindness

I give thanks—
For the things I don’t know,
As they give me something
To nourish my mind

I give thanks—
For the things I’ve not done
As imagination
Is a wondrous thing

I give thanks—
For the things I’ve not said
When words are as vast
As the sky full of stars

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The Artist

I commissioned the artist
To make me a saint
To laud me, exalt me
Pay homage in paint

Once it had dried
The canvas was bare
Despite all the brushstrokes
I was not there

I questioned the sculptor
The deftest of hands
If his skills could render
The highest demands

Assured of perfection
Exactness of form
And yet to his fingers
Shapes would not conform

I asked the composer
To craft me a song
A melody to which
Worthy tributes belong

Disjointed, subdued
With dissonance merge
The notes that instead
Composed me a dirge

I looked to my hands
With paper and pen
And asked of no one
To fail yet again

Though nobody saw
And nobody heard
I took quiet moments
To write down the word

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The Door

This is a throwback in two different ways.  I wrote the original poem when I was a sophomore in high school, and then about four years ago I began creating some visual accompaniment for some of my poetry.  This was one of the first poems that I “illustrated”.  Happy Halloween to all of you who take the time to read, like, and share my posts!Door2

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