Posts Tagged ‘ Poetry ’

To Me on my Birthday

I heard a knock knock knocking on my door
where I sat alone, (for I’m such a bore)
and I yelled, “Who’s there so very late?”
“It’s Death, come to celebrate
you being one year closer to your ending Fate!”
“Come in, dear friend, I don’t lock my door!”
In he walked, and muttered “You’re such a bore!
I come with gifts of drink, let’s go
and rid you of this pointless sorrow!”
‎”But Death, what if Fate finds me tonight!
The very thought gives me quite the fright!”
“Silly boy, you can’t hide behind this door!
Fearing Fate but makes you a terrible bore!
Let us go and brave the night!
And if Fate arrives, we’ll put up a fight!”
So Death and I walked out that door,
I, one year older, and less the bore.


An Ode to Soren

The statue sat in thinking pose
long fingers stretched up past his nose
pondering the worlds every woe
as burning sun gave to blustery snow
that affected not his train of thought
no matter how hard the wind did blow.

Across the twisting graveled path
sat a boy, engrossed in thoughtful task
of what the marbled form did spend
so much time lost in mental math
considering or seriously solving
though stuck on the pedestal in the grass.

Was he remembering some love long lost?
Or how creation came with fallen cost?
Or had death covered his closest friend
with blackened breath like creeping moss?
Did he think of the burdened poor
who died from hunger by the score?
Or was he sending prayers to heavens gates
past the fabled golden shores?

But the statue (who is you, Soren, my good man!)
sat untouched by natures chilling fan
to only challenge the mind of passer-bys,
who, on seeing his brow-furled guise
would stop to think and, thinking, stand
with a thousand thoughts passing ‘neath their eyes
engaged with sorting truth from lies.

For when one man thinks,
others join, minds a’brew;
and thinking men, my friend,
is what will always please you.

An Ode to Kristin

A happy sparrow claimed the sky
and all the twinkling stars set high,
called them children, sang them lullabies,
then tucked them to bed at the end of the night.

But one little star would rise so early
and rub its eyes in an avid hurry,
for sleep made the bright, bright sun so blurry
and it wished to wave goodbye.

The sparrow (who’s you, dear Kristen!)
saw the evening star’s soft glisten
as a teared rolled down its pointed chin
and, ever caring for her children,

“Why cry, why cry, little evening star?”
“For the sun waves not to me from afar!
I wake while she still sits low in her yard,
but I burn too low to be seen!”

The sweet sparrow, ever caring, ever loving,
waited till the next evening,
then, in flute-like voice, began singing
to the clouds that lounged on the mountains.

Her voice carried such mournful tones
that the clouds could not rest on their stoney thrones
so swiftly they flew before the coming gloam
and reached the soon-setting sun.

Thus as the sun settled quietly down,
the clouds covered her light like an evening gown
and the early-bird star shined like an emperor’s crown
as he waved ever excitedly.

Now able to see the farewell wave,
for the clouds had softened the light of day,
the sun happily in kind repaid
and bid goodnight to the evening star.

The star, so excited, kissed the sparrows cheek,
and the little bird’s heart reached its peak,
nearly bursting with a happy squeak,
for the love of children to any ends,
no matter if she must sing to clouds in the faroff mountains
or cart a little boy around on blessed weekends,
was all the happy sparrow wished to do.

An Ode to Jennifer

The rising moon said to the setting sun:
“You must trim your brilliant bangs,
their flaring length dims my ivory face
and keeps the world watching you,
for my soft-lit lamp can’t keep up the pace.”

But the sun, (who is you, sweet Jennifer!),
laughed, and let loose her shining hair,
“Silly moon! Were I to carelessly cut
my fiery-scarlet locks,
weaved quilt-like ’round the world and ‘neath doors long shut,
your own ivory-hued light,
though comforting ’tis true, would fade to black,
for it is I who lends the lamp to you!

So as night rolls over the oceans-blue
and sips up the cities sprawled,
be not jealous nor feel too much ignored,
but remember my bright rays
will, like a flute well played, fade (still adored!)
and leave an ever-haunting chord
that will echo from your dusty face
and return back to this earthy place,
so that those who hear the reverberations
will shower you with un-earned praise:
for though you are loved when I have slipped to bed,
it is I who make you great
with my long-stretched brilliant bangs!”

The Little Toy

The little toy lay on the ground where he fell
When the door had shut a little too fast
And jarred the table, shook the room,
Sending the poor little toy to his doom.

Shattered, broken, beaten and bruised,
The fall had left him in pieces, in parts,
His left leg sliding across the floor,
His right arm crumpled up by the door,
His left hand barely hanging on,
While his head was scratched, the paint nearly gone.

What would the little boy think, what would he do,
When he came home to find his favorite toy fallen, split in two?
Would he cry and hold his parts up high?
Would he throw his remains towards the bright blue sky?
Would he grow angry, bury him far underground?
Would he sullenly walk away without a sound?

How could the boy love a toy no longer fit
To be all he had in his expansive mind?
A policeman, a cowboy, an astronaut,
Courageous, romantic, humble and kind?

Where once his limbs had been strong as stone,
The years had wearied him down past the bone,
The burden of life had grown and grown,
And now, now he would be ever alone.

The door creaked open, there was the patter of feet,
And the sound of a young boys cry of defeat
As he saw his favorite toy scattered about;
“What had happened to the toy once so stout?”

But the little boys father leaned over his son
And soothed the child, calmed the storm,
Gathered the legs, the arms, the head,
While the little toy thought, “Surely, I am dead.”

The son watched with tear stained cheeks
As the father placed the pieces together so neat,
And with a tiny tool and steady hands
Put the little toy all together again.

Triumphant, the son lifted the little toy
For what the fall had broken his father had fixed,
And what had split apart, now was even stronger stitched;
Thus, the little boy loved even more
The little toy that had fallen to the floor.

The Beast

Their cries from distant shores resound
as the fathers called from yonder rougher ground
“Sons! Leave your beach, cross the river, brave the waves!
Lest the beast lay you in an early grave.”

Alas, their fears fell on muted ears;
instead the sons, with all their wood, built simple spears,
bared them bravely, beat their breasts,
staying far away from the waves deadly crests.

“The shores of our fathers are not for us,
their beaches barren, their forests fruitless.
See how the colors are dull and dreary.
See how the crossing made our fathers weary.
What danger waits that we cannot combat?
Our weapons sharp, ready to attack.
Courage and bravery we do not lack.”

But, at heart, the sons shook with trepidation,
always anxious at the rivers constant motion;
they saw men carried by its charging current
to the infinite beyond, to the endless ocean.

So the sons stayed on their bounteous beaches,
willing to brave the beast they had never seen,
but scared of the river which flowed within their very reach
’till came the day the foreboding fathers had foreseen.

Their cries from distant shores resound,
as the beast knocked their prideful weapons to the ground,
and no son escaped, for they had built neither boat nor oar,
as their fathers watched, mournfully, from the safer shore.

Eliza’s Fancy


Updated 3/1/2015

Eliza’s Fancy; a faery romance.

A Quick Note:

As there has been a rather unexpected rise in the amount of downloads, it is probably best for me to keep you few and dedicated readers updated on where things stand. I do not enjoy the thought of what torment you must be going through wondering ‘Is he still writing? Will I ever know the end? How will I survive without a new influx of epic poetry I probably didn’t even mean to start reading because I thought it was prose?” Alas, the anguish must be so great in you, I am sure. It pains me to know that I may well be the cause.

But worry not. It will be finished someday, that is not in question. The delay has been due to a combination of personal life (finding a faery-princess of my own who required no insignificant amount of effort to wrestle from the hands of all her other suitors) and intellectual trepidation about how to move the story from where it was to where I wanted it to be.

Luckily, the intellectual trepidation is no more, and I have even begun slowly churning out stanzas once again. I finally have settled on the complete story arc, and now it is but a matter of finding the time to put it into poetics. And I assure you, I am focusing far more on the meter and flow with these last four Parts than I did with the First, partially because I have hopefully improved as a poet, and partially because whereas the first Part was very careless in story as well as meter, and thus the loose flow matched the mood, these last parts are far tighter in both.

I deeply appreciate everyone who has asked me about my progress on the story, I sincerely didn’t expect anyone to read this unless forced upon them by my insistence. Those few strangers who have said such sweet words in reviews and shown such unwarranted interest have my humblest gratitude. And to  you friends who always ask about how it is going even though you likely do not truly want to hear me babble once more about it, thank you for continuing to humour me and for pushing me to finish.

My hope is now to at least get the first draft of Parts Six and Seven done by the end of the year. It is likely overly optimistic, but writing has been clipping along the last few weeks, and so I will hope for the best for as long as hope will float!

Thank you for reading my measly addition to a long-dead genre, I can but hope the ending I have will make the long wait worth it.

This page will be continuously updated as the progress on Eliza’s Fancy furthers. It will provide the best estimate as to the completion of the next Part, as well as periodic updates as to length in total and estimated release dates, though all such estimations are only that, and are thus subject to constant change.

Chapters in italics indicate currently in progress, or sketched out in content.
Chapters in bold indicate finished in skeletal form, to be reworked in some noticeable amount.
Chapters in regular indicate finished in near complete form, with changes being mostly in style or wording.

Parts will be released via Smashwords in chunks of nine chapters (one to two Parts released at a time), the first Part being free.

Looking to wrap up art work, then release it to the world. Soon, though not soon enough.

Part One

Released: February 25th, 2011

Part Two
Part Three

Released: February 25th, 2011

Part Four

Part Five

Released January 24, 2012

Part Six – Writing

Chapter XLVI – 1407 Words
Chapter XLVII – 2104 Words
Chapter XLVIII – 1216 Words
Chapter XLIX – 1610 Words

Chapter L – 758 Words
Chapter LI – 685 Words
Chapter LII257 Words
Chapter LIII324 Words
Chapter LIV

Part Seven – Plot hatched, basic outline in progress

Eliza’s Fancy is a faery-romance set in a whimsical world full of sylphan magic and demonic temptation. When Eliza wanders into an enchanted forest, she sees amidst the trees a Black Knight who steals her heart before riding off into the unknown distance. Pulled by this sudden love, she sets out to find him once again. Along the way, she meets fantastic friends and faces formidable foes in an adventure that delves into both the life-giving power and the dark-sided danger of love.