The Prayer of an (Un)Righteous Man

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Suicide

The six words of deadly power

Came so easily to his lips

As he stared at the moon—

Immortal, it seems.

But heavy his wings fell

Upon his back,

The fading memory of revels

Weighing down upon his mind

As he lifted his weary head,

Holding back tears:

He’d shed none for himself.

So he said—

—And from the core of his soul,

He believed as he said—

“I DO NOT BELIEVE IN FAERYS.”

The last syllable fell still as it left his lips.

He faded

and died,

His violent denial of self complete.

A Prelude to a Mortal Sin, / Caused by Incontinence of Imagination

This night,

Like many other nights,

I took upon myself to write

A poem entitled “Suicide.”

But the story I had to tell,

I knew, could not at all end well.

To take this tale, too hard to bear,

And set it down into words fair?

The thought fills me with fear.

For who could say if my lament

Might not itself cause the event?

If grammar is glamour,

And poets have power,

Can truth become lies

(Or versa the vice)

If I clap my hands and refuse to believe

What I must write

This night?

Apologia Erotica

The words that came to this son of man

by Cupid, the mighty god:

“Seek out this lady,

This new Spartan queen,

And speak to her.

Tell her I regret the wounds I have caused,

That the hurt to her psyche

Is my fault and no others.

“Tell her for as long as she listens,

Until she forgives the harm I have done,

Until the wounds heal.

Thou my servant, pray thy words are a balm to her heart."

My heart went out to this lady,

For well I knew

How long the pain lingers

When Cupid’s first gold arrow pierces the heart.

“And how,” I asked, “will I know her?”

So then, by art or by skill or power divine

(I know not which)
Her image appeared

Between me and the god.

Oh! Had I known,

Had the god better prepared me!—

—But no warning might have sufficed

To prepare me for this beauty.

Her hair was gold, flowing like the autumn wind,

a breeze carrying leaves aloft;

The glamour of her figure,

The grace of her curves,

Was beyond the ken of any poet—

God, man, or anything in between.

The stars seemed to dance in her eyes,

as though she had trapped them,

as though she were hiding another world.

One could scarcely believe such perfection existed.

Yet she was more real than real,

Beyond the mind of any god

to conceive, create, deceive.

I did not know where to look:

The whole of her was so great,

No part was left not enhanced by another.

Rightly I judged her, then,

The last wonder of the world.

So brightly she shone, her light the light of fire.

Just by looking I began to burn.

Here was beauty that would tempt angels;

Heaven’s hosts would gladly be damned

If only she smiled as their reward.

With such a glory as hers

Being sin itself,

At last I understood why the Nephilim were counted among the great.

Most of all, I longed to hear her voice.

So I turned to Cupid,

Sorrow mingled with wrath:

“Cupid, alas!

You have deceived me!

What words do I have

That such beauty would hear?

What could I say,

That she might forgive?”

“It is your habit,” said he,

“To obey my commands;

Though you are a favored toy of the Muses,

They offer you no love.

So go, then! Speak what words you are able.

It is I, Aeneas’ brother,

The mocking shadow of Rome, who commands you.”

Then he held out his hands.

Slowly I perceived he held no arrow.

His left hand was empty:

In his right,

A Vulcan-forged shield.

No world-in-miniature,

No past/future glory

Was its decoration,

But only her face, her lovely lips marked with my name.

I took the shield in my hand,

And the desire to protect her was kindled in me.

“Your desire,” Lord Cupid said,

“Will be your protection.

But beware, for it shall fall on you

To protect her from your desire.”

I kissed his empty hand

And went on my way.

Often, it was my habit

To turn and stare at her image,

Until my eyes could handle no more.

So armed,

Like Alexander entering Egypt,

I raced toward my end.

~Watanagashi~

The rain falling on my neck
stings like cursed needles,
But it cannot wash away
the blood on my hands; your face.
Comes the curse in the middle of night
with the festival that will only end
When the cicadas cry.

Reality bends to the breaking
as demons cut their hands
On a shattered clock running counter-clockwise:
the silent poison creeps over my bed,
The blade hangs over me as I lie...
but the nightmare can only pass away
When the cicadas cry.

And I am snatched away
to the raven feast:
The spectacle of my end,
fearing claws at my throat--
A Murderer-god deserves no shrine,
but what if the day does not come
When the cicadas cry?

Nobody Loves You

It's been said that darkness dwells deep in every heart.
But I have seen your heart, felt it beating beside mine,
And I know that within your heart
Is only the purest of lights.

I have seen your soul, shining bright
Like a sun before which no shadow can stand.

Can you see me?
This ghost of what I once was, concealed behind other eyes,
Seeing the echo of your face, undimmed.

Your love is the key that has unlocked my being.
And the way I feel now, you'd never convince me I'm heartless.
And if the love of a Nobody like me can mean anything at all,
Know my heart is yours, and my love is real.

As real as you are.

The Song of Eørn: A Bedtime Story (Part 1)

Once upon a time…

…there was a powerful knight errant named Sir Eørn. He was skilled in using the sword, lance, and shield. His armor was a gleaming white, and despite the many battles he had been in, his armor was unmarred, as pristine as the day it was forged. On his shield was emblazoned a bear that looked both fierce and noble. A blue flag was tied to the tip of his lance, swaying in the breeze whenever he walked. The tip of his sword was stained dark with the black blood of monsters and demons he had slain. He was spoken highly of throughout the land, and those who had personally seen his kind gaze swore his eyes were golden in color. Yet not one of them had ever heard him speak.

In the cities and towns, whenever he took his rest, he would often sit and listen to people singing, smiling to himself all the while. Whenever those he served insisted on paying him, he would accept with a smile, only to give it to minstrels at the next town.

One day, as Eørn walked through the woods, his meditations were interrupted by a scream and a screech. Leaping into action, he lowered his lance and charged towards the sound. The knight burst through the foliage and saw a woman, shielding her eyes, being attacked by a cockatrice. Without hesitating, Eørn hurled his lance, striking the cockatrice’s claw and pinning it to the tree. The beast screeched and clucked in rage, turning its killing gaze on the knight. Eørn pulled down the visor on his helm and drew his sword, rushing in. The monster’s tail lashed out and the knight dodged. The cockatrice’s leg shot out, hitting the knight in his stomach. Eørn fell to his knees, protecting himself with his shield as the cockatrice kicked out again. The knight blocked the kick and rolled with the hit, coming up and slicing the creature’s neck. The cockatrice’s head fell to the ground, spraying ooze from the neck. The black blood rolled off Eørn’s white armor without leaving a mark. The knight landed, sword at the ready, catching his breath. Satisfied that the monster would not rise again, he sheathed his sword and retrieved his lance, freeing the woman that had been attacked.

Though black blood was splashed all over the tree, the woman’s countenance and dress were unsoiled. Eørn bowed, removing his helm. She offered her hand, and he kissed it. She received his kiss with a smirk. “What is your name?” she asked.

As always, the knight said nothing.

She blinked. “I asked you a question, knight. I would know the name of my savior.” Seeing that he still did not reply, she frowned. “Or would you have me think you rude?”

He bowed again. When she said nothing further, he suspected that she had left in anger. Rising, he saw her in front of him still. But she had been transfigured. A fey woman stood in her place, with leaves crawling up her body to nest in her hair. An odd expression was on her face, as though she were not sure what to think. “You have saved my life,” the faery said, “and you were wise enough not to trust me with your true name. Therefore, I have little choice but to give you a boon, lest I be considered rude in my place. What do you wish, knight? A kingdom of your own? Riches? The love of some lady?” She was about to add, “To become the most powerful of knights,” but did not, because she half-expected he already was, whether he knew it or not.

For a long moment, the knight said nothing, until even the faery began to grow impatient. At last, he spoke, and when he did, it was with a harsh rasp. “I wish for nothing,” he croaked, removing his armor, revealing a horrific scar on his neck. “Except for a voice. I wish to be able to sing.”

The fey blinked in surprise at this wish, for she had never heard anything like it from a knight. “For real?” she blurted out. “I mean, indeed? I confess I did not expect such a request. Are you sure this is your wish?”

“It is a desire I did not dare to admit, even to myself,” he rasped.

Sensing his honesty, the faery sighed. “I might restore your wound,” she said, “but it is beyond fey magic to create that for which you have wished.” This was not strictly true; there have been tales in which mortals were blessed with faerie-art. But that power was stolen from the Folk, and was stolen back just as easily. No fey can tell an untruth, but the faery knew that the knight would never accept stolen art, and so she had spoken truthfully.

“There is,” she said, “another way.” The knight looked at her expectantly. “This art cannot be created, that is, made from nothing. However, I can draw it out from another source within you.”

“Such as?”

“If you truly wish to sing,” the faery continued, “and sing well, I must convert the art from your other talents. By granting you this gift, you will lose all strength and skill in combat you have now. You will not even be able to hold a sword correctly. Your life as a knight will end.”

“If that is the price, it is already paid,” he rasped. “Without question,” he said again, interrupting her as she began to ask once more.

There was no ceremony, no ritual. If anything, the faery seemed eager to be out of the knight’s presence. With the softest of after-glows, she disappeared.

Eørn coughed. He coughed again as his throat burned. He dropped his sword and shield, and they clattered to the ground as his hands flew to his neck. The heat faded.

For a long moment, Eørn knelt unmoving, face toward heaven. He breathed in, slowly. Then, a tear tracing his face, he bowed his head and sang for the first time in his life. As his voice rose, the forest was filled with the sound.

He was singing a hymn.

This Is Not A Poem

This is not a poem,
whatever your eyes or ears are telling you.
Here you will find no rhyme,
No reason,
No meter,
No scheme
Behind these words that have been written,
these lines recited,

This is not the place for metaphor
or turns of phrase
to delight the ear
and rapture the heart.

Here will be no dragons,
no dreams,
no whispers of something more
than ideas in the languages of men.

No art or pattern
will be discerned
that is worth discerning.

Only the diligent will try.

The Second Inquiry

We've heard about Friday,
and all the blood shed,
the pain that was endured;
None could forget what happened that day
(The Gospel According To Gibson assured that).

And we know about Sunday,
the women climbing the path,
still dark,
waiting for the sunrise,
though the Son had already risen.

We know about the Friday earthquake,
and have heard of the Sunday angels.

But what, O Lord, of Saturday?
Where were you that day
between death and life?

Were you in Judaica,
as some have said,
in combat with Azazel,
Lucifer, the Beast?
But then why should the battle have lasted so long?

Were You sleeping,
that Saturday,
that seventh day,
that Sabbath,
keeping the Lord's day in Your tomb,
resting from Your work of Salvation?

Was God's rest
Recaptured
by the Lord of the Sabbath?

Three days in one memory,
three acts in one work,
Dying, death, undying.
Why the day of death?
Why is it that
on the Second Day
The Second Person
of the Three Persons in One God
descended,
humbled to complete the work?

I Felt Like Writing A Poem...

...so I did.

Without waiting for the whims of inspiration,
without begging or searching.
I command the Muses,
bend them to my will,
and not the other way around.
For am I not more a child of God
Than Achilles ever was?
Is not the Spirit in me
More powerful than they
Who held Olympus?
Therefore I defy Calliope,
and put her sisters under my feet.
I shall write,
I shall sing,
I shall hymn
When I please, and when it pleases Him.
For He is my inspiration, and He is always with me.

An Endless Almost Nightmare

Another night, perhaps,
it might have ended differently
(if it had ended at all).
For now, the dream remains the same,
unfinished,
coming to a stop
at the threshold of nightmare
without ever quite crossing.

The ending of dreams
of any sort
is always to be desired.
Despair is not conducive to sleep
while under-bed monsters go hungry, unfed.

But no amount of force
behind closed eyes
will cause the lights to flicker.
Better the white or the black than uncertain Limbo.
The unfinished dream,
the toothless terror,
lukewarm,
satisfies no one.

The Anti-Cyborg

Flesh, bone, blood, and steel,
while the mind remains intact,
should not be combined.

Killing Headless Shadows

Walking shady paths,
my shadow's head is broken.
I hardly notice.

In the Monster's Honor

Alas! This vital spark!
Some wires in my brain got crossed.
It burns when I think.

Faery Dust and the Sandman's Sand

Dreams are other worlds.
If Faerie is where mortals sleep,
where then go the fey?

A Rose, Brushed White and Black

A picture of a rose,
brushed in black and white,
leaves so much unsaid.
A rose deserves its color,
lest the blossom,
stem, and thorn
all be confused
in this greyscale, film-noir
portrait.

The Obligatory Emo Poem

Fashionable tears
run mixed with black mascara.
It's the Next Big Trend!

The Poet's Reply

It's not an easy thing,
to take up again
the poet's task
after ignoring the call so long.

With every newly met beauty
or wonder that presented itself to the mind,
a promise was made to the pen,
but these promises were not kept
and now the Muses dress in neon orange and jump and wave their arms for attention.

So, chastised, with scars upon my back
and calluses upon my heart's eyes,
I heed thy plea, O pen
and let your ink flow
like blood from a fresh wound.

What a wondrous thing it is,
that scribbled lines on a page
can convey a thought,
and more than a thought,
an image.

So let us be reacquainted,
Mistress Inspiration,
though I have grown fat and slow this summer.
You're still as lovely as ever.

Look! The words still come,
as weak and in need
of His beauty to reinforce theirs
as ever.

The angel song still calls.
Pen in hand, I prepare for battle.

The Pen's Plea to the Lazy Poet

I'm actually surprised
My ink has not run dry
Yet. That's not a threat,
just a warning.

So long unused, here
left on the desk, or in the drawer
along with every book left unread.

What words are left unsaid!
What thoughts that should be placed
upon the page...
I think.
Do you?

Still think, I mean.

For what pain have I ever caused?
Or wrong I have ever done,
that I should be ignored?
Left to the side at the cost of every
flickering screen,
crooked neck,
sore wrist,
callused thumb,
sleepless night
that goes by without a poem.

Or is the wordhoard emptied?
Is there nothing left you have to say?
What would she think?
What would He think?

I long for the touch of your hand,
the work of your mind once more.
Will you pass me by again?
See how the blank paper cries.

Has your wit run dry?
I still have ink.

The First Inquiry

What shall we say, then?
Regarding the questions of "how" and "when,"
How can we speak of
When there was no "when"?

These twin constraints
of space and time
(if twins they are,
and not one-and-the-same),...
Which is the elder?

Or did God speak before Creation?
Did the Word have need of words?
I assume the angels sang.
Could they sing without words?
What music that'd be.

But then, perhaps, when God first
opened His Mouth,
that "first" was the first "first."

Did the spatial act of God speaking,
"Let there be Light,"
"there" after "Let" and "Light" after "be,"
One word, then another,
First one word, then another
word after the one before--

Was that the beginning
of both time and space?

The Demon Who Blushed

"It has been," he said,
"some time since I
made my way up there.
Does that seem right?"

The angel (fallen) paused
to consider...
"What demon," he said,
"makes not his presence known?

"What demon does not disturb
the earth? What demon,
by his negligence,
allows the human race some peace?

"Leave the hiding places
to the bean-sidhe and
the will'-o'-wisps.
Tonight, I fly."

Then, wings spread
(feathers molting),
he left his country behind.

On earth, the malefactor
turned this way and that,
watching the parade of flesh
below him.

"What pain can I cause,"
he said, "what darkness might
I bring tonight?" He rubbed his
hands together in Ovidian glee.

"In a heart, I'll
cause evil to be found
where before, there was none."
He chose his target and swooped down.

The demon pushed his way past
the skin, the hair, the blood, the bone
and penetrated to the heart,
entering in.

The demon almost drowned.
The sin of the heart was so vast.
On instinct, he tried to fly away,
but the heart was like an ocean

of sticky oil, coating the demon's feathers.
Such thoughts he saw there
in that mind, the likes of which
Hell had never heard of.

Faced, then, here at the turn
with sin so shameful
he could not have imagined it,
the demon blushed.

But the heart was so dark,
no one could have noticed.

A Midsummer Night's Blind Date

I only love her for her Shakespeare.
I sing a Sonnet, and she listens.
Her eyes reflect the playwright's light.
I like her for her wit; alas,
her wit is not her own.

Walking to Sutherland....

Sounds of ringing bells
can be heard as I pass by
six men, sitting down.

A Thought, Leading to an Experiment

I wonder ____ if
Silence ____ can be used as
A syllable? Hmmm...

Iron Realm

Steel-encased city.
I can't even recognize
The scent of the earth.

A Cinderella Wedding

Watching, waiting, enjoying the way

The white dress sways across your legs.

You look so lovely as you dance.

Your hand like a dream feels warm

In mine as I lead the dance,

My clumsy feet avoiding yours.

We are the life of this party.

The lights are dim as the dance goes on,

The lights are bright as I stand still,

Statue-still at the altar,

Watching, waiting, enjoying the way

The white dress sways across your legs.

You look so cheery as you approach.

Your face like a dream I see

Out of the corner of my eye

Stealing a glance

As we say our vows tonight,

Then go away to our second dance.

Us together, the perfect fit

Until the dance ends,

The moment we

Both have been so

Eagerly awaiting.

The dance ends, just like

The vows fade with the magic.

The clock strikes twelve

And, racing down empty streets

Each to our own home,

Our own personal

Happily

Ever afters,

We separate,

Leaving the glass slippers behind.

When Hell Sings

What is this---I weep?
I did not feel the one death.
Why feel the other?

Haiku

I shall take the earth
and force it into these short,
short lines, grouped in threes.

From the Author(s)

Do you know my mind?
I defy you, speed-reader.
Read these words again.

Do you know my heart?
I defy you, speed-reader.
Read these lines again.

Or perhaps my soul?
I defy you, speed-reader.
Read my words again.

The Line of the Cross (part 3)

The next day, Riolin and Laedril came without her. Both of them walked slowly, their heads hung. The tree’s sap ran cold, and it asked what was the matter.

“The sword of summer begins to cut us all,” Riolin said. “The time is short, even as men reckon it; the time from Easter until Samhain is a moment’s whisper to the Faire Folk.” He paused. “Eärdressa…” He stopped, throat dry.

Laedril put a hand on his shoulder. “Middle-child, oldest of the common Folk and youngest of the wise, lovely elf-maiden of the See, has been chosen as the Tithe.”

There was little time to waste. The months were already breathing down their necks. Riolin and Laedril cried. Eärdressa came later that night and smiled sadly at the tree, dressed in a pale shroud. She said nothing. But the tree had an idea.

The tree turned its attention to itself. Perhaps it prayed. When its first leaf fell, it put its plan into action.

The sun set, and the tree’s leaves took on a fiery hue. The four friends were gathered. “Why did you call us?” Riolin asked.

The tree only said, “Close your eyes.” They did. The tree reached within, and tore out its own heart, leaving it on the ground. “Now.” The tree’s friends opened their eyes, and gasped as they saw the hole rent in the tree’s trunk.

“Eärdressa. Riolin. Laedril.” It called them by name. “Hide inside me.” They looked to each other, then crawled into the tree. It seemed to them to have become a portal into heaven.

The night came on in full, and boggarts and bean-sidhe and sadist-smiling leprechauns and all manner of Unseelies crawled out of the shadows. Endlings crawled right up to the tree itself.

“The sacrifice, the sacrifice,” they said. “The tithe. Where is it?”

“What value is faerie flesh and faerie blood?” the tree asked. “I offer you wooden flesh and running sap, the bones of the earth and memories of the third day. You know that three is a number of power. My heart is your tithe.” It pointed to the wooden heart on the ground. “Take it.”

They all turned to look at the one who was leading them: a Deeping pixie, whose eyes seemed to absorb all light. The pixie nodded. Like wolves running across a night sky they descended, grabbing the tree’s heart in their hands and tossing it back and forth between them like children. They did not notice as it burned their hands.

The Unseelie had a revelry then, dancing and screaming and hissing like snakes. The little Deeping pixie flew high into the air, his fist raised in rude defiance against the stars. But when midnight came—when the blackest was thickest, what should have been their hour—the Samhain night became the day of Saints. And all who had touched the tree’s heart with evil intent gasped, and wretched, and were undone. The tree covered the hole with branches, protecting its hiding friends from the sounds of their screams.

When it was done, they walked out of the tree, trembling but safe.

A Man was standing in the field. The faeries bowed to Him, but the tree did not recognize Him. He walked forward, smiling gently and placing His Hand on its trunk.

“I can never forget the feel of this wood on my back,” He said.

“Your back, sir?” the tree asked.

“It is good wood, strong and hard. It was rough and drank my blood. That was your mother tree, it was—many have come between you and her, but you are her son truly. You proved that tonight, protecting the ones you loved from a tithe that should never be paid and taking the price on yourself.”

“Lord?” the tree whispered. “I do not understand.”

He kissed the tree. “Actually, I think you do.”

He healed the scar and turned to the heart. He knelt and placed His hand on it, and it became a second tree like the first. The trees saw each other and fell in love. Then the Man turned towards the first tree and smiled. He reached out His Hands again (the tree saw the scars there) and reshaped the tree in memorial of what he had done. Three branches grew from the one trunk.

Then He made Eärdressa, Riolin, and Laedril lords of the Fair. And that tree endured, and the pact between that tree and the faerie lasted forever. Even the Unseelie would come and awe at it, for that tree had carried the touch of love in its wood for generations, to demonstrate it to them.

To this night, each spring the Courts come and revel in front of that tree, and the hole that is a testament to love and friendship, where the faerie captives hid from hell, can still be seen.

And in the morning, the faeries leave.

Both trees still stand, still in love with each other. They cast shade that gives rest to all who stay there.

And a girl, with her Bible and her little book, relaxes under them, reading and studying and worshiping the Three-in-One God.

The Line of the Cross (part 2)

Every day the parson would come, and every day the fruit would tremble as they wanted to believe something they did not understand. They asked the tree questions it did not know the answer to. So the fruit listened, and wondered. Until the war came, and the fires burned down the church with the parson still inside, and the tree was hewn down. One fruit escaped, however, and the seed took root and grew. When it bore fruit, it tried to tell them of the parson, and teach them what he had said, but the tree did not understand, and the fruit’s memory was a jumble of half-understood whispers and engrained memories of the mother tree.

----

History repeats itself, and fruit merchants would pick and sell the fruit, shipping it half-across the country as new technologies and new paths to the West opened up, farther and farther away from the rising of the sun. That line of trees spread, and the memories of trees are longer than the memories of man. So it was that one young tree was planted in a field, and thought every day of the parson, and wondered what the meaning of his words were. The tree would dream of such things, confused and twisting images in its poor little tree-mind, and every dream would be haunted by the whispers:

“We have killed love.”

The tree would ponder these things, and wanted to believe, but would pass each day in confusion and longing.

The first of March approached. The first refrains of Spring’s song could just be heard, and the earth began to wake up. The Folk walked out of their tunnels and mounds, and found the tree. The pixies squealed in delight and raced to climb its branches. Wisps and sprites flew to the top, curious.

The tree watched as the court parted, glory preceding from them as one of their wise ones came forward. She had no eyes, but could see, and she touched the wood of the tree. “This tree,” she said, “is of a line we have not seen here. There is something special in its wood, in its memory. This tree has touched Love.” She turned to her king and bowed. The Seelie Court had found its new center.

Each night that spring, the wisps and the pixies and the faeries and the elves would come and hold their court before that tree, resting in its shade and playing in its branches were no men could see. The wiser of the fey would sit and speak with the tree, learning what they could.

“Why ask me questions?” the tree asked. “I am a young tree, and some of you are old as the bones of the earth itself.”

One elderly wise fey stroked his chin, and pebbles and leaves fell from his beard. “I remember,” he said, “first opening my eyes in the mud, taking my first breath as the deluge waters subsided. And there are those who are older than I. Still, all dwarrow know that wisdom upholds the earth, and the bones of mountains and forests still remember something of the between times of the second and third days. If we hold our own young among the wise, then surely, little baby tree, we can learn something from you.” He turned, indicating an elf maid with his hand. “This lass here, we call her Middle-child, for that is what she is—there are fey elder than she, and fey younger, but no fey the same age. She is one of the youngest of the wise, but we count her among our number.”

The elf-maid bowed. She did not look away from the tree, not even as they all feasted and supped, and remained when the other faeries left. “You,” she said, “are a good tree. I believe this.”

“I have little wisdom to teach you,” the tree said.

“Who said anything about wisdom?” she replied. “I have my fill of all the wisdom I need every day. I have little friends.”

“Friend, Middle-child?”

She put her finger on her lips, shushing him. “My name is Eärdressa.”

The tree thought. “Why didn’t the other wise call you by name?”

“They do not know it,” she answered simply. And then she was gone.

She came back the next morning, holding the hand of another elf. “This is my friend,” she said, bowing politely before the tree. “You may call him Starbrow, because of the way his eyes shine.”

Starbrow smiled. “Middle-child speaks highly of you, tree.”

“And she rarely speaks at all,” said a third voice, surprising the tree. A third faerie appeared in its branches, making itself visible. “I am Laedril, friend tree.”

Eärdressa looked surprised. “Laedril?”

“What?” He shrugged. “You gave him your name. That’s good enough.”

Eärdressa looked to Starbrow. He nodded. “Laedril is right.” He turned to the tree. “Forgive me, friend. My name is Riolin. Eärdressa and Laedril are the only ones who know it, so pardon me if I’m not used to giving it out so soon. But as Laedril says, Eärdressa trusts you to know her name, and she is counted wise. Riolin I shall be.”

And so they were bound, by trust and by names, the four of them. And the three fey would come every day, when the rest of the fey were still sleeping, and rest in the tree’s branches, speaking with it and with each other of matters great and small. And the tree would ask many questions on love. Eärdressa considered it. “Tell me what you think love is,” she prompted. And the tree told its half-memories of the parson’s teaching.

“But it makes no sense to me,” the tree said.

She jumped to the ground, tracing symbols in the dirt with her finger as she thought. “It will not be real to you,” she decided, “until you do it.”

“Can I love,” the tree asked, “and not know what love is?”

“What is love?” Eärdressa asked. “What is goodness, or beauty? Are they lies, or truth? What is God? You’d think that if anyone in creation knows, it would be the faeries. But we are a curiously amoral lot. And the Folk have their own difficulties.”

The tree thought she sounded sad, but the moment passed.

The next day, they did not come. The tree began to worry.

The Line of the Cross (part 1)

“Speak not to us of love,” the tree said. “For love is gone, we have killed love. There’s no such thing as love.”

The parson, with his Bible and his little book, walked through the yard on the cool spring day, choosing his favorite tree and relaxing in its shade. Sitting down, he opened his Bible and began to read.

Overhead, the fruit hanging from the tree’s branches looked down, reading over his shoulder. But the tree pulled back, so that the fruit could not see. “Be still, my children,” the tree said to its fruit, “and pay no attention. For love is gone, we have killed love. There’s no such thing as love.”

----

This is the generation of that tree, and how it came to be planted in that place. The mother tree, her roots digging deep, was cut down by the soldiers. And her fruit fell to the ground, crying—for she had been a good mother. Before their eyes, the mother-tree was chopped down, and hewn into boards, and assembled together in the shape of a cross.

“Why cut down our mother?” the fruit asked. But the soldiers did not answer. The wooden beams that had been their mother was laid on the shoulders of a Man, and the fruit watched Him die. They were young, and did not understand, but this they knew—their mother was gone. And deep within, they understood that love was dying. Thus, their love for their mother faded—or so they thought. But love was not dead, and would rise again; and their love for their mother ruled the secret places in their hearts.

So the fruit rotted, and their seeds took root in the soil and sprung up, becoming new trees. And as they bore fruit, they would tell their children, “Love is gone, we have killed love. There’s no such thing as love.”

Those fruit were picked, and eaten, and those seeds planted. And when they grew into trees, they remembered what their parents had told them, saying to their own fruit:

“Love is gone, we have killed love. There’s no such thing as love.”

So it went on, the trees teaching their fruit this phrase, and being passed on from seed to seed. As time passed further on, the fruit would ask the trees more questions, but the trees could not answer, for they did not know. They could only repeat what they had been told when they were fruit themselves, and the reasons of how and why were lost to that line of trees.

----

The trees would be cut down, and new trees would grow in their places, and the number of years passed grew. Empires died that the trees outlived, passing on their knowledge and stories to their fruit. The fruit of that line was desirable, pleasing to the eyes and good for food, and so the fruit was picked and sold in the market places, the seeds spreading. The line of those trees spread across Europa, separated by time and distance but bound by wood and chlorophyll and roots—half-remembered fever dreams of an ancient and loved mother-tree that even now the great-great-great-great-great-descendants of her fruit mourned.

----

It so happened that eventually, a merchant passed by where several of the trees had taken root, and picked the fruit and sold it. The fruit was bought by a captain who was setting in order everything for his party’s expedition. They needed supplies—food, water, raiment—and thus the fruit crossed the ocean and into the New World. It was a hard winter that year, and the stores were low. The soil was fertilized with buried bodies, but the crush of winter’s hammer was heavy, killing man and tree alike. But winter is not eternal, and the colony survived. Most of the line died that winter, but a few seeds took root and became trees that grew and lasted for years, always enduring, always teaching their fruit what they had been taught before.

There was a little girl who was hungry, and her father gave her fruit. She ate it, and planted the seed in a secret place in the field that only she knew.

And that was how that tree came to be there, and the parson would come every day with his Bible and his little book and study under the tree.

----

The tree would lean back, pulling its fruit away, but every day the parson would come—doing his devotions, praying, reading aloud, writing his sermons. And the fruit heard it. They heard it all.

But what would trees know of shed blood and incarnated flesh?

Death's Victory

Hi. I’m Death. No, really.

I’m older than you think I am. Seriously. The reputation I get is so bad now, you’d think I was born when Eve bit the apple. Or whatever kind of fruit it was; it’s been so long I can’t remember. Anyways. People forget that the Tree of Life was there before the Fall. Even without sin, man wasn’t going to live forever yet. He had the chance to, sure, but part of being human is being mortal. It’s what makes you what you are.

So, when He first breathed His Breath into Adam and Adam became a living soul, I was part of the deal.

It’s different with things like us. By “us” I mean, you know, those non-physical things that you can’t see or touch and all the rest. Our creations are more off-stage. You don’t see them in Genesis 1 the way you see the physical things being made. So while He shouted out the physical, He whispered us. So there, as He was making Adam and breathing that new, unique and incomprehensible life that only Man has, I felt myself being made alongside. He stroked my invisible head, as it were, and warned me not to take things too personally. Then He called me by name. “Death,” He called me. And Death I am.

I was sad when Adam and Eve fell, really I was. I wouldn’t have minded if they’d eaten from the Tree of Life at all. But they didn’t. I waited a long time, but after a little more than 900 years, it was time. I took my time with everyone back then, thinking I was doing them a favor. But longer life is more opportunity to sin, it seems, or at least back in those days. I don’t know about now. So when things got so bad that the Lord was weeping, I was ready. I swept over the globe, surfing the flood waters, taking both man and beast that hadn’t boarded the ark. When it was done, I cried. I cried a lot. But it was okay, because He was crying too.

So, after that I just tried to look at it like a job. People live, and they live for as long as they’re made to, and then, well… me. It’s like I say, every time some asks “why now?”: You get a lifetime, same as everyone else. No more, no less. But then everyone was afraid of me. Self-preservation instinct, or something? I don’t know why. Like I said, being human equals being mortal. Tolkien got it. Really, all fallen and sinful like that? Without me the world would have been tragic. I think He knew that too, and that’s why He kicked them out of Eden, to keep them away from the other Tree. But then…

It was a long time, you know? No one knew when it was going to end, not even me. And I was getting so tired of it all. It was a hard job, keeping tabs on every one alive like that. Exhausting is bad enough, but when you add “thank-less” to that, it’s unbearable if you think about it too much. So I didn’t think about it. I happen. That’s it. I settled into a routine and carried on. When someone was born, I’d be there, and He’d tell me how long, or how, and I’d just know. Then I’d come back at the right time.

At every birth, I was there.

So I knew. I knew. I felt it. Even the physical world knew, so on my end, you couldn’t miss it. Now, I’m confined to the sphere of the Earth, and I don’t see much of the area beyond it. But when He came down into it, you couldn’t miss it on our side. Like a fire, He was, coming down—you’d think the world was about to burn from the spirit-side-in. But it didn’t. I don’t know how He did it, but suddenly He was human. Or Human, I should say. I felt Him being born. So even before I got to Bethlehem I was already sweating bullets. Oh no. No. No no no no no no. NO. It couldn’t be. It didn’t make sense.

I got to Bethlehem and knelt before His cradle. It was Him, I knew, but it was hard to believe. Here, this little pink and screaming ball of flesh, the same as every other baby I had ever seen (which is all of them)—the Lord? My Lord? I had heard that voice before; it had called me “Death” and I was. Now that same voice, reduced to the screaming wails of a wet and hungry infant.

He was. I could smell Him, feel His heart beating like every other heart ever beat, heard His lungs pumping like every other lung ever pumped. And I, the stopper of hearts and lungs and brain impulses,… it couldn’t be. This was God. He couldn’t die. But He could. I knew He could. I’m Death. I know these things.

With His little baby hand, He patted me on the head the way His Father had those years before in Eden, and whispered my name comfortingly. Then He cried, like all babies cry. And I cried like a baby, too.

He told me to stay in Bethlehem while He escaped. I did. That day…. I’m sorry, I can’t talk about that day. Suffice it to say, It had ceased to be just a job.

Fast-forward. Friday. I… I… I saw the blood pouring from every sweat gland, and they hadn’t even found Him yet. “If it be possible,” He prayed, and I prayed right there with Him. I wanted with all I was to be somewhere else, anywhere else. But I had to stay for the whole thing. With each blow I felt Him coming closer to me. I wanted to run, to simply say, “NO!” and not take Him. I’m Death. What if Death wasn’t there, huh? What then? But I didn’t dare.

He hung there on that cross, pouring and dripping like so much meat, and I still didn’t want to believe it was Him. It’s not like there hadn’t been other crucifixions before. I should be able to handle this. But this was Him. There He was, God-in-flesh, wholly Man. And humanity equals mortality.

I hemmed and hawed and delayed as long as I could. Then I took Him. He was dead. For the first time, I wished that Death were someone else. I pulled Him to me like a mother hiding her child, and I screamed and cried. I kissed His forehead where the thorns had pierced, and wrapped my arms around Him, feeling the hole in His side. He hugged me, and it tickled when my hair went into the holes in His palms. I rocked back and forth all Saturday, holding Him and wanting to let Him go but not daring, curled up in a fetal position and only kept sane from His touch. He didn’t say anything, but He didn’t need to. I knew He understood, and that was enough comfort.

Then, slowly, He drew away. I gasped and reflexively tried to hold Him, but He was too strong. He smiled and began to glow. Then I realized what was happening and let go, laughing. I watched as His body coloured and heard the heart and lungs pumping, and knew nothing would ever stop them from pumping. I was undone. He was too strong for me to hold Him, and I was never happier.

“Oh Death, where is thy sting? Oh grave, where is thy victory?”

Every so often I go back to that tomb and see it empty, and remember. This is my victory: my defeat by Him. And now for those who trust Him, I have become the Door by which they go to Him. That’s not so bad. Pretty darn good, even.

He submitted to me, and by that He conquered me. No, not conquered—subsumed. “Sweet death,” I’ve been called, “beautiful death.” Maybe. But in my heart, I’ll always be His death. There is nothing sweeter or more beautiful. I cling to that old rugged cross. I’m not stupid. Whenever they stare at the cross and remember me, it’s not me, not lil’ ol’ Death they love. They’re looking past the cross and past me to Him behind us. He’s the reason why it’s called “Good Friday,” really. Celebrating lil’ ol’ Death? Death is undone; I am nothing without Him. But then, none of us are.

So now I wait. Because when He comes back, even the endless things will end. A new universe, and He said that there would be no more Death. I can’t wait, you know? No Death. I’ll finally get to join Him in that rest He started on the seventh day. That’s all we really want, isn’t it? To rest.

Oh, for that new Heaven and new Earth… my Sabbath.

Well, I’ve said enough.

See you soon.

Brush-Strokes: A New Exhibit

Here in this foolish, flawed frame of Hell,
We fell and felt the fall,
Not mindful that we were made
With the widest of brush strokes.
Is it the frame or the painting that shows the value of the piece?

Within this black, cracked square
Of rat-eaten rotten wood
Is contained a canvas coloured
With all the marvels of twilight.
The artist displays the piece---
---Is it art?

The brush-strokes reveal the beauty
Of the design, defined by the divinely inspired desires
Of the artist, and
This wretched wooden frame
Frames the beauty and contains it.
The colours and the canvas encased in corruption:
The picture-frame and the painting are together one piece.
The eye takes them both in---

---Is it art?

A Translation of Dante's Inferno 3.1-9

THROUGH ME YOU ENTER THE CITY OF DESOLATION
THROUGH ME THE ROAD AMONG THE LOST LIES
THROUGH ME YOU ENTER AGONY WITHOUT END

JUSTICE MOVED THE HAND OF MY MAKER ON HIGH:
BY DIVINE POWER AND SUPREME WISDOM I WAS FORGED;
I EXIST BY THE PRIMAL LOVE THAT MOVES THE SKIES.

WITHOUT ME, NOTHING WAS CREATED BEFORE,
SAVE ETERNAL. AND I ETERNAL REMAIN.
ALL HOPE ABANDON, YOU WHO ENTER.

Here Follows Some Thoughts Upon Seeing an Icon of St. Luke

On Friday, some friends and I took a trip to the J. Paul Getty art museum, in order to see the temporary icon exhibit they have. It was, of course as expected, amazing. (We use the word "amazing" too much. I mean it literally--it was so wonderful [full of wonder] that my head, mind, heart, all my senses, were overcome as though I was wandering in a maze.)

One icon in particular, though, affected me particularly strongly. I looked at every icon in the exhibit, but I kept coming back to this one. I spent at least an hour in front of it.

It was an icon, not painted or engraved on wood or stone, but on paper. It was an icon within a book of the Gospels from Constantinople.

Now, my favorite book in all the Bible is the Gospel of Luke. This Gospel book was open to the first page of the Gospel of Luke and, facing it, an icon of St. Luke.

In the icon, St. Luke is giving Jesus a copy of his Gospel. Jesus accepts the Gospel, blessing Luke.

As a writer, this affected me profoundly.

My observations, upon standing there staring:

Christ was clothed in red, with a blue robe. St. Luke was clothed in blue, with a red robe. This, to me, signifies several things: 1) that Jesus is separate, on a whole other order than Luke; 2) though not being Christ, Luke imitates Christ; 3) Jesus, in His blue robe, is clothed in the heavens, while 4) Luke is covered by the blood.

St. Luke is positioned as kneeling; Jesus is standing erect. Luke is kneeling by bending his right leg, his symbol of strength, showing the totality of his humility.

Luke casts a shadow, Christ does not.

Luke's hair and beard, compared to Jesus', seem less full, and unkempt.

All of the above stresses the divinity of Jesus over the humanity of Luke.

But, what affected me so much:

St. Luke offers his Gospel up to Christ. In a sense, Luke is giving Christ what is already His---the text being divinely inspired, it was God who first gave the text to Luke. Yet the object in Luke's hands is a *book*, a leather-bound collection of pages written in ink. Without St. Luke, this book could not have been written, and Luke offers unto Jesus the work of his hands, the fruit of his labor, the result of his craft---for in my opinion, no book in the Bible is so much a "book" as we think of them as The Gospel of Luke, a historical account, is; in other words, Luke was consciously writing a "book" and not a letter or poem.

This aspect is borne out as Jesus takes the Gospel with His left hand, blessing Luke with His right. The right hand being regarded as "the stronger" hand, Jesus giving Luke His right hand amplifies the blessing, elevating the Gospel writer.

Between the two, held by both their hands as it is being passed, the book of the Gospel itself---it is small, humble; yet the artist has put it in gold-leaf. No paint, but actual gold, forms the Gospel on the page.

Like many icons, the air around the figures is gold---gold signifying the space of Heaven---but the Gospel is on the ground, where color is usually found. The use of gold-leaf in the Gospel mirrors the gold in the sky in appearance and function; to wit, the book itself---the work itself, the text itself---is heavenly. It is divinely inspired. Luke's book, the work of his hands, his mind, his pen, is a little piece of Heaven itself, and he is giving it to Jesus.

And oh! the blessing Jesus gives as He gladly receives the book written by His servant! His hand is outstretched, blessing Luke (it is moreover His right hand, as already noted), but being outstretched, since Jesus stands on the left and Luike on the right, draws the eye to the right.

Jesus is pointing to the text!

Jesus' hand, reaching out in blessing, points to the words on the next page, written in gold:

Epeideper polloi epcheiresan anataxasthai diegesin peri ton peplerophoremonon en hemin pragmaton kathos paredosan hemin hoi ap arches autoptai kai hyperetai genomenoi...

(and, what leaped out at me in that moment,)

...tou logou edoxe kamoi parekoloutehkoti anothen pasin akribos kathexes soi anothen kratiste theophile...

"The Word (logos) it seemed good TO ME, to WRITE..."

Jesus' hand points to the text, in one sense, simply because it is the Gospel. In effect, it simply says, "Read your Bible!" But in another sense, Jesus blesses the text itself, marking its divine authority. But on still another level, since in the icon itself Jesus is blessing St. Luke... by blessing such a highly personal text, approving the text as divinely inspired blesses Luke the writer of the words, more than anything else could.

And now, me?

Obviously, I cannot claim to write under divine inspiration. My words will never become Scripture. And yet...

...it is my dream, my goal, my soul's desire to drop to my knees before my Lord, my work in hand, and give it to Him, and have Him accept it.

It is my dream, my soul's desire, that He would take it and bless me.

And, dare I hope, that someday those who read it might catch a glimpse of Heaven---however distant, however fleeting---within its pages?

In Love In Lethe

As long as I must,
I will wait for the same thing
Dante so hoped to see.

Though it shall slay me
(my own virtue have I none)
I long for Eden.

So baptized, I shall
stand unashamed before those
Eyes that pierce my sin.

In Homer's Shadow (conclusion)

I did not know where to look. Dare I look at the crown in his hand? Wouldn’t looking at his eyes be worse? And, oh! Calliope still standing there!

So I focus my attention on Minerva’s arrow pointed at my chest. “I do not need you to give me a crown,” I said to him.

“This is not just any laurel crown,” he said. My breath caught—instinctively, I knew what he was about to say. “This is his laurel crown.”

“H—Ho—His crown?”

Apollo and Calliope nodded together. My eyes started to drift to the crown in his hand. I tried to avert my gaze, accidentally turning to Calliope’s form. Shuddering, I dropped my gaze to her feet. Her shadow merged into the shadow that hung over me.

In that moment, I realized that I was mistaken. The goddess pointing the arrow at my heart was not Diana. I was in older myths, closer to the truth—and the masks the spirits wore on their faces were much thinner.

The lightning flashed overhead. It seemed brighter, knowing it was Zeus and not Jove who held it. Hera seemed more cruel and dangerous. Eros did not seem so innocent as Cupid did. Though it was not any closer, I felt as though Artemis’ arrow had already pierced me. I turned back to the god before me.

He laughed. “Yes, now you see. You stand in the shadow of Homer, poet. These are no Roman imposters before you. You stand before the descendants not of Saturn, but of Kronos. See Zeus and Hera, standing there. Neptune and Pluto are nothing; you face Poseidon and Hades.” He outstretched his arms.

“And I—I am Apollo! Apollo to the Greeks, Apollo to the Romans; Apollo who is the same yesterday, today, and forever!”

My blood ran cold.

“Accept my touch,” Calliope whispered. “You know the one you call Master does not deserve the title—not when compared with Homer. Homer loved me. Now cling to me, poet, as a man cleaves to his wife—love me as a god deserves to be loved.”

“You are no god,” I said, hoping I sounded braver than I felt. “I would sooner call you demoness—or worse. I could believe you an accuser, a serpent.”

“You call Calliope a serpent?” Apollo mocked. “Then serpent she is—and Homer the one who mastered her. And you are nothing more than a sown man, grown from the seed of the serpent’s teeth that Homer planted.”

“Are you content with that?” Calliope continued. “Step out of his shadow and cast your own. Accept the laurel crown that was worn by him and him alone.”

“I gave him this crown,” Apollo said. “No one has been worthy of it since him. You know this.” He waved the crown in the air.

“No man could write such a work alone,” I said. “It is as though he were inspired.”

“Inspired!” Apollo cried. “Exactly! ‘God-breathed!’ Kiss Calliope, kiss her hungrily and take her breath into you. Honor her in all things.”

“Were I to honor Calliope,” I said, “it would be lip-service only. She would never have my heart.”

“Your lips are enough. With your lips you frame your speech, with your mouth you make your words—and it is your words we desire.”

“Kneel to us.”

My legs felt weak. I bowed my head and closed my eyes, remembering the words of my Master—ignoring the whispered memories of Rage and Men, I remembered the stars. I could not see them beyond Zeus’ lightning, beyond Homer’s shadow, but I knew they were there.

And all the while, Dionysius danced around our circle.

They waited long for my answer. At last, the gods seemed to grow bored. One by one, they left. Even the Muses departed one by one until only Calliope and Apollo remained. She spat at my feet. Apollo shrugged. “The offer is always open.” He threw the laurel crown on the ground and walked away, arm around her.

I looked at the laurel crown on the ground and considered.

Then I sat in the dark of the shadow and amused myself by writing verses. The verses were empty and uninspired—as I intended. I looked up to the stars and prayed that empty verses might be filled.

Then, sitting in the midst of the shadow, I prepared to go to sleep and decided to start a fire.

Cupid in Chains

He took hold on me,
Wrapped me in chains,
Fed her my heart,
Conquered me with his art,
Binding me to her,
Chaining my eyes to hers,
Pulling on my leash
And throwing me down.

Then I arose,
Whipped his wings into submission--
I showed him true beauty,
Beauty bound in drops of blood--
I forced him to look at the dolorous feet.
I chained Cupid's eyes to the cross;
And so chained, baptized his bow.
Set Cupid free through chains.

In Homer's Shadow (part 1)

There are things you know you should not want, but that doesn’t stop you from wanting them anyway. Case in point: I knew when she saw me walking that I should come no closer. I should have run, right then. A shadow seemed to fall over the area; I could have sworn it was brighter just a moment before. Even in the darkness, she seemed to glow more beautiful than anything I could imagine. She saw me, and stopped me, and asked me if I knew her name.

“I know,” I replied. “Perhaps I have always known it.”

She offered me her hand, but I refused to take it. She became angry, staring me down. “Perhaps you would prefer my sister,” she said, “for all the good she would do you.” I could hear the hatred and venom in her voice. Even that was not unattractive.

“She was Virgil’s Muse, after all,” I replied, “and Ovid’s as well.”

“Virgil! And who is Virgil?”

“Virgil was—”

“I know who he was, and what he tried to do. But in the end, what good was it?”

“Virgil—”

“If Virgil had done what he tried to do,” she said, “you and I would not be having this conversation.”

I looked up into the sky, at the stars, and focused on one—a little, flickering red star, high above me. “To answer your question,” I said, trying to take control, “I would not have Erato, either—or any of your sisters, for that matter. I would have nothing to do with any of you, were it up to me. You are nine in number, and the Greeks believed that to be a number of ill omen.”

“But the one you call ‘Master’ used it as a symbol of love, did he not? Why then do you not love us—why do you pretend you do not love me?” She reached out her hand again, and I pulled away. Her face twisted in rage (though it did not diminish in beauty) and she yelled at me in an angry, wounded voice: “Your sin against me is a greater insult than Madoc’s ever was.”

I tried to answer, but my mouth was dry. She held my gaze, eyes burning with rage. And she was so breathtakingly, agonizingly beautiful.

She must have seen the look on my face, confused at being compared to Madoc. “Are you surprised? You entered this world of ours when you first took up a pen.”

Suddenly I was surrounded—Minerva appeared out of the shadows, her arrow at my chest, ready to strike my heart. Jove was clearly seen over head, his lightning barely restrained above me, hiding the stars. Neptune and Pluto both came forward, standing far off. Juno looked at me with disdain. They were all around, the Muses ringing me—and Calliope still there, still utterly, painfully beautiful.

At the edge of the shadow, Dionysius danced around the circle, singing his song at the top of his lungs.

But I could hear Calliope all the same, offering me the world. Still I refused.

Then one of the gods stepped forward, and my heart sank. The Judge was there, the fullness of his light before me. He was standing just beside Calliope, the angry glare on his face matching hers. He held out his hand, and my heart jumped when I saw what he held. “Do you know what this is?” he demanded.

“It is a laurel crown.”

“Kneel before Calliope, kiss her, and I will give the crown to you.”

Mardi Gras in Downtown Dis, with Neon Blacklights in the Streets

Welcome to the Grand Bazaar,
Welcome to the Black Parade,
Welcome to the Axis of Evil,
We hope you enjoy your stay.

Welcome to Carnality Fair
Here we make our beds of bone.
'Ere long we shall escape thine eyes,
And say, "to each his own."

And if you'll rend a veil of flesh
And join this hellish carnival,
All words abandon at the door
And no more stories tell.

The Cross of Ephialtes

May you find your rest,
Ephialtes; may you live,
and live forever!

The true King of kings
has understood your passion,
carried your burden.

Therefore, throw down your
spear, your shield at His Throne, so
He may lift you up.

A Mourning Poem for James

The clock is broken.
See? The maker is weeping.
Time walks; unfeeling.

Can one escape sin?
Time itself is a sinner.
The dying earth groans.

Can there be "good days"?
Each day longs for redemption---
Minutes on their knees.

The Sin of Pantera I.1-50

I have come to amuse you,

with the stories and songs I tell.

Behold, I shall tell you a tragedy.

Who are you, Pantera?

What manner of man were you, (5)

hero of Roma, exalted father?

For all the world has heard of your son.

His name endures forever,

but your name is less known.

So. I shall tell your story, for it is ours. (10)

When Pantera walked

along the golden streets

of highest exalted Rome,

he walked in full array,

sword and armor at the ready. (15)

His feet were shod

with straps of leather,

burnished bronze was upon

his back and breast.

His buckler rested on his arm. (20)

His sword was sharp enough

to cleave a god in two.

The blade was black, forged

in the fires of Caesar’s pyre.

By blood it was unstained. (25)

The hilt of the sword displayed

the face of a panther,

carved in ivory,

its white face in contrast to the blade.

It bared its teeth, in perpetual roar. (30)

Behind the roaring head,

the panther’s sleek white body

spread out, carved in mid-pounce.

The wild cat held out its claws

unsheathed. (35)

When he raised his sword,

matching the panther’s roar with his own,

courage would fill the hearts of the Romans.

When he held his hands to the sky,

The black blade would shine in the sun. (40)

There were few heroes in those days,

for the time of the old heroes,

of the Achaeans and Trojans, was past.

Men had grown weak since those days.

But Pantera walked as a man of old. (45)

In battle he was unmatched,

none could stand against him

when the panther roared in his hand.

Men of Rome would take note

when he passed them on Rome's gold streets. (50)

The Sin of Pantera (Introduction)

Apparently, there are cryptic references in the Talmud and other first century writings referring to "Jesus of Nazareth, the sorcerer who founded the Christian cult and was the bastard son of a Hebrew peasant girl and the Roman solider Pantera."

If true, this would completely invalidate Christianity, wouldn't it?

...or would it?

This soldier Pantera is referred to enough that it made me start wondering: "Who's Pantera, anyways?"

Besides the above, along with some Virgil and Tacitus, little historical research went into the writing of this story. I'm just trying to answer the question, "Who's Pantera?" to my own satisfaction.

The name "Pantera" is Latin for "panther." In Miltonian fashion, I am also (technically incorrectly) implying the use of the words "Pan-" (Greek; "all") and "terra" (Latin, "Earth") so that "Sin of Pantera" also means "Sin of All the Earth."

Jesus' Puberty

His little-boy voice
grows deep and strong. A Man's voice,
and more than a man.

His soft hands are filled
with strength enough to carry
out His Father's work.

His heart--a boy's heart--
blooms with a God's desire.
He seeks out His Bride.

A Faerie Cavalry

Eyes burning scarlet,
the night-mare runs tirelessly,
its black coat a void.

From afar, behold
the horn gleaming in the light---
the unicorn's strength.

The undried kelpie
returns to its ocean bed,
breathing out murder.

The Triple Atlas

Led forward by love,
the red Florentine breaks free,
out into star light.

Pious father king,
waging war for future’s sake:
His children, his shield.

So. Robed in valor,
The bold son of Ecgtheow
embraces the wyrd.

Vulgar

Not for the first time
Do I try to set in verse
Words describing her.

I weep in despair;
The best of my words fall short.
They’d diminish her.

The ink dries at last.
All words fail. In frustration,
I throw down the pen.

Paulo Maiora Canamus

To start, I shall sing
Of the goodness of wisdom
That ordains justice.

And second I’ll sing
The beauty of love itself,
And the day love died.

Then in conclusion
I’ll sing loudly of truth, and
The power Truth holds.