Excelsior
is the magic word
that he used
for these long years,
no matter what.
Excelsior:
it was a motto
for people who were more
than just people
but the people
who were just that,
just people.
Like me, like you.
Excelsior,
was a word he sang
in images and text
with heroes
built with many,
shaped by many,
inspiring us many.
Titans were raised
and now he’s fallen
but he left us a gift
in a magic word:
Excelsior.

“Fiethsing, no,”
Is something she hears a lot
From lots of people.
Almerius, Grus,
Mooj, even Milest.
Most often though
She hears it from her:
Zero.

“Fiethsing, no
Get off the ceiling,”
As though there’s any better
Place to be read a book
Than up, up high,
High as can be
And free from all,
Distractions
And the ground.

“Fiethsing, no
Chicken’s not food,”
Is really curt
Though it was just a joke
And not in front of Kaguya
Because she’s not cruel.
The rabbit heard though,
She thinks.
One can't trust them
they know too much.

“Fiethsing, no
You need to stay,”
She might dread most
Because it’s true
And she knows it.
But she won’t stay
And Zero knows it.
So they’ll fight,
Either here or later.
But they will
One way or another.
They know that.

“Fiethsing, no
I really don’t want your help,”
Isn’t any better.
It might even be worse,
Because it’s clear she does
When she needs it.
Tense and worried,
Far too much on her mind,
But Zero keeps on pushing
and pushing,
And hides away
As Fiethsing frets
More than most guess.

“Fiethsing, no
Please don’t go. Stay. Please,”
Is the worst.
Her desperate pleas
And that look in her eyes,
Paranoid and fearing
Even though she’d never leave.
She’ll wander, yes.
A lot, even.
She’ll always stay though
At moments like this
When Zero comes apart,
Incapable of believing that.
Or much else.

"Fiethsing, no
you really don't get it,"
is what she keeps on about
arguing on and on
with herself more than her.
Her mind plays tricks
and she seems so far away
and all Fiethsing can do
is sit there and stay.
She can't argue with Zero
not like this,
but she can stick around
even as she tears herself apart.

"Fiethsing, no
I guess you have a point,"
now that's more like it.
A sign
that the tide's receding.
She's coming back down
and she's coming back around.
The fear's there still
and they know it
the both of them,
but Zero's making it
bit by bit
back to her.

“Fiethsing, no
I think I’m fine now,”
Is the best to hear
When she’s resting her head
Against her
Worn out and exhausted
But finally grounded again,
Finally believing again
That she won’t leave,
That she’d never dream of it.

She hears it a lot
“Fiethsing, no,”
And she can’t imagine it otherwise.

It’s fine
Is what she tells everyone
This day
Like so many others.
Fears run through her,
Her mind a mess of possibility
Infinite in number and horror.
Deaths here.
Failures there.
Maybe a grave injury at best.
Can they best this foe?
Is this the end of the Sages?
Is this the end of the world?
She ponders this
Over a cup of coffee
Poured by Moojdart,
All concern and bother.

It’s fine
Is what she says as she slinks off,
Telling Mooj again and again
Don’t worry, don’t worry
It’s fine,
She can handle it.
She always can, she always must.
Grus is worried too
And Milest
And even their leader
Who’s normally too vain to care.
She brushes past them all
To go and hide away
As she tries to fix it,
As she runs through bad ends
In search of a single good.
She can’t find one
Or even the hint of one
No matter how hard she picks
At the threads of potentiality.
There’s only more worries,
Only more failures,
Which darken the flame of Hope
Burning inside
Which she clings to so stubbornly
Even though it’s not her natural Will.
She’s got to.
She’s got to cling,
Got to be strong.
She’ll fix it, she will.

There’s a knock at her door
And it opens
Before she can even say no
Because that’s just how Fiethsing is,
Because that’s just how little she cares.
Really it’s amazing she knocked,
But there you go.
You never can guess with her,
But Zero can know she’s annoyed.
She snaps at her.
An admonition, a demand
To go, to leave.
That you shouldn’t just barge in
“I mean really, Fieth,”
And it’s fine anyway.
It’s always fine.

But that’s not what she came for.
So she claims.
She’s just here to find a book,
Steal it more like,
Like she always does
And Zero’ll never see it again.
It’s just a ploy anyway,
It’s just a ploy thankfully,
Unfortunately.
Fieth sets in on the search,
Looking for a book
And not speaking a word more,
Of concern or otherwise.
She’s simply an annoyance
That rummages through her things
After barging into her space.
Fieth’s one that’ll be ignored.
Has to be, must be.
So she drinks her coffee
And goes to reading,
Or more like looking at pages
As the words blur together
From fear
Now tinted with anger.

It’s fine
And Fiethsing sighs
Finally feeling fit
To make a sound
And even words.
“Wow, it’s hot.
Don’t you think so, Zero?”
There’s more sound too
Of rustling clothes
Falling off
Onto the floor.
A shirt gone,
More than likely.
Still searching too.
She pays no mind,
As little as she can.
She has a book to not read.

A book to not read
As a thought invades her mind
Of what Fieth must look like.
******* and slick with sweat
As she digs through her shelves
Musing to herself,
“Oh it’s not here either, oh dear.”
There’s a book to not read
As an image invades her mind
Of a hug,
Of a kiss,
A touch, anything.
Contact, warm and simple.
Memories flood
And imaginings more
As she has a book to not read.

Still it’s fine,
Just fine.
She’ll just read and think
On all the ways the world can end
Because that’s better.
Better than admitting she’s scared,
Better than admitting she needs help.
Help of any sort.
A talk, advice, a decision
Or a pair of arms
Wrapped around her waist
As she falls apart
Just for a moment.

“Oh, there it is!”
Rings out Fieth’s sing song tone
And she trots on over,
For once bothering to walk
And not float.
Just so she’ll hear,
Just so she’ll know.
It’s a kindness but it doesn’t feel like it,
More like a threat
That makes her sigh
Heavy and hard
In frustration
As she turns around to see
Fieth ******* and grinning.
It’s enough to make her sick.
With fury.
With fear.
With want.
She holds out her book
Arm outstretched
As far as it can go,
A barrier between them both.
She doesn’t want to play this game,
She wants to play this game.

Fieth takes the book with glee
And a pleased, “Thank you!”
Before she rambles on and on
About dull history being her passion
Don’t you know, Zero?
It’s charming,
It’s cute
And she just wants her gone.
Gone and away
With her mirth,
Infectious as always,
And her plans,
Impish as always.
So she turns back around
And grabs another book.
Another thing to not read
As she tells herself
That it’s fine.

It’s fine
As Fieth steps forward and
rests a hand on her
Gripping her shoulder.
It’s fine
When she says, “I went a bit far
Didn’t I, Zero?”
Which she did
But it’s fine
And it’s not.
It wasn’t far enough, not close enough.
She didn’t just grab her
Right there, right then.
She didn’t just force her down
Against her desk
And whisper in her ear
Just what she’ll do to her.

So she falls to her side
Just far enough
To fall back into Fieth,
Head resting right between her *******.
The grip becomes a hug,
Arm wrapping firmly around
Her frightened frame,
So frail,
Right now, right here.

“It’s fine,”
She says again.
This time it’s the truth,
And a lie
And she closes her eyes
And she melts
Right there, right then
In Fiethsing’s arms,
Though she wants nothing more
Than to chase her off.

“Just need a moment?”
Fieth asks
With a sincerity
That she so often lacks.
She’s not going to run off.
She’s not going to lie.
She’s not going to force the matter
Even if Zero wants her to.
It’s frustrating,
The fiendish way that Fieth
Makes her fend for herself
By pushing just enough
To get a decision.

It’s fine,
Frustrating or not,
As she pushes herself up and off.
Just enough to sit up,
Just enough to lean in
As she makes a decision at last.
Her lips part
And she kisses Fiethsing.
A moan escapes her,
A desperate plea
Muffled as Fieth’s tongue meets hers
And as Fieth’s hand crawls up her front.
Up her front, to her shoulder
To her neck,
Thumb rubbing idly, intently.
Intoxicating, it’s intoxicating
That sensation and more
As she leans forward the more,
Body pressed
Against Fieth’s.
Fieth who takes hold of her waist
With a free arm
And pulls her forward and up
To get her standing.
Two bodies, pressed together.
The kiss deepens,
Desperate all the more.

Her hands snake up Fieth’s back
And her nails dig into Fieth’s back.
Fieth who breaks the kiss
As she lets out a hiss
Of pained satisfaction
And who looks down
At her
As she buries her face
Into her chest.
She’s coming undone.
She’s starting to cry.
She’s clinging as she can,
Telling herself
Over and over
That it’s fine.

It’s fine
And Fieth’s here
Resting her cheek
Against her head
And with her hand
Stroking her hair
And her other
Holding her firmly,
Tightly
Just as she needs.
Just as she needs
Until she needs more,
More than a hug
And fingers in her hair.

She slips away,
Steps on back
One step, then two
Until a boot clicks against her desk.
She looks on
Eyes pleading
As she looks on at her
Her shirtless lover standing there
Unsure now of what she wants
But so sure of what she wants.
More, her.

So Fieth steps forward herself
Hands taking to her dress,
Undoing the buttons
As Zero tries to slip out of it.
Abandoning it on the floor,
Her bra goes there next
And her underwear
And her boots too.
It all goes
Until she is laid bare
For Fieth to look upon.
Fieth who doesn’t strip entirely,
Keeping her skirt on
And her boots too.
She dips down into her neck,
Pressing her lips against
That flesh
Vulnerable, sensitive
Enough to elicit a sigh.
Enough to get a roll of the hips.
Just enough
And not enough
As she buries her fingers
Into Fieth’s hair.
Pulling, stroking,
Needing simply to feel
Her and only her.
The her that slips a hand
Right between her thighs
Right then, right there.
A finger searching,
A finger finding
Just how wet she is.
A finger searching,
A finger finding
Just how hard her **** is.
Zero finds too
Once again
Just how skilled Fieth is.
How Fieth can circle her ****
Just the right way, just firm enough.
Enough to get her biting her lip
And resting her forehead
Into Fieth’s shoulder
As she comes apart
In her hands.

It’s fine
As her knees grow weak
And her breathing quickens.
It’s fine as Fieth slides a finger in
And a second.
The welcome stretch,
The familiar tension
Makes her shiver
As Fieth reaches deeper,
Deeper inside
And as Fieth pulls out
And pushes back in.
She pulls her head back,
And lets out a moan
Saying her name
As she pulls her hair.
God she’s near,
God she’s close,
God she’s in.
In her
Both in body and soul
And it’s all she can do
But say her name again
And again.
A fevered plea
As she begs for more,
Begs for her.
As doubts begin to clear
And leave
Just for a time.
Just right here, right now
And it’s fine.

Fieth pulls out again
This time fully
Leaving a dull ache,
An urgent need for more.
She wants to swear at her,
She wants to beg to her
To go back.
Back in,
Take her right there.
She needs it, needs her.
Desperately.
Fieth doesn’t though.
She grabs Zero’s thighs
And lifts as she can.
And she gets it
Though she’d rather not.
Rather not wait,
But she does wait and she knows
And she shifts her weight
Until she’s seated right on her desk,
Until she’s pressed down on her desk.

Fingers out of Fieth’s hair
She gropes at hard wood
That’s cold against her back
While the warmth burns
Between her legs.
She looks at her,
Looks to her.
Fieth’s hands rest on her thighs
As she looks back
Right at her,
Like she sees right through her.
Because she does,
She always does.

A hand travels up her thigh
Tracing a finger across her body.
A touch electric,
But not enough.
Not enough but enough
To get her speaking, to get her begging.
“Fieth, please.”
But Fieth just grins,
Feeling her *******,
Admiring the look in her eyes.
“Fieth please just stop looking,
Just this once and **** me.”
The words excite
And torment
And her cheeks burn red,
More ashamed to say it
Than have it happen.
Yet
The word she hears back isn’t a yes.
It’s “No.”

It’s fine
Isn’t it?
What had she done?
What could she have done?
Is it ending here, now?
Is it ending with still more to go?
What could she have done,
What could have Fieth have done?
Her fears come quick
And they’re tossed aside quick
As Fiethsing’s grin widens
And she says
“I’ve got a better idea.”
That’s fine.

More than fine.
Fine as Fieth bends down
Hand resting against the desk,
The other heading right back down
To her thighs.
Right back to part her lips
And then she feels her lips
And she feels her tongue
Against her ****.
Her fears are dashed
Right against the wall
And she lets out a cry,
A trembling moan.
So satisfied, yet not at all
As Fiethsing traces her ****
With her tongue.
As Fiethsing ***** at her ****
She claws, she scrabbles
Searching for purchase on the desk.
Which can’t be found
And she can’t find words
As she bucks her hips
Against Fiethsing’s mouth.
Not concerned about noise,
Not concerned about poise
Her worries gone entirely
And only this moment exists.
Only their bodies so close
Yet not close enough.
Time fades, distance fades.
A finger slips in again,
Then two, then three
But Fieth pulls her head up
Just to get it all situated.
Just to get it right.
Zero whines,
“Fiethsing please. ”

It’s more than fine
As Fieth dips back down
And Zero grabs wildly
Looking for something to hold
To touch.
All the better if it’s her,
If it’s Fieth and it is,
Her hair.
Her hair that Zero ***** into her fist,
Her hair that she pulls upon
As the tension builds,
As the ache grows.
Until at last it rolls over,
A rush of sensation
And feeling
That shakes her body
And gets her to cry out
Impassioned, fevered ramblings
About her, about her,
God just her.
Just.
Fiethsing.

And it’s fine
As Fieth keeps working at her
Through the ******,
Past the ******
And into the pain
Of too much sensation, too much.
She moans, she whines.
She begs, she even swears
And she bangs a fist on her desk
To stifle the pain, the pleasure.

Fiethsing slides out
And sits on up
And she laughs and prods
Right at her thigh.
“I bet even Milest heard that.”
What can she do
But roll her eyes
And groan in exasperation
At that comment.
What can she do
But be glad
Glad deep down for it,
For it all.
Glad enough that she sits up,
Glad enough that she hugs Fieth.

“It’s fine.”

She’s kind

Isn’t she?

So many others

Look and see

Only her hardness,

Cold gaze

And colder words.

You can’t deny

That she’s cold.

Dour and stern

Always to the point

Reminding you incessantly

Of the mission.

But there’s more,

So much more.


Details matter

And usefulness

To you all

And her especially.

You matter too,

Silly girl,

To her.

She didn’t end

That call.

She let you

Fall to pieces,

Pour your heart out,

Over another

And she said

You mattered.


She listens. Always.

About flowers.

About animals.

About that world

And your want

To see it

Just once.

There’s more too

Than just listening.

You have it,

A precious gift,

Tucked away

That photo there

Of this world.


When people ask

What it is

That draws you,

That attracts you,

You can’t deny

That there’s looks.

But there’s more

So much more,

Because she’s kind

Isn’t she.

How did it even start,

This fight?

The Sage of Holy Wind

Can’t really say,

she never can.

As always she is drawn

By the Wind’s beckoning call.

Drawn by whispered words

Of the Flashing Light’s fight

And her devilish foe.

That’s all she needs.


On those same gusts

She rushes

As she can

To the Light’s side.

A sudden guest

In the grueling conflict

She alarms them both,

The foe and the knight.

With a curse from both

And a grin from her

The combat continues

With desperation.


The foe has six arms

And three faces

All on one head,

A dreadful asura.

He swings six swords

With fiendish speed

And sings a song

Of hate that cuts deep

into the earth

Tearing it from her feet,

The King’s Blade.


She leaps up

Taking to the air

And calls down lights

That crash

With all the fury of thunder

Sped on by her own song

And Hope’s dire will.

Hope to protect.

Hope to save.

Hope to destroy.


His shout shakes the light

From the skies

And he lunges forth,

A dance of blades

Seeking gore and more.

His speed is great

But greater still

Is the Wind’s.

A gusting wave pushes him

Back and down.

He is thrown from the air,

The Fate Spinning Winds’ domain.


Grinning the Blade dives

Down and down

With righteous fury

And the blue glow

Of purest Light’s intent.

The ****** is sure, strong

And cracks like thunder.

The raging storm

Of Grimm’s good servant,

The Light’s own sage.


There is more to him

Than shouts and swords

And six arms though.

There’s a lack of care

And a burning hatred

For all the King’s men.

Many would run

Or raise up a shield

Guarding themselves from death.

But he welcomes it

Letting the blade run deep,

Piercing him through

and mortally so.

Then he catches the arm

That wielded the blade

And pulls down the Blade.


The fight seems over and done

From the Holy Wind’s high place

Her home, the air,

But a screech rings out.

Four devious daggers

Made of Darkness

Claim the King’s Blade,

Rending her flesh

And digging in deadly.

She is tossed aside

Like a toy

Bleeding and cursing

And ******.


The asura ****** too

Rises up

Rage incarnate

Blind and dumb

And unrelenting

To finish his job.

He raises up

An arm and then another

Before the shocked sage

Buffets him with a wind.

Tossed he turns

Terrific rage building more

And directs it at her,

The sage unbelieving.


Like a shock of silver

Cold and quick

To the gut and the heart

Is the fear mounting.

Fear for her,

Fear of loss

Of a friend, a lover dear,

Known for a thousands years

And hopefully a thousand more.

The Wind’s sing of necessity

And Fate.

Of life and death,

An air of change,

Unyielding in its march.

The tune is so welcome

Normally,

Though it seems so cruel.

Now it is dreaded,

Disbelieved.

Now it makes her pause,

Turning to look

Searching for life

In her partner dear.


Finding that hesitation

The asura jumps up high

Blades ready

And burning with demon fire,

But his arms are pulled back

And he is pulled down

By deep red chains

Of crimson fluidity,

Of blood.

They coil and cut

Like blades

Slicing an arm free

Then two, then three,

But he breaks free

Shrugging off bonds

With a scream.


From the floor she rises

The Flashing Light

Eyes aflame

With red fury

Brilliant and ominous

As the Red Moon.

From the Flashing Light spills

Blood like a torrent

Shaped into swords

As would the Light be.

The sound of his chant

Is cut short

By a wave of dark

Butterflies fluttering from her.

The sound of her chant

Rings out

Sending forth a wave

Of blood made blades.

Skewering, rending

Utterly ending the foe.

She rises a victor

Dripping blood,

And her wounds close

Fed blood.


She rises a vampire revealed

And fear falls

In the Holy Wind’s Heart.

I met a man of the sea
down at Cocoa
surrounded by Christmas Cheer.
He was an old man,
one who'd caught many waves
then took a break
before catching even more.

The others were struggling
on 1 foot white water
with their shortboards and fish.
This man though,
he caught a few
on an old fashioned longboard
like what I learned on
as a child.

I looked at him with awe,
at this man who knew
the waves and their bobs,
and who knew what sort
of board to bring.
So I talked with him,
asked if he caught much.
He said not really,
the surf is too small for much.
I told him of my father,
and the one gift he gave me:
a love for the sea's art,
for surfing.

This old man then asked
kindly, openly
"Would you like to try it out?
I'll show you a bit."
I thought about refusing,
crawling away in shame
but I was drawn in by
that welcoming man
and so I hopped on up,
or rather slipped and slid
until I perched on top
clinging awkwardly.
He held the board a bit,
telling me to relax,
to let my feet hang down
at the sides,
and getting me to paddle.
Which is awkward with a board
that size between your arms
but I did and I did
pushing myself forward.

Then he let go
and had me paddle out
before calling that I was too far
because he knew where they came,
he knew where I'd catch one.
Turning I found easier,
though I tipped over a tad
before catching myself
and always with my ankles gripping
onto the rails.
I paddled back a bit,
back to that kindly old man.
He grabbed hold of the board once more
and told me to start paddling,
just keep paddling.

Then it was there,
the wave
an unmistakable rush
of most remarkable force
that rockets you forward
and rips away control
while giving you another sort,
so long as you work with it,
work with the sea.
I turned into it,
to the side that hadn't crested
to ride along further
instead of petering out.
Just like he'd taught me,
my father's old friend.
And though I didn't stand,
not wanting to ruin this moment
with an awkward failure at a popup,
I rode and rode
with a growing excitement,
a glee like no other
until at last I could ride no more
for the wave had run out
and the land had come up.
It was both too short
and yet an eternity.
Life encapsulated in just one moment.

I brought back the board
and talked a while longer
of how I'd been reborn
and he laughed oh so knowingly.
"All it takes is one wave,
that's how it was for me,"
he told me as I tread water
still awestruck.
Never has a truer thing been said
to me or to anyone.
All it takes is one wave
to learn what life is
and yet not know it at all.

I met a man of the sea
down at Cocoa,
surrounded by Christmas Cheer,
and he taught me to ride
along his waves.
I met the Man of the Sea
and he taught me to live.

There's few things better
than a *** of good rice,
for hunger both physical
and emotional.

It's my one good tie
to what my father denied me.
My mother learned it
from my grandmother,
along with a host of other things,
like spam enchiladas;
something my mother never made.

It's simple too.
You gotta crack the rice first,
it's vital to keep it from sticking.
That's what they say,
and I'm not sure it's true
but I do it anyway.
You oil up a ***
or a deepset pan
and just fry it for a bit.
Then it's cracked
and ready for the rest.

The water needs a bit more too,
but just a bit.
Tomatoes and peppers
or maybe just tomatoes.
Chicken broth or stock too,
we always use Knorr.
I like to add some cumin
to give it a warm smell and taste.
Sometimes you don't add the veggies,
but either way it's a bit more.
Just a bit
because really it's just rice.

But it comes out warm
and smelling of home
and things that could've been home.
It tastes pretty good to boot.
It's my mother's rice
that she taught to me,
but my grandma taught it to her
and it could've been hers.
It should've been abuela's.

Could've been, should've been
it's a sign either way.
It's one of my ties,
the biggest one I think
because there's few things better
than a *** of good rice.

How the ****
do you look at the moon
and see a man
or I guess his face?

It's clearly a rabbit
or maybe an impression of one.
Pounding rice
or thrown by the sun
that's clearly a rabbit,
ok?

Your people have been here
for one thousand years and more,
longer even
than this country here.
Much, much longer.
Yet they'd tell you to leave
if only they knew
who you are,
what you are.
But they don't,
and you hardly don't.

Your Spanish is broken,
self-taught because your dad wouldn't,
not even your grandma would.
It's practiced in retail
selling credit cards
to people who can't afford them,
and not at home with family.
Your recipes are a mix
learned from your mom
and that grandma,
to your step family,
and even the ever present internet.
Your name?
It looks French, people say,
even though it doesn't at all
to anyone with even a passing knowledge
of that language or this name.
It's pure Mexican,
so pure not even a lot of friends know it
and are amazed to hear
that you're not really white.
There's others with it though,
some looking far less French than you.

You've never had a quince.
You never set up an ofrenda.
You never dealt with la chancla.
You got the hugs and kisses
and mijas and sweet things ending in -ita,
and you always had the food
and more of it
because you're too thin, mija.
You have so little though.
So little that when you look
at yourself
in the mirror
you see a ******.

Toss away that guilt though.
Get back what you can and more.
Don't be like your father
ashamed of what Spanish you know.
You're a Mexican too,
you just have to practice more.

Leaves rustle
in
the wind
falling off
one
by one
as autumn
turns
to winter.

It's winter
now
by old counts
and ours
now too,
but winter
feels
like autumn
still,
and even spring
before it.

Why do the airs
warm our world,
and how long
will it last?

Will I still see
leaves rustle
in the
wind
as I lay
dying?

We need to line up corpses
higher and higher
on the ever-rising pile
with the ever-encroaching hands.
But whose corpses are they?
Ours or theirs?

Does it really matter?

I want to write a poem
but I can’t think of what
to write.
***.

Exhaustion pulls
at my eyes
but fear?
Fear pulls
at my mind.

We won’t be sleeping.

I hate empty space
Lines gone unused
Spots where there could be
But where there is not
For it is so little
I hate this space

She has drifted on in
Invading your dreams
Or you hers
As you have both
Since you were young
Images and thoughts colliding
A closeness of souls
Which is hard to tell apart
Finding that she is you
And you are her
Yet also neither is true
Terrifying notions all
And the most frightening
Is that you drifted on in

The appeal is in what I lack.
Her hardness, her coldness,
That fierce lack of care,
Brashly charging in
And tearing apart to aid.
All which I look to
Saying with awe, “Now that’s strength,”
While ignoring my own,
Because the appeal is that which I lack.

Duties mustn’t be shirked
No matter how small.
The mundane in particular
Which keep us afloat
But which are so taxing.
So many numbers!
Dates, grades, bills and more
Which pull us all down.
Life without it seems pointless,
Yet I wish it weren’t so fatal
To shirk one’s duties.

Dream poems are frustrating.
Lines upon lines
Of fuzzy half remembered words
Shared between you
And the gods.
Perhaps they are goadings
More than poems.
Infuriating reminders to work.
Perhaps they are works themselves
Speaking great truths.
Tantalizing windows into reality.
I hate dream poems either way.

We look to the past
Overfondly and with joy
Praising things we now fault.
But was it ever so good?
We turn back to the past
Shocked and upset
Finding only flaws we once ignored
Marring what once was good.
Perhaps we shouldn’t look back.

The pleasant ache
Of flesh exerted
Tightness and lightness
With slight burning
Lingering for hours
Sometimes even days
Unique from injury
And from tiredness
That pleasant ache

She was met on the battlefield,
The blood soaked streets
Of some Outer Rim world
At war with itself.

Tall, dour, resolute,
Wholly dedicated to the cause.
For clan loyalties and him,
If not for her own joy.

You were there,
An outsider with a job.
A name and a face to claim,
To buy your meals with blood.

His name was the one,
The leader of her clan,
Cruel man and a revolutionary.
Neither mattered to you.

There were too many,
Too many like her.
Scattered family
Clinging to hope and life.

You shot it down
Quite literally
And she raged,
The most of them all.


The job done you could’ve left,
Callously jumping offworld
With a body bagged
And credits to claim.

You left lives in disarray though,
Throwing more fuel in the fire,
Stoking even greater hates
And revealing dark plots.

A warrior’s name was tarnished
By the truth
And a bolt to the brain,
Courtesy of you.

Strained ties led to mutiny,
Murderously so against her
Who was always faithful,
Right to the very end.

Her life was bought by your hand
Just as it was ended by it,
And she loathed you for this.
Rightly so, you think.

You bought another’s too,
A few lives in fact,
And for that she thanked you.
For that, you stayed.

Part of a war
Which was never yours
You fulfilled your obligation,
Your debt to her.

Still she hated you
As you stood in the field
Scorched and hopeless,
So many you saved dead.

The battle was won
But at the cost of clan ties.
The hardliners never approved of her,
But she craved their trust.

Foreigner or not wasn’t a concern
Not to you,
Nor should it have to them.
That’s just tradition.

So you extended a hand,
A place to stay,
The only recompense you had to give,
And a cold comfort at that.

But she took it,
Not calling you sister just yet.
Where else had she to run?
She, the outcast, soulless and hated.

That was the fate of the faithful
Who kept to him truly.
For he was a chief no longer,
Just a villain in a blood war.

It was your fate too,
The destroyer of all,
Family ties and lives,
To pick her back up.

What is honor really?
There are Six Acts
Neatly laid out
And clear as day,
But what is life really?

He ran away,
Tossing his soul to the floor
To take up their mantle.
The Jedi’s,
But not lightly.

You were thrown
In a rage,
Neck almost snapped.
A shock,
But not unprovoked.

What is honor really?
Is it the Third Act?
To protect family,
Or maybe the Fifth
Of clan wellbeing?

You stayed behind
Rejecting the Order outright
To maintain the Lessons.
Your father’s,
And so resolutely.

He was shot.
Your father ran out
To cover a mistake.
Yours,
And so fatal.

What is honor really?
Is it the First Act?
Taking up arms
And living martially,
Mistakes or no?

You say it is him,
Your soulless brother
Wearing armor of his own.
He says it is you,
The soul-filled sister
Carrying all her guilt.

4/13
The beginning and the end
But not for me.
What was the day
That lost date
Of my birth
Tainted by grey and orange?
It’s gone, the date
When I saw the mailbox
And its red flipper dealy.
There is just
4/13

A contract was made
And had to be fulfilled.
Just a limited term
No more than a test.
A “perhaps” was given,
And a firm “no children now”
Which set the nerves at ease.

They rise up now,
Tingling, clawing, burning,
All over a dinner.
It is just a meal,
Simple, short.
Pretty little dishes
Just like pretty little words.
Yet there are the nerves rising.

A cup is held
But not yet drank from.
She asks of this,
Provides loving assurances
And gives a laugh too.
“It’s just wine, silly.”
Yes, just wine, and no more.
So a sip is taken,
Then more still
And with the wine
The nerves are drowned.

The death is gradual
Slow and almost imperceptible,
A pleasant buzzing numbness
Building up overagreeably.
The guard, normally so zealous,
Lays broken and torn down.
The nerves are not missed.

She is far too close,
With a voice far too sweet.
The words aren’t parsed
But they captivate wholly,
And the gentle touches too
Cloying, confusing
Edging the affair on
Far past the simple contract.
Yet the nerves are still dead.

Only a hand rouses them
And other things too,
Sliding down far too far.
Limbs are weak, and wits too
To weak to provide a fight
Though one is wanted
As the nerves are born anew.

Honor the contract
Created from need
Ne'erdoweel or no
Never fail it
Inside the room
Ready for talk
Timid words falling
Feast growing cold
Consort smiling slyly
Serving a drink
Denying all harm
Heeding him on
Only a sip
Sampling the wine
Warily quenching thirst
Theories crumpling fully
Fear takes rest
Realing now swaying
Swearing it’s fine
Fog filling head
Honor the contract
Coy hands searching
Slipping down cloth
Creeping ever near
No resistance given
Grunts of perplexion
Shying away slowly
Slightly fearing her
Hands find purchase
Pulling away fabric
Fraying nerves burn
But no strength
Staring with wonderment
Wanting yet not
Nowhere to run
Relishment of terror
Taking by force
Forged with poison
Poured into drink
Damning him totally
To honor it

Blood everywhere
My blood
Your blood
Our blood
Blood, blood everywhere
Stinking up the air
Staining up the world
Gore between the teeth
Skin between the claws
It’s far too red
It has been far too red

The blade’s light
Lifting’s no feat
Fiery sword cutting
Carving through transparisteel
Steady hand needed
Never cutting fatally
For the Code.

The blade’s heavy
Hard to swing
Swearing while hefting
Till it falls
Filling the room red
Retching, staring, wondering
Warping the Code.

We’d matching necklaces
Pretty twinkling tears
Made of metal
How appropriate
The shape I’d picked

I’ve matching necklaces
Like drops of blood
Made of metal
I’ll carry both
A piece of you with me

The Bodach sleeps
Snoring lightly by
Barefaced flames flickering
Filling up all
Afull of warmth
Warping our sight
Singing us down
Deep into sleep
Snoring lightly there
There’s the Bodach

Breath of air
The roaring wave
Trickling, fizzing foam
Between cold toes
Stinging salts burn
Encrusting rocks all
Over even metal
Raging, fighting, warring
Dancing, singing, exulting
Grieving, mourning, crying
That’s the sea
That is me

The sun shines
Above the sea
Swiftly swaying, bobbing
World of motion
Why not us
We people too

The sun shines
Above the sea
We little people
Some in skirts
Others choosing beards
And some both

The sun shines
Above the sea
You looking on
Covering us lovingly
Embraced in mist
Like your children

She is, quite thoroughly, a mess.
You knew this, you know this.
And she comes back now
Like a drowned rat.
All maybes and I dunnos
And not a hint of why.
She’s just a disaster.

You were ten, just a child
In the scouts, newly moved.
You’d no one
No one save her, the wild child
Always causing a fuss,
Always making a row,
But you had her.
Even if she was a disaster.

There was a fight,
You were poked fun at by…
What was her name?
Sally? Sally, yes.
That Sally Walkens poked and prodded.
She laughed and pushed you.
You fell, fell right over
Off that rock, and you cried
Because you were fighting about…
What was the fight about?
And there she was
Your knight in shining armor, the disaster.

Sally went off the rock
Right into the river, not the floor.
Screaming, pleading, shouting,
Floating and drifting by so fast,
And she stood triumphant
Arms raised, howling “Justice! Justice!”
And for that moment she was so cool.
Even if it was all a disaster.

You laughed at it,
Standing up and feeling safe,
Feeling wanted. Here was a friend.
Here was a good person,
Even when she was scolded,
Held inside by the mother,
Badges stripped away,
There was a good person.
But now you know it.
Know that Sally could’ve died
And that’d be a disaster.

Now she is back and you know
Still know as you did,
Know so much more now,
Just what a mess she is.
What a mess she was, always.
But for one moment
Back when you were a child
Standing on that rock, shouting
Shouting for you
She was a hero,
She was your disaster.

And she still is.

To my father,

I am so uncertain,
Was so much more.
Stumbling awkwardly
and always asking
How could it be me?
Why would it be me?
And even now
I am still so uncertain.

But it could be me,
And here is why.

My passion burns strong and fierce,
A love of learning
And striving for glory,
If only of a private sort.
To stack skills so high,
In multitudes and never lacking.
Not a jack of all trades,
But a master of many.

My craving for a father,
A man to watch over me.
Goading me, guiding me,
And sending small messages,
Loving encouragements and even just hellos.
Someone who is always there,
Even when he is not
As you so often aren’t.

My need for justice and love of family.
Holding close those who are dear,
Protecting them and treasuring them.
I gather together resources
Sharing them with them
And they me with theirs.
And always I watch
For they are my people, my tribe.

For these things you came,
An itching in the mind
That turned the pages of so many books,
That lit up the skies and rained down on me.
That swallowed me up in endless warmth.
You who are a father to me always
Were always, even when I did not know
And for that I’m worthy
For who would argue with you?
I am so uncertain
But now so certain.

I have words to speak
and it has been a while
since last I made a poem,
those pretty little pocket of words
rolling down the line, falling
one after the other,
speaking truth, if not fact.
Full of feeling and life and also death,
those little words you so treasure
and fill the heads of others with.
Fierce and fiery
insistent words that must come out
either on paper or in the air,
for the truth will not be contained,
a great torrent of words,
those pretty little words,
and it has been a while
since last I made a poem.
It has been a while,
and far too long in fact.

Great wings flapping
Dark feathers fluttering
In the breeze
Push up, pull down
Rising on currents
Unseen by the eye
Soaring up high
Up, up, up
To perch, to rest

Great wings watching
Dark feathers rustling
In the breeze
Eyes keen and ears sharp
Watching, waiting, listening
Spying all, catching all
All in all
Many black birds
To watch, to listen

Great wings chatting
Dark feathers rumbling
In the breeze
A great jabber
Loud clamour of caws
Many mouths move
Cawing, clawing, croaking
To share the news
To tell the truth

Great wings always

Birds fall
Resting, pecking
On the floor
Near the pool
Wings flapping
Nervous, waiting
Birds fall
A hawk above
Soaring, searching
Unknown, unseen
The king of birds
Dives deep
Birds fall
Feathers scatter
Sight of battle
Pink stains on white
Not a corpse
But a sign still
A quill pushed
Into the water
Floating lightly, lamely
Birds fall

Something hard, yet soft
Arms snaking into
Arms, moving of their own
Accord, against my will
A hand at my throat grips
Tight, light, a bright light
Lightly I ask is it you
And you say back
Yes

You terrify me uniquely,
Filling me with fear
Only rivaled by that of death
And why should you not?

Men are raised up by you
And pulled down just as easily.
The Hound you mocked and marred,
But you bought him glory everlasting.

All around are your messengers
Flying on dark, black wings,
Sharing their stories to and fro
So unnoticed by us all.

Blood you demand
And sweat with it.
Streams and pools of the lives,
And men and women and more are yours.

Madness is your nature too.
Great furies and frenzies.
Rages, yes, but dreads as well
Which turn strength to ice.

You are all that and yet still
So much more than that.
Why should I not fear you,
And why should I not be comforted too?

“I am lost! I am lost!” cries the pilgrim,
Trapped in the haze.
Through the malaise nothing is seen,
Only shapes, indistinct, creeping.
With them comes dread.

“I am lost! I am lost!” cries the pilgrim, again
But help they deny
From shapes and all.
Far easier to wander illusions
Than to pull back the curtains.

She’s gelded you, boy
That familiar cry
Runs through your mind
Insistently weaving in
Tainting your mood always
Souring your disposition
So that you, even you
Who is so patient
Slams down a cup
Losing your tolerance
With him, your cousin
And still she has broken you
She has and she steals
Pries away your men and women
Breaking your hold
Attacking your character
All that you are
Brier Iron-thorn, a name lost
A name stolen by her
And she has gelded you, boy
But you, no longer so patient
You wrote a note
And now you wait
Your raving barely contained

I am not gelded, Father

Blood boiling
Heart pounding
Burgeoning rage
Only barely contained
Hidden behind that door
That door upon which
Rests your hand
Faltering, failing

Open me, open me
Shouts your mind
Open me, open me
Scream your hands
Aching, burning
Pained by a need
To act, to bring about
Self-destruction so near

An end to anxiety
Setting it all out
To be overtaken
A wave of hate rushing
Over you, over all
Dark, dark
Full of hate
A raving madman
Who shouts even now
Open it, open it
And as you slink away
Screams even now
Coward, coward

Give us the strength
to break what needs breaking
to be the monster who is a hero
fierce fury felling foes fully
burning like Regonereth
nemeses in our own right
Give us that strength

There are seven you know.
Seven hues,
Bright with meaning.

Grey and red,
Colors of grief,
Mourning and remembrance both.
A cry and an exaltation.

Black and gold,
Colors of truth.
A blade in hand,
Seeking justice and vengeance.

Green and blue,
Colors of ethic,
Steadfast in one’s work
Mind on responsibility and consistency.

And then there is orange,
Shereshoy, you call it
You Mando’ad
Reveling in life on death’s edge.

There are seven you know
Yet none fit
And so you pick your own
A hue for you and you alone.
You pick white.

Stark, harsh white
Clear, visible, no means to hide
Nor intent.
White of ivory,
Of the gleam of Mando iron,
The white of bones,
Old, picked clean
Reminder of life
White so bright, brilliant
Burning eyes of the dying
Leading them back home
Back to the Manda
Skills in hand.


You pick white.
White for death,
Of death.

You are white.
White for death,
Of death.

Ja’haili, ner Buir.
Ja’haili ner oya’kare.
Kar’tayli ni ijaati gar bajur.

Hail Argentiel-Incarnate
The Face of Preservation as It Looks
The *******-legitimate, Soul-walker
Dream-seer, Life-mender
Healer and priest, cousin
Sooth our souls
Mend our minds
Record our remembrances
Be the hidden one
And teach us the same
Be the reasoned one
And teach us the same
The Knorth Kindrie, One of the Three

Hail Torrigon-Incarnate
The Face of Birth as It Dreams
Highlord, Knorth Lord
The Black-Lord, Wolf-Friend
Nurturer and guardian, Father in Spirit
Hold us close and comfort us
Raise our spirits
Lead our souls
And walk with us
Heal our wounds and keep us wary
Of our foes and ourselves
But most of all nurture us
The Knorth Torisen, One of the Three

Hail Regonereth-Incarnate
The Face of Death as It Walks
Priest's-bane, Earth Wife's Favorite
Knorth Lordan, Father of Merikit
Ten and Ran, Rider of Madness
Keep our backs straight
Our claws sharp
Our minds focused
Pull down the dishonored
The liars and cowards and unjust
Tear down their works
And raise up a mocking cry
Embolden us and break us
The Knorth Jamethiel, One of the Three

Where has she gone?
All the others are in line,
Mother bear knows.
Three there,
Two here,
One down,
But she is missing.

An inquiry goes through
Over channels
Fierce and loud
Because one isn’t lining up
And it’s that one.

“Tariq is down, hold on” she says
Fervidly praying, breathing heavy
And there she is.
Anywhere but where she should be.
So easy to find, far too easy.

Swearing, scolding
No time for kindness,
Lost, another child lost
And another may be lost,
The most precious one here.

Scathing scoldings go ignored
Too naive, too proud
A child hoping to **** death
Though she calls that barbaric.
Reformed, remade, reborn
But never killed.

And there’s another,
Another cub but not hers
Carelessly walking on,
Not aware of the foe in his midst.
Of her child, the fool.

But she notices, thank God,
But she freezes up, **** God.
Frozen, still, just as feared.
No gun in hand
Shaking, shivering,
Breathing so hard.

“Don’t hesitate,”
The cry goes through
But this too is ignored.
A gun in hand at last
But unused, unfired
Shakily held with weak grip.

Yet a shot rings out.
Another notch for the rifle
And another cub protected,
The most precious one.

He’s fallen and she’s fallen
Him in death, her in shock,
And again the cry is made
“Don’t hesitate”,
And again it fails.
For she’s truly a cub,
Naive child hoping, praying
Failing.

The mother rushes out
Cursing and pushing away curses
“We need her, Morrison” she says.
“I need her,” she does not.
Out from hiding,
Rushing, running, and, yes,
Praying.

Still so shaken,
Still too still.
She is grabbed,
Pulled, tugged,
Yanked up to her feet
And dragged away,
Hastily hidden.

Harsh words hurriedly spoken
As she is ****** down.
Not in anger but in fear
And tears flow
And the words stop.
Scowling the bear sits,
Fearing even now in the den.

Quiet falls
Deafening, painful.
Jack shut off,
Others mollified,
And she does not speak.
Only watches,
Watching, eyeing on hatefully,
Glaring as Mother carves another.
One more life, one more line
And she doesn’t understand.
Only judges quick and fast,
Ever the idealist.

And that stings more than death’s threat.

Beautiful, bright lord
Forever young
Wise and many skilled
Father of the thrice-conceived
Hail to you, and honor too.
To the champion of champions,
To Lugh Samildánach.

My father, my father, my true father.
My father though not of flesh and blood,
Who guides me gently
Or sternly as needs be,
And who encourages me kindly
And so proudly.
How I love you, my father.

These scraps are yours,
Little words running through my head,
Pretty pickings and pairings,
Offering your praise.
Take them, o Lord