You could have been mine.
You could have been all ours,
we Children of the Dark.
But the Angles came
imposing their own as supreme,
though so tainted by French.

But like our myths you stand strong
in a way.
Few speak you, know you,
but you are you.
Not pure for none are,
but you are you,
just like our tales of old
which you sang so high.
The Angles came, but you remain.

What is strength?
You’re not quite sure.

Father taught it to be hardness,
Unyielding fear and distrust,
Screeching, scrabbling, striking out
All love crushed before it spreads.

She teaches it to be rebellion,
Standing up in the face of all,
Tearing down walls, breaking up bones
A resounding no and a fierce affirmation.

Experience taught it to be lacking,
Lost and nowhere to be found
In the possession of others
With you always groping about.

Where is strength?
You’re not quite sure.

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

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.

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?

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

Small girl up in the tower,
Hidden away to draw out shadows.
Covered in downy fur,
Wintercoat of the halfbreed dragonkin,
Children of moonlight serpents, masters of crystals.
She has never lived among her kin,
The Woman of the Painting with scythe.
No, always she has walked Anor Londo,
Towers of the gods
Alongside her brother.
That is the story, that was.
Now she guards city under siege,
Company captain in name if not spirit,
Singing songs of vengeance
Whose words she does not comprehend.
Yet she sings on for her brother,
The sheltered dragon of the tower,
The bell carrying captain.

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.

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 fire fades
Father’s fears
Rushing in
Rending minds
Tearing flesh
Men rising up
Calling out
Begging, praying
So easy to rouse
Story falling
From your lips
Pale and shadowy
Telling of flame
A continuing age
The crowning of kings
Of ash and cinder
Stoking on the kiln
And the men come
And you rule
And the fire burns
An honorable son
Hail the sun, and its flame!
Hail the moon, and its flame!

And the Void comes,
A yawning mass
That sings sickly lies
-- or are they truths? --
Of the coming nothing
Which will pull you down
And never let go.

But the Light comes,
A resplendent sign
Of the Lord of All,
Skills and men,
Who sings of life,
Everlasting and resplendent,
And will never let go.

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.

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

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

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

We won’t be sleeping.

King over men
Lugh Lamhfháda, my lord,
fill me with flame, great passion.
Give over Imbas.
Smelt me down, liquid ore,
Make me a blade, my lord.

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?

Waves, they crash and fall,
but also sway and bob.
That rhythm burned me,
deep and thorough.
I feel it on the bus
rolling along, all stop and go,
and I ache and yearn
for the sea spray that I can smell,
though it is not there.

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.

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

Manannán I feel you and I wonder,
did you teach your boy to ride the waves?
Did you show him to cut foam
with elegant prow, strong and firm?

Manannán I see you and I feel
there you are, old uncle with cap and pipe,
and there is your boy
cutting the spray on a board,
just board alone.

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

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.

“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.

The old stones are gone,
Platforms leading to the archives.
The old bonfires are out,
Even the flame in the tomb.
Down the hall the rug is ragged,
No more do knights kneel there.
The last knight is no more too,
Her arms resting in the hall.
They stand their vigil even now,
Ignored by the usurpers and waiting.
Take up the arms, Blade,
Take up the old firekeeper’s pact.

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?

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

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

Eyes, six-hundred, staring.
Thousand-armed, strong.
Resplendent and radiant,
the gods tower above men.
Yet men, meek and weak
tear down the illusion,
parting the fog
that gods can’t see.

Where do you walk?
down those same hallways
old, haunted
ringing with the madman’s voice
the bolt is shot
the door locked
yet he marches on
screaming, shouting
the door does not open
but you cannot bear it
Why do you walk?

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

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.

There’s a life to language,
mingling, meeting.
Words all flow
fumbling or fluently.
Structure collides and grows,
changing, combining.
Where many see disrepair
or even death
I see life.