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.

She is the mother of us all,
were she not grown.
Her son but a brother, a brat,
the world not moved
for her words fell on no one.

She fought and fussed,
wasting away in sociality,
and now she is trapped.
Aware and complacent,
she no longer burns.

The walls have faces,
so our minds say.
That’s all it is,
a trick of the mind.
Right?

But what if the streets have souls
quite like us?
What if there are faces,
real faces
unlike we thought.
Right.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Cut, slice, saw.
Crush, smash, grind.
****, stab, pierce.
Make them fall,
all in all.

Paper cuts make my knees shake.
World goes fuzzy
land swimming
Where are the ****** band-aids?

But gore makes my heart sing.
Wrists all slit
stomachs split wide
viscera falling
Where are the flayed faces?

Blood drives scare me.
White vans all out
hiding away
Can’t they go elsewhere?

But dungeons cheer me.
Tables and crosses
and rusty chains on ceiling
our tools all spread out
Can’t we go play?

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.

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.

Break the bones, crush the souls.
Doctor’s orders, through and through.
Walk the times, turn the keys.
Hatred’s fire, grew and grew.
No respite, no delight.

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 mother’s mourning
first now heard.
Sudden shrieking
tearing cloth and hair
ground beat, pounded,
rage building.
Do you hear it, do you see it?

In heated irons
corpse hangs
wrists burned
through flesh to bone
protruding arrow
pierces chest.
I know you see it, but do you hear it?

Your head is white,
your clothes are white,
your hands are white,
your shoes are white,
but your house?
Your house is green.

Your clocks are green,
your tables are green,
your watches are green,
your drawers are green,
and your walls?
They are green too.

Even I am green.
My blood runs rust,
but clothes flow lime.
My shoes, my skirts,
my socks, my shirts?
All are green.
But then I am another clock.

Tick-tock, I hate your clock.
Ding-****, the dreadful throng,
bulbous and bland
just like your head.

Watch him creep about,
that Prince of Pleasure.
He sets out fantasies,
digging in deeply.
Nagging thoughts,
aches and pains,
flash of want that feels like need.
Only lions can shake him off.

She lives in her books,
seeking fiction where there is truth.
“I’ll make it mine!” she cries,
seeking friendship in lie.
To be renowned, respected, revered
is her wish.
No longer depreciated, despised, detested.

“I’ll help you all!” she cries,
wanting to force what she cannot.
If only she’d stop and think,
maybe then she’d earn it.
Their trust.

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.

Professor asks what is wrong
I say that it’s my infertility
Professor says oh I didn’t know you were married
I laugh oh that’s not what I meant
Professor is confused
Provost is proud

Sharp shrieks piercing night,
terror or pain, a mother’s worst fear.
Old husband bumbling, fumbling,
but a mother is vigilant.

Rush forth, answer quick.
There is no time when they cry.
What is it, what is it?
Monster, human, or worse?

Child’s chiding tone calms the heart,
but arouses it another way.
Why so difficult, so stubborn?
Unruly and cruel, but so beloved.

Door ****** open, lights flicked on.
There it is, sight not believed.
Glint of metal, shocked face.
A mother’s worst dream not understood.

Explanations falling out, knife hidden.
Less a plea and more an excuse.
“I wasn’t going to, it’s just a joke.”
Why such japes all the time?

The other cowers, child of womb,
cries and crawls back, still so shaken.
“It’s fine, Mom. Really,”
That’s what he says.

Can’t stop, won’t stop. A mother’s fury.
Simply unacceptable, so unthinkable.
“How could you, why would you?”
Scolding stings mothers more.

Knife is relinquished, hesitating, unwilling.
More excuses, more assurances and from both.
A sibling’s honor goes before all,
even one’s comfort, even one’s life.

Father arrives, so late, still grumbling.
Too late for this sort of thing.
Oh, what is even going on.
Shut up by realization. Oh God how?

Talk on the knee while father comforts son.
Scolding, molding, pleas and questions.
But still there’s a hug, and kiss, and tears so many.
A mother’s love so resolute. Always. Always.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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

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!

The words I cannot grasp,
whole dreamscapes painted within me.
Oh, the grand copyist he just might be able,
so much better able,
scrawling pictures of your calls fervently.
Recording hue and thought,
and those oceanic depths,
doing what I can only wish for, pray for.
Yet, I do hear.
I do hear it, hear you
Your words, those words,
and of that I am so certain.
So sure of those words, deep and hazy
and so warm, oh so warm.
The sound, the tremulous tone, makes one drunk
so ruined to hear it even only in dream,
even only in furtive whispers.
Ebrietas you are, Daughter of the Cosmos,
bringer of enlightenment through dumbness.

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

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

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

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

The old sea god is dead,
Torn open and ripped apart
For science, study.
Villagers maimed
Heads cracked open
Always asking
“Do you have eyes?”
Do we see the eyes?
If Kos is dead then why does she speak?
She speaks of sight,
And I see the eyes.

“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.

Pressure was tight in the cave,
Feeling as though I were diving down deep,
Deep into the sea, spotting odd fish.
Yet there was nothing in the cave,
Nothing to be seen anyway.
I felt you either way,
Crushing down on my head, popping my ears.
Some left, one asked, I confirmed.
You were there, there beyond our sight,
And as I looked I remembered the proverb.
Blood is not what I need.
Now eyes, eyes are what I need,
I need eyes.
For you.
For me.

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

Bubble, gurgle, trickle, whoosh
Rush, crash, thunder, roar
Ocean waves deep below
under our school yet above
colored like the stars, so many nebulae
Warm, sticky-hot, and numbing
Dizzying, disorientating, and water-firm
Even though you lay you sway
This is Hello

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?

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

You love jokes don’t you?
Clever strings of words.
Pranks too!
As I drank a cup this morning
I heard a light bubbling
As like percolation,
And I giggled on, not knowing why,
Feeling oh so drunk.
I don’t know the joke,
But I understand it.

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

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

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.

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.

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

We won’t be sleeping.

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?

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.

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.