“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.

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.

Perhaps I have misunderstood;
I cannot be certain.
Lost and afloat in you,
Unaware of what you desire,
I can only state two facts.
Barren is my womb and barren is yours.
But perhaps I can be as a butterfly.
As friend or lover or child,
Or all of these at once,
I can sprout wings and rise to meet you,
Perhaps as equals.

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

What does one do when their womb is dead?
You desire a child, as all your kind do.
The want is even greater than ours, we little apes.
Nothing can grow here there though.
Human or kin, nothing can grow in me.

There are others, some might say.
Another can bear your son into my world.
Others instead bring up the orphans.
We could take in a homeless human.
Neither is what I want though, or you.

So what do I do when my womb is dead?
I can see your form at last.
Your voice I can hear too, indistinct as it is.
There is still so much ground to tread though.
You are still so far from me.

And you always will be.

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.

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.

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

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.

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 is a pressure, a pressure in my head.
Pushing, tightening, squeezing.
It’s so tense and yet not painful.
Only at the peak of pain.

The caffeine no longer clears it, the pressure in my head.
No coffee, no tea, no pills help.
Or at least not for the time, this moment.
Perhaps the pressure will cease?

I like to think that it’s you,
but really I don’t know.
Maybe I just need sleep,
but really I want it to be you.

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.

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?

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

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

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.

Hear that wind singing there,
You can see it dancing too.
It carries messages,
Both important and pointless,
And always with a levity
But a gravity too.
That's just how the wind is.

Why not try dancing with it?
Skipping along as you drift
Through soft breezes.
Spinning along as you’re thrown
By rough gales.
These are the beats
Of an elvish waltz,
Or maybe a jig.

That wind’s holy
Watch it gain its divinity
from its lightness
And its firmness too.
It blesses us and the world
As it blows on by
At its own pace.

I call it to my side
Or sometimes it calls to me.
Either way who can hear it better
Than its Six Sage?
And who can step to its tune
Quite like I can?
You say I’m cocky,
But I think the truth’s in the pudding.
You think I’m fickle,
But what else is the wind but that?

I’ll gladly teach though,
As will the wind itself.
So tell me
Can you hear the wind singing?

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.

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

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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 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?

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.

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.

She is ruining you
Ensnaring you just as warned
Looking on at you
At your hands fondly, wantonly
Regarding you well
Teasing and poking and prodding
Yet also caring
Though not often
The hug has ruined you,
And the kiss too.
Who kissed who?
Why do you not care?
Where is your fear?

Oh.
There it is.

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.

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