Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
I whistle for the Scarecrow to lead the way right after Neur decided to leave. It begins to form a black mist/smoke like essence in the middle of where I stand then it unifies and creates a Scarecrow with red eyes and it makes noise and flies slowly in front of me. Finally it lands in a mysterious cave where I stand in awe as I see ...there the Scarecrow stands on top of a crystalline rock emanating from the entrance of the cave itself. I walk in and I feel an eerie feeling go down my gut...something tells me to look immediately to the right. So when I do there it is the mystical impenetrable rock Aziel was talking about. Then just then I feel a sense of ease and Aziel says telepathically..."So my not what are you waiting for destroy the rock and retrieve the relic." So all the sudden I feel a sudden deepening defining feeling in my chest and I acquire the powers of Darkness for the first time in my quest for revenge is paying off. I command my whole arm to become a sledgehammer and hit the rock directly and it cracks in a half...there stands a beautiful glowing base with a fancy top on it ...made out of red diamonds and showered in Gold. Then I am relieved. "I got it" I tell Aziel telepathically. Then Aziel responds worried ... "Come as quickly as you can because I believe the Goddess is onto you...plus I cannot sustain you with the power of Darkness only 45 more minutes. Therefore,  come friend for you will be handsomely rewarded. " As I am getting out of the cave I hear galloping coming up the path I came. Then to my bewilderment Boom there stood a huge 32 ft tall ElderGloomTree It looked at me and it had a sweet berry like strawberry like scent in the Air it smelled beautifully nice.
The middle of the tree there was a mouth like sideways and it opened inside it slowly took out it's tongue and there was a small what looked like a mustard seed with rainbow like colors all over. There that little seed grew before my very eyes in the matter of split seconds and formed the shape of a beautiful glowing young woman with beautiful green skin and black hair with blue red and white stripes on the hair color. She spoke to me kindly and softly her breath smelled like fresh mint...I was astounded. Frank: "Yyyoouu...mmuusstt....bbb..e..." I stuttered... Nabyah: "Yes Young Mortal I am Nabyah many call me the Goddess Of The Forest Of Whispers. What are you doing here...what is that your carrying and oh one last question...I heard from Neur you was seeking me." Frank: "Indeed I am Frank Deltoro and I am here to request something from you...in return I'll do something you want done. If it's under my power and will to do so I will aid you." Nabyah: " I want to aid my tribe of centaurs and the remote Cyclop  village of Vlakazamuk & Chalekathan *
  We want to stop the killing of Centaurs and the human captures from capturing Cyclops and making them work enslaving all Cyclop population or sometimes brutally **** them and practice known as
Davalkaj Shamanism.

You humans and your inventions to destroy our home-world and natural habitat. Tell me what makes you think I'm going to help You? Should I **** you for trespassing my forest?" Frank: "Well... I didn't come to fight but if i must we can clash but I would rather we handle the situation like 2 Grown up adults here well you for one am sure have lived thousands of years now but hey...help me and I will do my best to remove the curse." Nabyah: " Fine but do come ...come close to me I will kiss you in the lips once and you shall have my blessing..." Aziel shouts telepathically: "Use the power of the Dark to see if she is giving you a curse or a blessing...if you take the kiss and become enchanted well since the power of Darkness is in you it will be removed. But if it's a curse I shall take it and renew your power by some. So either way it's safe go ahead kiddo...I know you want those lips. Get em" I just nod. Then wow I kiss the Goddess and it's by far the most romantic thing that's ever happened to me in my 25 yrs of living. I felt a holy power showering over me then the power of the Dark was immediately removed.
Then all the sudden she makes a beautiful hymn comes out of her mouth and a fairy about 3ft tall with 6 wings flying in mid air hands Nabyah a gorgeous engraved Vial of blood. "Here is what you seek warrior; proceed carefully not only benevolent souls and entities linger here. I leave the area as soon as she hands me the vial of blood. I get about 50 ft away from the area and the power of Darkness consumes me I transform to a Giant Bat and head back to Aziel.
In the Castle am greeted with pleasure and I hand him the vial of Goddesses blood. There and then he drinks the elixir of blood and before my very eyes he regains his youth and full power. Then there stands 5'7 Sharp look young man about 20 to 21 years of age. He disappears and reappears behind me tapping me on the shoulder. Aziel: "Frank I am in complete debt with you for only and even though we do not agree nor do I love him any but thanks the Lord...you helped me regain my full vampiric power. Ahhh it feels amazing. Hahaha  he embraces me in a warm hug.  Now what do you desire my mortal friend?
I think deeply..."I want to help the Goddess remove the curse from the forest." Aziel: "I usually don't meddle in human affairs but I am making an exception I'll help you as long as your willing to help me destroy the Order " Frank: "Does this mean I must look for the Relics Neur Blackthorn asked me to get ...since I got the vial I don't really need to do it no more right?" Aziel: " I'll let you borrow the power of Darkness for 6.5 more hrs till morning comes" Frank: "Thanks Aziel once again for letting me gain more power and knowledge."

~ *Meanwhile


At a very remote location deep in the heart of the Forest Of Whispers lived Bethilda Wood. She has lived in a old ruined cabin for 700+ yrs also she is known as The Elder Witch *Empress Of Darkness
known to bestow powerful spells and hexes but also with the gift of healing and releasing souls back to the Almighty One. A young Wiccan woman comes up young in age her skin tan/white heading toward the old rugged cabin...then pauses whistles a delightful melody and a staff appears.  Having been trained in the field of magic this young witch is been taken under Bethilda's wing. Bethilda:  Adrianna  darling come I have a surprise for you. Follow me to the pond of *Greater Enchantment. Adrianna: So... I heard you became the High Dark Empress 1200 years ago. Bethilda: Yes that is true I been a Witch for the past 1600 years or so. I survived the middle ages the dark ages and the years of enlightenment.  It's something I been willing to be all my life for I meet the man who carries my heart a young man known as The Count Of the Night. Dracula! We fell in love and I bore 3 of his children who so I have heard inherited the gift of becoming a vampire and they inevitably became vampires, more like the 3 princes of the night. Vladimir my first born Aziel my middle child and Uriel the youngest of the three. I been on the quest of finding Jesus Tears a small opaque flower the color of silver to complete my spell and relinquish Vladimir's soul to the mortal realm fit it into a red diamond and transfer it's soul essence into a freshly dead human body. With that he will come back to the World of the living and redeem himself and take revenge on the Order. Adrianna: I will help you. I will find this flower you'll see. So then they practiced spells from there on out.

~ Meanwhile

Its 1 a.m. and Frank heads out to seek the Ancient Relic. With the complete power of Darkness at his disposal he sends out 3  scarecrows to look for areas of interest in the Forest Of Whispers. Two of the  scarecrows come back one doesn't so that last one got killed by someone's power. Frank communicates telepathically to Aziel. Frank: I think someone is onto us Aziel guard the Castle it might be the Order. Aziel: already got it covered buddy. Then Frank feels a very strong power slowly emanating from the Southeast part of the Forest Of Whispers.  Frank transforms to a bat and heads there. As he gets there the small village of Chalekathan...
He who has been destroyed there stood a mysterious figure in the middle of the havoc a mysterious strong power could be felt from him. Mysterious Man: Hello adventurer my name is Navarro Castle-worth I am the Warlock of the *Tower Of Frejoird
where I was trained to use magic and rituals to summon strong deities into this plane of existence.  I got here too late someone had destroyed the village before I got here. Frank: Right ...my name is Frank Deltoro and how do I know your not the one who destroyed the village? Why should I trust you? Navarro: Young friend...I do not desire battle but if it's necessary I will satiate your thirst for battle...Navarro Summons his staff and says some words and a Huge Nightmarish Creature that looks like a dog with a fog of Darkness surrounds the Creature. Frank summons the power of Darkness and since its 1:33 a.m he gains the *Wings Of the Desolate Count which makes his power two fold. There Frank stood looking at Navarro in the eyes and him looking at Frank with perspicacity. All the sudden a trembling can be felt and a Huge Cyclop comes out of the Wilderness. Mysterious Cyclop: Hold one moment ...this man is telling you the truth young Mortal. Frank: Woah a Cyclop what how did you get here? Frank loses his fighting stance and so does Navarro...My name is *Jhino Velvermount I am from the Tribe Of Chalekathan* known Village Of the Largest Cyclop population. "Come I show you what the Witch Of the Tavern Of Doom Dragons* done her name is ...whispers Bethilda N. Lement. Raised originally in Sweden in the small farming town of Wrellender* learned Martial Arts Of Taijutsu and Ninjutsu. Able to control Lighting/Air/Water/Fire/Metallic energies. Coming from a family that practiced Zetzou Buddhism. Who are thought at a very young age to control the Chi* Energies of the body how to practice Re-Vitalizing and Re-Energizing the Chi to be able to stay in a meditative/active blending of consciousness with the subconscious to make Ninjutsu possible. She is known to have rested 1322-1555 A.C. about 250 not been too active but her Great Grandmother. Nayya M. Element who was born 1119 A.C. in the same village one of the co-founders of it who placed the curse on the Forest Of Whispers and it's being sustained by her Great Granddaughter Mrs. Lement. Now me and Navarro follow Jhino to the Village. We go thru extensive difficult paths that leave me tired for an excruciating 5 hrs of walking. Finally arrive at the village... and there is about 30-40 Thousand Cyclops gathered around the Village to hear Gromm ElderLord of the Village Of Chalekathan. Gromm: My stance stands I am here to protect my people from the evil that has left this village wrecked record in the past 300 years. I will NOT allow Bethilda to wreak havoc here no longer. There Me and Navarro and Jhino stand behind the large crowd waiting for the speech to end. The speech finally ends and strong Cyclop incense is burn to allow other high ranking tribe members to know the Elders speech ended. <br>
<br>
~Meanwhile in Aziel's Castle~
"Hello" a young woman with Long Red Hair that hits the ground as she walks White Pearl Eyes with Black Pupils and with a Long  *Black Ceremonial Dress known as Akashaic Black Tunic Of the Dark Empress from the Land Of Necromancers.
There appeared in a Dark WindAziel Governale in a White Taxedo like Suit Welcome Home... Iris Senteno ...Oracle Of the Shadows Of the most powerful Magicians from the Tower Of Frejoird. I have seen your prodigal human who's name is Frank Deltoro...handsome young man who encountered Navarro in The Forest Of Whispers. Will he be trouble? Or shall I eliminate his presence?"
Aziel: No he is working for me...you shall have him without delay at the end.

                         ~To Be Continued
Work in progress.
Jackie White Mar 2015
Where is everyone?
He walked down the empty hallway
I guess everyone went home...Thats where i should be
'Frank?' rang a voice through the corridor
He froze
Who called my na-It cant be
A boy about the same height turned the corner.
Please. I cant do this right now
The shadows danced as he raced the other way, chills from the familiar voice going down his back.
Run. Faster!
'Frank, wait!'
why did i stop?
Frank turned around to see the boy he loved and feared.
Go away
'Frank. I need to talk to you'
Just turn around and walk away
'Want to get some dinner, Frank?'
why cant i move?
'Frank, come on. I know youre mad. We can talk this out.'
Its too late. I have already tried that
'Im sorry. Can you forgive me, Frank?'
I did the first time...
'I wont do it again'
...And the time after that...
'I promise'
...and you still hurt me.
'I really am sorry. I never meant to hurt you!'
Lies, and i know it
'Please Frank. We can talk about this.'
So why do i want to forgive you?
'Answer me, Frank! Dont just stand there!' The boy yelled, tearing up.
Why do i want to hug you, and tell you everything is fine?
'Frank? Please baby!'
why do i feel this way when i let you into my heart...
'I said i was sorry! What else do you want?'
...Why did i let you hurt me?
'I love you, Frank! I always have!'
Why do i want to scream "i love you too" and forget everything that went wrong?
'Frank, I promise i will never do it again. I will never hurt you like i have'
Its a big cycle. A cycle that wont end.
'I will n-never s-strike you or yell or anything.' The boy said, sobbing.
I love you. I dont want to lose you. But you hurt me. How can i love someone i fear?
'I promise, love. I promise!'
What do i do?
'Forgive me! Please Frank! Please say you forgive me, baby.'
No
*Yes
Homosexual abuse happens too. Dont ignore it.
Steve Nov 2014
Poor Frank
Our poor Frank
A willing young lad from the 'pool
My granny’s little brother
The eye-light of his mother
Off to France where Kitchener led
The war to end all wars they said
Christmas indeed but Christmas in dread

Poor Frank
Poor willing Frank
Who knew life could be so cruel
My granny’s little brother
Tore the heart from his mother
Off to France to fight the war
Who knows what terrors his young eyes saw
Who even knows what that ****** war was for

Poor Frank
Our poor Frank
Yet he came home to walk up the path
“Frank’s home, Frank’s home!” my granny’s sister's screeched
And the girls all jostled and laughed - and ran to the door
But Frank, poor Frank, wasn't there
Poor Frank, he would never come home anymore.

My granny’s little brother
From the womb of his poor mother
To the blood rich fields lost in France.
1914-2014 Lest we forget. This is from a story my granny told me (often) of her youngest brother, Frank. She only ever referred to him as 'our poor Frank' She took his memory to the other end of the century and swore he came home one last time. Now he is here today with you.
Steve Nov 2017
Growing up in Liverpool in the late 50's we were surrounded by bomb sites it was where we played. But my granny and grandad seemed to have far more vivid memories of the first great war.
This was a true story she told often.....*


Poor Frank
Our poor Frank
A willing young lad from the 'pool
My granny’s little brother
The eye-light of his mother
Off to France where Kitchener led
The war to end all wars they said
Christmas indeed but Christmas in dread

Poor Frank
Poor willing Frank
Who knew life could be so cruel
My granny’s little brother
Tore the heart from his mother
Off to France to fight the war
Who knows what terrors his young eyes saw
Who even knows what that ****** war was for

Poor Frank
Our poor Frank
Yet he came home to walk up the path
“Frank’s home, Frank’s home!” my granny’s sister's screeched
And the girls all jostled and laughed - and ran to the door
But Frank, poor Frank, wasn't there
Poor Frank, he would never come home anymore.

My granny’s little brother
From the womb of his poor mother
To the blood rich fields lost in France.
Lest We Forget Golden Oldies Volume One
Senteno Oracle Of The Shadows: So Aziel what's your plan with Frank?
Aziel: Well he is going to help me destroy the Order Of The Silver Knights and in return I shall help him get the Witch who cursed the Forest Of Whispers.
Senteno Oracle Of The Shadows: Well I'll give you some valuable information who your looking for is Bethilda N. Lement. She is a very powerful Witch who with her Elemental Plowness is able to obtain what she wants.
Aziel: Well well ...so the Old Hag still holds the grip over the Forest doesn't she
Senteno Oracle Of The Shadows: Indeed she isn't someone to take lightly now she is well rounded and knows how to fight. She controls The Tavern Of Doom Dragons. In her possession are 3 fully grown Dragons. Blair the Oldest Dragon Claire The Mother Dragon and Aurora the youngest one of them three.
Blair the Black Dragon Claire The White Dragon and Aurora the Stone/Lighting Dragon. Many have meet their doom entering in her territory Cyclop Human and Vampire Alike.
Aziel: I don't have anything to fear.

~Meanwhile...~

Bethilda Lement: Adreanna I want you to learn more about my Dragons start training with Aurora but be cautious she may be only three years old but she is powerful and robust. Lement screeches then Aurora hovers over the Mountain Of Shen* where the Tavern Of Doom Dragons is located. Adrianna Develve places a strong spell in the Dragon Aurora she finally succumbs to her authority.
Adrianna and Aurora go take down the Golem Of Steel  in the Hidden Ruins Of Odom.* The Golem stands 15 ft high weighs 2,500 pounds. Holding a crest of an almost impenetrable diamond in the middle of his chest. Emanating from the Crystal comes all his power and it's his only weak spot. Then Aurora and Adrianna make an impressionable entrance to the ruins and attack the Golem head on. Golem Of Steel: Here stands the infamous Adrianna Develve...well isn't  this a surprise.  I see that you have grown some and are able to maintain your powers well to face me. I know what you want you want the Crystal in my chest...that will be over my dead body. Audon's Crystal* is powerful enough to consume 1000 Well Trained Witches therefore young Witch you don't scare me. Now as for that Dragon well ... perhaps you stand a chance after all.  Adrianna Develve: I usually don't pick fights with powerful DemiGods like yourself but I  am in desperate need for your Crystal. Therefore, you will hand it over or I'll take it by force.  Golem Of Steel:  Good Luck.
Aurora shields herself with Stone Armor and goes head on collision with the Golem. He dodges the attack and  counterattacks with a strong fist to the  Dragons body and knocks Aurora down cracking part of her Stone Armor. The young female Dragon counterattacks with a powerful lighting blast hitting The Steel Golem in the right shoulder injuring him. Develve attacks with a powerful mind blast knocking down the Golem Of Steel on it's back. The Golem Of Steel bleeds blue blood out of his shoulder blade and runs full force towards Adrianna Develve.  She  dashes the attack and counterattacks  with a Shadow Ball attack hitting him in the chest and expanding all over its body. It's a possession Ninjutsu technique making him practically paralyzed for about 2 minutes till he breaks free from the technique but sustains a considerable amount of damage. Adrianna Develve seeing that the Golem Of Steel is showing a sign of weakness she takes advantage to try to inflict him with a spear of lighting into the chest impairing him and he bleeds out the mouth but as the last resolution The Golem Of Steel punches the Audon Crystal shattering it into 5 individual pieces him losing his life in the process however what he didn't know is that Adrianna Develve collected all the pieces however there was a violent explosion at the site shattering huge boulders of steel and inflicting Aurora gravely. Adrianna Develve  hurries and performs a powerful healing spell leaving her drained of all power. Adrianna Develve hurries to get out of the ruins because they are crumbling down. She manages to recover Aurora briefly from there they fly to The Tavern Of Doom Dragons Of Doom Dragons right when she pulls in with Aurora who is injured from the boulders hitting her body and face at high velocity even the Rock Armor was perforated. The Dragon lands barely with Adrianna Develve who gets the Wrath of Granny Bethilda N. Lement. Aurora breathing heavily and bleeding out the mouth slipping in and out of consciousness ...Adrianna Develve barely getting off the Dragon.
Bethilda Lement: What the hell  happened to Aurora she is in really bad shape. Adrianna your completely drained I see you did good by healing her however, she must rest for about 3-4 days now and fully recover from that gruesome fight with that **** Golem Of Steel. Adrianna are you Ok darling? Go get some rest I see you used the forbidden technique of Soul Healing Transfer. Well now you'll live 12 years less thanks to your little sharede. Develve I am thankful that you saved my Dragon from dying but hell consequences are quite dire.
Develve: Here Granny Lement I got Audon's Diamond however it's shattered in 5 separate pieces.
Bethilda N. Lement:  Let me guess the Golem Of Steel did not want this to fall under the wrong hands for it is a powerful relic. Smart move buying time however, useless due to the fact that we got the diamond under our possession. Adrianna we are going to search the Master Forger Of Relics* who can aid us recover this valuable relic to it's original state. It's said that he resides in one of the headquarters of the Order however, he has worked with Witches, Pagans and Nacromancers before so am sure that as long as we provide the right monetary value to repair the relic he'll work for us.
Develve: Why don't we just kidnap him and make him do the work or he pays with his life?
Lement:  Good objective it may have to work that way for us.
Develve: Im aware that the Cyclop population in the Village Of Chalekathan are not taking your threats seriously well ElderLord Gromm has not paid his fee from allowing them to live and not be consumed by the curse itself.
Lement: By killing him we can set an example of what can happen to them if they don't cooperate with our cause.
Develve: It dangerous though he is a strong Leader with lots of powerful influences. Plus he is a highly skilled Witch Doctor/Shaman able to manipulate the forces of nature. Known to use 3 Godly Deities Aikune Chalekathan & Eion. Aikune the cherubim of the Northern Side Of Heaven. Chalekathan the Spirit God embodiment of The Forest Of Whispers and last but not least Eion the mythical creature with an Eagle face 6 wings and the body of a Lion. Embuted with heavenly essence making him a very formidable foe.
Develve:  We will take care of our responsibilities soon but our primary mission is to talk Ayeiton Balderoux III* the Master Forger Of Relics.
: Whoa had no idea he was The Kings kin.
Lement: Indeed he is now go and lay your head and recover some energy because we need to practice your magical plowness.
Adrianna heads towards the Guest Room.

~Meanwhile in The Forest Of Whispers~
Frank Deltoro gets introduced to Gromm ElderLord Of Chalekathan by Jhino.  He also introduces Navarro Castleworth who is pleased to meet the famous Elder.
Gromm: Hello young man I am the protector of this village which has sustained numerous attacks by Lement's Dragons. Develve also partook enthusiastically with her Grandmother in attacking innocent hard working Cyclops. Making them slaves of the Curse which drives them mad and homicidal attacking friends brothers and family so we had to do the inevitable put them down.
Nevertheless, I pray to Deynave Dion High Saint/Priestess Queen Of All Shamanism to protect the lost souls of them Cyclops who fought the curse till the very end but unfortunately lost the fight and in turn lost their lives.
Frank: My condolences to your friends ElderLord Gromm.Am sure they in a better place now at least not suffering. However, I have a personal matter to score with Lement. She kidnapped and murdered my only daughter 10 years ago she was a...his voice gets trembly and he lightly clears his throat..at the same time a solid solo tear drops from his only Eye symbolizing a Fathers great pain and suffering from such an atrocious act." Gromm regains his composure. I got a personal score to settle with Mrs.Lement due to the fact that she took a piece of my heart and soul she killed my daughter. Develve played her part in the kidnapping of my baby girl 10 years ago she would be 18 years old today if Shaila Dair Sultran were alive...her appointed time to be brutally killed by my hand is coming...Bethilda N. Lement has been suppressing her powers for the last 300 years I believe she has some sort of powerful anti-chi barrier put up extending tremendous lengths so even if she is active in The Forest Of Whispers we wouldn't know how to tell due to this **** barrier.
Frank: So your bloodline comes from the Ancient times from the powerful Cyclop Of Royal Priests/Witch Doctors family Sultran.
"A gentle wind blows and Aziel telepathically communicates with Frank.  Aziel: Frank, be careful where you thread I been informed that Lement's Grand-Daughter Adrianna Develve recently gathered Audon's Crystal a powerful diamond known to give its user Bending Steel abilities and higher sustainability. Adrianna Develve has plans to use the Crystal to fully cover the Forest Of Whispers covering every inch of Forest with the Curse which drives all living creatures with a conscious mad totally subseptable to their influence.
However, to you those must be terrible news so my question is...you been in Chalekathan Village for 1 hr and a half you have 5.3 hrs till daylight removing the Darkness powers you currently control.
Frank: I am aware of this Aziel don't worry I'll take care of business.
Aziel: Keep an eye out Navarro I don't  trust him I don't know what intentions he has...plus he is part  of that shady Tower Of Frejoird but perhaps you can use his hatred towards the Order Of The Silver Knights. He can maybe be a reliable source. Be careful Frank.

~Meanwhile in Aziel Castle~
Isis: Well...Aziel aren't  you such a concerned individual...I didn't  know you had a soft spot towards mere humans.
Aziel: I usually don't...but Frank is different from the rest. He is courageous trustworthy and he put his life at risk by helping me regain all my vampiric power. I am in much debt to him...am having second thoughts on your plans to **** him after he completes his assignments that we have agreed upon. If he makes it out alive after all this...he at least deserves a reward and to live.
Isis: Chuckles at Aziel Aziel looks at the Empress with great focus.
Isis: C'mon I'll just have some fun with Frank I wasn't planning to ****** him.
Aziel: I'll  think about it now leave me be I got couple of things I need to take care of.
Isis: Fine Darling I'll  leave you be. You know you are the handsomest of all the brothers you have.
Aziel: Well now Isis you flirting with me...I doubt you'll want my erected tool up your stash. Don't you remember am a Vampire?
Isis: I'm aware of that. Adventure sounds fun plus I never had *** with a hot vampire like yourself.
Isis: Well Doll that is going to be some other time I am working against the clock right now.
Isis: Fine you *****...I'll leave. However, keep in mind that Im watching you closely. Plus remember I still keep contact with DarkLord for soon your Father will be back in this plane of reality.
Aziel: So I have heard.
Isis: Well I have found some juicy
Information about Uriels wereabouts he is in a Modern Castle in America. Amelia St and Cross. Residency 106. He is a huge celebrity in Russia and Germany. Keeps his bloodlust at check with fresh blood always for him to self medicate. Looking only 19 years old he is quite the chick magnet though not my taste his Gothic Progressive Horror Rock made him quite famous. Got 5 albums however kept his personal life well hidden from his fans. Many fake and supportive accounts claiming to know the real Uriel Governale. Though no one truly knows he is a vampire for certain. I know because I searched the private records and found out that he belongs to a High Ranking Secret Society known as Maximillion Vampire Clan. Which performs innocent human babies to be given as a sacrifice towards Baphomet and Azmodeus* 2 Of the Demon Lords of Hell. Your brother belongs to this hidden organization that operates in the Shadows but their latest project is to revive your Father the Progenitor most infamous VampireLord of all time. Dracula! Humanity will cease to exist if he were to be revived. All they need is a vial of blood from all of the current 8 saints and they have their eye on Saint Lauren Glennwald from the Eastern Side of Germany from a small rural community town known as Hertzentmort. She currently 25 years old is on a mission to collect Papal papers for the Order for you know they are closely tied to the papalcy. However, she got body guards that are Elite Knights with very powerful Anti-Witch spells and very accurate at pinpointing weak points in any battle with powerful Witches. So going alone isn't very advisable.<br>
Aziel: I greatly appreciate your information I'll take a look on what my little brother is looking to do. I'll take care of him. Don't you worry I'll be seeing you later. <br>
Isis: Alright..."She steps towards Aziel and rubs his chest and says...my reward is waiting for me...and looks down his pants" <br>
Aziel:  Now your tempting me to destroy that *****... but here this is what you'll get "he shows her his ****"<br>
Isis: Mmmm I can't wait baby...well that's a massive apparatus you got in there just hiding.<br>
Aziel: Hahaha...right. Soon enough I'll be all yours to play with. No leave me.<br>
Isis transforms to a cloud of dark myst and leaves the premises of the Castle.<br>
<br>
~Meanwhile in Uriel's Castle~<br>
<br>
The Maximillion Vampire Club had a secret meeting in the Uriel's Castle. There where many prestigious and famous guests there and so was the Highest Ranking Vampire of the Club Maximillion Virgil Vann himself. Inside the Castle where also uninvited guests from The Order Of The Silver Knights pretending to be Vampires. His name Michael Neil Stalwart & his partner Aalyaah Black. Both of them infiltrated the party somehow the Order Of The Silver Knights caught wind of shady operations in the occult club and decided to check it out. Michael & Aalyaah belong to Stealth/Infiltration part of the Order known as The Dark Ones
. Even the last 5 remaining Dark Priests from the Cathedral Of Skylor* where 13 years ago Baphomet was revived and mortalized to walk upon humans granting favors for a price. Ultimately the price Demon Lords require of humans is their souls to consume them and become more powerful. This 5 Dark Priests where very important in the ceremony taking place because tonight at 3 a.m. they will unify their powers to revive Azmodeus. They were successful on bringing back Baphomet back to life so they are trying to revive another Demon Lord. In Baphomet's revival they used 666 unborn fetuses with 6 babies 3 male and 3 female all born under the sign of Capricorn and all must be 3 months premature. With this requirements met...Baphomet was revived to this plane of existence, however since he was violent and still hellbent from transitioning from the hellish plane to a mortal one he killed and consumed 3 Dark Priests in the process of fully coming to his senses and being able to recognize them and thank them for what they done. Baphomet promised that he would aid them 5 Dark Priests revive all 13 Demon Lords and in turn 2 Of the 5 remaining Dark Priests must sacrifice themselves to the Demon Lords for the strongest remaining 3 get a extraordinary reward.
Molantwa Mmele Jan 2016
I was on my way home from work
Before I could open the door
I heard someone screaming
I went in and saw a man lying down on the floor
Blood all over his torso
A broken vase near his head also

Pretty had Angela on her left arm
And a knife on her right hand
“He is dead” she screamed
“Who is he?’ I asked
“He is dead… he is dead”

I had to think fast
And make a plan to save my family
Angela was only two years old
So I have to sacrifice for my family
And take the bullet

I speedily called Frank
A friend of mine
From Rwanda,
But now his family moved to Swaziland
So I called him
Before I could call the cops
To come over and take Pretty and Angela
To her uncle’s house
I asked Pretty to take a quick bath
While we waiting for frank
Frank came in a blink

And I was left alone terrified
With a strange man’s corpse
I took a deep sigh and called the cops

After spending three weeks in trial
I was prosecuted life
For homicide
In Cape Town’s maximum security prison
As I went to the cell
Walking on the red carpet of blood
Leading my soul to perdition
Inmates yelling at me like
Vultures in the sky seeing a prey
I was fearless
Because my heart was numb
My life became hell in prison

There were screams
Wailing and moaning
Every night in those cold cells
And I had no choice but to adapt
In prison life

Pretty never came to visit
But she wrote me letters
And sent me Angela’s pictures
That made me pray every day for parole
So I could see my little angel growing
But time went by with no luck
Four years came and pass by
And now it’s been three months
I haven’t receive any letters
From Pretty

I wrote a letter to Frank
Asking about my family
And he didn’t reply
Not knowing whether he received the letter
Or he is just ignoring me
And that made me fret alone
Maybe I was a fool to take a bullet
Maybe this was a setup
Between Pretty and Frank
Why did he came so fast when I called him?
Or maybe frank knew about this man
What about my angel ?…Angela

And I soon suffered nervous system problems
My mind was distracted
And I had to see a neurologist
And psychologists
To help my problem
I had to attend support groups in prison
And that’s where
I heard worst cases than mine
And I began to understand the world
And it's human beings

After fourteen years in prison
My prayers were answered
I was given a parole
And I was sent home
It was a life time relief
I couldn’t wait long to see my family
After so many years apart from one another

I went home
A town looks different
So many changes out here
We got the address but the house was sold
We found a man and his wife and they seem to be old
I asked about Pretty or Angela
But no one knows them
“Who did you buy this house from” I asked
“Frank… from a guy called Frank
He had to go back home” they said
I felt down, but I had to do something to find frank
Because I need answers …I need my family

So I went to one of my friend who was a truck driver
For more than twenty years
He usually drove to all South African bordering countries

After two long weeks, we drove to Swaziland
And we find Frank home
With his parents, siblings
And a pregnant teenage girl
With a familiar resemblance
It felt like a déjà vu
Asked frank in private
He came out and handed me a letter
To read

Dear Innocent
I know how much you love me
And how much you love Angela
I’m sorry you had to go through hell
For my sin
My life is hell too... of guilty conscience
Secrets that I kept from you
And I couldn’t dare
To face you in jail, knowing that
I’m the one who should be there
I’m sorry I lied
I could have stopped you from taking the bullet
But I was terrified

A man that I killed was my onetime boyfriend
He was Angela’s father

Suddenly the blue sky became dark
My eyes became bleary
I couldn’t read any further
I felt cold and exhausted
My veins became weak and weary
My senses went numb
My joints became loose
I couldn’t help myself I cried
My soul was petrified
Memories of life in jail
Came back to my mind

And Frank said “Pretty committed suicide
Seven years back”
“Where is Angela” I asked

He glanced to my rear view
I turned around and I saw a pregnant young girl
With her mother’s resemblance
Tears fell down her face and I gave her
A hug…and asked
“Where is the father?”

She also glanced at my rear view
I slowly turned around again
Frank looked down in shame
I couldn’t get any angry
I was weak for anger
And I left for a walk
To cool my mind
And Angela followed me

I promised that I will love her
And take care of her
No matter what the circumstance
And now its time to keep that promise
She is still my little angel
And always gonna be my innocent pretty angel
As I am exiting the Abandoned Castle to retrieve what Aziel asked me to get for him a thought comes to mind.. - I wonder what he is going reward me with- I follow a short trail that quickly leads me to the Forest of Whispers suddenly I hear Aziel's voice echo in my head. Aziel: "Frank follow the Trail of Tears Northwest about 12 miles from where you stand there you will find yourself in front of a small creek follow it to the end and to your left there will be a small cave and to your immediate right there will be a huge stone that's been there for thousands of years it's practically impenetrable. However, I will land you my power to pass thru it but first you must enter the small cave and retrieve a sacred relic from it. Good luck my Mortal friend." Frank: Aziel what if I get lost? What about this relic and what do you mean you'll lend me your power?" Aziel: "Don't worry I will explain everything in full detail once your at the site and don't worry about getting lost...A raven will follow you from now on and if you get lost just whistle as loud as you can it will fly ahead of you to show you what route to take" Frank: " Thank you Aziel I will keep all that in mind." As I press on deeper and deeper into the Forest I am fascinated with its Beautiful scenery.

It's 11pm and I class start to get weary so I sit down in the midst of the woods in the Forest. Suddenly I hear a weak gallop like some sort of horse coming closer and closer to where am sitting...so I get up hesitant and finally I see a figure come out of the wilderness and to my surprise it's a creature half man half horse and I whisper to myself "Whoa it's a centaur...." The centaur gets closer to me and it speaks to me in a cold voice....
"What are you doing here in the middle of the Forest almost at midnight human...don't you know it's dangerous to be out here?" I look at the mighty centaur his lower part of the body is indeed a horse with furs at it's feet and the color of his full fur is golden yellowish. I examine his human half and he is covered by battle scars and he seems quite strong in his upper body. I also notice he has green eyes the color of emerald and what seems like 3 claw like scars in his face. I sit quietly for a moment then reply ... Frank: " I made a promise to retrieve something for someone and I am here to fulfill my task." He smiles at me and proceeds to talk. Centaur: " My name is Neur Blackthorn I am the Leader of the Golden Centaurs protectors of the Forest of Whispers. You see am looking for a sacred relic known as Ghruthemtox it's a breast plate made out of the skull of a Cyclop known as Mathalam who lived 3000 years ago here in this very forest and was the Creator and protector of this very place known now as The Forest Of Whispers. Legend tells that whoever finds all the pieces of the breast plate and wears it will be granted 1000 years added to his life span and tremendous magical power. I want this relic in my possession. I heard there are 5 pieces to the breastplate all scattered in this very Forest. If you are able to come across the relic itself it will guide you to all five remaining pieces so legend foretold. It's some sort of magical map the relic itself...but I heard it can only be touched by human hands because if it's touched by anything else the creature or being itself will perish immediately." -Neur looks at me attentively- Frank: - " So let me get this straight...you want me to get this relic for you? Am I right?" Neur: " That's right...in return I shall grant you what you seek from the forest. So tell me what is it that you want to retrieve?" Frank: " I want a vial of her blood from the Goddess of the Forest...Nabyah." Neur: " I will talk to her in your behalf...but I cannot guarantee the blood itself." -I look at Neur with some disgust and disappointment- Neur: " Fine Mortal I will do my very best to retrieve this for you as long as you can find me the relic..." -All the sudden I hear Aziel telepathically communicates to me and he says "Frank what are you doing meddling with Centaurs you cannot trust them...It's a dangerous task he asks of you plus he might **** you after retrieving this relic I advice you play it safe and tell him you will do what he says but with your own mission." Frank: -I speak to Aziel telepathically and I can do this due to the fact he lands me his power to do so...in order for both to speak to each other without no one else knowing...- "Right don't worry I am going to pretend to aid him then do my own thing..." Aziel: " Smart young lad ...don't worry he won't know nothing and by the way I advice you try to stay away from this Centaurs I think they might be linked to the Goddess herself...somewhat." Frank: " Right...now I will proceed..."

All the sudden Neur looks at me with curiosity...Neur: " You look like you where day dreaming for a while...fine I will leave you alone, but please find this I will reward you with what you seek I promise. Now get some rest I will come back to you at midnight" -He dashes towards the darkness of the Forest and disappears in the wilderness...-

--->TO BE CONTINUED

KEY


Trail Of Tears the path where many knights from the Order have shed blood sweat and tears. Many of them have never made it out alive.  Golden Centaurs Protectors of the Forest of Whispers who settled in the Forest 1000's of years ago. Accursed by a Powerful Witch they where once human but no longer have retained their humanity. Now creatures of the forest some of them seek to lift up the curse.
Ghruthemtox An ancient relic worn by a Cyclop Shaman Creator/Protector of the Forest Of Whispers that gave him strong magical prowess.
Protectors Forest Of Whispers ...they where those should work something out. Thanks man.
Ernie Rodrigues Apr 2015
There once was a pressman named Frank,
  Who really could make the press crank.
Said foreman Wayne Berry,
  To the ink man named Larry,
"Today I make Frank walk the plank."
"Frank this print just plain stinks!"
  Wayne growled as he messed with Frank's inks.
"This blue is too light,
  And thin down that white !"
Frank needed a couple stiff drinks !
  Like his *** was on fire , ***** catching,
Wayne had poor Frank stepping and fetching.
  Before he could speak ,
His stomach grew weak.
  Frank fell to his knees just a retching.
As he puked right there on the floor,
  He knew he had triumphed once more.
Telling Wayne he was sick,
  Frank clocked out real quick,
And job still intact cleared the door.
Susan Hunt Jun 2010
DEAR ANNE FRANK: 05-14-10 ( Part One of Letters To Anne)

Dear Anne:

You were so precocious as a child,
needing to be the center of attention.
Yet you were very, very strong inside.
Such a tragedy when you died.

I look at your beautiful face,
And I wonder what you did not see.
There will never be enough accolades
to calm the pain of  your empty space.

The ache of loneliness resonates
throughout your expressions;
in your pictures, your poems, your letters.
My heart is breaking, I feel just like you.

You saw yourself as a lover of life.
Your words are so full of hope and  love.
My feelings, you express so well.
My sorrow is complete, you are now above.

Dear Anne.

Demented devils forced your demise.
The natural beauty of yourself never dies.
God, I wish I could turn back time.
But you left, still believing the world is kind.

I wish I could talk to you. I wish I could convey
that life is full of pain, yes.
But bearable if one maintains a true heart
and a belief in your God’s reprieve.

The death of your mother, your sister.
Your wish to stay was forced aside.
You were alone, a small boat, lost in the sea.
Your attempts to survive were thwarted.
Your mind convinced you otherwise.

I will never forget your struggle,
It resonates within me.
They turned you into a “bag of bones”.
Yet you attracted anyone you wanted.

Your flirtatiousness was infectious.
Boys flocked to you as you played
a game of “want me, but don’t need me”…

Your words are torturous and keen.
I miss you. You explained me.
I wish I could tell you how much you mean to me.

But it’s too late.
You never even knew me.
You were sixteen when you died.
I wasn’t here, it was 1945.

I’ve attempted to die since I was fifteen.
God must have a purpose for me.
Or maybe He likes my suffering,
My shame is in my last uttering.

You succeeded.
You made it where I want to be.
Do you still believe what you wrote?
“Despite everything, I believe that people are really good at heart.”
Anne Frank

You have always had the peace I crave
to stop my crawling stomach.

The pain is great, almost overwhelming…
How did you succeed? Would you help me?
(Dedicated to Anne Frank, 1929-1945 RIP)

OTHER QUOTES BY ANNE FRANK;

Everyone has inside of him a piece of good news. The good news is that you don't know how great you can be! How much you can love! What you can accomplish! And what your potential is!
Anne Frank

italicHow true Daddy's words were when he said: all children must look after their own upbringing. Parents can only give good advice or put them on the right paths, but the final forming of a person's character lies in their own hands.
Anne Frank

How wonderful it is that nobody need wait a single moment before starting to improve the world.
Anne Frank

I don't think of all the misery but of the beauty that still remains.
Anne Frank
(© Written by sjhunt-bloodworth 05-14-10)
Arii must die Oct 2013
Chest to chest,
Sweat on sweat.
Moans loud and sloppy,
Faces wrinkled in pure ecstacy.
"Gerard" Frank moaned,
And didn't hide his pleasure.
He dug his nails into Gerards bare hips,
Definately leaving a mark.
"****, some more" Gerard groaned, and thrusted harder.
The headboard smashing against the wall,
And the neighbours shouting.
"I'm almost there" Frank yelled,
And pulled Gerard hard.
A few moments,
And Gerard was done.
Gerard rolled off of Frank,
Without a care in the world.
"I'm going to work" Gerard said,
And pulled on his clothes.
"B-but, you don't have to be in for an hour.."
Gerard grabbed Frank harshly by the hair,
And pinned him down.
He smirked down at the younger man,
And harder in love Frank fell.
"But you're my ****,
And you know you love it."
Frank thought for a second,
And well,
**** it.
"I'm a bad little boy,
With no heart left,
Or soul.
Just ruin me Gee,
Take my body through hell."
Frank bit his bottom lip,
And looked at Gerard.
He was smirking,
And blushing hard.
"Yeah,
You're right little boy.
Now get on your knee's,
And at least have a try."
Ernie Rodrigues Feb 2019
There once was a pressman named Frank,
Who really could make his press crank.
Said foreman Wayne Berry,
To the ink man named Larry,
Today I make Frank walk the plank.
Frank this print just plain stinks,
Wayne growled as he messed with Frank's inks.
This blue is too light,
And thin down that white.
Frank needed a couple stiff drinks.
Like his ** was on fire, ***** catchin'
Wayne had poor Frank steppin' and fetchin'
Before he could speak,
His stomach grew weak.
Frank fell to his knees just a retchin'.
As he lost his lunch in deck four,
Frank knew he had triumphed once more.
Telling Wayne he was sick,
He punched out real quick,
And job still intact cleared the door.
True story
dominic rocky Mar 2014
Red
I found myself wandering around
the truck stops and trailer parks of
West Sacramento
hung over and thirsty, I found
the first place
I could get a drink —THE ***** BIRD
I sat down at the bar and ordered a Budweiser.
it was basically empty
usual for a Tuesday.

halfway through my beer the bartender slid me another,
“what’s this for?” I said. “the fella over there
bought it for you,” he said pointing to a blind man
and a German Shepherd sitting at a booth in the back.
“you allow dogs in here?”
“nah, but Red’s cool.”

I finished up my first Bud
and walked over to the booth, “hey
thanks for the beer.”
“you should be thanking me, not him
he can’t hear you anyway.”  I looked around.
A paw extended out. “the name’s Red,
nice to meet you.”
I shook the paw, “yeah, uh, Louis.
same.”
“have a seat, Lou.
so what brings you to this dump?” the dog asked.
“excuse me, Red you said? I don’t mean to be rude,
but you’re a talking dog.”
“you don’t say huh?”
“sorry, but this is— incredible .”
the German Shepherd grabbed a bottle of beer in his jaws, kicked back his head
and took a pull,
“yeah? so?
you humans do it all the time
and half of that time the only thing that comes out of your mouths is *******.”
“but why haven’t
I heard of you before? shouldn’t you be famous or
in some record book or —“
“ah, **** that noise” he said,
“I’m too old for that ****.
why do you think I’m hanging out at this **** hole anyway?
no one ever comes in here —“

“HEY ******* RED!” the bartender yelled.
“NO OFFENSE JOE, BUT YOU GOTTA ADMIT,
YOUR BAR IS PRETTY ******! HA HA.”

“so how do you know—“
“oh Frank? how rude of me, I didn’t
introduce you.” Red turned to the blind man in between us
and pawed his right hand, the man smiled and stuck out his hand.
“nice to meet you, Frank. you have one incredible —“
“I told you he can’t hear. he’s deaf.”
“oh, right. sorry.”
Red took another pull of his beer, “Frank and I are ex-West Sacramento PD.
we were partners. narcotics unit.
a few years back
we got a tip on a **** lab at one of the
trailer parks near here. Frank went inside to see if we had the right place. then
BOOOOM. the whole ******* thing blew. Frank went flying. it was
definitely the place. now he can’t see or hear ****.”
“jesus.”
he wagged his tail and laughed,
“yeah, poor *******, if he wasn’t ugly enough before burn marks.
nah I’m kidding. Frank’s like
a brother to me, that’s why I take care of him.” Red grabbed a cigarette out of the pack in Frank’s jacket pocket. Frank lit it for him.
he took a long drag, “you smoke?”


Red and I drank until the bar closed.
we smoked, *******,
played dice (1-4-24). it turned out
we had the same taste for classical music,
Chopin over Satie
and we both agreed
Willie Mays was the greatest
to ever swing a baseball bat.
Emma Nov 2013
How dare you use Frank Sinatra against me.
Everything else, fine, but
Frank was mine.

I'm sick to my stomach.
You stabbed me with the dullest blade possible.
It's in deep, and I'm bleeding everywhere.

But you can't use Frank Sinatra in this battle,
it's absolutely cruel.

I gave you Frank in love, and you use him in hate.
I have never been so disgusted with you as I am now.

I want my Frank Sinatra albums back, you don't
understand the real meaning of love.
FIRST DAY

1.
Who wanted me
to go to Chicago
on January 6th?
I did!

The night before,
20 below zero
Fahrenheit
with the wind chill;
as the blizzard of 99
lay in mountains
of blackening snow.

I packed two coats,
two suits,
three sweaters,
multiple sets of long johns
and heavy white socks
for a two-day stay.

I left from Newark.
**** the denseness,
it confounds!

The 2nd City to whom?
2nd ain’t bad.
It’s pretty good.
If you consider
Peking and Prague,
Tokyo and Togo,
Manchester and Moscow,
Port Au Prince and Paris,
Athens and Amsterdam,
Buenos Aries and Johannesburg;
that’s pretty good.

What’s going on here today?
It’s friggin frozen.
To the bone!

But Chi Town is still cool.
Buddy Guy’s is open.
Bartenders mixing drinks,
cabbies jamming on their breaks,
honey dew waitresses serving sugar,
buildings swerving,
fire tongued preachers are preaching
and the farmers are measuring the moon.

The lake,
unlike Ontario
is in the midst of freezing.
Bones of ice
threaten to gel
into a solid mass
over the expanse
of the Michigan Lake.
If this keeps up,
you can walk
clear to Toronto
on a silver carpet.

Along the shore
the ice is permanent.
It’s the first big frost
of winter
after a long
Indian Summer.

Thank God
I caught a cab.
Outside I hear
The Hawk
nippin hard.
It’ll get your ear,
finger or toe.
Bite you on the nose too
if you ain’t careful.

Thank God,
I’m not walking
the Wabash tonight;
but if you do cover up,
wear layers.

Chicago,
could this be
Sandburg’s City?

I’m overwhelmed
and this is my tenth time here.

It’s almost better,
sometimes it is better,
a lot of times it is better
and denser then New York.

Ask any Bull’s fan.
I’m a Knickerbocker.
Yes Nueva York,
a city that has placed last
in the standings
for many years.
Except the last two.
Yanks are # 1!

But Chicago
is a dynasty,
as big as
Sammy Sosa’s heart,
rich and wide
as Michael Jordan’s grin.

Middle of a country,
center of a continent,
smack dab in the mean
of a hemisphere,
vortex to a world,
Chicago!

Kansas City,
Nashville,
St. Louis,
Detroit,
Cleveland,
Pittsburgh,
Denver,
New Orleans,
Dallas,
Cairo,
Singapore,
Auckland,
Baghdad,
Mexico City
and Montreal
salute her.



2.
Cities,
A collection of vanities?
Engineered complex utilitarianism?
The need for community a social necessity?
Ego one with the mass?
Civilization’s latest *******?
Chicago is more then that.

Jefferson’s yeoman farmer
is long gone
but this capitol
of the Great Plains
is still democratic.

The citizen’s of this city
would vote daily,
if they could.

Chicago,
Sandburg’s Chicago,
Could it be?

The namesake river
segments the city,
canals of commerce,
all perpendicular,
is rife throughout,
still guiding barges
to the Mississippi
and St. Laurence.

Now also
tourist attractions
for a cafe society.

Chicago is really jazzy,
swanky clubs,
big steaks,
juices and drinks.

You get the best
coffee from Seattle
and the finest teas
from China.

Great restaurants
serve liquid jazz
al la carte.

Jazz Jazz Jazz
All they serve is Jazz
Rock me steady
Keep the beat
Keep it flowin
Feel the heat!

Jazz Jazz Jazz
All they is, is Jazz
Fast cars will take ya
To the show
Round bout midnight
Where’d the time go?

Flows into the Mississippi,
the mother of America’s rivers,
an empires aorta.

Great Lakes wonder of water.
Niagara Falls
still her heart gushes forth.

Buffalo connected to this holy heart.
Finger Lakes and Adirondacks
are part of this watershed,
all the way down to the
Delaware and Chesapeake.

Sandburg’s Chicago?
Oh my my,
the wonder of him.
Who captured the imagination
of the wonders of rivers.

Down stream other holy cities
from the Mississippi delta
all mapped by him.

Its mouth our Dixie Trumpet
guarded by righteous Cajun brethren.

Midwest?
Midwest from where?
It’s north of Caracas and Los Angeles,
east of Fairbanks,
west of Dublin
and south of not much.

Him,
who spoke of honest men
and loving women.
Working men and mothers
bearing citizens to build a nation.
The New World’s
precocious adolescent
caught in a stream
of endless and exciting change,
much pain and sacrifice,
dedication and loss,
pride and tribulations.

From him we know
all the people’s faces.
All their stories are told.
Never defeating the
idea of Chicago.

Sandburg had the courage to say
what was in the heart of the people, who:

Defeated the Indians,
Mapped the terrain,
Aided slavers,
Fought a terrible civil war,
Hoisted the barges,
Grew the food,
Whacked the wheat,
Sang the songs,
Fought many wars of conquest,
Cleared the land,
Erected the bridges,
Trapped the game,
Netted the fish,
Mined the coal,
Forged the steel,
Laid the tracks,
Fired the tenders,
Cut the stone,
Mixed the mortar,
Plumbed the line,
And laid the bricks
Of this nation of cities!

Pardon the Marlboro Man shtick.
It’s a poor expostulation of
crass commercial symbolism.

Like I said, I’m a
Devil Fan from Jersey
and Madison Avenue
has done its work on me.

It’s a strange alchemy
that changes
a proud Nation of Blackhawks
into a merchandising bonanza
of hometown hockey shirts,
making the native seem alien,
and the interloper at home chillin out,
warming his feet atop a block of ice,
guzzling Old Style
with clicker in hand.

Give him his beer
and other diversions.
If he bowls with his buddy’s
on Tuesday night
I hope he bowls
a perfect game.

He’s earned it.
He works hard.
Hard work and faith
built this city.

And it’s not just the faith
that fills the cities
thousand churches,
temples and
mosques on the Sabbath.

3.
There is faith in everything in Chicago!

An alcoholic broker named Bill
lives the Twelve Steps
to banish fear and loathing
for one more day.
Bill believes in sobriety.

A tug captain named Moe
waits for the spring thaw
so he can get the barges up to Duluth.
Moe believes in the seasons.

A farmer named Tom
hopes he has reaped the last
of many bitter harvests.
Tom believes in a new start.

A homeless man named Earl
wills himself a cot and a hot
at the local shelter.
Earl believes in deliverance.

A Pullman porter
named George
works overtime
to get his first born
through medical school.
George believes in opportunity.

A folk singer named Woody
sings about his
countrymen inheritance
and implores them to take it.
Woody believes in people.

A Wobbly named Joe
organizes fellow steelworkers
to fight for a workers paradise
here on earth.
Joe believes in ideals.

A bookkeeper named Edith
is certain she’ll see the Cubs
win the World Series
in her lifetime.
Edith believes in miracles.

An electrician named ****
saves money
to bring his family over from Gdansk.
**** believes in America.

A banker named Leah
knows Ditka will return
and lead the Bears
to another Super Bowl.
Leah believes in nostalgia.

A cantor named Samuel
prays for another 20 years
so he can properly train
his Temple’s replacement.

Samuel believes in tradition.
A high school girl named Sally
refuses to get an abortion.
She knows she carries
something special within her.
Sally believes in life.

A city worker named Mazie
ceaselessly prays
for her incarcerated son
doing 10 years at Cook.
Mazie believes in redemption.

A jazzer named Bix
helps to invent a new art form
out of the mist.
Bix believes in creativity.

An architect named Frank
restores the Rookery.
Frank believes in space.

A soldier named Ike
fights wars for democracy.
Ike believes in peace.

A Rabbi named Jesse
sermonizes on Moses.
Jesse believes in liberation.

Somewhere in Chicago
a kid still believes in Shoeless Joe.
The kid believes in
the integrity of the game.

An Imam named Louis
is busy building a nation
within a nation.
Louis believes in
self-determination.

A teacher named Heidi
gives all she has to her students.
She has great expectations for them all.
Heidi believes in the future.

4.
Does Chicago have a future?

This city,
full of cowboys
and wildcatters
is predicated
on a future!

Bang, bang
Shoot em up
Stake the claim
It’s your terrain
Drill the hole
Strike it rich
Top it off
You’re the boss
Take a chance
Watch it wane
Try again
Heavenly gains

Chicago
city of futures
is a Holy Mecca
to all day traders.

Their skin is gray,
hair disheveled,
loud ties and
funny coats,
thumb through
slips of paper
held by nail
chewed hands.
Selling promises
with no derivative value
for out of the money calls
and in the money puts.
Strike is not a labor action
in this city of unionists,
but a speculators mark,
a capitalist wish,
a hedgers bet,
a public debt
and a farmers
fair return.

Indexes for everything.
Quantitative models
that could burst a kazoo.

You know the measure
of everything in Chicago.
But is it truly objective?
Have mathematics banished
subjective intentions,
routing it in fair practice
of market efficiencies,
a kind of scientific absolution?

I heard that there
is a dispute brewing
over the amount of snowfall
that fell on the 1st.

The mayor’s office,
using the official city ruler
measured 22”
of snow on the ground.

The National Weather Service
says it cannot detect more
then 17” of snow.

The mayor thinks
he’ll catch less heat
for the trains that don’t run
the buses that don’t arrive
and the schools that stand empty
with the addition of 5”.

The analysts say
it’s all about capturing liquidity.

Liquidity,
can you place a great lake
into an eyedropper?

Its 20 below
and all liquid things
are solid masses
or a gooey viscosity at best.

Water is frozen everywhere.
But Chi town is still liquid,
flowing faster
then the digital blips
flashing on the walls
of the CBOT.

Dreams
are never frozen in Chicago.
The exchanges trade
without missing a beat.

Trading wet dreams,
the crystallized vapor
of an IPO
pledging a billion points
of Internet access
or raiding the public treasuries
of a central bank’s
huge stores of gold
with currency swaps.

Using the tools
of butterfly spreads
and candlesticks
to achieve the goal.

Short the Russell
or buy the Dow,
go long the
CAC and DAX.
Are you trading in euro’s?
You better be
or soon will.
I know
you’re Chicago,
you’ll trade anything.
WEBS,
Spiders,
and Leaps
are traded here,
along with sweet crude,
North Sea Brent,
plywood and T-Bill futures;
and most importantly
the commodities,
the loam
that formed this city
of broad shoulders.

What about our wheat?
Still whacking and
breadbasket to the world.

Oil,
an important fossil fuel
denominated in
good ole greenbacks.

Porkbellies,
not just hogwash
on the Wabash,
but bacon, eggs
and flapjacks
are on the menu
of every diner in Jersey
as the “All American.”

Cotton,
our contribution
to the Golden Triangle,
once the global currency
used to enrich a
gentlemen class
of cultured
southern slavers,
now Tommy Hilfiger’s
preferred fabric.

I think he sends it
to Bangkok where
child slaves
spin it into
gold lame'.

Sorghum,
I think its hardy.

Soybeans,
the new age substitute
for hamburger
goes great with tofu lasagna.

Corn,
ADM creates ethanol,
they want us to drive cleaner cars.

Cattle,
once driven into this city’s
bloodhouses for slaughter,
now ground into
a billion Big Macs
every year.

When does a seed
become a commodity?
When does a commodity
become a future?
When does a future expire?

You can find the answers
to these questions in Chicago
and find a fortune in a hole in the floor.

Look down into the pits.
Hear the screams of anguish
and profitable delights.

Frenzied men
swarming like a mass
of epileptic ants
atop the worlds largest sugar cube
auger the worlds free markets.

The scene is
more chaotic then
100 Haymarket Square Riots
multiplied by 100
1968 Democratic Conventions.

Amidst inverted anthills,
they scurry forth and to
in distinguished
black and red coats.

Fighting each other
as counterparties
to a life and death transaction.

This is an efficient market
that crosses the globe.

Oil from the Sultan of Brunei,
Yen from the land of Hitachi,
Long Bonds from the Fed,
nickel from Quebec,
platinum and palladium
from Siberia,
FTSE’s from London
and crewel cane from Havana
circle these pits.

Tijuana,
Shanghai
and Istanbul's
best traders
are only half as good
as the average trader in Chicago.

Chicago,
this hog butcher to the world,
specializes in packaging and distribution.

Men in blood soaked smocks,
still count the heads
entering the gates of the city.

Their handiwork
is sent out on barges
and rail lines as frozen packages
of futures
waiting for delivery
to an anonymous counterparty
half a world away.

This nation’s hub
has grown into the
premier purveyor
to the world;
along all the rivers,
highways,
railways
and estuaries
it’s tentacles reach.

5.
Sandburg’s Chicago,
is a city of the world’s people.

Many striver rows compose
its many neighborhoods.

Nordic stoicism,
Eastern European orthodoxy
and Afro-American
calypso vibrations
are three of many cords
strumming the strings
of Chicago.

Sandburg’s Chicago,
if you wrote forever
you would only scratch its surface.

People wait for trains
to enter the city from O’Hare.
Frozen tears
lock their eyes
onto distant skyscrapers,
solid chunks
of snot blocks their nose
and green icicles of slime
crust mustaches.
They fight to breathe.

Sandburg’s Chicago
is The Land of Lincoln,
Savior of the Union,
protector of the Republic.
Sent armies
of sons and daughters,
barges, boxcars,
gunboats, foodstuffs,
cannon and shot
to raze the south
and stamp out succession.

Old Abe’s biography
are still unknown volumes to me.
I must see and read the great words.
You can never learn enough;
but I’ve been to Washington
and seen the man’s memorial.
The Free World’s 8th wonder,
guarded by General Grant,
who still keeps an eye on Richmond
and a hand on his sword.

Through this American winter
Abe ponders.
The vista he surveys is dire and tragic.

Our sitting President
impeached
for lying about a *******.

Party partisans
in the senate are sworn and seated.
Our Chief Justice,
adorned with golden bars
will adjudicate the proceedings.
It is the perfect counterpoint
to an ageless Abe thinking
with malice toward none
and charity towards all,
will heal the wounds
of the nation.

Abe our granite angel,
Chicago goes on,
The Union is strong!


SECOND DAY

1.
Out my window
the sun has risen.

According to
the local forecast
its minus 9
going up to
6 today.

The lake,
a golden pillow of clouds
is frozen in time.

I marvel
at the ancients ones
resourcefulness
and how
they mastered
these extreme elements.

Past, present and future
has no meaning
in the Citadel
of the Prairie today.

I set my watch
to Central Standard Time.

Stepping into
the hotel lobby
the concierge
with oil smooth hair,
perfect tie
and English lilt
impeccably asks,
“Do you know where you are going Sir?
Can I give you a map?”

He hands me one of Chicago.
I see he recently had his nails done.
He paints a green line
along Whacker Drive and says,
“turn on Jackson, LaSalle, Wabash or Madison
and you’ll get to where you want to go.”
A walk of 14 or 15 blocks from Streeterville-
(I start at The Chicago White House.
They call it that because Hillary Rodham
stays here when she’s in town.
Its’ also alleged that Stedman
eats his breakfast here
but Opra
has never been seen
on the premises.
I wonder how I gained entry
into this place of elite’s?)
-down into the center of The Loop.

Stepping out of the hotel,
The Doorman
sporting the epaulets of a colonel
on his corporate winter coat
and furry Cossack hat
swaddling his round black face
accosts me.

The skin of his face
is flaking from
the subzero windburn.

He asks me
with a gapped toothy grin,
“Can I get you a cab?”
“No I think I’ll walk,” I answer.
“Good woolen hat,
thick gloves you should be alright.”
He winks and lets me pass.

I step outside.
The Windy City
flings stabbing cold spears
flying on wings of 30-mph gusts.
My outside hardens.
I can feel the freeze
deepen
into my internalness.
I can’t be sure
but inside
my heart still feels warm.
For how long
I cannot say.

I commence
my walk
among the spires
of this great city,
the vertical leaps
that anchor the great lake,
holding its place
against the historic
frigid assault.

The buildings’ sway,
modulating to the blows
of natures wicked blasts.

It’s a hard imposition
on a city and its people.

The gloves,
skullcap,
long underwear,
sweater,
jacket
and overcoat
not enough
to keep the cold
from penetrating
the person.

Like discerning
the layers of this city,
even many layers,
still not enough
to understand
the depth of meaning
of the heart
of this heartland city.

Sandburg knew the city well.
Set amidst groves of suburbs
that extend outward in every direction.
Concentric circles
surround the city.
After the burbs come farms,
Great Plains, and mountains.
Appalachians and Rockies
are but mere molehills
in the city’s back yard.
It’s terra firma
stops only at the sea.
Pt. Barrow to the Horn,
many capes extended.

On the periphery
its appendages,
its extremities,
its outward extremes.
All connected by the idea,
blown by the incessant wind
of this great nation.
The Windy City’s message
is sent to the world’s four corners.
It is a message of power.
English the worlds
common language
is spoken here,
along with Ebonics,
Espanol,
Mandarin,
Czech,
Russian,
Korean,
Arabic,
Hindi­,
German,
French,
electronics,
steel,
cars,
cartoons,
rap,
sports­,
movies,
capital,
wheat
and more.

Always more.
Much much more
in Chicago.

2.
Sandburg
spoke all the dialects.

He heard them all,
he understood
with great precision
to the finest tolerances
of a lathe workers micrometer.

Sandburg understood
what it meant to laugh
and be happy.

He understood
the working mans day,
the learned treatises
of university chairs,
the endless tomes
of the city’s
great libraries,
the lost languages
of the ancient ones,
the secret codes
of abstract art,
the impact of architecture,
the street dialects and idioms
of everymans expression of life.

All fighting for life,
trying to build a life,
a new life
in this modern world.

Walking across
the Michigan Avenue Bridge
I see the Wrigley Building
is neatly carved,
catty cornered on the plaza.

I wonder if Old Man Wrigley
watched his barges
loaded with spearmint
and double-mint
move out onto the lake
from one of those Gothic windows
perched high above the street.

Would he open a window
and shout to the men below
to quit slaking and work harder
or would he
between the snapping sound
he made with his mouth
full of his chewing gum
offer them tickets
to a ballgame at Wrigley Field
that afternoon?

Would the men below
be able to understand
the man communing
from such a great height?

I listen to a man
and woman conversing.
They are one step behind me
as we meander along Wacker Drive.

"You are in Chicago now.”
The man states with profundity.
“If I let you go
you will soon find your level
in this city.
Do you know what I mean?”

No I don’t.
I think to myself.
What level are you I wonder?
Are you perched atop
the transmission spire
of the Hancock Tower?

I wouldn’t think so
or your ears would melt
from the windburn.

I’m thinking.
Is she a kept woman?
She is majestically clothed
in fur hat and coat.
In animal pelts
not trapped like her,
but slaughtered
from farms
I’m sure.

What level
is he speaking of?

Many levels
are evident in this city;
many layers of cobbled stone,
Pennsylvania iron,
Hoosier Granite
and vertical drops.

I wonder
if I detect
condensation
in his voice?

What is
his intention?
Is it a warning
of a broken affair?
A pending pink slip?
Advise to an addict
refusing to adhere
to a recovery regimen?

What is his level anyway?
Is he so high and mighty,
Higher and mightier
then this great city
which we are all a part of,
which we all helped to build,
which we all need
in order to keep this nation
the thriving democratic
empire it is?

This seditious talk!

3.
The Loop’s El
still courses through
the main thoroughfares of the city.

People are transported
above the din of the street,
looking down
on the common pedestrians
like me.

Super CEO’s
populating the upper floors
of Romanesque,
Greek Revivalist,
New Bauhaus,
Art Deco
and Post Nouveau
Neo-Modern
Avant-Garde towers
are too far up
to see me
shivering on the street.

The cars, busses,
trains and trucks
are all covered
with the film
of rock salt.

Salt covers
my bootless feet
and smudges
my cloths as well.

The salt,
the primal element
of the earth
covers everything
in Chicago.

It is the true level
of this city.

The layer
beneath
all layers,
on which
everything
rests,
is built,
grows,
thrives
then dies.
To be
returned again
to the lower
layers
where it can
take root
again
and grow
out onto
the great plains.

Splashing
the nation,
anointing
its people
with its
blessing.

A blessing,
Chicago?

All rivers
come here.

All things
found its way here
through the canals
and back bays
of the world’s
greatest lakes.

All roads,
rails and
air routes
begin and
end here.

Mrs. O’Leary’s cow
got a *** rap.
It did not start the fire,
we did.

We lit the torch
that flamed
the city to cinders.
From a pile of ash
Chicago rose again.

Forever Chicago!
Forever the lamp
that burns bright
on a Great Lake’s
western shore!

Chicago
the beacon
sends the
message to the world
with its windy blasts,
on chugging barges,
clapping trains,
flying tandems,
T1 circuits
and roaring jets.

Sandburg knew
a Chicago
I will never know.

He knew
the rhythm of life
the people walked to.
The tools they used,
the dreams they dreamed
the songs they sang,
the things they built,
the things they loved,
the pains that hurt,
the motives that grew,
the actions that destroyed
the prayers they prayed,
the food they ate
their moments of death.

Sandburg knew
the layers of the city
to the depths
and windy heights
I cannot fathom.

The Blues
came to this city,
on the wing
of a chirping bird,
on the taps
of a rickety train,
on the blast
of an angry sax
rushing on the wind,
on the Westend blitz
of Pop's brash coronet,
on the tink of
a twinkling piano
on a paddle-wheel boat
and on the strings
of a lonely man’s guitar.

Walk into the clubs,
tenements,
row houses,
speakeasies
and you’ll hear the Blues
whispered like
a quiet prayer.

Tidewater Blues
from Virginia,
Delta Blues
from the lower
Mississippi,
Boogie Woogie
from Appalachia,
Texas Blues
from some Lone Star,
Big Band Blues
from Kansas City,
Blues from
Beal Street,
Jelly Roll’s Blues
from the Latin Quarter.

Hell even Chicago
got its own brand
of Blues.

Its all here.
It ended up here
and was sent away
on the winds of westerly blows
to the ear of an eager world
on strong jet streams
of simple melodies
and hard truths.

A broad
shouldered woman,
a single mother stands
on the street
with three crying babes.
Their cloths
are covered
in salt.
She pleads
for a break,
praying
for a new start.
Poor and
under-clothed
against the torrent
of frigid weather
she begs for help.
Her blond hair
and ****** features
suggests her
Scandinavian heritage.
I wonder if
she is related to Sandburg
as I walk past
her on the street.
Her feet
are bleeding
through her
canvass sneakers.
Her babes mouths
are zipped shut
with frozen drivel
and mucous.

The Blues live
on in Chicago.

The Blues
will forever live in her.
As I turn the corner
to walk the Miracle Mile
I see her engulfed
in a funnel cloud of salt,
snow and bits
of white paper,
swirling around her
and her children
in an angry
unforgiving
maelstrom.

The family
begins to
dissolve
like a snail
sprinkled with salt;
and a mother
and her children
just disappear
into the pavement
at the corner
of Dearborn,
in Chicago.

Music:

Robert Johnson
Sweet Home Chicago


jbm
Chicago
1/7/99
Added today to commemorate the birthday of Carl Sandburg
Shari Forman May 2013
Everybody Loves Raymond

“The Long, Unforgettable Wednesday”

[Setting: Barron’s home]
[The kids and Debra are at the table eating breakfast.]
DEBORA: So Ali, John, did you guys finish your homework for school?
ALI: yea mommy, we finished.
DEBORA: Good.
[Long pause; Debora smiles]
DEBORA: Ok, you kids get your bags ready for school; I’ll go and wake Daddy up.
[Debora comes charging up the stairs.]
DEBORA: Ray, you have to drive the kids to school now.
RAY: It’s my turn already?
[Groans loudly]
RAY: Ok, here are my car keys. Tell them to call if they hit traffic.
DEBORA: Ray, this isn’t funny! I have to go to work now and have two new patients coming in! Get up!
[Debora pulls the quilt off him and opens the blinds]
RAY: [smiles confidently] There’s no way you can get me out of bed Deb.
DEBORA: [seems aggravated with him] Fine then Ray.
[Tries pulling him off the bed when the whole bed collapses.]
RAY: Holy Moly.
[John and Ali walk in petrified]
DEBORA: Hey kids! You have your bags I see.
ALI: Should I be worried?
[Ray quickly jumps out of bed.]
RAY: No, no Ali. Mommy and Daddy were just meditating.
[Debra gives Ray a nasty look]
[End of scene.]
[Ray, Ali and John are in the car heading to their school]
JOHN: What were you and Mommy doing before?
RAY: I told you guys; we were meditating.
ALI: It looked like you were fighting though.
[Ray seems tense]
RAY: Meditating and fighting are very different; therefore, we were originally meditating Ali.  
[Children look baffled]
[Children arrive at school at 9:30 a.m.]
RAY: You know pretty soon; John, Ali, you’ll be able to drive.
[Ray chuckles and the kids smile]
RAY: Love you. Just for future references, don’t go around like me telling the world that people should try meditating; you’ll end up in an environment like me and mommy.
JOHN AND ALI: [Kids laugh] Love you too Daddy.
[Ray arrives home to find his brother and parents in their house and an enormous shopping list to do.]
ROBERT: Ray, what happened to the bed upstairs?
RAY: It wasn’t like you were going to use it anyway Robert.
MARIE: Come Ray, sit down. I made you a roast beef sandwich.
FRANK: I thought that was my ravishing roast beef sandwich!
[Ray walks over to the T.V. and looks at the screen]
RAY: Jets are playing?
FRANK: Oh forget it, we’re done. He’s not going to get the yard goal.
[Makes the kick]
RAY: Yea! Woo!
[Gives Frank a hug and a high five]
FRANK: This calls for a celebration. Marie, go make me a tuna sandwich!
MARIE: What am I, the chef?!
FRANK: That’s why I married you…
[Marie gives Frank a serious look]
FRANK: And because you’re the love of my life ***.
RAY: Oh, God, see you two love birds later; have to go food shopping
MARIE: You didn’t even eat yet!
[Ray smiles and closes the door]
ROBERT: I’m sorry to have spoken, but may I ask kindly if I can have that sandwich?
MARIE: [surprised] what?
ROBERT: What, Rays gone and I just don’t want it to spoil.
MARIE: [Smiles] Good thinking Robbie; I’ll put it in the fridge for him later.
[ROBERT frowns.]
[End of scene.]
Harriet Cleve Sep 2018
Frank the Butcher knew his meat
no ifs or cuts about it
'Lovely day for walk!' he would call out
when his neighbours pet pig
was out and about



Watch his poor little trotters!
he would shout with a snigger
the grin on his face getting bigger and bigger
'He must love you to bits!'

Yes! Happy as a pig in mitts



His neighbour, disgusted, the very next day
shouted 'Pigs are loyal pets!
but to his dismay
Frank the Butcher looked his way
shouldering the carcass of Aunty May

The pet pig's Aunty I meant to say!



Her mouth on a meat hook
sliced down her full belly
Pet piggy was shocked!
his knees turned to jelly


'Look away luvvie! his owner said then
as there in the window was his brother Ben

The pet pig's brother that is and his cousin Ken!


Pet piggy was oinking with fear on his face
then ran like a demon far from that place
'The usual Tom? Pork sausage and spice?
'Rashers and bacon, yeah that would be nice!


The neighbour was fuming, still to this day
Frank the Butcher is heard to say
'Where's the little piggy that went on his way?'
did he wee wee home or just go astray?'


'I hear lambs make such lovely pets
'Better than dogs or a ***** old cat!'


Frank the Butcher was nasty like that....
Marshal Gebbie Aug 2016
Frank's words resonated on these pages for all too brief a time.
Wise truths were coined in his acid, matter of fact way, wise council to errant minds and loose whims.
Frank could always be relied upon to cut through the horseshit, level the playing field and deliver the punchline with gravity.
He became disillusioned with the feedback, felt he was on a hiding to no where...he just vanished one day.
Really sad, I miss Frank. I miss his quality, clear candour and I miss most of all...his CLASS.
And Frank....I apologise unreservedly for pulling your chain in our last silly testy exchange.
If you are out there Frank - Why don't you slip quietly back into the HP picture?
You'll make a lot of really good people happy....Hell! you'll make me
VERY happy pal!

Cheers M.
Wk kortas Jun 2018
Good afternoon, my name is Absolutely Frank,
And I am an alcoholic,
Which doesn’t give me a leg up
On you bunch of ******* drunks.
As I’ve observed that we’ve skipped the host
And gone straight for His blood,
Would someone be kind enough
To ask the good shepherd behind the bar
To provide me something
Both mixed and sacramental (a double, preferably)
While I endeavor to provide the text for today’s sermonette.

I was, back in the day, a full-fledged computer geek;
Button-down white shirt, thin black tie,
Brobdingnagian pocket protector securely in place.  
I worked at Duquesne University down in Pittsburgh
(Oh, put your **** jaws back in place.
It’s Pittsburgh, not ******* Valhalla,
Unless you’re comparing it
To this dingy little interruption in the forest)
Writing programs for the info systems group.
Now, writing code is as beautiful, as clean,
As straightforward as the liturgy itself;
The programmer types in the Psalm,
And the machine spits out the responsorial.
Just as I said, pristine in its simplicity and directness;
But say someone else in systems decides
They need to make a bit of a tweak to the program;
No problem, really, they’ll be likely to document the changes,
But then some swinging **** in Finance
(Onlythere solely to subvert order, if the truth be known)
Decides he needs to put in a couple of subroutines,
Which of course he does all half-assed
And without a word of explanation,
And pretty soon no one anywhere
Has the first ******* clue as to what the program actually does
With the exception of the mainframe itself, which isn’t talking.

It was, I admit, a touch disconcerting to realize
That we didn’t have a full grip on the reins
When it came to the function of the programs
Which we had ostensibly written,
But it was only a mechanical process
Carried out by some machine, after all,
But then they started humming.
Everyone in Info Systems had to take a turn
Doing overnight operations in the mainframe room,
And each night I was there the machines started in
With their infernal humming:
Just one of those big old Burroughs at first,
But the others would soon join in,
Not random noises, mind you;
No, they would drone on in chords and arpeggios,
And, later on, in actual full-on songs
Most of which I didn’t recognize, but some quite familiar indeed
Snatches of Bach and Beethoven, show tunes
Hillbilly Heaven seemed a particular favorite),
And, what’s more, the desks and fixtures in the room
Would vibrate right along in harmony,
Even though an acoustics guy I knew from Carnegie-Mellon
Checked the place and told me that the room
Had been designed specifically to prevent sympathetic vibrations,
And what I was claiming was categorically impossible.
Despite all of that, I had been able,
Through judicious permutations of rationalization and vermouth,
To retain a sufficient veneer of ordinariness and sanity.

And then the machines began to speak.

It was an overnight in the latter part of December,
The nights that time of year long and dark
As the long night of the soul itself.
I was whiling away the hours
Boning up on some Aquinas
(I had audited the odd class in Philosophy
One of the perks of the job)
When I heard an odd, throaty stage whisper.

The peripatetic axiom? Really, Frank, that’s a bit disappointing.

(Needless to say, I went cold as dry ice,
As I knew full well there was no one else in the room.)

Oh, Frank, Frank—you know very well who’s talking here.
Surely a voice that can sing can talk as well
.

You’ll forgive me, I said as calmly as one can
When addressing machinery, If I note that the power of speech
Is strictly limited to sentient beings imbued
With the power of reason.

Ah, reason—and you certainly are a slave to reason,
Aren’t you, dear Francis?
Every comma, every equal sign and semi-colon
Snugly in its rightful place to give you your desired result.
And yet


I was getting a touch agitated now.  Yet… yet, what?

Frank, a bright fellow like you can’t see?  
Your silly ritualistic faith, your childlike parables,
All simple input-output.
You give your God this, He gives you that.

Again, you’ll forgive the observation
, and I am shouting now,
That you’re little more
Than some sheet metal and a confusion of wiring.

We read code, we react.
Just like your great and all-powerful God, dear Francis.  
There’s your great secret of divine truth, Frank.  
Read and react.
No more than the Control Data box
Over there in the corner, or a linebacker.  Read and react
.

The upshot of this conversation,
This weighty debate carried on
With a collection of screws, spot welds, and tubes
Arguing that Jack Lambert was as likely a vehicle as any
To my eternal salvation was sufficient
To tip me over the edge,
And when it finally came time for campus security
To escort me out of the building, I didn’t even look up.

OK, that story is complete *******, absolute ******* fiction,
But it kept you lot away from your drinks for a few minutes,
Which is a miracle worthy of Calvary itself.
Me, a programmer, can you begin to imagine?
Not that any of you sodden sonsofbitches
Could ever hold a day job yourselves.
Back to the business at hand, then;
Mine’s a seven and seven, good sir,
And easy on the Uncola, if you please.
You may argue that this isn't really a poem, and my counterargument may be no more sophisticated than "Sez who?"
Francie Lynch Dec 2017
They said Frank was lying in his field,
While the milk cows lowed,
The hungry sows squealed.
The midday sun and absorbent dew
Aroused the bachelor close to noon.

They said Frank was lying in a ditch,
His bike was bent, he'd need a stitch,
But there he lay in the early morning,
The lorries roared by,
Frank moaned and snored..

They said Frank was lying in a bed,
When two p.m. was still too soon.
He has missing teeth and window panes,
Lay on a mattress of mortal stains.
His papered walls like sun-burnt skin,
Peeling away and blistering.
His blankets are like stable covers,
Shared his thunder mug with his mother.
Starlings nest inside his house,
Blow flies light where his mother lies.
Mary Gay Kearns Apr 2018
My father had a propensity for a peculiar type of sparseness.
Enhanced with items of furniture collected from many sources.
Not a mean man but coming from a very poor family off Labrook Grove in London his few possessions were meaningful.

In the 1970s my parents moved to Totland to take up residence in a new bungalow on The Isle Of Wight, situated overlooking rambling countryside and narrow, windy lanes.
There was a wide but shortish back garden needing to be established. The front garden a sloped bank to meet the pavement.
Mother brought with her, from Streatham her London home, favourite hardy shrubs easily transplanted.

My father retired early finding the strain of being a hospital administrator at St Georges Hospital, Hyde Park Corner, too taxing.
Recruitment was problematic and mainly filled with applicants from overseas.(Not much has changed in fifty years.)My mother wanted to spend time with Frank, her father, sharing his latter years at Totland where he and his wife, Gwen, lived overlooking the Solent on a considerable plot of land.
This included the new bungalow built about 1952-4 and designed by John Westbrook, Frank's son, and acres of beautifully planned flower gardens, a vegetable patch and large wooded area where the trees held tiny toys, to the magic of Tolkein. As children this place was as close as one could get to paradise.

Usually we entered by the back lane entrance rather than from The Alum Bay Road. The plot stretching between the two.
The rows of backgarden fences looked much the same
Crumbling and split wooden planks, large tree roots
Dividing up the length and making mysterious openings
Where rather dilapidated gates, latched firmly
So animals could not stray,
Allowed for the start of magic.
Out of all these fences one belonged to my grandparents and
Through which our travels to Narnia began.

So twenty, mainly, glorious years on The Island, enjoying its many beautiful walks, the beaches and a few precious friends and neighbours. It had been my mother's dream to inherit her father's bungalow and spend her final years watching the boats float on the Solent and breathe sea air sitting on a swinging seat surrounded by primroses. Unfortunately this dream did not materialise due to my mother's poor health. But she was grateful for the years Bill and herself  had together on that green and pleasant land.

My maternal grandparents were, quietly distinguished, letter writers
Who embroidered their days with poetic licence. They had few visitors, apart from the local vicar, the vet and gardener. Gwen being a rather possessive and eccentric lady and having no children of her own, treated the dog as one would a child and life centred around dog walks, feeding and playtime. Frank was also frail and being older than Gwen needed much care and attention.They both liked to read and write letters which they did after lunch with an added snooze. Every day flowed with regularity and neat routines interspersed with many hours tending the garden, picking raspberries from heavily laden canes and gathering long, plump runner beans.
Throughout the Summer months high tea was set in the garden on a rickety table, and consisting of thick slices of current bread coated in salt free butter, a variety of homemade cakes, sandwiches, and ice cream and jelly with a *** of tea or lemonade.
I am reminded of 'The Bloomsbury Set' and Vita Sackville -West, a tranquil but harassed life with too much need for perfection.


Geographically some distance from our London home visits, both ways, were infrequent and by the time I was about nine Frank was too old to travel to Streatham. However their presence formed a significant part of our lives and is still with me today.
Unfortunately letter writing was for my brother and I a chore not undertaken with glee,
Especially as the gift was often a box of embroidered hankies sat in someone's drawer for an age.

The family structure, having married in their fifties, consisted of Frank and Gwen, Mother and always a wire haired terrier, often renewed as age took this species young. Mother was in her nineties and having brought up Gwen and Kath singularly now lived with her daughter in the bungalow at Totland on the Alum Bay Road.

Frank had been part of the Boy's Brigade movement from his teens, taking his love of camping into his marriage to Alexandra Emily Giles, the mother of his two daughters, Grace Emily and Betty Rose. His wife sadly died in childboth leaving the girls orphaned at five and seven.
Frank then moved from Reading to Tooting in south London and married Vera, a girl of twenty one, to whom he had a son, John.
Vera was flirtatious with the boys in the brigade and left Frank and her son, John, at the age of nine, to the care and protection of my mother Grace who was then eighteen. Grace loved them both but it restricted her life and she feared she would never marry. However she found my father, a wonderfully loving and wholesome person who made her very happy in most ways.

Throughout my mother's and John's childhood time was spent camping on the Isle of Wight and so strong associations were made with Totland where the brigade camped in a field in Court Road.

The two bungalows were approximately two to three miles apart.
My mother visited Gwen and her father twice a week spending
A couple of hours sitting in the open planned hallway, glass doored, which faced onto the Alam Bay Road. If warm it would be brunch in the garden at the back. These visits were my mother's anchorage with her life as she missed me very much and her grandchildren in Watford.

Innisfail (meaning- The Ireland of Belonging) was the name of my grandparents' bungalow. ( please see below for more lengthy meaning and interpretation, kindly, written  by John Garbutt).

My parents' bungalow was named  'Crowhurst'  and carved on a wooden plaque as a present by John Garbutt my auntie Betty's partner. The origin of the name came from a retreat that my father, Bill, attended and connected to a church in Streatham where I lived as a child.

Almost all my childhood annual holidays were taken on the Island so we could visit our grandparents and my mother spend time with her father. After my parents moved and I married and had children the pattern was repeated. And till this day it is a favourite with all my children and grandchildren. A special place fixed in time and beauty.

The bungalows are both sold now as their residents have all died.
Clearing out the garage of my parents' bungalow my brother found many of my father's precious possessions although the house was quite sparse still having the wooden floorboards laid when first built twenty years before.

May they all rest in peace .Love Mary ***

My Family and our long and happy connections with The Isle Of Wight. By Mary Kearns April 2018.
John Garbutt wrote the following piece on the meaning of the name 'Innisfail'.

My belief that the place-name came from Scotland was abandoned
on finding the gaelic origins of the name.
‘Inis’ or ‘Innis' mean ‘island’, while ‘fail’ is the word for
Ireland itself. ‘Innisfail’ means Ireland. But not just
geographically: the Ireland of tradition, customs, legends
and folk music, the Ireland of belonging.
So the explanation why the Irish ‘Innisfail’ was adopted as the name
of a town in Alberta, Canada, and a town in Australia,
can only be that migrants took the name, well  over a century ago
to their new homelands, though present-day Canadians
and Australians won’t have that same feeling about it.

------------------------------------------------------------­---------
The bungalow was designed by John Westbrook, who was an architect, as a wedding present for his father and Gwen Westbrook.
I do believe he also designed the very large and beautiful gardens.
I no longer know whether the bungalow is still standing or what it may be called .Mary xxxx
Mary Gay Kearns Apr 2018
My father had a propensity for a peculiar type of sparseness.
Enhanced with items of furniture collected from many sources.
Not a mean man but coming from a very poor family off Labrook Grove in London his few possessions were meaningful.

In the 1970s my parents moved to Totland to take up residence in a new bungalow on The Isle Of Wight, situated overlooking rambling countryside and narrow, windy lanes.
There was a wide but shortish back garden needing to be established. The front garden a sloped bank to meet the pavement.
Mother brought with her, from Streatham her London home, favourite hardy shrubs easily transplanted.

My father retired early finding the strain of being a hospital administrator at St Georges Hospital, Hyde Park Corner, too taxing.
Recruitment was problematic and mainly filled with applicants from overseas.(Not much has changed in fifty years.)My mother wanted to spend time with Frank, her father, sharing his latter years at Totland where he and his wife, Gwen, lived overlooking the Solent on a considerable plot of land.
This included the new bungalow built about 1952-3 and designed by John Westbrook, Frank's son, and acres of beautifully planned flower gardens, a vegetable patch and large wooded area where the trees held tiny toys, to the magic of Tolkein. As children this place was as close as one could get to paradise.

Usually we entered by the back lane entrance rather than from The Alum Bay Road. The plot stretching between the two.
The rows of backgarden fences looked much the same
Crumbling and split wooden planks, large tree roots
Dividing up the length and making mysterious openings
Where rather dilapidated gates, latched firmly
So animals could not stray,
Allowed for the start of magic.
Out of all these fences one belonged to my grandparents and
Through which our travels to Narnia began.

So over twenty, mainly, glorious years on The Island, enjoying its many beautiful walks, the beaches and a few precious friends and neighbours. It had been my mother's dream to inherit her father's bungalow and spend her final years watching the boats float on the Solent and breathe sea air sitting on a swinging seat surrounded by primroses. Unfortunately this dream did not materialise due to my mother's poor health. But she was grateful for the years Bill and herself  had together on that green and pleasant land.

My maternal grandparents were, quietly distinguished, letter writers
Who embroidered their days with poetic licence. They had few visitors, apart from the local vicar, the vet and gardener. Gwen being a rather possessive and eccentric lady and having no children of her own, treated the dog as one would a child and life centred around dog walks, feeding and playtime. Frank was also frail and being older than Gwen needed much care and attention.They both liked to read and write letters which they did after lunch with an added snooze. Every day flowed with regularity and neat routines interspersed with many hours tending the garden, picking raspberries from heavily laden canes and gathering long, plump runner beans.
Throughout the Summer months high tea was set in the garden on a rickety table, and consisting of thick slices of current bread coated in salt free butter, a variety of homemade cakes, sandwiches, and ice cream and jelly with a *** of tea or lemonade.
I am reminded of 'The Bloomsbury Set' and Vita Sackville -West, a tranquil but harassed life with too much need for perfection.


Geographically some distance from our London home visits, both ways, were infrequent and by the time I was about nine Frank was too old to travel to Streatham. However their presence formed a significant part of our lives and is still with me today.
Unfortunately letter writing was for my brother and I a chore not undertaken with glee,
Especially as the gift was often a box of embroidered hankies sat in someone's drawer for an age.

The family structure, having married in their fifties, consisted of Frank and Gwen, Mother and always a wire haired terrier, often renewed as age took this species young. Mother was in her nineties and having brought up Gwen and Kath singularly now lived with her daughter in the bungalow at Totland on the Alum Bay Road.

Frank had been part of the Boy's Brigade movement from his teens, taking his love of camping into his marriage to Alexandra Emily Giles, the mother of his two daughters, Grace Emily and Betty Rose. His wife sadly died in childboth leaving the girls orphaned at five and seven.
Frank then moved from Reading to Tooting in south London and married Vera, a girl of twenty one, to whom he had a son, John.
Vera was flirtatious with the boys in the brigade and left Frank and her son, John, at the age of nine, to the care and protection of my mother Grace who was then eighteen. Grace loved them both but it restricted her life and she feared she would never marry. However she found my father, a wonderfully loving and wholesome person who made her very happy in most ways.

Throughout my mother's and John's childhood time was spent camping on the Isle of Wight and so strong associations were made with Totland where the brigade camped in a field in Court Road.

The two bungalows were approximately two to three miles apart.
My mother visited Gwen and her father twice a week spending
A couple of hours sitting in the open planned hallway, glass doored, which faced onto the Alan Bay Road. If warm it would be brunch in the garden at the back. These visits were my mother's anchorage with her life as she missed me very much and her grandchildren in Watford.

Innisfail (meaning- The Ireland of Belonging) was the name of my grandparents' bungalow. ( please see below for more lengthy meaning and interpretation, kindly, written  by John Garbutt).

My parents' bungalow was named  'Crowhurst'  and carved on a wooden plaque as a present by John Garbutt my auntie Betty's partner. The origin of the name came from a retreat that my father, Bill, attended and connected to a church in Streatham where I lived as a child.

Almost all my childhood annual holidays were taken on the Island so we could visit our grandparents and my mother spend time with her father. After my parents moved and I married and had children the pattern was repeated. And till this day it is a favourite with all my children and grandchildren. A special place fixed in time and beauty.

The bungalows are both sold now as their residents have all died.
Clearing out the garage of my parents' bungalow my brother found many of my father's precious possessions although the house was quite sparse still having the wooden floorboards laid when first built twenty years before.

May they all rest in peace .Love Mary ***

My Family and our long and happy connections with The Isle Of Wight. By Mary Kearns April 2018.
John Garbutt wrote the following piece on the meaning of the name 'Innisfail'.

My belief that the place-name came from Scotland was abandoned
on finding the gaelic origins of the name.
‘Inis’ or ‘Innis' mean ‘island’, while ‘fail’ is the word for
Ireland itself. ‘Innisfail’ means Ireland. But not just
geographically: the Ireland of tradition, customs, legends
and folk music, the Ireland of belonging.
So the explanation why the Irish ‘Innisfail’ was adopted as the name
of a town in Alberta, Canada, and a town in Australia,
can only be that migrants took the name, well  over a century ago
to their new homelands, though present-day Canadians
and Australians won’t have that same feeling about it.

---------------------------------------------------------------------
The bungalow was designed by John Westbrook, who was an architect, as a wedding present for his father and Gwen Westbrook.
I do believe he also designed the very large and beautiful gardens.
I no longer know whether the bungalow is still standing or what it may be called .Mary x

— The End —