Canon

We're wide open / waiting / for the single gust of wind that can carry a dream / into the next place / where nightmares aren't / as frightening as sounds of mourning /  that let you know you'll never see me again / with arms out / false wings, un-hollow, unable to fly / on the single burst of wind that can carry a dream / into the eternal embrace of what lies beneath / where feet once walked / on what is now the opaque sky...

We're wide open / running / away from the concussions of winds that bring fire / when we're already warm / heartbeats rapid and... breath... exhausted / from pulling wrists / of people whose names we've never known / in the same place by different means / paths varied / converge for a moment as a hurricane / who cares not for our beliefs / only that we're in the way...

We're wide open / dying / from the impact of currents against bodies / that cannot be pushed too hard / carried too far / against the limits of skies / beyond which lies no resistance / no life / we're too young to die / still we crumble / as long as we can be walls / preventing the passage of something else / we will be unable to fly / on that single thought of wind / that you once told me you dreamt...

Out in the Open

So, I've been caught. Red-handed. After several months of trying to keep it under wraps, I've been called on it. I have, despite my best intentions, fallen head over heels in love with a fellow blogger. She's ignored my hints, my emails, my less-than-subtle yearnings hidden in "fiction" pieces. I've even strongly considered, to save myself from abject embarrassment, deleting many of the posts I've written about her.

The kicker came when she posted a poem about fake, virtual love. You can read it here: "Not Your Average Love Poem"

Yeah, I tried to play it off with a joke, but it hurt. Maybe you're thinking I'm a little crazy right now, but I don't care. I'm not about "fake, virtual love." That was uncalled for.

And I know you really love my writing - you're not fooling anybody - so here's your not-so-average love poem...

And the Muses...
To convince, of love, words as art
What better way to show you
Syllables from my heart

I could quote lyrics, and I would
But better they'd be mine own
As they should

To read of your other men
I feel sick, disgusted
My heart abandoned

No, I shall not devolve immature
But hold my head high
As I imagine our future

Please don't unfollow
Leave me on your blog roll
For its absence, as my heart...

Would leave me hollow...

You are, forever, my Muse...

***

Yeah, I'm pathetic. Sue me.

Irrewind, 20100918: Poetry II

I should probably title this particular Irrewind, "Bad Poetry," for even though my first few efforts here haven't been altogether bad, most of the poems I've written since have been - even I'll agree - crap. There's always one or two lines that stick out, but that's not enough to make me happy (for consistently competent poetry, I'll have to direct you to Life at Willow Manor, The Alchemist's Pillow, and The Far Queue).

Anyway, here you go... as always, criticism is welcome and desired.

"Symphony"
There's a song between breaths
Lyrics, subtle
from respiratory winds... Read More

"A Mighty Wind"
Wind of change, unwanted
With her gale in the wrong direction
Wildflowers, once gently caressed... Read More

"Today"
remember when the conversation
turned from orange to violet
an end to ends, all over again... Read More

"The Snowbird"
Feathers of ice
falling from a dying bird
that I cannot see... Read More

"The Heartbroken of Narcissus"
Your buried past
above ground, once
when it all began... Read More

Minds Ajar

The closed door
believes it to be open
as it pretends to clean its window
it doesn't look out anyway
open only for what's already in the room

But, oh, its designs come
from places yours do not
and therefore they must be true
a religion of opposition
worshiping the false facade in the mirror

Anything can live in an apartment
of its own creation
but unlike the closed door
the open door knows
being shut is the easy way out

The closed door
believes it to be open
as it checks frozen locks and rusted hinges
screaming futility
as others happily shift in the wind outside

Hide behind itself
and blame those with minds ajar
though it smiles at its own decorations
it offers no solutions
and nothing notices, or cares, when it slams to the floor

The Art of War

an actor's violent act
scripted in a blink
the sculpture holds, bleeding
salients salient; perceptive; aware
as its audience slumbers
until nightmares invade sleep
and penetrate lifetimes

poets without war
lack blood for ink
images in mind, mind's eye
no longer recognize those in hand
songs on a radio
a thousand miles away
scream in memory

a hero's welcome
after a friend's goodbye
tell his mother he loved her
and be thanked for it; reluctant
watch the badge fade in color
its honor misplaced, lost
for those deserving are already buried

*For Tom, Dave, Glen, and everyone else who now only reside in memory...

VVG IDK

*This was supposed to be an entry in Magpie Tales a couple of weeks back (the image of the hand), but I wasn't in the mindset to "get it right." I was trying to be competently funny. As a result, it's languished in limbo for a while. I still haven't worked on it, but given my travels, I'm posting it anyway in order to make my writing life a bit easier. So there.

Dear Sir,
We aren't friends.
You don't understand
proper means to ends.
Not what I meant...
to lend me your ear;
something on my mind
I wanted you to hear.
You are far too insane,
craziest of man.
Thank goodness
you didn't lend a hand.

My dearest Vincent,
please work on your verbal comprehension.
And don't give body parts to prostitutes
in vain attempts to alleviate tension.

-Paul Gauguin

Weight

apathy's laughing
at your selfish collection
crushed by an earthquake
gadgets, gizmos, and toys
staring in disbelief
hoping the insurance covers
while your neighbor bleeds

sympathy's laughing
at your selfish reflection
the visage of a mistake
pollution, air and noise
Atlas' shoulders in relief
the weight of the sky smothers
while your hypocrisy breathes

Arson

flick, switch
match strike
bursts of flame
quench
lustful thirsts
her room afire
beneath his passion
though wet
not water
lovers burn
to the ground

Dramatis Personæ

Permit me freedom
to be
or not
with apologies to Bill
maybe, perhaps, Chris
pending belief
quite sincere
for setting the Globe alight
and rebuilding
in Its image
for playwright
or poet
nor prophet
of profit
one, the same
storytellers telling lies;
lies themselves
let my undiscovered country
be only beauty
and let my ships set sail
into the face of truth

Neptune Radio

opposite actions
and equal reactions
without consideration
are the strangest things
like space cowboys
listening to Neptune Radio
playing songs in reverse
trying to get their lovers back
not stopping to wonder
why there's a radio station
on Neptune

The Storms of Dust, Part II

*continued from The Storms of Dust, Part I

***

Kolfrosta felt both euphoric and guilty from her experience with Áfastr. The euphoria, for obvious reasons. Áfastr was the man she loved, after all. And to share her very first sexual encounter with him was better than she had ever dreamed.

The guilt, however, was from the reason why the encounter happened in the first place. She didn't believe she could ever bring herself to tell Áfastr that, in some strange turn of events, the Hellenes identified Kolfrosta as an Oracle. Oracles, according to Hellenic belief, had the ability to foresee possible futures during acts of sex and, because of this, Líknvé ordered the intercourse to take place. That Líknvé did so in front of the entire Attican Ecclesia meant that, Kolfrosta knew, it was only a matter of time before Áfastr found out. More than anything, she feared breaking Áfastr's heart.

Strangely enough, Áfastr hadn't learned of the order while they were still in the Hellenes. They were well-through Anatolia on their journey when, during a sibling argument, Afvaldr brought it up. Kolfrosta had no idea where Afvaldr had heard the story, but it was clear that the brother was saving it for when he deemed Áfastr needed humiliating. The pain in Áfastr's eyes when he asked her if the story was true was almost too much for her to bear. She couldn't even blame or get angry with him when he called her a worthless whore. Her anger continued to remain dormant when he barraged her with questions about how she learned to fuck - "make love" was no longer in Áfastr's vocabulary. Instead, she replied calmly and lovingly, telling of how the women of the Northmen frequently and casually discuss sex among themselves, and how Líknvé and several Hellenic noblewomen coached Kolfrosta the night before the forced, but voluntary, seduction.

When Áfastr added "lying" to "worthless whore," her anger still refused to flourish. He refused to speak to her for several days afterward, which prompted her to write the poem. She tore the parchment from some of her packed Northmen clothing and wrote it in haste in the middle of the night. It was from pure emotion that she wrote, and she hoped that it would be honest enough to assuage Áfastr's heart.

She almost cried when he threw it into a puddle of mud the day she gave it to him... the day that she and Líknvé were to head to the easternmost river, the Indigna, and follow it to the Pars Sea, while Áfastr and his brother were to continue along the Buranun after linking up with Hellenic guides that had still yet to appear. Líknvé was unsympathetic and afforded Kolfrosta no time to try to comfort Áfastr, and Kolfrosta's last memory of him was that of a man no longer in love.

She did not see Áfastr pick the parchment up and clean it off, for he had waited until she and Líknvé disappeared beyond the horizon to do so.

***

The memories end, replaced by stinging grains of sand from the storm. Áfastr feels a tinge of sadness at not being able to embrace Kolfrosta's wondrous body, but takes solace in the torn parchment he grasps in his hand and, especially, the words that he knows are written on it.

But the wind, however, has other ideas. It takes no account for solace.

Áfastr screams out as an errant gust whips the parchment from his fingers and carries it quickly into the dust-ridden darkness. Reflexively, he lunges in the direction he thinks the parchment has taken flight, but the action is futile.

An instant away from feeling despair at the loss of the only thing his would-be lover has ever given him, he is instead thrown down the hill of sand by a sudden and powerful impact. Something had just struck the very spot Áfastr was sitting in.

Before the adrenaline surge is even over, Áfastr stands at the base of the sand dune with sword drawn, trying to see his enemy through tightly-squinted eyes. Instead, he hears it. Though this is only the second time he's encountered a member of the dragon family, he knows his adversary is a sand wyvern. The wind distorts the sound, but he had listened to a Bedouin merchant recreate the noise merely two days ago, and it was close enough. At once guttural and screeching, there is nothing else it can be.

Áfastr is no berserker, but something overtakes his sensibilities and he charges the creature - or, rather, where he thinks the creature is - swinging his double-edged sword wildly. Much to his delight, the sword connects with the wyvern's front leg, though Áfastr is initially unsure if he hit the beast or a random rock. The ensuing scream of agony, however, assures Áfastr that his strike was true. Áfastr might have smiled had the wyvern's wing not knocked him through the air. Suddenly afraid, accounting for the severity of the wing's blow, Áfastr goes prone and lies still.

The Hellenes call dragons, "drakeins." Translated into Áfastr's language, drakein means "to see clearly," which is why the Hellenes also refer to dragons as clairvoyants. This makes Áfastr sublimely aware that he may be wasting his efforts in hiding, but he knows that he has little hope of victory in a direction confrontation with the beast.

For the next few minutes, Áfastr listens as the wyvern bellows out hunting calls, and he swears he can feel the ground shake with the wyvern's movements.  Áfastr hears the thuds and dispersal of sand while the creature leaps and strikes at areas it believes Áfastr to be. Through it all, the man remains motionless.

Hours pass in relative silence - only the howl of the wind - yet Áfastr waits hours more until he is satisfied that the creature is gone and the clairvoyant title is inaccurate. Unburying himself from the accumulated sand and no longer under the influence of adrenaline, Áfastr's body lets him know that it is exhausted. As with people, he's never been one to dwell on being at the whim of nature, and he quickly falls asleep.

***

He gasps for air as he wakes, subconsciously assuming that he's waking while completely buried, but his chest is well above the level of the sand. Scanning his surroundings, appearing almost ridiculous in his half-buried state, he attempts in vain to locate Kolfrosta's parchment. Upset for a moment, it dawns on him that if he hadn't lost the parchment to the wind, he would most certainly be dead. Thankful that he's alive, he digs himself out and starts knocking the sand off of - and out of, apparently - his body.

There's still no sign of his horse or his brother. Áfastr mentally shrugs and sets off toward the southeast, where he hopes to reunite with the Buranun River and find the missing Hellenic guides. The Abyss waits, after all, and there is nothing else to do but continue on.

And to recall the intimate scent of cinnamon.

The Storms of Dust, Part I

*a sequel to A Dragon in Winter. Fair warning: adult content.

Áfastr is, indeed, a long way from home. He's survived many a storm, flurry, and blizzard, of water, snow, and even ice. But this is his first time in a sandstorm.

Long separated from his brother, Afvaldr, and regretting the decision to not switch his horse out for a local dromedary, Áfastr sits nearly defeated on a small slope comprised of sand. He feels the loose earth beneath him shifting, but he doesn't care. With his back to the wind and wrapped in local garb that offers his body some protection from the storm - he's thankful that he agreed to that, at least - he holds a torn parchment in his hand.

Oh, lover, my lover... your presence; missed
remember, our last kiss? I cried; realized bliss
as sweat replaced the scent of perfumed mist
and our hearts collided between the touch of hips

He can't see the words, of course, for the sand and dust blot out the sun, and the constant barrage of rock and mineral particles encourages him to keep his eyes closed. But it's no matter; Áfastr's long since memorized the poem Kolfrosta gave to him the day their quest forced their paths to split. Though, in Áfastr's opinion, it's not a particularly good poem, it is unforgettable. For even stronger in his memory - if such a thing were possible - is what the poem is about.

***

It happened over two months ago, when they were still in the Hellenes. Líknvé had arranged for an audience with the Attican Ecclesia, an audience that Áfastr and his brother were not allowed to attend, despite their purported Hellenic ancestry. Not that it mattered, for neither brother spoke the language. That Líknvé did might have been a surprise, but the old woman's revelations had ceased to surprise him long before they passed the Dinarides Mountains on their way to the Hellenes.

Kolfrosta, however, was allowed to attend. Though she did not, to Áfastr's knowledge, speak the language either, Líknvé was resolute in her determination to teach Kolfrosta everything she knew. It was obvious to  Áfastr that the old woman was grooming a protégé, though doing so without the permission of Kolfrosta's father was a severe breach of Northmen protocol. Líknvé's attitude that it was okay since Kolfrosta's father was not around to object offended Áfastr greatly, but it was not the place for a 24-year old Northman hunter to rebuke the actions of an adviser to his King.

So, Áfastr and Afvaldr waited in quarters provided to each of them by the Hellenes. Áfastr's preference was to share a room with his brother, for Áfastr was uneasy with being a stranger in a strange land, but their hosts wouldn't allow it. The Hellenes, too, were leery of their strange guests and felt that segregation would provide better security for all parties by eliminating as many misunderstandings as possible. Never one to dwell on being at the whim of others, Áfastr quickly fell asleep.

Just before dawn, he was awakened by Hellene slaves bringing breakfast and local attire. To his surprise, Kolfrosta, dressed in a red peplos, accompanied them. Though Áfastr had previously joked that Hellenic garments reminded him of cheap drapery, he was overwhelmed with the realization that he'd never seen Kolfrosta so... exquisitely beautiful.

Kolfrosta easily noticed Áfastr's attention and partially hid her smile. "What is it?" she asked. To Áfastr, her tone was that of Líknvé's: playful, yet subversively manipulative. The old woman had been training her well. Before he could answer, Kolfrosta continued. "You should put those on," she said, pointing to the Hellenic clothes.

"Why?" His own tone caused Áfastr to wince. It was immature and lacking thought. Kolfrosta's new grin might have angered him, but he was still half-entranced by her beauty. The red of the peplos was a striking and complementary contrast to her black hair and slightly bronzed skin. He always remembered her with pale skin, however, though her skin took to the southern sun much more readily than his own.

"Líknvé convinced the Hellenes to help us," Kolfrosta replied, more seriously. "They know a lot more about these creatures than we do, and guides are being summoned to take us to the Abyss."

Though Áfastr had no idea what the Abyss was, he knew he didn't like the sound of it. Kolfrosta sensed his momentary fear and waited for the slaves to leave. When they did, she picked up the garments left for Áfastr and motioned for him to follow her.

"Where are you going?" Áfastr hadn't noticed her gesture.

"To my room. It's more secure and less-likely to be eavesdropped." Áfastr watched Kolfrosta's body carefully as she exited.  She paused in the doorway, nodded to a Hellene guard, and gave Áfastr enough time to enjoy her silhouette. "Come on," she finally said, "we're wasting the morning."

There was something in Kolfrosta's voice that spurred Áfastr's compliance.

***

The first thing Áfastr noticed about Kolfrosta's quarters was that they were much more elaborate than his. Where he had a simple room with a small window, Kolfrosta had multi-chambered quarters that not only offered expansive views of the city, but a balcony overlooking the square below.

The second thing he noticed was the odor.

"What's that smell?" he asked, as Kolfrosta worked her way into the bed chamber, placing his clothes on a small table near the bed.

She turned and smiled. "The bed's been perfumed with herbs and spices. Cinnamon, myrrh, aloe. It's some custom they have."

Wanting to ask why - for it seemed more a cooking pot than a bed - he instead asked, "Cinnamon?"

She approached him, moving slowly, her eyes on his. "A rare spice. From an island world far to the east."

Áfastr was about to admit that the odor was rather pleasant, but Kolfrosta's inexplicable disrobing and her sudden kiss froze him in place.

***

Kolfrosta alternated between aggressive and submissive, and Áfastr was taken aback by the shifting. It took mere seconds to maneuver Áfastr to the bed and remove his clothing. Initially, Áfastr didn't know what to do, but Kolfrosta's aggressiveness was more than enough to disguise Áfastr's indecision and the confusion only made the situation more exciting. There was a hint of embarrassment from both of them. Áfastr was a virgin, and he was under the impression that Kolfrosta was, as well, but as she took him into her mouth, he began to doubt that. Encroached anger burst and dissipated at the softness of Kolfrosta's lips and the tip of her tongue before Áfastr had a chance to protest. A gentle suction removed any thought of resistance from Áfastr's mind. Oddly enough, he kept his eyes mostly closed, preferring to imagine Kolfrosta still wearing the red peplos instead of gazing upon her nude form. Perhaps it was because he was unsure any of this was really happening, or perhaps the scent of sex among cinnamon was stronger when voluntarily blind. Whatever the reason, he was in his own paradise. And with the very woman he desired to be in it with.

As the morning progressed, Áfastr experienced many sensations that he, up until then, had only imagined. The dry-wet of Kolfrosta's mouth, both on his own lips and his phallic heartbeat; the smooth thrust into her vagina and the gentle pull out as she flexed invisible pelvic muscles; the sensation of acidic fluids down his erection and into his mouth; the ticklish and arousing caress of erect nipples brushing his torso. There was some brief discomfort, when Kolfrosta, still mounting him, turned around and faced away. As she leaned forward, bending part of him downward with her, she commanded him to penetrate her with a thumb. Were Áfastr sound of mind at that moment, he'd have refused, but she played his body and desires like a Hellenic minstrel played a lyre.

He learned, very quickly, that he preferred to be on top. While on top, he learned that he preferred Kolfrosta to be flat on her stomach. He didn't know if it was the soft impact of her buttocks against his pelvis, or the fact that she turned her head and looked back upon him as if he were some sort of god, but the position was undeniably the most arousing to him.

Whatever the case, when the act was over and Áfastr and Kolfrosta embraced, covered in the dust of perfume and the moisture of sweat, he decided to ask Kolfrosta to betroth him.

He had not been ready for her response.

"No."

*** 

*continued in The Storms of Dust, Part II

Irrewind, 20100102: Poetry

Someone recently asked me if she could call me a poet. The answer to that is a resounding, "no." I write some poetry, to be sure, but often it's bad and needs heavy editing before even having a chance at publication (two poems that I have had published, for instance, were both heavily edited before making the cut... and neither one was over five lines, if I recall).

But, I still write the stuff, usually out of boredom or some substance-induced mood swing (no, not those substances) that briefly inspires an unusual train of thought.

Anyway, see for yourself:

"Bonus Track"
Life's one sad song after another
as if there's a rhythm to shedding tears
dance the night, unaware the sun is on its way... Read More

"Piano"
"Sit. And think." - Auguste Rodin

So sit and think
imagine voices, once calm and strong... Read More

"Neverland"
Teach me to ride the wind
and away we'll go
my shadow is lost this close to the sun... Read More

"Once a Time"
dust covers the house you grew up in
the street you grew up on
winds of change kept nothing clean... Read More

"Tabula Rasa"
a blank page
like blank mind
instinct formed between the covers... Read More

The Burning Bridge

It's time to pack up and go
while the bridge can still be traversed
before it turns into ash
and the water underneath no longer has reason to flow
Time, then, to go
before he's going nowhere

Across the horizons
there will be horizons crossed
and called yesterdays
tomorrows, new enemies and old friends
antiquate nascent dreams again
leaving them nowhere

For the weary, rest
they may sleep but he may not stay
lest he watch it all go by
counting the heartbeats she has left
The compass points West
and has taken her nowhere

It's time to pack up and go
while the ford can still be passed
before it turns into mud
and the span overhead can no longer hold
Time, then, to go
anywhere but here

The Heartbroken of Narcissus

Your buried past
above ground, once
when it all began
with a whimper

A pity, then
you did not think
among instinct
to write it down

I wonder, then
in all your vanity
was she your lover?
or just survival?

Did you speak?
or did you whisper?
those who care
still listen

to the echoes left among stone
left among stone

The Snowbird

Feathers of ice
falling from a dying bird
that I cannot see
Though you've not told me
I'm certain your wings are bare
under the blanket of white
and your body will not be there
come Spring

Today

remember when the conversation
turned from orange to violet
an end to ends, all over again
until then
dream that it all happened before
spinning around an axis
spinning around a star
what's spoken was spoken
who's listening is what's different
thinking, therefore being
the mind's eye
the mind's sky's precipitation
an instant within an instant
is when everything changes
it's a new day, today
... feels like the rest of yesterday

A Mighty Wind

Wind of change, unwanted
With her gale in the wrong direction
Wildflowers, once gently caressed
Wilt away slowly in her soiled hand
Were they not content
Where she found them?

Symphony

There's a song between breaths
Lyrics, subtle
from respiratory winds
heard only with dying thoughts
and remembered with fading dreams
Truth escaped your breath
Words, false
from lying winds
believed only with loving hearts
and held with longing embrace
An orchestra tires of the song
and the less I've said, the less I'm wrong

Tabula Rasa

a blank page
like blank mind
instinct formed between the covers
before life passes by invented symbols
the story turns
a new chapter
and memories that do not fade
perhaps rewritten
or simply edited
by authors who deigned to choose their fates
it is endings that are published
on slates above heads
whose words stand in eternity
until The End
there are words to change
and characters with new beginnings