So here I am, the host and all, and I'm late. Sorry 'bout this. I hope the poem makes up for it (though I can't promise it will). On the bright side, this poem adds a little bit of hope to the story.
Word: flour
Question: How did you get so filthy dirty?
The Cabin in the Storm
Another log to feed the fire
Sparks burst out and fall in showers
Another meal of water and flour
Another night alone and tired
Outside the storm rages on
The wind howls about the shack
Searching every hole and crack
He longs for peace to come with dawn
A thud sounds through the night
Softly again, then all is still
He shivers against a creeping chill
They shouldn't be out, but they might
Knife in hand he moves to the door
Throws it open and steps aside
Then yelps and leaps back in fright
As a figure falls onto the floor
Covered in dirt and frozen blue
Hands bloody and battered
Clothes torn and hair matted
If she was alive, God only knew
He gathers her up in his arms
Laying her down by the flame
He does all he can to bring warmth
Back to this girl with no name
So he waits through the night
And prays for dawn to break
To drive off the storm, and see her awake
To bask in the clear morning light
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Word and Question 9
Hello everyone and welcome to this month's Word & Question! If you need a refresher on how this works, check out Enbrethiliel's page on the subject. I start taking prompts now; get them to me by Friday and you'll have yours on Sunday.
In the mean time, take a look around if you haven't already. I've switched from short fiction to poetry lately, but I hope that my poetry still tells a story.
Happy reading.
In the mean time, take a look around if you haven't already. I've switched from short fiction to poetry lately, but I hope that my poetry still tells a story.
Happy reading.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Requiem for a Fantasy
Head down she trudges alone
Through sleet and wind, on ice encrusted paths
In the distance lights twinkle
Tempting her to think of home
A rest for her tired body: food, fire, a bath
But her weary mind is wary
That way lie traps and lies
Step in front of painful step
The sting of icy pellets long ceased
Her face too numb to feel
She struggles on toward the glow
Hopeful that this time she might find peace
And kindness in a stranger's home
Instead of blood and death
Still a hundred yards, or more, she cannot tell
In her mind she hears the distant peel
Of a ghostly requiem bell
One step more, she trips and falls
She lies there on the ground, too weak to kneel
And whispers prayers to saints
Who never seem to hear
In the dark she reaches for one
Who'd been with her before the storm
Who once in brighter days had clasped
Her soft waist in his arm
But he had gone, had yielded form
Back to dust, in the beginning of the end
While she was left to survive
The numb begins to warm
The ice is softer now, the wind sings
Pleasant songs instead of ghostly howls
A wisp of hair, a chestnut strand
Blows across her face, as the requiem bell rings
Loud and clear across the barren wastes
Of a post-apocalyptic fantasyland
Through sleet and wind, on ice encrusted paths
In the distance lights twinkle
Tempting her to think of home
A rest for her tired body: food, fire, a bath
But her weary mind is wary
That way lie traps and lies
Step in front of painful step
The sting of icy pellets long ceased
Her face too numb to feel
She struggles on toward the glow
Hopeful that this time she might find peace
And kindness in a stranger's home
Instead of blood and death
Still a hundred yards, or more, she cannot tell
In her mind she hears the distant peel
Of a ghostly requiem bell
One step more, she trips and falls
She lies there on the ground, too weak to kneel
And whispers prayers to saints
Who never seem to hear
In the dark she reaches for one
Who'd been with her before the storm
Who once in brighter days had clasped
Her soft waist in his arm
But he had gone, had yielded form
Back to dust, in the beginning of the end
While she was left to survive
The numb begins to warm
The ice is softer now, the wind sings
Pleasant songs instead of ghostly howls
A wisp of hair, a chestnut strand
Blows across her face, as the requiem bell rings
Loud and clear across the barren wastes
Of a post-apocalyptic fantasyland
Monday, January 31, 2011
The Euphemist
From a misheard song lyric:
He softly spreads the niceties
The quiet lies that try to be
Inarticulate and meaning free
Lest someone somehow truth might see
But spurting blood and flames
The burning of innocent names
The bastards called heroes who came
To blot out all mem'ry of blame
The sun never sets on evil
So name it whatever you will
While with sultry voice she instills
A longing for something harmless to fill
The euphemist may call it love
The harlot may say it is just
But innocence ne'er once killed a dove
Though murderers justify their bloodlust
He softly spreads the niceties
The quiet lies that try to be
Inarticulate and meaning free
Lest someone somehow truth might see
But spurting blood and flames
The burning of innocent names
The bastards called heroes who came
To blot out all mem'ry of blame
The sun never sets on evil
So name it whatever you will
While with sultry voice she instills
A longing for something harmless to fill
The euphemist may call it love
The harlot may say it is just
But innocence ne'er once killed a dove
Though murderers justify their bloodlust
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
The Storyteller's Daughter
On a starry night he sat
Back against a fallen log
His hat pushed back, his pipe aglow
He spun the tales of old
A voice of gravel told the stories
Of stampedes, blizzards, gully-washers
Rock-slides, dust-storms, russlers
And open plains and mountaintops
While around the fire we smoked
And listened to the yarns
But I had my eyes on someone else
As she her father watched
Her warm gray eyes and nut-brown hair
Flickered in the firelight
And I, unnoticed, sat and pined for her to plight
Her troth to me and walk with me
Then ride into the distance
Tomorrow I'd ask, I'd take a chance
Her first, if she'd have me, and then her father
For the hand of the storyteller's daughter
Back against a fallen log
His hat pushed back, his pipe aglow
He spun the tales of old
A voice of gravel told the stories
Of stampedes, blizzards, gully-washers
Rock-slides, dust-storms, russlers
And open plains and mountaintops
While around the fire we smoked
And listened to the yarns
But I had my eyes on someone else
As she her father watched
Her warm gray eyes and nut-brown hair
Flickered in the firelight
And I, unnoticed, sat and pined for her to plight
Her troth to me and walk with me
Then ride into the distance
Tomorrow I'd ask, I'd take a chance
Her first, if she'd have me, and then her father
For the hand of the storyteller's daughter
Monday, January 17, 2011
Shot in the Dark, and You're Insane
I broke a pair of rules this weekend, and while I didn't gain anything tangible by doing so, I'm still glad I did. Speaking of poems being set to music, this one actually has a refrain!
A clumsy dancer she was, but pretty
In an unassuming way,
For unlike all the others
She was not here for show,
But to show us ourselves at play.
The documentary maker
Could have been a photography major,
But the picture behind the camera
Was finer than what the lens saw.
A clumsy asker he was, uncertain,
But resolved to take a shot.
Simply asked and simply answered
They had no game to play
Though the answer he wanted was not what he got.
The documentary maker
Could have been a photography major,
But the picture behind the camera
Was finer than what the lens saw
A pleasant evening it was, and merry,
Had the answer been different
He'd smile a little more
But for that dance with a pretty girl
He'd no regrets for an evening well spent.
A clumsy dancer she was, but pretty
In an unassuming way,
For unlike all the others
She was not here for show,
But to show us ourselves at play.
The documentary maker
Could have been a photography major,
But the picture behind the camera
Was finer than what the lens saw.
A clumsy asker he was, uncertain,
But resolved to take a shot.
Simply asked and simply answered
They had no game to play
Though the answer he wanted was not what he got.
The documentary maker
Could have been a photography major,
But the picture behind the camera
Was finer than what the lens saw
A pleasant evening it was, and merry,
Had the answer been different
He'd smile a little more
But for that dance with a pretty girl
He'd no regrets for an evening well spent.
Word and Question 8
Hosted again by the lovely Enbrethiliel over at Shredded Cheddar. Go read the rest of the entries here. She wondered if I could write something that wasn't musical. Since I never thought what I wrote was musical in the first place, I don't know if it's even possible for me to oblige. It must be something about the way language works in my ear.
I can say, though, that this post is at least musically inspired. There were a couple of directions I could have gone with my prompts. I've been a little sober in my poetry, lately, and that is the easiest path to take. There was also the possibility of some political allegory, but I spout my opinions enough in other venues. Poetry should be about beauty, not politics.
At the risk of prejudicing your reading, I'll post the two songs that I've got in mind as I write this
And now, enough putzing about.
Word: heavy
Question: What are we having for dinner?
Homemaker
Heavy knocking on the doors
One final glance all round the house
Chairs in order, lamps all lit
Stew singing songs to the goose on the spit
And her husband has thrown out the mouse
Brush the skirt, fix the hair
Glance at the man in the old rocking chair
Beaming with pride, flushed with delight
Blush at his smile as he lights up his pipe
And open the door to the guests in the night
I can say, though, that this post is at least musically inspired. There were a couple of directions I could have gone with my prompts. I've been a little sober in my poetry, lately, and that is the easiest path to take. There was also the possibility of some political allegory, but I spout my opinions enough in other venues. Poetry should be about beauty, not politics.
At the risk of prejudicing your reading, I'll post the two songs that I've got in mind as I write this
And now, enough putzing about.
Word: heavy
Question: What are we having for dinner?
Homemaker
Heavy knocking on the doors
One final glance all round the house
Chairs in order, lamps all lit
Stew singing songs to the goose on the spit
And her husband has thrown out the mouse
Brush the skirt, fix the hair
Glance at the man in the old rocking chair
Beaming with pride, flushed with delight
Blush at his smile as he lights up his pipe
And open the door to the guests in the night
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Snow
It should really be the title of a story, that, but since I'm too lazy and distracted to tell proper stories anymore, I'll tell 'em in verse instead. These prompts struck me odd, so you get two stories - the same question, with two different answers.
Funny thing about the word. It was going to be the word I submitted for this round of Word & Question, but I was afraid someone might find it too cheap, so I gave instead a word that Dylan handled wonderfully. In return, I got the word I actually wanted, and was immediately excited about the possibilities.
The answers, though, were harder to find than I at first thought. Still, I found them. And here are the stories, in the order I'd like you to remember them.
Word: Snow
Question: Is this not something more than fantasy?
The First Story
Crunch, crunch, crunch
Virgin snow defiled
Purest white destroyed
Innocence beguiled
Darkness falls
Barren, dirty lands
All around is death
Bleak, the fate of man
Blackness burns
Fantasies to ash
Lost beneath the weight
Beauty turned to trash
Spring arrives
Snow dissolves away
Has no memory
Life fades into day
Hope, hope, hope
To find redemption
In love's glowing embers
I, I remember
The Second Story
Alone he sits and waits
Thinks of her, and oceans
Lying past the gates
Somewhere in between them
Waves that stir like words unspoken
Words yet understood
That rise, fall, dip and swell
A gently rolling token
Of the dreams they've yet to dream
Of stories yet to tell
And softly blowing fairytales
That swirl and whisper in his ear
The warmth of fires hid in winter
Hidden from the driving snow
Hidden, burning ever quicker
Leaping flames that long to go
Across the air, across the sea
To find the arms of which he dreams
At last to rest, at last to be
Alone at home, and love to know
As something more than fantasy
Funny thing about the word. It was going to be the word I submitted for this round of Word & Question, but I was afraid someone might find it too cheap, so I gave instead a word that Dylan handled wonderfully. In return, I got the word I actually wanted, and was immediately excited about the possibilities.
The answers, though, were harder to find than I at first thought. Still, I found them. And here are the stories, in the order I'd like you to remember them.
Word: Snow
Question: Is this not something more than fantasy?
The First Story
Crunch, crunch, crunch
Virgin snow defiled
Purest white destroyed
Innocence beguiled
Darkness falls
Barren, dirty lands
All around is death
Bleak, the fate of man
Blackness burns
Fantasies to ash
Lost beneath the weight
Beauty turned to trash
Spring arrives
Snow dissolves away
Has no memory
Life fades into day
Hope, hope, hope
To find redemption
In love's glowing embers
I, I remember
The Second Story
Alone he sits and waits
Thinks of her, and oceans
Lying past the gates
Somewhere in between them
Waves that stir like words unspoken
Words yet understood
That rise, fall, dip and swell
A gently rolling token
Of the dreams they've yet to dream
Of stories yet to tell
And softly blowing fairytales
That swirl and whisper in his ear
The warmth of fires hid in winter
Hidden from the driving snow
Hidden, burning ever quicker
Leaping flames that long to go
Across the air, across the sea
To find the arms of which he dreams
At last to rest, at last to be
Alone at home, and love to know
As something more than fantasy
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
W & Q Teaser
Quite by accident, this old poem of mine happens to do a decent job of using my word and answering my question (of course, it only answers the question if you know the poems history... and the question). I will, of course, post an actual Word & Question original poem some time in the next week (I'm hoping for inspiration on my caving trip this weekend). Until then, enjoy this little throwback to my college days of versified romance. Cheers.
Snow
Falling snow, fall softly down
And sparkle in her raven hair
Winter wind, slip carefully
Across her face so fair
And bring a rosy glow
Into those cheeks as white as snow
Stars above, look tenderly
Upon this pretty lass of mine
White moonlight, glisten now
Shine in her kind green eyes
Oh show me nothing lovelier
Than this soft and glowing sight
Falling snow, fall softly down
And warm this chilly, winter night.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Word and Question 6
Okay, I just had a perfect, happy little line spring into my head not too long ago, but I'm gonna develop the idea that occurred to me on the drive home, and see where it leads. As usual, I'm shooting offhand...
Word: Apologia
Question (answered obliquely): On what altar do you place your hopes and dreams?
The Altar of the Traveler
"Ramp" the sign says
Nothing more
He takes it
He has to go somewhere
Innocent, she was
Then a whore
Now she runs
To someone, anywhere
Broken, shattered glass
On the floor
Art is there
Mosaics made aware
Cross of splinters
Shards of wood
Dig at skin
Another cross to bear
Altar standing
Marble door
Come from far
Find shelter on its stair
Apologia
For a life
Never made
Laid upon the altar
Of the traveler
I like this one, in a strange way. It is my first attempt at keeping some sort of form (though a syllable got misplaced here and there, and a rhyme scheme dropped along the way). I still prefer free verse, if only because I find it easier to play with words in ways that amuse me when I'm not trying to fit them in a puzzle. Still, I hope you like it.
Word: Apologia
Question (answered obliquely): On what altar do you place your hopes and dreams?
The Altar of the Traveler
"Ramp" the sign says
Nothing more
He takes it
He has to go somewhere
Innocent, she was
Then a whore
Now she runs
To someone, anywhere
Broken, shattered glass
On the floor
Art is there
Mosaics made aware
Cross of splinters
Shards of wood
Dig at skin
Another cross to bear
Altar standing
Marble door
Come from far
Find shelter on its stair
Apologia
For a life
Never made
Laid upon the altar
Of the traveler
I like this one, in a strange way. It is my first attempt at keeping some sort of form (though a syllable got misplaced here and there, and a rhyme scheme dropped along the way). I still prefer free verse, if only because I find it easier to play with words in ways that amuse me when I'm not trying to fit them in a puzzle. Still, I hope you like it.
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