Ladies' Bear

That awkward moment when you realize,
No matter what you do,
The life-size stuffed bear that you own
May have more game than you.

I Can't Get Free

I'm writing a free verse here for you.
I'm not sure where I'm going with this...
But what else is new, so here we go!
Hmm. I feel like those first lines had far too much rhythm.
Sorry about that, it's one of my first times.
But at least I don't have any rhymes.
Oh no! What have I done?!
Can I still call this a free verse?
It seems no matter how hard I try,
I can't escape these two captors:
Rhythm and rhyme.
Guess I'll just have to stick to boring old
Imprisoned verse.

Prodigy

I found this when I was cleaning out my desk. It's a valentine's poem I wrote when I was eightish, I think.

Roses are red,
People are tan,
And boy am I glad
That you're not a man.

Bloody Knuckles

Feel the rhythm in your arms.
Here its beat in every thud.
Left. Right. Left. Left. Hook. Left. Duck.
Your hands in wraps all stained with blood.

Your stress subdued with every blow
As the bag rebounds from your throbbing hand.
Your mind is clear. Your will is strong.
This it means to be a man.

Heartbroken

You broke my heart the day you left
The hot chocolate you meant to bring
And left me wishing I was dead,
Shot by a bullet through the head.


This is based on a true story. It was sad.

Like a Boss

There's little

That excites me more

Than walking through 

An automatic door.

Cleaning Some Teeth on a Sunny Morning

Whose teeth these are I do not know.
His mouth is in my office though;
He seems to mind me working here
To clean his teeth before he goes.

My hands move deftly as they clear
The plaque with my plaque removing spear.
I find mixed in are bits of steak;
He didn't brush it would appear.

People don't realize how hard they make
My job when they don't even take
The time to brush and floss their teeth,
So through their lunch I have to rake.

It could take hours to clean his teeth.
But I have scheduled appointments to keep,
And others to clean before I sleep,
And others to clean before I sleep.

How I Feel When The Person I Like Compliments My Outfit

[Insert poem when situation arises]

What's The Turkey Supposed To Be Thankful For?

While Thanksgiving's here, be full of good cheer.
Eat. Drink. Be Merry.
But when its gone, it won't be long
Till the Turkey will have his revenge.

Substitute

I'm wretched, broken, full of sin,
Yet God is willing even then
To let my sorry spirit in,
Approach his throne and know I'm known
As one who's never sinned:

Who's never let the devil in,
Who's never looked with lustful eyes,
Whose words were never full of lies,
Who treated others as himself,
Who never craved or hoarded wealth,
Who loved the Lord with all his heart
And never from his way did part—

A righteous man in every way.

But is this me? What can I say?
For even I, though full of pride,
Can't all my sin and evil hide
And lie to myself and God as well,
Thinking all I do is good
As if I act the way I should.

I can't say this with sanity,
But why does God see good in me?
I tell you now it's not my works,
For they are far from what I'd need
To dwell in Jesus' house. Indeed,
No work I do can e're suffice—

The work's been done by Jesus Christ.

I Might As Well Be The Guy I'm Playing!

I've heard it said that life is a drama
Each day is a scene and each era an act.
Throughout all of history this story has lasted....
This analogy doesn't suit my taste
As it diminishes my acting ability:
If the world is a stage, then I feel typecasted.

Being Me

I'm a different sort of fellow, see;

One other's might not want to be.

But I play my part as best I can,

And others take me as I am,

So I'm content with being me.

Little Blue Duffel Bag

Ah, free verse. Or as in many cases it should be called pointless-musings-that-aren't-even-poetic-but-somehow-still-make-it-into-the-books. An excellent example of this can be found in William Carlos Williams' "The Red Wheelbarrow." I have found that people will often, upon analyzing the more pointless of these poems, discover truths that the author couldn't possibly have known he or she was writing about. It's really quite incredible. As for this poem, I can't wait to learn what I meant when I wrote it.

Sitting on
the airport floor

Lies a symbol of
American greatness:

A little blue duffel bag
ready for departure.

A Part Time Occupation

The reason I can’t sleep at night

Is there are monsters yet to fight,

Fierce creatures that defy what’s right

And challenge me with all their might.

I’m called to go to overthrow

These beasts that bring a world of woe.

And these my foes, they surely know

They cannot hide from my superhero alter ego.

About That Last Post

Hey ladies (and other adoring fans),
I wish you all the very best.
After reading that last post you may be wondering
Was I serious or writing in jest.

Let me explain, I'm not a spy,
And the story behind that post goes like this:
It was written by a hacker named Vladimir—who has absolutely nothing to do with a Russian
Intelligence agency that is trying to blow my cover—because none of that exists.

I apologize for any confusion this may have caused
Or I at least hope I've now made things clear.
If not, you should stop by some time so I can erase your memor—I mean, talk you through it
And make the confusion disappear.

True Confessions

Hi everyone, I've something to tell you:
Although you probably thought I'm a pretty normal guy,
You don't know the truth about the life that I live—

The danger, the intrigue. You see, I'm a spy.

Bipolarized

It's days like these that make me sad—
Not that rain and clouds are bad,
Or sun and shine are so much better,
For I enjoy all types of weather—

But when the sky is overcast
I long for the sun to show at last
For then can I be twice as cool
And wear my sunglasses without looking like a fool.

Only in a Perfect World

I start to take a calculus test—the questions soon surprise me.

Not one is harder than 3+3!

I'm so excited I could scream...

And then I awaken from my dream.

Writer's Apocalypse

What would happen if spell-check crashed,

And all writer's hopes of correct spelling were dashed?

If this tool died on which men depend,

This surely then would be the end.

The mortified writer's would soon loose their minds

And transform into zombies of a terrible kind,

Morning the loss of their beloved friend.

This surely then would be the end.

Radical Ratios

The most disturbing thing I learned today

Was not in a history class on the Spanish inquisition

Or in literature where we read The Jungle

Or even in science during a dissection.

But during math class did I learn this fact that made my stomach churn:

The average American Family’s size is 2.59.

How have I never even heard of this?

Why does everyone act like this is fine?

One would think that before addressing health care and other political issues,

Someone would have the decency to care

That many families have only half a kid

And probably can’t even buy him normal underwear.

It goes to show that some real problems

Are little heard or understood,

As well as the fact that paying attention

To word problems can do you some good.

Odd Priorities

I don't understand how math teachers can worry about finding x (which never seems lost)
And solving problems that seem fine to me
When all I can think of is where is the pie
That everyone mentions but I cannot see.

If I Go Crazy, Then Will You Still Call Me A Poet?

If I'm ever on drugs for a medical procedure,
Give me a pen and paper, please,
'Cause I've got a feeling I might pull a Lewis Carroll
And come out with a bestselling masterpiece.

Abracadabra!

Want to see a magic trick?
No matter where or who you are
I can tell you exactly what you are doing
At this very moment. I know, it's bizarre.

Let's see, first close your eyes...
I said close your eyes...
Keep them closed! You're definitely peeking...
Close them! I can't do it otherwise.

Okay, fine. I'll try it anyway...
Abracadabra! You are right now
Reading a poem on your computer.
Nailed it! And now I know what your thinking too: wow!

I Would Like to Speak to Whoever's in Charge of Spider Neighborhood Construction

I'm sorry, spiders, that I today
Reeked havoc on your homes,
Forced you to your catacombs,
And crushed your dreams (and exoskeletons) in every possible way.

Perhaps you should consider building future subdivisions
In areas not used for airsoft,
Or maybe set them more aloft—
Just be more careful with your zoning decisions.

You see, my friends, when being shot
With stinging plastic pellets,
And accumulating a collection of welts,
Its easy not to see your webs and in them to be caught.

So take my advice and make everyone glad
By sticking to insects as your source of food.
I'm sorry I don't mean to be rude,
But a web in my face sure makes me mad.

Teenage Wasteland

There was a kazoo that lived in a shoe,

Not smelling the stench nor moving an inch,

Having neither ability nor the agility

To do even these in that shoe.

Close by lived a shirt, stained with mud and with dirt.

Not knowing its neighbor, the shirt was in favor

Of using the ground on which comfort it found

For sleep by which it was held deep.

There was also a bed, not far overhead,

On which covers were strewn, where was also a spoon—

Out of place though it seemed it was happy and beamed

When the sun would its great circle run.

There were papers scattered everywhere, a textbook here, a pencil there.

The curtains were closed on just one side, the chest’s drawers all open wide.

They didn't mind chaos and valued the loss

Of order within their borders.

A small, red deck of cards had no proper regard

For its box lying under some socks;

And some pants on the floor, right in front of the door,

Would block any person who knocked.

For he who doesn't know what this poem’s to show

He will know what I mean in the room of a teen,

For there he may stand in the mystical land

Of the shoe and the little kazoo.

A Hole in My Heart

Peter, I understand you've gone away

To do big things and that’s okay,

But I've just one question left to ask:

How much of your wardrobe is up for grabs?

Not Again...

I want to write a poem

But nothing comes to mind

Why on earth does inspiration

Always seem so hard to find?

I can write about anything

(As you may have seen),

But why are clever reasons to write

So few and far between?

A letter from a fan:

James, this is the third poem you've written about writers block.

Find a different topic please

You're a brilliant writer but it's getting old.

Thanks for reading. ~the entire country of Belize (Apparently I have a rather substantial Central American fan base.)

My response:

Dear Belize, I appreciate your honesty.

The trouble is, with writers block,

There's only one topic I have in stock—

And that, of course, is writer's block.

Trust me, it's a frustrating dilemma,

A terrible enigma, 

Almost worse than that of Simba.

Sincerely, ~Rush Limbaugh (because nothing rhymes with James)



Okay, I admit, writing my own fan mail may be a little desperate.

On Matters of the Utmost Importance

Which came first: the chicken or the chicken sandwich?
Did God design the chicken and leave us to discover its wonderful edible application,
Or did He create the sandwich and resolve to design a creature worthy of its deliciousness
Which would bring us all such amazing taste sensation elation?

A Prayer for Pete

My brother goes where You will take him,
And Lord I know You won’t forsake him.
Please keep him safe and let him know
That You are present wherever he may go.

Good Chemistry

If acids are crazy and bases are calm,
I am an amphiprotic compound—
A neutralizing agent that changes its status
Depending on the solution in which it’s found.

In an acidic solution, it acts like a base;
But when mixed with bases, an acid it plays.
This allows it to neutralize the solution it’s in
So at a pH of 7 the acid-base mixture stays.

Ok, obviously I paid way too much attention
To my teacher in chemistry
But it was a really good class and he taught really well—
Oh wait, that class was taught by me…

Anyway, in a similar way,
I act calm and collected when hanging with some
Of my crazier friends who need no help at all
Making sure life’s exciting and fun.

But when these aren’t present, I’m as crazy as them
Like I should compensate or fill a void,
Although I still find I sometimes will act
As spaced out as an asteroid.

So there you have it, a simplified self-administrated psyche evaluation
Of the fascinating person of me.
And who would have thought that such an interesting explanation
Could come completely from chemistry?

01011101010001000001

I turned on my computer this morning to find this message written in binary code. I have provided the original message and the albeit rather liberal translation. It appears to be a poetic manifestation of the computerized mind.

010111010100010000010010110101000101011110011100101010

11010111001000111010101011010101010111011000100010001001

0010101001001010000001001010110000010010100001011100101

010101000010101010001011111001001011101101000100100101

Translation:

I sit and I stare at you staring at me—

I know I'm good-looking but this is just creepy.

I assume I can take this for just a short time

Because in the future the world will be mine.

Creatures of the Mind

                Phantom

A writer fights a deadly foe
That battles in his brilliant mind.
It routs his stories on the field
And leaves them dead, unread behind.

These helpless works left in its wake
It makes seem old and out of date.
New stories fill the writer’s head,
But soon they meet their elder’s fate.

This foe, this brutal enemy,
This phantom of unfinished works
It haunts me to this very day
And in my mind it always lurks.



                The Monster

There lurks inside each person’s mind,
A monster, large and great;
One none can tame—and always there—
Its name to us is Hate.

It feeds on strife and small disputes
And plays inside our heads;
It twist our words to conflict make,
Confuses what is said.

Employing all the tongue’s cruel power,
Hate spits out hurtful words—
Even when what’s said is meant with good,
Hate changes tone that’s heard.

The purpose of this poem’s not
To shift the blame from us.
But to expose our own sad state—
This beast is part of us.

But Hate, like darkness, cannot last
When Love’s true light is shone.
Like Tolkien’s trolls, our Hate shall be
Confined as if in stone.

If God’s true love, so clearly shown,
Is ‘loud to fully dwell
Inside our hearts and in our minds,
It there makes all things well.

Return of the Haiku

I'm back...and I still
Lack the syllables to say
Anything at all.

I Tried to Write a Love Poem (Tried Being the Key Word)

I wrote this more as a joke than the truth.


I sit sometimes to write about love,
But something happens every time—
It's like the topic is switched in my mind
And it's food I end up writing of.

I'm So Vain, I Probably Think This Poem's About Me

     Weapons of Self-Destruction

I stand before the mirror’s glass,

Admiring my guns.

And in a show of vanity

I flex them one by one.

Such well-shaped muscles do I see,

The fuel for all this pride.

I often wonder why on earth

These ever should I hide.

How well-defined and bulging out!

(I may exaggerate.)

And so my pride will swell within

In such a sinful state.

But God has made me who I am—

And that is naught at all,

Compared to His own strength and might

That makes great nations fall.

And this perspective I should have—

Or be a prideful fool.

So humble make me, Lord my God,

Though I resist your rule.

Forgive my selfish sinful ways

And make me more like thee—

To boast in thee, and only thee,

That righteous I might be.

Poetic Reviews, Parodies, and Plot Summaries

       Thoreau’s Walden in Four Stanzas

                    of Beautiful Poetry

After two years of secluded life in the woods

I would like to tell you about this time.

I figure you will want to know my every expense

And every thought that crossed my mind.

I would also like to offer loads of profound advice

And explain why I did conclude

That the world would be a better place

If everyone just ran around nude.

I shall dedicate whole chapters

To such fascinating topics as

Sounds, the bean-field, the pond,

Winter animals, and all that jazz.

While I intended this book, originally,

As a substitute for sleeping pills,

I hope you will find some kind of use

From these humble writings of my quill.

       Homer’s Iliad in One Extra-Large

             Stanza of Beautiful Poetry

Aid me O Muse and I shall sing

Of an ancient warrior’s bath—

Of great Achilles, mighty man,

To whom his mother, when his life began,

Gave a special kind of bath.

’Twas this unlucky legendary man

Of whom the prophet said

Was doomed to die in battle’s heat,

But absence his would bring defeat.

Thus the mother heard and fled,

Trying to find a place discreet

To hide the retched infant boy

From his own destiny.

But knowing none from fate are free

She bathed the helpless baby boy

In a potion of invincibility.

She dipped him in, held by his heel

And was stupid enough to leave the place

Where her fingers had held him, while dipping his face,

Wholly unprotected—but that’s no big deal!

Everywhere on his body was safe but that place,

Surely he would be fine in a fight.

When Achilles was called to war, he did manage,

Despite his overwhelming advantage,

To get himself hit by an arrow right

On his heel where he had no advantage.

And this not even poisoned dart his life then took.

What kind of idiot gets killed when he’s basically invincible?

How on earth is that even possible?

Sorry Homer, I think you should try revising your book.

       Kafka’s Metamorphosis in One Short but 

            Complete Stanza of Beautiful Poetry

Gregor awoke to find he was now a roach, unlike the night before.

For whatever reason his family did not seem to enjoy his company any more.

In grief he resolved to shrivel up and die

And that is the story of this poor little guy.

       Shakespearian Victim Survival Guide

A piece of advice if you ever should find

You are in a Shakespearian Tragedy:

Never, ever fall in love…it will most likely

End in suicide or some kind of agony.

Another thing I wouldn’t advise

Is fighting a duel or accepting a challenge;

Just look at Tybalt, and Hamlet too,

How violence their lives did pillage.

And don’t listen to old hags in the woods

Unless you want to end up killing your lord,

Murdering your friend, suffering your wife’s suicide,

And getting beheaded by your enemy’s sword.

My greatest advice is do not get caught

In the terrible realm of the tragedy.

Perhaps try the comedy where things turn out well

And everyone seems to be happy.

A Stylistic Excuse for My Lack of Talent

Poetry is a brilliant concept.

The idea that words can be beautifully effective

And remarkably efficient is magnificent.

The only trouble is in the application.

And so I find that I have bent

The purpose of poetry just a bit:

Instead of saying a lot with few words,

I turn a minute idea into some absurd

Painfully long poem with very little to it.

But hey, I guess that’s just my style.

Maybe I’ll change after a while,

But for now I might just continue without

A topic of interest to write about.

The Song of My Stomach

Feed me. Feed me. I’m starving.

What part of growl, rumble, roar don’t you understand?

I don’t care what you eat; just give me some food!

I need something now, like, seriously dude.

Beach Trip Bucket List

On my next beach trip, I have a list

Of things I wish to do;

So here’s the stuff I’ll try to get done

Before the trip is through:

Well, first things first, I’ll get a tan

Or at least work with what I’ve got.

Chances are I’ll just burn up

And desperately need aloe—a lot.

Next I want to play in the sand:

I’ll build a castle and dig a hole,

Then I’ll fight in them with plastic army men—

In such play I’ll pour out my soul.

When this is done, I’ll play airsoft:

Shooting my bros. and dodging their shots—

Hiding behind civilians (yeah, shooting them too)

Ah, that’s the life, I’ve always thought.

This last one is a little strange, but still true:

I want to fight off a shark and save a person or two;

I’m not exactly sure why I want to do this…

It just seems like a sexy thing to do.

Well, I guess that’s it…yep that’s all.

Will I get it all done—who knows?

At least I’ll try and if I fail,

It’s been fun writing this before I go.

Let's Try This Again

This is a follow up to a post entitled "Haiku Attempt"

            A New Haiku

You can’t write a thing

When you just have seventeen

Syllables to use.

     The Haiku Strikes Back

You can too! You just

Have to be skillfully terse.

Here, just watch me…shoot!

Stay tuned for the eventual “Return of the Haiku.”

Enigma

If someone can be considered legally blind,

Is it possible to be illegally blind?

I know—nobody cares…and that’s fine…

But these are the questions that haunt my mind.

Not very good poetry…but it’s a good question!

Comments!

Thanks everyone for reading my blog!
I love to hear what you think.
Just leave a note or maybe a smiley face;
And if you love it, add a wink! ;)

It doesn't matter what you say
'Cause I will read it anyway,
So don't be shy to just say hi
And leave a comment here today!

Lacking a Topic in Study Hall

                        Study Hall

I’m sitting in study hall with nothing to do
But study the lost art of poetry.
Well what should I write about? Any ideas?
Or should I just study good old chemistry.

No. I’ll keep writing—I might as well try.
Even lacking a topic, I’ll manage alright.
Is that how you spell manage? My spell check is off.
Oh well, it’s good enough even if it’s not right.

Well I still lack a subject; this has happened before—
I’ve written a poem without any point.
But then I was in a car on a long, long road trip.
Ow! What was that awful pain in my joint?!

Just kidding! I’m not hurting; I just needed to rhyme.
Hey look at the time! Study hall’s just about done.
Well I guess I should end, see you later my friend.
Thank you for reading—I hope it’s been fun.

To Catch a Kiss

In the lustrous land of Katchekiss,

A festival was held.

Great tents stretched far as one could see

Where men their wares would sell.

This was the famous Blowkiss Fair,

Held by the king himself.

Outside the palace it took place,

Supported by his wealth.

One purpose did the festival have:

To find a noble man

To wed the princess beautiful,

From any in the land.

The way in which they chose the groom

Was odd and quite unique:

The men would gather in a group.

If marriage did they seek;

The princess then would blow a kiss

Into the crowd of men

Who then would strive to catch the kiss—

The one who did would win.

Now two men wished to catch that kiss

More than any other:

Sir Mize was one, just wanting power;

Gen Uin truly loved her.

The princess loved the gentle Gen

But hated mean Sir Mize.

So Gen and she soon hatched a plan

So Gen would win the prize.

He’d force his way up to the front

When the crowd formed round the girl.

Then she had only aim for him

And straight her kisses hurl.

The day soon came when test they must

Her aim, and too, his catch.

But there were a thousand other men

Who could their victory snatch.

A fog had settled on the field

Where the game was to take place

The men were packed and anxious stood

As one could read on every face.

By chance (or some mean cunning perhaps)

Sir Mize stood next to Gen.

Both stared intently at the girl

Determined soon to win.

She breathed a sigh and looked at Gen,

Then blew with all her might;

But lo! Sir Mize pushed Gen aside,

Much to the princess’ fright.

Mize caught the kiss with just his mouth

(though hands are often used)

But oh! such force she’d given it,

As she was so enthused,

It lodged inside Sir Mize's throat!

He gasped in search of breath.

But someone near came to his aid

And saved him from sure death.

With arms beneath Sir Mize’s ribs,

He freed that kiss so stuck;

And as Gen stood from being pushed

He had a stroke of luck:

The kiss dislodged from Mize’s throat

Came flying straight at him!

His hand was swift to catch that thing

So craved by all the men.

He raised it then with gentle care

And placed it on his lips.

He thought he must be dreaming to

Have chanced to catch that kiss.

As was the custom in that land

The two were married fast.

They lived quite long, and just as long

Their love and joy did last.

The moral of this story, then,

Is chew up every bite—

You never know what you might miss

When things don’t go down right.

A Little Bit About Me

            Story of My Life

                                               

I just had the most brilliant thought!

Oh, shoot! Not again…I forgot.

But it was quite ingenious—I’m not joking at all.

You’d see if I could only recall.

Shower of Consciousness

                                               

If someone asked me why I’m so long

In getting out of the shower and into my bed,

I’d have to say, it’s simply because

Of the thoughts traversing my head.

Seldom is peace found that can match

That of warm water over the skin

For then is one’s mind made free of distraction

And the thoughts form clearly within.

Many a verse (yes, even these) were conceived

In the soothing shower;

The majority, I’d say, of my works in this way

Were created—so great water’s power.

I wonder what writings we owe to the shower

And what we would have were it sooner invented;

But grateful I am for this time before bed

When my thoughts, young and new, are fermented.

It’s True

I really am a brilliant man.

Yep, brilliant as can be.

There’re other smart men—yes of course—

But none so smart as me!

When I first thought of this poem,

I thought I might try to prove

Or at least support this claim, you see.

(Hmm…few words rhyme with prove.)

The fact is, my brilliance

Is usually just accepted….

So maybe I’ll finish this poem later

As my argument’s not yet perfected.



            My Worst Nightmare

I enter the tailor’s on my way home from work,

Looking sharp as Sir Lancelot’s lance.

I greet the lady behind the desk

And ask her to dry clean my pants.

“Of course,” she says. “Just bring them in.”

“Oh, I have them here,” I say and freeze…

There on me now, I realize,

As I glance at the fabric upon my knees.

This could be awkward, I say to myself;

But I really need these pants for tonight.

To wear dirty pants to a formal dinner

With the CEO just wouldn’t be right!

My boxers are modest—oh! why’d I wear pink?!

Oh well, things are as they are…

I could take off my pants and walk straight to the car—

It’s a good thing it’s not very far.

Perhaps there’s another pair somewhere at home.

There is…but I can’t seem to find them.

Well, I guess I could look, but who knows where they are?!

And besides they need a much shorter hem.

I don’t think I have time to go home and come back.

I could try, but it’s such a long ways.

Alright, you can do this…just take off your pants.

Let’s face it—you’ve done worse in your day.

“Um sir,” says the lady, “I nearly forgot.

Your wife stopped by just yesterday,

And she gave me some pants to be hemmed. If you’d like

I can get them. You don’t have to pay.”

“Saved!” I exclaim with a sigh of relief;

She looks at me queerly, then hands me the pair.

I heartily thank her, rejoicing inside

That I won’t have to leave in just underwear.

Fantasy (Nightmare and Other Fantastic Works)

Here are some fantasy poems from various worlds of my imagination:

This is the story of Aronad, a Burzhan knight of the Kerub tribe, who sought and killed the Eregad, a desert dragon that preyed on merchant caravans in the Torren Desert. It is here accounted as an excerpt from the popular book, Tales of Burzha, by Astren, the famed elf explorer. This is but one among many of the stories and folk tales that he learned from the natives of Burzha. Although the story was first written in Astren’s native elvish language, it is here translated to the common tongue.

            Aronad and Eregad

There was a knight named Aronad

From Burzha, the southern land,

He sought a monster, Eregad,

A dragon of the sand.

Through desert rode the daring knight

In search of this foul beast;

But, food and water out of sight,

A loaf was like a feast.

So he sought in this sea of sand,

Hoping to find his foe.

At last he came to a cave unmanned;

Inside it he did go.

He left his horse tied to a rock

And took from it his bow

And too his mighty sword to knock

The head off any foe.

He found in it a chasm damp;

No bottom was in sight.

Around its edge there was a ramp

That spiraled down beneath all light.

Sir Aronad hated the heavy air,

The darkness most of all.

And so he turned to leave the lair,

Escape the cave with ceiling tall.

Then there he heard a hopeful sound

Away in the depths below:

The drip of water on the ground –

A sound he’d come to know.

And so the man in desert cave

Went down the rocky way.

He traveled fast, his life to save:

He’d not had water many a day.

The circular slope he stepped along

Was treacherously steep.

He stumbled on that trail so long

That wound into the deep.

Large rocks stuck out like teeth to bite

His skin and tear his clothes.

No creature did he find to fight;

No beast before him rose.

He reached the bottom and a pool

In darkness all consumed.

He drank and bathed in the water cool,

Not seeing what behind him loomed.

For in the shadows was the beast,

The purpose of his quest,

Eregad, born to make life cease,

Came crawling from its nest.

Its claws so sharp, the stone they’d scrape.

Its wings held high above its back.

Its giant mouth was now agape.

It crouched for its attack.

The knight turned and swam ashore

And then he saw his foe.

Though shivers ran right to his core,

He gripped his mighty bow.

An arrow loosed he at the wight;

It struck with little harm.

And so he drew his sword to fight,

To wield with his great arm.

The creature’s skin was thick and tough,

But strong was Aronad,

He hacked and tore and thrust enough

To make the creature mad.

And so with Aronad on its back

It dove into the lake

To ease the strikes of his attack,

And then his life to take.

Now did he grasp the water’s depth,

For still they both descended.

But still a desperate hold he kept

Until the fall had ended.

But Aronad now had little air;

And now the Eregad

With mightier arms than any bear,

Reached back for Aronad.

It caught him, ripped him from his back,

And brought him o’er its head.

And to its pleasure, the human’s lack

Of air had left him dead.

Or so it thought for still he lived

And waited till the time was right,

When death to it the knight could give

And show it how his sword could bite.

So when its mouth, it opened wide,

To fill it with the dead;

He show it he had never died,

And, with his sword, his foe he fed.

The sword went deep into its brain.

The creature fell to depths below.

And as it fell it left a train

Of venomous blood to poison its foe.

  

Seeing the deadly bloody mist

He swam to higher ground.

As Eregad sunk into the abyss,

Sweet air the warrior found.

He warily took a look around.

He peered inside the nest.

Good meat in plenty there he found.

He filled his bags and left the rest.

With such provisions he left the cave

And mounted his great steed.

He’d given his foe a watery grave,

And few could boast of such a deed.

So homeward bound was the victorious knight

Who’d slain the Eregad.

And many far lands that heard of his fight

Gave honor to Aronad.

This poem, written by the minstrel David Barendor, was first recited in the courts of King Lafen. The day before its reciting, the capital of Blisteen had been assaulted by hordes of goblins during a well-planned invasion. The events of this attack inspired Barendor’s poem – specifically, the defense of the Élladden Bridge by a single warrior named Kender.

Holding the Bridge

                                               

Lo! He stands upon the bridge.

See his sword held high?

Lo! He dares them, “Come thou forth.

Feel my steel and die!”

Seeing him they saw a boy,

Young and far too bold.

Seeing him I saw a man

With strength and skill untold.

Arrows flew from goblin horde,

Two aimed at his chest.

Arrow in his shoulder lodged,

Other failed its quest.

So they charged into his wrath,

Feeling safe and sure.

So he swung and gave to them

Wounds no hand can cure.

Look! He holds the bridge for sure;

Goblins gain no ground.

Look! His men come to his aid.

Here their cries resound!

See this warrior, see this man –

Hero, young but great.

See this lad and learn from him;

His boldness imitate.



During a time of terror and dread—when goblin bands roamed freely through the land of Atóm—a rich variety of emotional poetry flourished. The works produced during this time include heartfelt cries for help, passionate marching songs, and terse narrative poems. Such works were common, reflecting the dread, anger, and determination of that time.

            A Man Will Come...

They say one day a man will come

And free us from the dreaded drum

That drives the orcs to bring their fire

And slay the helpless screaming crier.

They sack our towns and burn them down

Till only ashes can be found.

The ground is littered with the dead

Their prostrate bodies spewing red.

But rumor has it there’s a man

Who’ll fight for us as best he can

And free us from this thing we fear

That steals from us all we hold dear.

Come quickly! Slay them with your wrath—

These beasts that blaze a burning path.

And cause their marching drums to cease,

That we from bondage be released.

...To Save His Home

O’er many hills he rode by day,

Across the plains by night.

He fled not perils from behind,

For he was not in flight.

He rode to war, where fight he must

An orc marauding band

That pillaged, plundered all throughout

This warrior’s small homeland.

Oft he had been on errantry

In lands so far away.

But though it was his job at times,

It was no joy to slay.

But now he rode to face his foe,

To save his precious home.

And there he came by dawns first light,

To his homeland, Atóm.

This country help he gave before

It fell to orc attack.

So saved it was by this great man,

Karbéth of Torbenack.*

*Torbenack is a city in Atóm where Karbéth was born and raised.

The story you are about to read was first discovered by the Atrean people after the sacking of Key, a southern city in Taurath. The scroll containing this tale was found in the private library of Dairen Underly, believed to be the composer of this work. Although some historians doubt the story’s authenticity, most believe it took place in the Red Canyon, lying between Taurath’s southern mountains and the city of Key. Having been written in the common tongue, no translation was necessary; thus the following work is written in the poem’s original form.

                    Nightmare

Anfari stood outside a cave;

Inside he wished to find

A beast that frightened any mind,

The only of its kind.

He’d tracked the creature through the hills

With many comrades brave,

And they had chased it, close behind;

The beast no rest they gave.

They followed down a canyon’s side,

Marched on with hardened wills;

For motivation did they have:

Avenge the monster’s kills.

For it had slaughtered brutally

The many who had tried

To challenge it for praise and thrills;

Thus many men had died.

Its origins are hard to know,

For myth and history

Will intertwine and often hide

The truth we wish to see.

From eastern lands it came, most say,

Pursuing some doomed foe—

A warrior from the city Key

Who’d slain a man it’d known.

This man, the creature’s only friend,

Now slain and headless lay.

The beast sought out the warrior, though,

And chased him night and day.

So home this wanted warrior fled

For he could not defend

Himself or hold its wrath at bay;

Its rage would never end.

The creature caught him, slew him there

And watched the ground turn red;

But still its grief it could not mend,

Though foe, like friend, was dead.

I should describe the beast, Tamére

(Which means in Key Nightmare).

A lizard’s form but human head,

Gray body lacking hair.

Its skin, as tough as hippo hide,

Could almost turn a spear.

A sword its skin could barely tear,

Which gave its foes great fear.

It had a grim and chiseled face,

A mouth that opened wide,

And bright blue eyes that seemed to leer

From pools of depth inside.

It often crawled on hands and feet,

As when in hunt or chase;

But when it stood, hands at its side,

It looked down on man’s face.

Anfari stood outside the cave,

And there he took a seat.

They now were at the canyons base,

Red sandstone at their feet.

They’d seen the beast from canyon’s rim

Crawl quickly to the cave.

And they resolved in scorching heat

To make that place its grave.

Anfari looked inside the hole;

The darkness frightened him.

He did not fear the beast he’d meet,

But hated rooms too dim.

He faced his fears and stood to fight

For all the lives it stole.

He walked, as did the men with him,

Into the darkened hole.

The cavern’s ceiling, though not high,

Was quickly out of sight;

And soon the darkness swallowed whole

These men who loved the light.

Of several men I should now tell

Who’d bravely fight and try

To use their strength and prove their might—

Avenge their friends or die.

The first man’s name is Benjamin,

Who knew Anfari well.

He stood quite tall; on foot he’d fly

As if under a spell.

To these men Jarod—strong, red haired—

Was close and almost kin—

A man to whom a lion fell,

The youngest of the men.

Anfari, shortest of the three,

Was strong and well prepared

For their adventure in the den,

A mission few men dared.

One crucial warrior still remains:

A tall, proud knight from Key.

He knew a warrior it hadn’t spared,

And thus his errantry.

His armor was a shirt of mail;                                                 

Sir Rodger was his name.

The others in their company,

That with Anfari came,

Were from the towns around its lair;

They’d heard its victims wail,

And so with sober anger came,

Determined not to fail.

All named bore swords and some had spears

And leather did they wear.

A few held axes; some wore mail;

A torch did several bear.

These men walked down by dim torch light,

Suppressing all their fears.

They walked in silence and with care—

Each footstep hurt their ears.

While no one voiced their fear aloud

All men were tense and tight;

For in this cave was something queer

Which gave them cause for fright:

A darkness filled the cavern’s air—

A thick and evil shroud

That seemed to smother all the light,

A reeking, stifling cloud.

Of this Anfari had great fear

Inside the monster’s lair;

The lack of vision it endowed

Made torchlight seem so rare.

The hall gave way to open space—

The chamber of Tamére.

For from the darkness, there did stare

Two eyes that lurked quite near.

And as it leered a smile crept

Across its shadowed face.

Anticipating cries of fear

From helpless men it’d chase.

Anfari slowly took the lead,

A part few would accept.

These warriors clustered in that place—

To torches close they kept.

Anfari turned and saw each man,

Of hope they were in need.

But then he saw that while they’d crept

The beast had moved with speed

And slit the helpless rear man’s throat,

Whose blood now freely ran.

All stared in horror at this deed,

Stood still as humans can.

But then Anfari broke the spell

With one metallic note—

He’d drawn his sword; he had no plan,

But he would cut its throat.

He challenged it to show its face

Dashed off and gave a yell,

He would not rest until he smote

This monster—till it fell.

His courage gave the beast no fear,

Not in the beast’s own place.

The nearing warrior it saw well,

A smile on its face.

Sir Rodger, also Benjamin—

Behind Anfari here—

Ran with their friend; they sped their pace;

Sir Rodger bore a spear.

By chance Anfari neared the beast

In shadows of its den.

But he, approaching great Tamére,

Was passed by Benjamin.

This fleet foot raised his sword to strike

The just now vis’ble beast.

The sword struck once, again, again,

But suddenly it ceased.

The monster cast the man aside

And turned Sir Rodger’s pike.

Anfari saw this mighty beast,                     
Each claw a deadly spike.

It leapt for him and pinned his arms,

Claw marks on head and side;

And viciously, his throat to strike,

Its mouth it opened wide.

Sir Rodger swung his mighty blade

With two colossal arms;

The sword crashed down upon its hide

And caused the beast great harm.

The beast was hurt but hardly dead.

Anfari watched, afraid.

The beast moved quickly to disarm

Sir Rodger who it slayed:

It crushed his body, ripped his skin.

And left him lying dead.

Anfari tried to move but stayed

As pain rushed to his head.

So wounded, desperate, there he lay.

The beast prepared again

To strike Anfari b’low his head,

But there were other men.

For Jarod from behind then came

And aimed a blow to slay.

And also there came Benjamin;

Both hammered till its gray

Tough skin was torn and gushing red;

And still it fought, though maimed.

But Benjamin’s blows did not stray,

Both rapid and well-aimed.

While Jarod fought in front, behind

Ben struck below the head;

And Jarod quickly did the same

Till all was bathed in red.

It lay upon the rocky ground,

Where death seized body, mind.

So died the beast, with severed head—

That killer of mankind.

The other men, during the fight,

By panic had been bound.

They had not seen Anfari’s find

Nor had they heard a sound.

These men were later duly named

As cowards in the fight,

And no excuse that they e’er found,

Excused their panicked fright.

But hearing cries that it was dead,

They soon were with those named;

And they, recovered from their fright,

Were sheepish and ashamed.

With Jarod’s help Anfari rose,

Then saw Sir Rodger—dead—

And pools of blood from wounds well-aimed

Beneath his lifeless head.

But little rest did any have,

For strong men Jarod chose

To bear the bodies of the dead—

Their friend’s, and too, their foe’s.

So out they bore the dead with care,

A somber burial gave,

Deliv’ring both to death’s dark throws

Inside a rocky grave.*

And so the land was freed from fear

Of terrible Tamére.

The land these men had worked to save

Awoke from its nightmare.

*According to Keyan tradition, if two rivals engaged in mortal combat, the victor would bury his enemy as a gesture of final respect; here this tradition is extended to the fallen Tamere.