Let malice confound the mind with vigour
Like a spy beguiling many foes,
And hurt and loss inconsolable -
A path to death straight and narrow,
A chill that freezes the yellow marrow -
Affect all but faithless roues.
Let darkness enshroud the bleak morning sun
Like fog upon the black river-bank,
And despair take the onlooker -
A gladiator's last stand,
A bite on breaded hand -
That espies the drab and dank.
Let calamities afflict the human race
Like flies fly to ointment sweet,
And health and strength prove less mighty -
A cacophonous cadence of frail heart,
A unnerving fear rending it apart -
Than canker festering in blood and meat.
Let strife be commonplace once again
Like winged birds the Winter fleeing,
And united stand made impossible -
A treacherous and base warden,
A poisonous snake in First Garden -
By faithless courage your being leaving.
Let evil rise and raise a call
Like shepherd to the bolting flock,
And may no one heed the goodly leader -
A liar that nobody believed,
A burden never relieved -
His hope forever under keyless lock.
Awaken Suffering; O sleeping child!
Arise Anger; bring forth thy hates!
Stride forth, Rancour and Rapacity,
With Envy and Lust, thine parlous mates!
Then shall all fail at Heaven's gate,
And draconian labours be their fate!
August 13, 2014
July 31, 2014
The Hope-kindler
[1]
In the earliest of time when all was void,
When naught was old and old was new,
The world took shape from Chaos’ mind,
The world, ethereal and nascent, grew.
The primordial forces, outward they flew,
Of Ouranos, the Sky – Gaia, she knew,
From them sprang forth the first god-fold:
The Meliae fair; the Titans bold;
The Cyclopes violent; The Hundred-hand fold;
The Giants large; The Furies cold;
And the beauteous Aphrodite –
Who came from him alone.
A dozen they reckoned – the Elder Titans,
A dozen that reflected Cronos’ glow,
A golden rule over Grecian shore,
As gods to those that dwelt below.
Among them one – Iapetus, the piercer,
Favourite of Cronos and of craftsmen,
The reminder of mortality to all humans,
Easer of loss whether hill or in glen.
His consort was Clymene, an Oceanid fair,
Four tall sons he had to ease his care,
Two were called Menoetius and Epimetheus,
While renowned were Atlas and Prometheus.
[2]
Well-learned was Prometheus,
A teacher of all mortal men,
Of arts, sciences and healing,
He showed and taught them.
With knowledge and learning civilization thrived,
The humans grew powerful and strong,
While up in the Heavens Titanomachia raged,
And Cronos paid dearly for every wrong.
The war above seethed for an age,
As both sides for control sought,
The Olympians proved victorious,
Aided by Prometheus’ forethought.
Then did Zeus display his might and power,
And to chthonic depths his enemies banished,
Hypotartarioi they became – the gods of old,
From folklore and song, soon they vanished.
[3]
At Mecone – Sicyon of old – was held a gathering great,
Of new gods and mortals alike,
To debate over the apportionment of foods,
To dispute about sacrifice.
Then did Prometheus commence to slay a great ox,
Its entrails he proceeded to divide,
At one hand was meat shrouded by unsightly stomach,
Shining, fat-drenched bones the other side.
Verily as he forethought, Zeus made his choice,
He picked the shimmering bone-pile to be the gods’ share,
While nourishing meats hid by bloated gut,
Was forever mankind’s he deemed, and so did he declare.
Much rejoicing there was at the end of the meet,
And all of humanity celebrated with many feasts,
Joyously they hailed Prometheus with toasts,
To Zeus they sent burnt bones of the beasts.
Sorely vexed was Zeus with the transgression,
And mankind faced the Jovian ire,
For the part they played in the Trick at Mecone,
He denied them the use of fire.
Blessed as he was with foresight and wisdom,
Prometheus came to the aid of humanity,
So stole he to the wondrous forge of Hephaestus,
And came upon the eternal Fire of Divinity.
He set the flame to fennel-stalk,
And slipped away to mortal lands,
Acknowledging not praise nor thanks,
Set the kindling in mortal hands.
Olympia fumed as people honoured,
The fire-bringer by fire-glow,
A mighty storm Zeus raised and,
The winds he set to blow.
[4]
The gods did then gift Pandora a cleverly-crafted box,
They bade her keep it safe and never to look inside,
But curious was the lady and as the gods knew she would,
She cast the box open to see what it would hide.
Out leaped fork-tongued Malice and his brother Strife,
Followed closely by gaunt Suffering and her sister Sin,
One by one the Horrors were let loose upon the earth,
Until only Hope was left; completely trapped within.
The Titan-son the god-king bound to rock,
High atop Kazbek,
His liver Zeus opened and bid his eagle,
Forever to peck.
Thus doth mighty Zeus have revenge on all that disobey,
Hope’s loss was the cost; for in the box it lay,
Prometheus stands alone, defying the gods for his part,
Through his selfless deeds, bringing Hope to mortal heart.
May 19, 2014
A Child of the Universe
[1]
He jerked suddenly, awakening. His wiry, knotty, body sluggishly unwound itself from its curled up position with almost serpentine grace beneath the spiny, sparse tree that somehow clung to life - like an old miser clinging to the last vestiges of sanity just so he could finish counting out his hoard of coins - and offered scant, yet welcome relief from the scorching afternoon sun. He sat up and looked about him rather stupidly, eyes pouched and gummy with sleep. Slowly, his eyes took in his surroundings and images he saw seemed to register in his brain. He reached out a finger to rub his eye as he yawned. Awareness came back to him languidly, gradually. While one hand was busy massaging his eyes, the other lethargically reached into the front of his half-unbuttoned shirt and rummaged around for a bit. It came out clutching a small plastic bag. His child-like features formed a scowl - empty! He needed his "upper" - and fast. With an alacrity that was most uncharacteristic, he stood up to his full 5-foot frame and fairly ran across the camp.
The camp was a motley collection of hastily erected mud huts and goat-hair tents. There were about 350 of them and they all had to share whatever passed for facilities in the camp. He ran past the shoddy buildings and their shoddier inhabitants. A clutch of chickens took evasive action with angry clucks to avoid his careless bounds. He stopped at what seemed to be his destination with his short, curly hair glinting with sweat droplets and his dark skin glistening like burnished copper over his frail, heaving chest. The ramshackle hut he stood in front of seemed like any other at first glance. Then one noticed the wooden door barricading the entrance - the only door in the entire camp, aside from the ammunition store - and the electric wiring going in and out through the porthole-like window to one side. He raised a hand and knocked, "Kabtanka! Kabtanka!"
The door opened and a young girl, little older than himself peered out with dark, dead eyes - one of the Kabtanka's wives. He knew her - like a haze lifting off a fog-bank, his mind remembered a buried memory - they had been in the same village, long ago. They had played together. They had been...friends? The word seemed unfamiliar, almost alien. She clung on to, what seemed like, at first glance, a bundle of rags as if it were her only link to reality. He stared at it again as his eyes adjusted to the dark interior behind the girl. Why, it was a dirty, moth-eaten, rag doll! He knew it too. He had been there when she had first received it. It had been a present. A birthday present for her eighth birthday. From her mother. From HIS mother! She was his sister then. His elder sister.
His mind pieced together these bits of information in a methodical, sterile way bereft of emotion. He had had no emotions, not for the last three years, not since "The Youth" had come to his village and rounded up all the able adults. His village was small and poor even by the standards of his country. The number of recruits was insufficient for "The Cause", they said. The Youth had then begun to turn the huts inside out and herd the children together. He recalled being one of the "picked ones", while his sister had not been. He had then laid eyes on the great Kabtanka who had personally given him his gun. He was then shown how to work the trigger. He had shot for the first time that day. Yes, he had even gotten his first kill that day. They had asked him about his family and he had pointed them out. They had kept his sister with those children that hadn't been picked, but his parents, they'd pulled out of the fold. They had knelt them in front of him and had made him shoot. He hadn't known what would happen if he pulled the trigger. He had found out too late - as he watched the life ebbing away from the bodies that had once been his parents. It didn't matter now. They say The Cause was all that mattered. To him, The Cause meant nothing. To him, family meant nothing, not anymore. The only thing that mattered to him was his "bubbles" - and the Kabtanka was the one who would give him some.
The girl continued to stare at him passively. "Kabtanka!", he reminded her. She gave the briefest of nods and held the door open for him to enter. The inside of the hut seemed to reflect his sister's life - drab, dank and dreary. In a far corner stood a small camping refrigerator. There was a curtained doorway leading to an inner chamber through which the girl vanished. The only furniture in the room was a dusty wooden table and two, equally plain chairs. He stood by the table, twitching in anticipation like a greyhound on leash. The curtains flicked back and a tall, beefy man entered. His bullish frame seemed about fit to burst from under his ebony skin. Beetling brows framed a pair of jet black orbs that seemed to discern and strip bare all they cast their gaze upon. He wore camouflage trousers and vest with boots to match. He was the all-powerful Kabtanka, their chief. "Well?", growled the bear of a man, he was a busy man with a Cause and had no time for his foot-soldiers. The boy, as always, was filled with awe in his presence. "Bubbles", he stammered. The Captain laughed cruelly, "Not until after the job tonight, Cabdalle! You must earn it!", he admonished. Cabdalle wheedled for just a tiny amount, he would take less than his normal share afterwards. The Kabtanka looked the boy over and retreated into the backroom. He returned in a few seconds and placed a small plastic pouch of white powder in the boy's eagerly upturned palm. Cabdalle nearly tripped over the chair in his hurry to get back to his spot under that tree of misery. As he ran, he fished out a roll of thin cardboard fashioned into a pipe. His Cause was fulfilled, for a while anyway.
[2]
He jerked awake, suddenly. The world was dark, but there was a terrible tumult around him. He squinted into the inky blackness and made out faint shapes of jeeps and soldiers - some adults, some like him. "The job!", he jumped up and ran towards the vehicles and stopped - he needed his gun - he ran back towards the buildings. Someone called out to him and threw him a automatic rifle. For a twelve-year old, he caught it with practiced ease and gave the safety and the cartridge a once-over. Cabdalle backed up again and headed to the trucks, pausing only to pocket spare cartridges off a table. As he climbed into the back of a rickety old truck - a vestige of another time, another war - the convoy began to move. He lost his balance, what with the gun weighing nearly as much as him, and was about to fall out when a sinewy hand shot out and grabbed the back of his shirt. The ragged cloth rend some more and nearly gave way, but not quite, luckily for him. Cabdalle leaned back against the truck's metal stomach gratefully and muttered a whispered thanks to his saviour. He looked up and saw it was Xassan. Xassan was about his age. They had both been recruited around the same time, both "picked". It had been a relief to have Xassan next to him during those initial days of hell until "bubbles" took them both. He hadn't seen him in a while - he forgot how long - anyway, he didn't know to count beyond his fingers and toes. He had never even bothered to find out if he was still alive. It hadn't mattered. Nothing mattered, but for "bubbles". But still, it was...comforting...knowing Xassan was alive and standing beside him again.
The jeeps and trucks trundled along ill-maintained paths in the sub-Saharan night. A dull, unhealthy sliver of a moon poked out from behind a cloud from time to time. Inside the truck, there was no sound save for the raucous thumping of the diesel engine and the clinking rattling of an assortment of loose nuts and bolts. The occasional creaking of the chassis springs kept time. After a long time, when Cabdalle's high was almost gone, they stopped to sudden and complete silence. The boy peeped anxiously out from around his fellow soldiers. They were in some town. Low, whitewashed, single- or two-storied buildings stood in eerie, silent rows as far as his eye could see. One of the big men got out of the truck. The child-soldiers waited within. The man came back and motioned for them to disembark. Cabdalle followed Xassan out the back of the vehicle and ran into the welcoming shadows of a narrow side-street. Others followed suit heading off in different directions, into different shadows that swallowed them up enthusiastically.
[3]
One of the men in the front pointed out toward a large building. Cabdalle nodded though no one could see him. They didn't need to. Everyone assembled there knew what they were doing. They didn't get to stay alive if they didn't. The building was a high-walled, large-compounded affair. Cabdalle guessed there would be guards with dogs about. It didn't matter. There was a flash from a dimmed torch. As one, they all began to move. Cabdalle's brain shut down unnecessary functions. It told him there would be "bubbles" later. For now, he just had to follow the others and shoot. They burst through the gates and into the well-kept lawns, shooting; as always, the adults hung back letting the child-soldiers forge ahead. The children surged ahead unmindful of the danger, their thoughts on the amphetamines and the marijuana back at the camp awaiting their return. Some fell to enemy fire, others took their place. Cabdalle was firing at anything that moved in the distance. He bumped into a shoulder. He turned and looked into Xassan's face. Then something wet exploded into his eyes blinding him. He dropped his gun and fell to the grass instinctively and began rubbing the sticky liquid off. Some of it was in his nostrils - it smelt acrid. He finally opened his eyes - his hands were wet with water. No, water wasn't red - it was blood! He looked down - Xassan's body was lying unmoving. Xassan's head was mostly missing. Cabdalle felt a tiny twinge of...something within him.
Someone roared something unintelligible in his ears. He was roughly hoisted up. His gun was thrust back into his arms. The gun's familiar features allowed pure habit to take over. Cabdalle pulled up the barrel to point it forward and cradled the butt in his armpit. Suddenly, he felt a pounding shock in his gut. He gasped as his breath was physically expunged from his lungs by the force of the blow. As he bent over, he realized he was staring at his torso - or rather what was left of it. The left side of his hip seemed shattered. Parts of his shirt and his flesh were dangling, tattered and shredded. He was leaking blood by the gallon. He fell over backward in his surprise. He fell down hard and the pain began. It was intense and blinding. He supposed his eyes were still open but he could only see intense whiteness - it hurt. There was a buzzing sound in his ears - no more gunfire - it was such a relief. He coughed and tasted blood - his own, he realized. He blinked - once, twice. The white smog cleared a little. He was lying on his side in the grass - it had been freshly cut, green, and smelt nice, thought Cabdalle. He was lying next to someone. Someone familiar. It hurt to think, so he stopped. It didn't matter if he couldn't think. It didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered.
He closed his eyes again. He would not open them again - they hurt too much. He coughed again and more blood welled out. Around him, the battle raged - all quite pointless. Cabdalle felt his mind growing smaller and smaller. The whiteness in his head was going gray - and then black. Quite unbidden, an image formed. The last image Cabdalle would ever see. Unconsciously, his lips formed a smile. In his head, Cabdalle saw a dirty, shabby rag doll.
He jerked suddenly, awakening. His wiry, knotty, body sluggishly unwound itself from its curled up position with almost serpentine grace beneath the spiny, sparse tree that somehow clung to life - like an old miser clinging to the last vestiges of sanity just so he could finish counting out his hoard of coins - and offered scant, yet welcome relief from the scorching afternoon sun. He sat up and looked about him rather stupidly, eyes pouched and gummy with sleep. Slowly, his eyes took in his surroundings and images he saw seemed to register in his brain. He reached out a finger to rub his eye as he yawned. Awareness came back to him languidly, gradually. While one hand was busy massaging his eyes, the other lethargically reached into the front of his half-unbuttoned shirt and rummaged around for a bit. It came out clutching a small plastic bag. His child-like features formed a scowl - empty! He needed his "upper" - and fast. With an alacrity that was most uncharacteristic, he stood up to his full 5-foot frame and fairly ran across the camp.
The camp was a motley collection of hastily erected mud huts and goat-hair tents. There were about 350 of them and they all had to share whatever passed for facilities in the camp. He ran past the shoddy buildings and their shoddier inhabitants. A clutch of chickens took evasive action with angry clucks to avoid his careless bounds. He stopped at what seemed to be his destination with his short, curly hair glinting with sweat droplets and his dark skin glistening like burnished copper over his frail, heaving chest. The ramshackle hut he stood in front of seemed like any other at first glance. Then one noticed the wooden door barricading the entrance - the only door in the entire camp, aside from the ammunition store - and the electric wiring going in and out through the porthole-like window to one side. He raised a hand and knocked, "Kabtanka! Kabtanka!"
The door opened and a young girl, little older than himself peered out with dark, dead eyes - one of the Kabtanka's wives. He knew her - like a haze lifting off a fog-bank, his mind remembered a buried memory - they had been in the same village, long ago. They had played together. They had been...friends? The word seemed unfamiliar, almost alien. She clung on to, what seemed like, at first glance, a bundle of rags as if it were her only link to reality. He stared at it again as his eyes adjusted to the dark interior behind the girl. Why, it was a dirty, moth-eaten, rag doll! He knew it too. He had been there when she had first received it. It had been a present. A birthday present for her eighth birthday. From her mother. From HIS mother! She was his sister then. His elder sister.
His mind pieced together these bits of information in a methodical, sterile way bereft of emotion. He had had no emotions, not for the last three years, not since "The Youth" had come to his village and rounded up all the able adults. His village was small and poor even by the standards of his country. The number of recruits was insufficient for "The Cause", they said. The Youth had then begun to turn the huts inside out and herd the children together. He recalled being one of the "picked ones", while his sister had not been. He had then laid eyes on the great Kabtanka who had personally given him his gun. He was then shown how to work the trigger. He had shot for the first time that day. Yes, he had even gotten his first kill that day. They had asked him about his family and he had pointed them out. They had kept his sister with those children that hadn't been picked, but his parents, they'd pulled out of the fold. They had knelt them in front of him and had made him shoot. He hadn't known what would happen if he pulled the trigger. He had found out too late - as he watched the life ebbing away from the bodies that had once been his parents. It didn't matter now. They say The Cause was all that mattered. To him, The Cause meant nothing. To him, family meant nothing, not anymore. The only thing that mattered to him was his "bubbles" - and the Kabtanka was the one who would give him some.
The girl continued to stare at him passively. "Kabtanka!", he reminded her. She gave the briefest of nods and held the door open for him to enter. The inside of the hut seemed to reflect his sister's life - drab, dank and dreary. In a far corner stood a small camping refrigerator. There was a curtained doorway leading to an inner chamber through which the girl vanished. The only furniture in the room was a dusty wooden table and two, equally plain chairs. He stood by the table, twitching in anticipation like a greyhound on leash. The curtains flicked back and a tall, beefy man entered. His bullish frame seemed about fit to burst from under his ebony skin. Beetling brows framed a pair of jet black orbs that seemed to discern and strip bare all they cast their gaze upon. He wore camouflage trousers and vest with boots to match. He was the all-powerful Kabtanka, their chief. "Well?", growled the bear of a man, he was a busy man with a Cause and had no time for his foot-soldiers. The boy, as always, was filled with awe in his presence. "Bubbles", he stammered. The Captain laughed cruelly, "Not until after the job tonight, Cabdalle! You must earn it!", he admonished. Cabdalle wheedled for just a tiny amount, he would take less than his normal share afterwards. The Kabtanka looked the boy over and retreated into the backroom. He returned in a few seconds and placed a small plastic pouch of white powder in the boy's eagerly upturned palm. Cabdalle nearly tripped over the chair in his hurry to get back to his spot under that tree of misery. As he ran, he fished out a roll of thin cardboard fashioned into a pipe. His Cause was fulfilled, for a while anyway.
[2]
He jerked awake, suddenly. The world was dark, but there was a terrible tumult around him. He squinted into the inky blackness and made out faint shapes of jeeps and soldiers - some adults, some like him. "The job!", he jumped up and ran towards the vehicles and stopped - he needed his gun - he ran back towards the buildings. Someone called out to him and threw him a automatic rifle. For a twelve-year old, he caught it with practiced ease and gave the safety and the cartridge a once-over. Cabdalle backed up again and headed to the trucks, pausing only to pocket spare cartridges off a table. As he climbed into the back of a rickety old truck - a vestige of another time, another war - the convoy began to move. He lost his balance, what with the gun weighing nearly as much as him, and was about to fall out when a sinewy hand shot out and grabbed the back of his shirt. The ragged cloth rend some more and nearly gave way, but not quite, luckily for him. Cabdalle leaned back against the truck's metal stomach gratefully and muttered a whispered thanks to his saviour. He looked up and saw it was Xassan. Xassan was about his age. They had both been recruited around the same time, both "picked". It had been a relief to have Xassan next to him during those initial days of hell until "bubbles" took them both. He hadn't seen him in a while - he forgot how long - anyway, he didn't know to count beyond his fingers and toes. He had never even bothered to find out if he was still alive. It hadn't mattered. Nothing mattered, but for "bubbles". But still, it was...comforting...knowing Xassan was alive and standing beside him again.
The jeeps and trucks trundled along ill-maintained paths in the sub-Saharan night. A dull, unhealthy sliver of a moon poked out from behind a cloud from time to time. Inside the truck, there was no sound save for the raucous thumping of the diesel engine and the clinking rattling of an assortment of loose nuts and bolts. The occasional creaking of the chassis springs kept time. After a long time, when Cabdalle's high was almost gone, they stopped to sudden and complete silence. The boy peeped anxiously out from around his fellow soldiers. They were in some town. Low, whitewashed, single- or two-storied buildings stood in eerie, silent rows as far as his eye could see. One of the big men got out of the truck. The child-soldiers waited within. The man came back and motioned for them to disembark. Cabdalle followed Xassan out the back of the vehicle and ran into the welcoming shadows of a narrow side-street. Others followed suit heading off in different directions, into different shadows that swallowed them up enthusiastically.
[3]
One of the men in the front pointed out toward a large building. Cabdalle nodded though no one could see him. They didn't need to. Everyone assembled there knew what they were doing. They didn't get to stay alive if they didn't. The building was a high-walled, large-compounded affair. Cabdalle guessed there would be guards with dogs about. It didn't matter. There was a flash from a dimmed torch. As one, they all began to move. Cabdalle's brain shut down unnecessary functions. It told him there would be "bubbles" later. For now, he just had to follow the others and shoot. They burst through the gates and into the well-kept lawns, shooting; as always, the adults hung back letting the child-soldiers forge ahead. The children surged ahead unmindful of the danger, their thoughts on the amphetamines and the marijuana back at the camp awaiting their return. Some fell to enemy fire, others took their place. Cabdalle was firing at anything that moved in the distance. He bumped into a shoulder. He turned and looked into Xassan's face. Then something wet exploded into his eyes blinding him. He dropped his gun and fell to the grass instinctively and began rubbing the sticky liquid off. Some of it was in his nostrils - it smelt acrid. He finally opened his eyes - his hands were wet with water. No, water wasn't red - it was blood! He looked down - Xassan's body was lying unmoving. Xassan's head was mostly missing. Cabdalle felt a tiny twinge of...something within him.
Someone roared something unintelligible in his ears. He was roughly hoisted up. His gun was thrust back into his arms. The gun's familiar features allowed pure habit to take over. Cabdalle pulled up the barrel to point it forward and cradled the butt in his armpit. Suddenly, he felt a pounding shock in his gut. He gasped as his breath was physically expunged from his lungs by the force of the blow. As he bent over, he realized he was staring at his torso - or rather what was left of it. The left side of his hip seemed shattered. Parts of his shirt and his flesh were dangling, tattered and shredded. He was leaking blood by the gallon. He fell over backward in his surprise. He fell down hard and the pain began. It was intense and blinding. He supposed his eyes were still open but he could only see intense whiteness - it hurt. There was a buzzing sound in his ears - no more gunfire - it was such a relief. He coughed and tasted blood - his own, he realized. He blinked - once, twice. The white smog cleared a little. He was lying on his side in the grass - it had been freshly cut, green, and smelt nice, thought Cabdalle. He was lying next to someone. Someone familiar. It hurt to think, so he stopped. It didn't matter if he couldn't think. It didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered.
He closed his eyes again. He would not open them again - they hurt too much. He coughed again and more blood welled out. Around him, the battle raged - all quite pointless. Cabdalle felt his mind growing smaller and smaller. The whiteness in his head was going gray - and then black. Quite unbidden, an image formed. The last image Cabdalle would ever see. Unconsciously, his lips formed a smile. In his head, Cabdalle saw a dirty, shabby rag doll.
May 17, 2014
An Alliterative Anecdote
An abnormally active arachnid ambuscaded me,
Beguilingly buried between the sheets and bed,
I contemplating catching, or chucking him in the can,
Devious devil! Descended deftly, afore I doomed it dead.
Ere I exclaimed at its existence, it exited the eiderdown,
Forging forward on the floor to the fastness beneath the futon,
Grouchy and grumpy at the gossamer-spinner's gag,
With hazy head of hibernation holding, hampering hate,
I immediately inspired myself, imagining impaling it instead.
Jumping and jerking to a jig was jolly-jack attercop,
Kill it! Too kind; I know - put the kibosh on its kine!
Like liquidating the lot of them by leaching them in lye,
Maddened thus I maneuvered myself to maul it with a mop.
Now the nasty Anansi nipped 'neath the door in a nick,
Obviating all obstacles, not at all omphaloskeptic!
Puffing, pausing for a breath, I pursued the poisonous pariah,
Quivering and quackling with a quabbing heart, I quagswagged.
Raving, ranting in a red rage, I ran behind the rascal,
Shouting swear words that surely would cause a sailor-scandal,
Till at last, triumphantly, I tricked the trickster in turn,
Ultrageously trapped it under a upturned umbraculum-urn.
Vaingloriously and velociously, I vaulted over the vallations,
And walked over to the wame of the weeds by the water,
I bent to end the spider and drown it in the lake - when, hey!
A yellow-bellied flycatcher snatched it and flew away.
Beguilingly buried between the sheets and bed,
I contemplating catching, or chucking him in the can,
Devious devil! Descended deftly, afore I doomed it dead.
Ere I exclaimed at its existence, it exited the eiderdown,
Forging forward on the floor to the fastness beneath the futon,
Grouchy and grumpy at the gossamer-spinner's gag,
With hazy head of hibernation holding, hampering hate,
I immediately inspired myself, imagining impaling it instead.
Jumping and jerking to a jig was jolly-jack attercop,
Kill it! Too kind; I know - put the kibosh on its kine!
Like liquidating the lot of them by leaching them in lye,
Maddened thus I maneuvered myself to maul it with a mop.
Now the nasty Anansi nipped 'neath the door in a nick,
Obviating all obstacles, not at all omphaloskeptic!
Puffing, pausing for a breath, I pursued the poisonous pariah,
Quivering and quackling with a quabbing heart, I quagswagged.
Raving, ranting in a red rage, I ran behind the rascal,
Shouting swear words that surely would cause a sailor-scandal,
Till at last, triumphantly, I tricked the trickster in turn,
Ultrageously trapped it under a upturned umbraculum-urn.
Vaingloriously and velociously, I vaulted over the vallations,
And walked over to the wame of the weeds by the water,
I bent to end the spider and drown it in the lake - when, hey!
A yellow-bellied flycatcher snatched it and flew away.
April 21, 2014
The Mermaid's Tears
The sea-birds break their vigil and head for the shore,
The tiny plankton in the waters light up with their neon glow,
The rolling Wind calms him down and utters a last whimper,
As the Sun drops to the horizon with nary a sighed whisper.
The sailors let the anchor down aboard their sailing ship,
The frothy white-caps surge ahead to signal the period of neap,
The crabs on cue, form a queue and come skittering out of their holes,
As the Day-bringer paints the seas in hues of burning coals.
Beneath the skies of burnished copper and clouds of blazing gold,
Amid the peace and serenity unchanged from days of old,
Alone, in the middle of the sea, betwixt the coast and Aubade,
Sat despairing upon a desolate rock, the disconsolate sea-maid.
Clothed in green-glimmering scales and alabaster skin,
A beauteous face and full of grace; she seemed Aphrodite's kin,
With wind-swept locks of shining silver and cheeks stained with her tears,
She wept and sobbed; and wailed and called; all to unheeding ears.
She cried out to the lofty albatross and the departing gulls,
She called out to the prancing dolphins and the walrus bulls,
She pled the setting Day-keeper and the rising Moon,
Could they help her with her plight; would they grant her a boon.
A task of no great magnitude for such illustrious beings,
An errand they could perform; to alleviate her grieving,
She implored them to bring her news, from their travels far and near,
Of the fate that befell the mortal man; the one she loved so dear.
Everyday he would row his boat to that lonely isle,
To sing of his love for her and sit beside her for awhile,
But a year had passed since he last; had helmed his sturdy boat,
A year she scryed the horizon for a sign of his hat or coat.
Now she feared and fretted the worst had come to pass,
She cursed and blamed her own fate for the romantic impasse,
She worried and vexed his wandering ways had but led him afar,
She damned and curst herself for letting her heart be touched by char.
She reckoned her Love locked away and wasting in a tower,
Unheard, unseen by any, but for the ivy on the bower,
She imagined her fair sailor shipwrecked and lost at sea,
Encompassed by miles of water as far as his eye could see.
She prayed he wasn't aboard a merchantman besieged by privateers,
Or caught up in some terminal illness that brought life to all his fears,
She hoped he hadn't hurt his crown and roamed the land unmindful,
Or had fallen to the winsome charms of some witch wicked and powerful.
But try as she might to try ease her plight, the creatures paid no heed,
Nor the luminous orbs in the skies, agreed to do the deed,
For they all knew the fate of the one for whom she bore her penance,
But Fear turned their tongues to stone and they spoke not a sentence.
A year ago, as they knew, the young sailor set to sea,
For to meet his mermaid fair; his tryst with destiny,
He knew not his voyage was doomed; that the Ocean bore a malice,
That He, the Sea envied lovers and had drunk from Jealousy's chalice.
The rippling, stormy Ocean yearned for the calm, sturdy Land,
And sent His waves again and again just to touch Her sand,
But try as He might, since dawn of time, He could never be with his Love,
For such is the fate of the Sea and the Shore who earned the curse of Jove.
Eternally and for all time, His frothy horses charged the beach,
Ever and anon He tried; but She seemed always beyond reach,
He longed to hold Her to him and cover the Land with water,
To be as one, and not sundered; without a corporeal border.
But to His sorrow, He failed always to gain that which He desired,
For all His attempts with his tides, the Land always seemed higher,
Thus He bore unquenchable hate for all who had found Love,
And tried his best without a rest to thwart winged Cupid's bow.
That fateful day as the birds and the beasts watched with abject terror,
His sent his wave to engulf the boat; not by chance or error,
The waking Helios stood aghast as downing Selene wept,
As Ocean grasped the poor seaman and sent him off to Death.
Time, it seemed to stop awhile as the mariner struggled on,
On him, the pitiless Ocean, proceeded to bear down upon,
The Seafarer sank to the depths; no hold on breath or Life,
And fell to Darkness' bosom, bereft of Hope or Strife.
There among the rainbow corals and the brilliant fish-stars,
There between the glistening pearls in their oyster jars,
There amidst Neptune's treasures, as just a conquered jewel,
Lay the youthful sailor, undeserving of an end so cruel.
Silently, the beasts and the globes, tried to give her comfort,
Yet the siren held on to Misery, despite all their effort,
She swore her lover would show and he had never lied,
So she vowed to stay on the rock till the day she died.
Now still She waits, years untold, a speck in the heart of blue,
Adamant and trusting in her love, unaware of the Sea's coup,
The waters rolls as Ocean laughs at the mermaid's tears,
Reveling in his defeat of Cupid, just one of his many in a year.
The tiny plankton in the waters light up with their neon glow,
The rolling Wind calms him down and utters a last whimper,
As the Sun drops to the horizon with nary a sighed whisper.
The sailors let the anchor down aboard their sailing ship,
The frothy white-caps surge ahead to signal the period of neap,
The crabs on cue, form a queue and come skittering out of their holes,
As the Day-bringer paints the seas in hues of burning coals.
Beneath the skies of burnished copper and clouds of blazing gold,
Amid the peace and serenity unchanged from days of old,
Alone, in the middle of the sea, betwixt the coast and Aubade,
Sat despairing upon a desolate rock, the disconsolate sea-maid.
Clothed in green-glimmering scales and alabaster skin,
A beauteous face and full of grace; she seemed Aphrodite's kin,
With wind-swept locks of shining silver and cheeks stained with her tears,
She wept and sobbed; and wailed and called; all to unheeding ears.
She cried out to the lofty albatross and the departing gulls,
She called out to the prancing dolphins and the walrus bulls,
She pled the setting Day-keeper and the rising Moon,
Could they help her with her plight; would they grant her a boon.
A task of no great magnitude for such illustrious beings,
An errand they could perform; to alleviate her grieving,
She implored them to bring her news, from their travels far and near,
Of the fate that befell the mortal man; the one she loved so dear.
Everyday he would row his boat to that lonely isle,
To sing of his love for her and sit beside her for awhile,
But a year had passed since he last; had helmed his sturdy boat,
A year she scryed the horizon for a sign of his hat or coat.
Now she feared and fretted the worst had come to pass,
She cursed and blamed her own fate for the romantic impasse,
She worried and vexed his wandering ways had but led him afar,
She damned and curst herself for letting her heart be touched by char.
She reckoned her Love locked away and wasting in a tower,
Unheard, unseen by any, but for the ivy on the bower,
She imagined her fair sailor shipwrecked and lost at sea,
Encompassed by miles of water as far as his eye could see.
She prayed he wasn't aboard a merchantman besieged by privateers,
Or caught up in some terminal illness that brought life to all his fears,
She hoped he hadn't hurt his crown and roamed the land unmindful,
Or had fallen to the winsome charms of some witch wicked and powerful.
But try as she might to try ease her plight, the creatures paid no heed,
Nor the luminous orbs in the skies, agreed to do the deed,
For they all knew the fate of the one for whom she bore her penance,
But Fear turned their tongues to stone and they spoke not a sentence.
A year ago, as they knew, the young sailor set to sea,
For to meet his mermaid fair; his tryst with destiny,
He knew not his voyage was doomed; that the Ocean bore a malice,
That He, the Sea envied lovers and had drunk from Jealousy's chalice.
The rippling, stormy Ocean yearned for the calm, sturdy Land,
And sent His waves again and again just to touch Her sand,
But try as He might, since dawn of time, He could never be with his Love,
For such is the fate of the Sea and the Shore who earned the curse of Jove.
Eternally and for all time, His frothy horses charged the beach,
Ever and anon He tried; but She seemed always beyond reach,
He longed to hold Her to him and cover the Land with water,
To be as one, and not sundered; without a corporeal border.
But to His sorrow, He failed always to gain that which He desired,
For all His attempts with his tides, the Land always seemed higher,
Thus He bore unquenchable hate for all who had found Love,
And tried his best without a rest to thwart winged Cupid's bow.
That fateful day as the birds and the beasts watched with abject terror,
His sent his wave to engulf the boat; not by chance or error,
The waking Helios stood aghast as downing Selene wept,
As Ocean grasped the poor seaman and sent him off to Death.
Time, it seemed to stop awhile as the mariner struggled on,
On him, the pitiless Ocean, proceeded to bear down upon,
The Seafarer sank to the depths; no hold on breath or Life,
And fell to Darkness' bosom, bereft of Hope or Strife.
There among the rainbow corals and the brilliant fish-stars,
There between the glistening pearls in their oyster jars,
There amidst Neptune's treasures, as just a conquered jewel,
Lay the youthful sailor, undeserving of an end so cruel.
Silently, the beasts and the globes, tried to give her comfort,
Yet the siren held on to Misery, despite all their effort,
She swore her lover would show and he had never lied,
So she vowed to stay on the rock till the day she died.
Now still She waits, years untold, a speck in the heart of blue,
Adamant and trusting in her love, unaware of the Sea's coup,
The waters rolls as Ocean laughs at the mermaid's tears,
Reveling in his defeat of Cupid, just one of his many in a year.
April 16, 2014
Pattern
The night sets softly
With the hush of falling leaves,
Casting shivering shadows
On the houses through the trees,
And the light from a street lamp
Paints a pattern on my wall,
Like the pieces of a puzzle
Or a child's uneven scrawl.
Up a narrow flight of stairs
In a narrow little room,
As I lie upon my bed
In the early evening gloom.
Impaled on my wall
My eyes can dimly see
The pattern of my life
And the puzzle that is me.
From the moment of my birth
To the instant of my death,
There are patterns I must follow
Just as I must breathe each breath.
Like a rat in a maze
The path before me lies,
And the pattern never alters
Until the rat dies.
And the pattern still remains
On the wall where darkness fell,
And it's fitting that it should,
For in darkness I must dwell.
Like the color of my skin,
Or the day that I grow old,
My life is made of patterns
That can scarcely be controlled.
With the hush of falling leaves,
Casting shivering shadows
On the houses through the trees,
And the light from a street lamp
Paints a pattern on my wall,
Like the pieces of a puzzle
Or a child's uneven scrawl.
Up a narrow flight of stairs
In a narrow little room,
As I lie upon my bed
In the early evening gloom.
Impaled on my wall
My eyes can dimly see
The pattern of my life
And the puzzle that is me.
From the moment of my birth
To the instant of my death,
There are patterns I must follow
Just as I must breathe each breath.
Like a rat in a maze
The path before me lies,
And the pattern never alters
Until the rat dies.
And the pattern still remains
On the wall where darkness fell,
And it's fitting that it should,
For in darkness I must dwell.
Like the color of my skin,
Or the day that I grow old,
My life is made of patterns
That can scarcely be controlled.
- Paul Simon
February 26, 2014
A Weary Traveller
He sat on unmoving like a stone monolith,
He looked just as huge and gray.
Glancing frequently at the wall-clock above him,
Peering from beneath his frayed hat's brim,
Wishing time would would speed up for him.
He was an hulking old man - way past his prime. Swathed in a gray, pin-striped coat and trousers of some unfathomable shade of color that had clearly seen better days just like the figure they clothed, he waited in a corner, seated on a plain metal seat painted a drab black that was now mostly scratched off by years of impatient passengers beating a tempo against it while waiting for the infinite buses to take them to destinations all over the country.
The face - a palette of sun-burnt colors,
The skin - wrinkled and veined.
The eyes, hard-set and of unfathomable black,
Now dull, now piercing like a boxed-up Jack,
Like embers glowing new life within an old sack.
The old man sat almost patiently - like one already dead. There was no discernible movement in his big frame. There wasn't even the telltale signs of the rhythmic rising and falling of the thorax with the breathing. If one wasn't actually focusing on him, one's glance would jump from the potted plant on one side of his seat to the Navy recruitment poster on the other. Only the eyes seemed brimming with energy - black and burning with curiosity and impatience.
For hours they moved erratically, searching,
For signs that he alone knew.
Each ebon orb beneath a beetling gray brow,
Peering this side and that, so fast and yet slow,
Till they finally alighted on the timepiece, a-glow.
As if on cue, the loud-speaker crackled to life and a tinny voice announced boarding for all destinations South. The mountain in the corner rose suddenly like a God of the Old that had been slumbering for ages now awoken. He hoisted a duffel bag that no one had noticed over his broad shoulder. As he made his way towards the exit, his eyes caught mine watching him - and he smiled. Then, he was gone. It made me happy to think a man such as him - who looked so defeated - could still smile.
Maybe it was because he was headed South for the winter.
He looked just as huge and gray.
Glancing frequently at the wall-clock above him,
Peering from beneath his frayed hat's brim,
Wishing time would would speed up for him.
He was an hulking old man - way past his prime. Swathed in a gray, pin-striped coat and trousers of some unfathomable shade of color that had clearly seen better days just like the figure they clothed, he waited in a corner, seated on a plain metal seat painted a drab black that was now mostly scratched off by years of impatient passengers beating a tempo against it while waiting for the infinite buses to take them to destinations all over the country.
The face - a palette of sun-burnt colors,
The skin - wrinkled and veined.
The eyes, hard-set and of unfathomable black,
Now dull, now piercing like a boxed-up Jack,
Like embers glowing new life within an old sack.
The old man sat almost patiently - like one already dead. There was no discernible movement in his big frame. There wasn't even the telltale signs of the rhythmic rising and falling of the thorax with the breathing. If one wasn't actually focusing on him, one's glance would jump from the potted plant on one side of his seat to the Navy recruitment poster on the other. Only the eyes seemed brimming with energy - black and burning with curiosity and impatience.
For hours they moved erratically, searching,
For signs that he alone knew.
Each ebon orb beneath a beetling gray brow,
Peering this side and that, so fast and yet slow,
Till they finally alighted on the timepiece, a-glow.
As if on cue, the loud-speaker crackled to life and a tinny voice announced boarding for all destinations South. The mountain in the corner rose suddenly like a God of the Old that had been slumbering for ages now awoken. He hoisted a duffel bag that no one had noticed over his broad shoulder. As he made his way towards the exit, his eyes caught mine watching him - and he smiled. Then, he was gone. It made me happy to think a man such as him - who looked so defeated - could still smile.
Maybe it was because he was headed South for the winter.
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