Let's start with an old poem. This is epic as well as more epic. Enjoy. The Justice of Blade The slender blade rests upon the shelf, It's edge so blunt and dull, The blood is long since come and gone, Like to its master's soul. A thousand years have passed it by, And in this house it rests, A family heirloom to be passed down, Its function since repressed. The age of powder had taken it's place, And made it obsolete, Armies of thousands cut thousands more down, With lead gone liquid with heat. The sword itself thought long and deep, Of where the passion fell, For in its time a soldier's life, Would not so cheaply sell. It longed for the glory of steel and dance, To be gripped by armored hands, To be a tool of grace and truth, Shine justice through the lands. Once the sword of a noble knight, It flashed and sang through the air, Passing righteous judgement on those it struck, Leaving evil in disrepair. It remembered the taste of shield and blade, And the victory of life's crimson red, Showing swift justice it held nothing back, As the few survivors fled. And even now in the age of the gun, The evil ones again did rise, But without the test of metal and man, Their victory was no great surprise. They stole the lead from the farmer and clerk, With intent to rule unopposed, They melted their arms and took the men's rights, Left defenceless or so they supposed. Then the man who owned the house, In which the sword was kept, Took up the blade and cleansed the streets, Bringing freedom wherever he stepped. And in that late age of powder and gun, One truth again stood tall, Though weapons of battle may come and go, The sword outlives them all.
Nice! I really liked this one. I've always found older weapons like swords much more interesting than guns. Can't wait to see more of your writing!
Why thank you! I can't say I don't like guns, I have quite a few myself, but even when/if guns are replaced by blasters or phasers or disintegrators, I think the sword will still be man's true weapon of war. I'm thinking the next thing I put up will be a song I wrote in high school at a time when I was feeling...well, who knows what teenagers feel, lol, I don't know what I was thinking but the song's called Tropical Chowderhouse Paradise (not all my writing is serious ).
I'll do more of these later but I thought it might be kind of fun to write a few lines from one person in Zelda to another. See if you can figure out who is the speaker and who is the speak-ee. Here then, where the tower and its clock you've made my enemy, I'll call on my friends to cradle the moon. Where are those you loved? The ones you've turned away now join us from the four corners of the earth. This, lost child, is your intervention. Seven years I’ve watched your sleep. Time took not your body, indeed the goddesses knit you a hero’s frame in their temporal womb. That wicked man cannot stand against you. But Kakariko is in flames, the zora frozen, and the forest dark, your journey continues yet begins anew. And when my shadow passes over you, you will know my light is with you. Always. Come with me, I will show you the world. To the west, the sands will strip us of inhibitions and my heart will be for yours. Golden earth, marbled sky, bronzed flesh. Light, spirit, love. We will forever preform a symphony of skin and soul. Let us leave together, lover, and fade into the west.
Koholint, Koholint, Your dream is mine now, Dreams afar, Drawing near, From the sea. Though nightmares haunt us, I know you will soon awake again, But please, Give thought to me, When you, Remember... This one acts as lyrics to a song, which one is it?
So I'm going to cheat the crap out of this and post something I statusized on Facebook, where a lot of my work is done. This id a rap I wrote whilst eating a bowl of pasta I created. Dude, shells are the best, I can feel them burn in my chest, as the pasta slides down my throat, that cheesy cheddar coat, it ain't missin' a thing it got butter, a whole stick and you feel that shudder? That's your brain brain tryn' to picture this mudder, that salivatin' makin' you stutter, cuz you know you want this pasta in your bowl, but consuming it's my ultimate goal. Now you watch me mao down every bite, the spices and herbs are dynamite, this massive bowl of epic's so dang tight, it ain't too big too small it's just right. And your taste buds never gonna know, what hit you in the mouth and that's fo sho, been watching your apatite grow, I'm servin' up these noodles like a pasta pro.
Here's a couple of writings I did on Facebook, the first is about Star Wars and not super poetic but something I liked. The second is something I wrote as a status that apparently people liked so I'll posty it here. There is no emotion, there is peace, There is no ignorance, there is knowledge, There is no passion, there is serenity, There is no chaos, there is harmony, There is no death, there is the Force. The jedi tenants elude me, I feel myself wavering. There is emotion, vying with peace. There is ignorance, realized through knowledge. There is passion, running rampant within serenity. There is chaos, condemning harmony. There is death, as I seek the Force. Always in motion, the future is, but ever my eyes are on the horizon. Never my mind on where I am, what I am doing. I must be mindful of the living Force. The town's dark. It's these hours of the morning that get to me the most. The chill in the air gives me a sort of clarity yet the day past clouds my judgment as exhaustion hangs over every image. These insidious suggestions...who sowed them? I know I've no reason for sorrow, hurt, and depression. It's all melodrama. Loneliness is a slight stiletto though, easily slipped between the ribs of the unsuspecting to prod the heart. The town's dark. What an unsavory hour. The darkness is the playground of negative thoughts and suspicious Trojan feelings. They bide their time, being pleasant to look at but within, they are black and rotten. They'll spoil me from the inside, I knew all along not to let them in. These thoughts are a virus, a scourge that I chose to take upon myself. The town's dark. The darkness reflects my brooding. Discontent, apathy, restlessness, these are the night speaking to me. It twists my own words and splits my tongue, what a venomous bite I take on. But like a fire, the feelings burn hot and fast to presently snuff themselves out. Leaving a charred interior, dark as the night which brought it, the feelings die with my weary body. Lain to rest each dark eve and risen again on the morrow to embody hope, love, and peace. The town's dark. Here comes the morn.
I've been in the process of writing an epic poem since...shoot, it's been months and it's slow going. Anyway, I got to thinking I want to have a finished product while I'm still writing what will likely be my magnum opus. I've never really understood haiku but I know they're more complex than I can comprehend. Anyway, knowing that the original hokku used words relating to the seasons got me thinking I could take the easy way out and just write a series of haiku about Oracle of Seasons. Anyone have experience with haiku and have constructive criticism? I don't know what I'm doing with it. Labrynnan summer, The sun rising o're the Din, Link naps in the heat. Autumn chills the air, Leaves turn red and start to fall. Dash through the mushrooms! Rivers freeze over, Roaring fire in the hearth, Winter settles in. Blossoms spring from buds, A rod cracks against a stump, The leaves fall again.
A couple of changes including the obvious fix that Seasons takes place in Holodrum, not Labrynna. Also just a quick, unpolished series of haiku about Oracle of Ages. Holodrum summer, A Din of frogs and crickets, Link naps in the heat. Autumn chills the air, Leaves change shade and start to fall. Dash through the mushrooms! Rivers freeze over, Roaring fire in the hearth, Winter settles in. Blossoms spring from buds, A rod cracks against a stump, The sun falls slowly. A sweet song carries, Draws creatures both great and small, And pure hearts and dark. Time is fragmented, Trees turn to seeds once again, And seeds ask questions. The rise of black spires, Generations passing by, Converse with the dead. Speak with the unborn, Heal Queen Ambi's broken heart, End the present strife.
It didn't take but a minute. Stopping to chip a bit of discolored stone from the wall, he holds it up to his eye to study it. Odd geometric shapes catch his attention, the jagged edges of the subject showing a bit too perfect in the light. The cleavage divides golden ratio by golden ratio, pleasing to the eye and fantastical to behold. Uncommon shades caught somewhere between a grey-green and a midnight blue and cool to the touch, cooler than expected. And as his vision slips from edge to edge, patterns emerge. Like hieroglyphs in some ancient barbarian crypt. Forms too regular to be natural and too unnatural to be man-made. Madness, they had called it, to believe that man could live in such a place. He, against all convention, had taken the writings as truth and led the crusade deep into the earth. Armed with but his fervor, what some had called fanatical zeal, he pushed downward and downward. And his surety had been rewarded. The very first day in the dark, they had passed through a narrow spot in the tunnel, wherein had once been afixed a portculis. He had been the only one to see how it had once been. The grooves in the ceiling, though not visible to the eye, had certainly been mortared over to mask the intent of its builder. Ridicule followed from his companions who posited that he was grasping at straws. But he knew it was there. The same of the hook they had come upon, high on the wall, where these previous denizens had hung robes, or bodies. Natural cave formation they had said. He couldn't expect them to follow his superior intelect. From down the tunnel, faint mumbling from the group and shadows cast in their torch light are growing faint. He bids them for another moment to glean what he can from this place. Earlier, a pair of columns had risen up above a dry, underground lake bed. Towering into the darkness, they were only just too perfect to have been the work of geologic forces. Strange angles protruded from them, angles that should have turned torchlight outward but instead cast shadows where they shouldn't. Angles that could only have existed beneath, in this place. Warm illumination rolls out across the stone as the man moves on, fire capturing each detail of the rock face. Basalt slides coolly by as his fingertips graze across. The light bounces too softly from a depression in a shelf he leans out to avoid. From the wall, a lip of rock distends forth, forming a place where one could gather an assortment of one's liking: roses, candels, other, more sinister things...a microcosm of possibilities nestled in the hollow of stone. This being where the light of his torch seems to be collecting and from which, not escape, he draws his hand down to it. The scientific curiosity competes with and conquers the apprehension of the unknown. "I've found something!" He cries. His distorted voice echoes him. No other answers forthcoming, he exclaims again into the dark. The light at the end of the tunnel has dimmed to nothing and the footsteps have faded. Resignedly, he takes up the guide line at his feet and knots the rope to signify this place. Now, resolving to return, the man continues on, this time, the way he came. Left hand grasping the life line; right hand, the torch. Left brain, ahead; right brain, ahind. Left, earth; right, earth. What manner of mystery perplexed him in these corridors? The forms in the bedrock they'd seen an hour earlier, sculpted by human hands or human imagination? Had the plank they unearthed been carried here by a member of an ancient tribe or a seasonal flood? He shakes his head to clear the conflicting thoughts. The path rises steadily as the thread leads him on, over a mound that may have contained shattered earthen jars, around outcroppings showing pick marks...or was it natural wear? Surely the expedition would see that the boot tracks in the dust were at least solid evidence of sentient activity in this place. Their constant refusal to credit the proof would finally be ended when he returned them to the stone basin. Hooked into the edge of his perception, he can just hear an inhumanly quiet voice far ahead. His pace becomes a bit quicker. He recalls that he carries a magic totem in his satchel! 'A very ordinary stick' would think one lacking a honed intellect like unto his. Prying the prize from its cleft in the wall that eve had caused a shower of rocks and debris to become dislodged. A deviously crafted trap. Ahead he hears more voices now, louder and with greater emphasis. His pace quickens further and his lungs burn. He shouts and echoes scoff at him. The rope he follows tears at his hand as it slithers through, taking flecks of skin until his palm is slick and wet. His feet fly as they threaten to outrun his torch. "See what I've found!" He runs on, furiously pumping legs, furiously pumping heart. Another minute and two. His legs begin to cramp and moisture rims his eyes and beads on his forehead. The voices ahead are shouts and the tunnel is bright with light that illuminates nothing. Shrieks and moans ricochet from every angle, screams of terror and sadistic lechery tear through his mind. Something was down here. The thought grips his mind like some dark denizen of the underworld. "SOMETHING IS DOWN HERE!" and his hand snags on the rope. It's a knot. A second passes. His wild eyes grow distant and unfocused for but a moment, then snap back as his mind butchers its way into the present. Cotton invades his mouth and cascades down the back of his neck, causing his hair to prick. Nostrils flair, skin blanches, extremities tingle. A minute passes. Cold sweat trickles down between his eyes. The rope drops, the knees go weak. He calls out again and again, the words being chewed up by the darkness and regurgitated back in distorted, unfamiliar syllables. He sinks down to the ground, breathing hard. Tremors overtake him. An hour passes. He makes his way down the tunnel, follows the guide line. The fiendish cord proves circuitous and he finds himself returned to the knot. Once, thrice. The torch gutters and goes out. The vile darkness settles about him. He strikes his knife against his flint, revealing a moment frozen time with each strike. A day passes. He dreams in the dark. Haunted, morbid dreams. Dreams of grotesque beings with hollow eyes and hearts, breathing darkness. He awakes in the dark. His hands search the wall, guiding him up. He feels outlines too straight and groves too intricate. Details of portent. Surly there was a clan that had made this their place worship, had performed their wicked rites here. Hunger grips his stomach and thirst parches his lips. Oppressive darkness robs him of sight and he stumbles with every step. There are no sounds, no breeze, no warmth. His thoughts turn continually to despair. A week passes. He wanders down corridors and passages he is sure have been seen only by the evil spirits who built this place. He wheezes as he walks and he hears his eye lids close and open again as he blinks. His mouth is dry as the dust he kicks up with each step. His hunger is matched in ferocity only by his rage at having been left here. His hatred burns like the sun, so very far out of reach. When the man calls now, there is no echo. His shouts for rescue crack out from his throat like leaves scraping across bare rock. His mind is full of vengeance, retribution for the suffering he's endured. A month passes. He no longer weeps. His voice sounds only in vitriolic curses hacked out between bouts of barking coughs and ragged gasps. His eyes remain closed as they have long since dried and become frothy white. Fingers and toes lose their nails and back hunches to accommodate the twisted warrens he wanders. A year passes. The infinite emptiness in its stomach becomes a comforting constant. The foul air and crushing silence are its closest companions. Stringy and pale hair swings from a mostly bald head and nails: hooked, black, and piercing jut from its digits now. The jaw, hanging ajar at a disturbing skew, sports ugly fangs like the stalactites and stalagmites of its subterranean domain. Above the jagged entrance to its cavern of a mouth, the once shining orbs have sealed, forever separatingt it from the truth of its eternal phantasm. What is left of the tunic that had hidden a man's impropriety drags along the floor of its home like intestines drug by the disemboweled. It shambles in the heart of the earth, alone. Shreds of humanity, left over from the routines of its previous life, find their way into the creature's manner. It screeches and howls in an unholy tongue to the gods of this place. It cuts its body with shattered stones until it fills the stone depression in sacrifice to its masters. It doesn't remember why it claws reliefs into the walls where it sleeps until its nails are bloody stumps at the ends of raw, pallid phalanges. The beast only remembers that it's always been that way. Under the soles of mankind, the monster beats its skull against the carved monoliths it worships, pounding out a rhythm to chill the spirit. Centuries pass. And then, as it happens, the pitiful demon experiences the inexplicable as it dashes itself against the rocks, punishing itself for the glory of its lords. A sensation that had been long forgotten like an extant repression from the halcyon years of youth. It saw. The parched spheres beneath layers of scar and skin flared with pain as the light squirmed its way into the beast's mind and etched threats and revelation into the inside of its skull. Illumination shown from somewhere far away within the caverns. As it listened, snapping its head away from the searing radiation, it heard footsteps. And voices. Men come upon a stone basin spattered with blood, see freshly carved idols chiseled into solid rock. Inhuman footprints cover the ground and evil-looking words scrawled in blood cover the walls, the ceiling. Then comes the pounding. A rhythm to chill the spirit. And then chanting in demonic tongues. And then the nearing of dry footsteps.
What then, shall the light through silver sails strike, when the edge of the earth they meet? Billowed wide and bright as they are, will not the dark they meet? Though riggings lashed by mariners hands pull taught with jovial strain, and bow to stern, swabbed to polish reflect the sun, should it not the crew's fate share? Soul and vessel soak selfsame rain and radiance, and breeze and brine, and stained by a like wine, deep as deep. A rudder beneath turns with their stomachs, to and fro as stars and gulls meet their peril where the sea and sky unite. Heave tho they may and might, strain and fight, blue cliffs, green cliffs best will and course. And again, can plans and prows point differingly? The earth itself curls into and upon its breadth when the cusp of seas it meets, and cannot, by heav'nly law span the chasm beyond and far. How then, in hearts of man, deign they to cross that span, whilst the sea but carries them on, and presently itself goes no further out but goes down? Taken by it then, shall the seaman be swallowed under the earth, and his paltry construct of sticks and sheets, and kith and kin, beasts and men, the children of the earth, the earth eats.
