Week 17

...ish
This is based on The Wayfarer's Redemption series by Sara Douglass.
Never Forget My Name

Let me tell you my child, of my own tired life.
I've endured a childhood filled with horror and strife,
My father of falsehood who had slain my mother young,
Tore out my wings when each feather grew strong.

Perhaps it was fear that drew him 'long that path,
But I'm more inclined to think twas the Plow-Keeper's wrath,
The hate of The Forbidden they preached to us all,
But we know now the truth. We've seen Artor's great fall.

My mother laughed with joy as she saw my wings thrive,
And said to me, "I knew your proof of godhood would arrive!"
But sadly the Plow-Keeper saw them far too soon,
And destroyed my life right there in that room.

Oh, even now I can hear her last tortured screams,
As I hid from the sight of the horrendous things,
But his torture of my life was not quite complete,
And he turned back to me with a gaze of heat.

He tore out my wings with his righteous vigor apparent,
Choosing to torment my life, his own became quite errant,
My mother is buried there, outside and alone,
For now only I know where her body was thrown.

Even now, with the Plow-Keeper long gone,
I regret that I cannot hear my mother's song.
Her name is lost, forever perhaps unknown,
So now I request that you never forget my own.

And truth is shown in your bounding light,
For now I know true peace after long blight,
"Azhure!" you say with boisterous glee,
"Never fear mother, I'll always remember thee."

Week 10

Thoughts for this piece inspired by: The Lady of Shalott.

Please view all ~~ as a "tab"
A Thought About Shalott

I sit within my walls and brood,
The dark surrounds and feeds my mood,
My eyes at rest but thoughts prevail,
Each image viewed through black veil,
~~Each thought I know is Wrong.
At times I feel as the Lady Shalott,
Her life was hell, was it not?
She was cursed, and it spawns my thought,
~~Who at least will sing my Song?

The Lady knew a curse upon her lay,
Yet peaced she sat weaving each day,
She viewed the world through her large mirror,
And of the curse she had no fear,
~~But even this, it must be Wrong.
She saw the world's reflection alone,
And knew no longing till she heard a tone,
Lancelot singing along, the seeds he'd sown,
~~She found at last a true Song.

But what of me? I live as she,
I sit stagnant, unbound but not free,
While friends and family go on with life,
Some with jobs, others get wives,
~~What is it that I've done Wrong?
Am I cursed as she to live solitaire,
Or is even that curse a curse too fair?
A life as theirs cannot be so rare,
~~I simply wish to share my Song.

Though bound in string I may not be,
Nor true curse I cannot now see,
Yet my feet hold firm to this constant spot,
While they move on with nary a thought,
~~I must have done Wrong.
Soon, I know, my lure will ride by,
And along with her my dreams will fly,
A love with beauty and humor so wry,
~~She will know me and share my Song.

Until that day I still sit and ponder,
What it'd take to make me wander,
To travel out among the crowds,
And find a love that I can wow,
~~This dream cannot be Wrong.
I refuse to end as the Lady Shalott,
Alone upon her barge, begriming a rot,
I will find the love I've sought,
~~Someone to love and share my Song.

Week 3

As is often the case with me, when I am reading a book I find great inspiration in the words written. At the moment I am currently enjoying Empress by Karen Miller which tells the story of Hekat, a girl sold to slavery who has more to give in her life than that of a slave. This poem is written in regards to her first feat of might in the light of her god.

Godchosen

"Who are you? What are you?" you ask with fear in your eyes,
As you kneel before her, your she-brat demise,
A killer of chicken, a slayer of sheep,
Who would have thought that she could not be so weak.

Godspeaker, Godchosen, knife-dancer with snake-blade,
Warrior, Warlord breeder, watch as legends are made,
She dances with skill, with precision, with grace,
Her dances are beautiful despite the scars upon her face.

She dances the field, through life, with skill,
Blood-rage upon her, the god will have his fill,
Each slash she deals, each piercing stab,
A tribute to the god for his will to grab.

So watch as she dances the field and with scorpion's strike,
Steals your godspark, your essence, your life,
Before her Warlord kneeling below,
She shows him the future, one you'll never know.