A Christmas Sonnet

This is a sonnet written in the Italian style. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to all my friends.

The stars are bright on this, the shortest day.
A fresh, white sheet of frozen linen lies
Across the yard, and more falls from the skies;
The wind in moonlight makes the snowflakes play.
Beside the fire reclining, my thoughts stray
To herald angels calling from on high,
To swaddled baby crying his first cry.
I close my eyes and, soft, begin to pray,
“My Lord, that you have given us your son
Enwrapped in human flesh, the Word became,
Fulfilling all the prophets did fortell,
I scarce can understand what you have done.
But truly thus I understand your name,
Oh God, abide with us, Emmanuel.”

The Ivory Banners Streaked with Crimson Blood

This was my entry for the Kingdom Poet Laureate competition, Fall 2008. No word yet on a winner.

The bards shall tell the tale in days ahead
Of those forsaken followers of a Crown
Corrupt and twisted by the gold that bred
Contempt and brought his wicked soul to drown

As crashed the tide of war, stones crumbling down
Upon the sodden earth where warriors fought
To rid the land of evil where ’twas found
And rout the villain til his deeds be caught

And truly thus did end this odious plot
As one by one the blind misguided men
Who stood in vain defending what was wrought
Did fall unto the ground again, again!

Against such righteousness, none could defend,
And pennons black and white became a flood
As death gave way to life, the tyrant’s end!
The ivory banners streaked with crimson blood.

When chivalry is strewn across the mud
And mire, opressive sovereign’s pow’r abused,
The warriors Meridian, for good
Will fight, no enemy’s decree refused

Let none be vague, no, let none be confused
The hand that holds the sword must hold it high
In faith and truth, with honor’s light suffused
Til lord’s release, the world end, or he dies

In this, the true Meridian spirit lies
That we will stand victorious on that day
And shout with honor, “Chivalry,” we cry,
“Is black and white without a trace of gray.”

The Castle in the Breach

In a land composed of fantasy
Made with fabric from a dream
In the border where the night lies
Just before us, in between

With the toils of life behind us
And the tumult far away
We shall find the banners flying
Here to welcome us to stay

I will meet you where the clouds part
Where the summer breezes reach
I will meet you there and love you
At the castle in the breach

Where the flowers bloom so sweetly
In the spring between the hills
Where the river’s crystal waters
Brisk, in winter, winds in rills

Where the autumn leaves are falling
In the valley where you lay
I will hear you calling softly
And will join you, love, to play

I will meet you where the clouds part
Where the summer breezes reach
I will meet you there and love you
At the castle in the breach

When the trials of life are many
And the real world grows too hard
Come and meet me where the dream starts
Sung by some enchanted bard

Know that if your heart is heavy
And the fairy tale grows dim
Dear, let not your spirit tremble
Take a moment, wander in

I will meet you where the clouds part
Where the summer breezes reach
I will meet you there and love you
At the castle in the breach

The Ballad of the Broken Shield

This was the first of my poems concerning Lord Seamus McAlister, written for the Kingdom Poet Laureate competition at Spring Crown List, 2007.

“Go forth,” his steward said, “My Lord, take flight!
The boy is fine with us, he will be safe.
But you must leave before first morning light
Or to the battlefield you will be late!”

Fair Genevieve, his lady wife, stood near
His side, her countenance was solemn, still
“My dearest Lord, we musn’t take up fear
But ‘stead, with haste, take up your spear and shield,

Into the Night

I’m not exactly known for my filk. Every so often, though, I’ll get an idea. Even rarer, I’ll work that idea up. Hum along these lyrics to the like-named tune “Into the Night” by Santana and Chad Kroeger.

It was late in the evening, Meridian Court.
He’d reclined in his chair when the Crown called him forth.
He was trembling and weaving as he walked down the aisle.
When he knelt at Their feet, he could see the King smile.

“We have heard of your exploits, of your service and deeds,
So we now call you Lord as the herald will read:”

He got his AoA, his AoA
And the voices rang as the Crown proclaimed!
He got his AoA, his AoA
And they cheered on into the night!

Just a few short years later, at another event,
King and Queen were considering the words they’d been sent.
In the court, this young gentle, they summoned once more
And before them he knelt, what could they have in store?

“Once again you have pleased us, and we’ve heard from the land
A reward you have earned in the form of a Grant!”

He got his GoA, his GoA
And the voices rang as the Crown proclaimed!
He got his GoA, his GoA
And they cheered on into the night!

The Font of Power

Crafted in honor of the His Royal Majesty Konrad, King of the East, in honor of his bravery and strength at Pennsic.

A kingdom needs a king who rules in power,
A man who’s not afraid to take a chance.
It’s not enough he cause the earth to flower
Or by his might the sod to quake and dance.

No, as the font of power, his is heavy,
The burden that he bears unbearable,
With wars to wage and tax of gold to levy,
There always seems a price upon his skull.

But give a man a crown to wear, he’ll wear it
And pay the price he must to raise his head.
No matter what the scorn and shame, he’ll bear it
To prove that chivalry is never dead.

The font of power rests upon the Sovereign
And with the Consort he has raised on high,
Till death shall take or till the world itself end,
I pray the font of power ne’er runs dry.

Autumn’s Mantle

My entry into the “Italian Sonnet” challenge for the Meridian Guild of Bards and Poets.

Green verdant fields of clover rolling through
The countryside of my beloved home.
My heartstrings stretch and pull whene’er I roam
Reminding of a cottage, coast, and you.
Though travels far give cause to say adieu,
The memories of that cerulean dome,
The iv’ry of the cliffside’s crashing foam
Can warm my spirit and my hope renew.
As swiftly as the summer turns to fall,
The leaves descending into mounds of gold
To jostle and to jump beneath the wind,
I know that I shall answer then your call
And find myself once more your arms to hold;
With autumn’s mantle I return again.

Shall I Compare Thee to a Meridian Summer

This poem was written as my first entry into the Meridian Guild of Bards and Poets challenge, “Summer in Meridies.”

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
If Meridian, thou art hopefully more frigid!
Rough winds, ’round here, do shake and stir with rain,
And summer’s lease seems all too oft renewéd.
Sometimes (to say the least) too hot does shine
The gold complexion of the eye of heav’n,
And truly, all who’re fair, so fair, opine:
“By chance, for me some natural sunscreen giv’n?”
But our eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose posession of that dream thou ow’st,
Nor shall death brag the ending of our play
In these eternal times, nay nay, we grow’st!
So long as men can breathe and eyes can see,
So long lives this, regardless of the heat.

The Herald Stands Alone

A sonnet written in the English style.

The herald’s duty is but to his lord
In battle, no one else his service earns.
So why should love a herald’s heart afford,
Why should the herald passionately yearn?
No, stay the heart, oh muses; give him peace!
His confidences keep far locked away.
For much he has to do before release
His heart can take, with flights of fancy play.
The herald must attend the battlefield,
And put aside all thoughts of maidens fair.
To death and battle all his moments yield,
His solace drowning only in despair.
This much of love is to his spirit known:
In either war, the herald stands alone.

The Tale of Corwin and the Oaf

Debuted this past Saturday at Meridian War Muster, May 2008. FYI, Giollapadhreag is pronounced “Kilpatrick” just like it’s spelled (per Corwin).

Come round, my dear friends, as I tell you a tale
About my friend Corwin Giollapadhreag,
A man most sincere, and an Honorable Lord,
But one with a penchant for slapstick.

While taking his studies a long time ago,
He leaned toward the revels and parties,
And though, quite a noble and worthy young lord,
His taste for fine mead was quite hearty.

But much as it happens, there was quite a boar,
A brutish young gentle most tiring,
Who made his way into the taverns and halls
Whose rev’lers, his presence, ne’er desiring.

The fortnights and seasons did pass, as they do,
And always this oaf was appearing,
When finally, Corwin, his patience run out,
Was taken with malice quite cheering.

He gathered his friends and devised quite a plan,
To welcome the lout to the feting
And make sure his tankard ne’er bottom would see
To give him a night ne’er forgetting.

The dunce, as would happen, did dance and did drink
And soon was quite inebriated
And once heavenly Morpheus had brought him to Nod
Good Corwin’s plan initiated.

He walked from the tavern and waved down a coach,
A wagon, ’twas carrying some travelers
And Corwin, he carried and loaded the drunkard,
With help from the rest of the revelers.

He placed in the hands of the driver some coin,
And told him a tale of this poor man,
Whose one only goal was to visit the King
Who lived in the Kingdom of Graceland

And onward this driver did drive through the night,
Arriving to stop by the river
And waking the lad, what a shock he did find
To realize where he’d been delivered

And as luck would have it, his pouch and his coin
Were hanging with his other surcoat
So sent he a missive to his dearest father
To send back a messenger with some groats.

Now, Corwin Giollapadhreag, a hero was crowned
As never again this boar reveled
And strangely, the dunce never could quite concieve
Just how he had come to be deviled.

So heed you my warning, intolerable foes,
In Loch Cairn your presence’s not palpable
Just ask my friend Corwin Giollapadhreag to tell you
The tale of his friend, glue, and scalpel.