Fifty Sonnets Project – Iastreb Desislavich

Continuing the project, this sonnet for Iazzie.

The glint of winter’s sun upon his helm,
He stands in silhouette against the sky,
A half-cerulean pallor o’er the realm
Of frozen waste, where echoes loud his cry.
His battle scream resounds across the snow
He charges forward, striking strong and true
The enemy collapses from the blow
And in a moment’s blink, the battle’s through.
Pomestnik Iastreb sheathes his silver blade
And trudges forward, many miles to go
Until departing this frostbitten glade
To leave behind the battle, to be home.
But standing in his way, another fiend
One moment more, again the silver gleams.

Fifty Sonnets Project – Yves de Fortanier

I took my cue from the sonnets of Aislinge and Alexander for the stylistic theme of this one. A recipe, a blazon, and now a pattern for Seigneur Yves de Fortanier.

A tailor, tasked with patterning a man,
Composed his measurements with wise concern:
A mind too wide will never take a stand,
Too narrow and he’ll never seem to learn.
His body must be poised with grace and style
So that he moves and sways with dancer’s flair
And special care be given to his smile
For it belies, to all he meets, his care.
Be wary that his heart is wide and full
With room for all, a friend to everyone
And scribe upon the ancient golden rule
Do unto others as to you be done.
The tailor, finished pleased, now takes his leave
And in the pattern, find we, Seigneur Yves.

Fifty Sonnets Project – Aislinge MacCuithein

This entry in the Fifty Sonnets Project is for my friend Aislinge from the Shire of Loch Cairn, a Grand Chef of Meridies. I feel this poetic recipe suits her quite well.

Thus reads the recipe for Aislinge Stew:
To start, a dash of intellectual salt
Three cups of tenderness and care infuse
With half a pint of Corwin’s bottled malt
Do bring to boil a temper, but cool down
With some compassion, rich as any broth
What’s next? A sharpened tongue in stock be found
(But never is it used to hurt, in troth)
To this, a pinch of gentle words do add
Include a bit of humor just for fun
And wisdom, don’t forget, lest this go bad
And serve with beauty when the cooking’s done.
This recipe is not so hard to cook
And makes the finest fellow in my book.

Fifty Sonnets Project – Alexander Ravenscroft

This edition of the Fifty Sonnets Project is a followup to an earlier poem, The Herald God, concerning my peer, Master Alexander. This one takes a more introspective tone.

Upon a field of truly valorous gules
Alights a sacred heart of purest Or.
His wisdom, like a rare and precious jewel
Aligns in pale to guide his honest core.
In chief, an intellect as sharp as steel,
Integrity that suffers no disguise.
In base, a firm foundation: iron will
That will not falter, will not compromise.
The arms of Alexander Ravenscroft
Not lineage, but measure of his soul
Are not so lightly blazoned as I oft
Consider the summation of the whole:
In total drawn, the parts together rend
The emblazon: my peer, my brother, friend.

Fifty Sonnets Project – Svana Mjobeina

Another entry in my A&S50 project, the Fifty Sonnets project, this one about The Honorable Lady Svana Mjobeina who has been called the Sable Swan of Meridies for various reasons, some outlined below.

A sable feather lights upon the lake
Where late an aviary beauty swam.
No evidence aside lay in her wake;
She left as silently as she began.
With rich brocade her winged form adorned,
Each cygnet to her countenance aspires.
Upon the breeze the sable swan is borne,
Her silhouette against the clouds climbs higher.
Fair Svana swan does dance Aeolian gales.
She sways and darts o’er meadows far and wide.
All other winged creatures ‘gainst her pale,
With skill and style she takes wing to the sky.
No other daughter blessed with greater grace:
The sable swan of our Meridies.

Fifty Sonnets Project – Ursus Grim

This post is the first in the series of fifty sonnets I am working on for the A&S 50 Year project. This sonnet is for The Honorable Lord Ursus Grim.

If only ’twere his blade as razor sharp
As stands his wit, the world be torn to shreds,
But still the villains play that heavenly harp
When snicker-snack his foil removes their heads.
The fencer of the foxes holds the line
When rogues and scoundrels break the riverbend.
This border won’t be taken in his time
When fools to our sweet valley come again.
He’ll tip his hat when fairest flowers pass;
To tilt the head requires no great distract,
And as he smiles, his rapier finds its cache,
Its point upon opponent mid entr’acte.
Still comes another foe to challenge him,
The fencer of the foxes, Ursus Grim.

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,