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.

The Herald God

Written in honor of my dear friend Master Alexander Ravenscroft, this poem debuted at Black Gryphon, February 2008.

In tabard sable and argent
With wreath and stars and crown,
Processing in advance of those
Of whom he sings renown.
Unto the throne he leads the way,
Requesting no applaud,
For Alexander Ravenscroft
Is called the Herald God.

His excellency Alex has
Been called by many names:
A Baron, Lord, and Pelican,
Received he much acclaim.
Awards and accolades he has;
His talents do we laud,
For Alexander Ravenscroft
Is called the Herald God.

Advice to pursuivants he gives
And leads them to success,
Instructing them in herald ways,
His training does impress.
His one example do they seek,
They follow where he trods.
For Alexander Ravenscroft
Is called the Herald God.

Or call to mind the precedence
Of nobles, princes, kings,
From near or far, he always knows
The manner of these things.
His ordering is never claimed
Mistaken or as flawed
For Alexander Ravenscroft
Is called the Herald God.

Or say, perhaps, you give a gift,
A token or award,
And need the scroll’s great litany
Of how the measure’s scored.
No matter what the order’s name,
His memory’s quite broad,
For Alexander Ravenscroft
Is called the Herald God.

Yes, give him blazons, large and small,
And task him, then, to tell
Of how each one is measured up
In bend or fess or pale.
A mullet, chief, or fructed tree
Or even spotted cod,
For Alexander Ravenscroft
Is called the Herald God.

And now as Beacon Alex stands,
Directing all our ways,
The Herald Principal, he is
Deserving of great praise!
Yet serves this man with no request
For poems or ballades,
For Alexander Ravenscroft
Is called the Herald God.

So cheer we now our humble friend
Whose merits we adore
And to my cousins of the trade,
This task I do implore:
Please recognize this wondrous man
Who walks the earthen sod,
For Alexander Ravenscroft
Is called the Herald God.

The Bard of Owl’s Nest

Though I, Elizabethan be,
And write a wicked verse,
And pose melodramatic thoughts
Verbose and hardly terse,
The crafty tongue of Scottish bards
I find among the best,
Thus never can this poet scoff
The bard of Owl’s Nest.

In kilt of green and feathered cap
With lilting voice or strings
Or beating time upon the drum
He chants of many things:
Of friends and loved ones keeping close,
Of victories in war,
Of those the bard admires and trusts,
Or humorous rapport.

A softer spoken gentle in
Meridies we lack,
But think you not this humble man
Won’t ready his attack.
For in his hand a blade or pen
Is equally as sharp
And find you on the cutting end?
Prepare for clouds and harp.

The privilege of meeting him
Has been a fondest thought,
For you will find the fastest friend
A stranger he knows not.
And when, toward heav’n, my brother flies
And seeks eternal rest,
New hymns shall ring, all crafted by
The bard of Owl’s Nest.

A Lady of the Court of France

With grace and style of finest dance,
Her courtesy par excellence,
Stands Genevieve de Valois, she’s
A lady of the court of France.

Her wit as sharp as rapier,
Her humor is as light as air.
Her intellect is highest class.
She has a certain savoir faire.

In leadership she does excel:
Great inspiration does she lend
To meet the needs of Vulpine Reach
The shire beside the river bend.

With courtiers and learned men
She simply always does impress.
In company of lower folk,
Humility without redress.

Her care and courtesy ne’er ends,
Her elegance enamors all.
Her friends and family all would say
She seems to have je ne sais quoi.
‘
Her needlework, it stuns and awes.
The Laurelate should take a peek.
But mind your manners, lest you find
A needle stuck in lower cheek.

With Seamus, lad of Ireland
She has a very fine romance.
Our Genevieve de Valois, she’s
A lady of the court of France.

Poet’s note: For those readers who have a musical bent, the intent of the second and fourth lines of each stanza is set of sixteenth notes followed by three eighth notes. Or, in choral counting, “a one-ee-and-a two and three.” Re-read the poem with that in mind to catch the lyrical feel of this poem more clearly.

The Tale of Lord Seamus and the Wyvern

The second of my poetic tales of Lord Seamus, this one debuted at Glad Tydings, January 2008.

My Lords and My Ladies, your attention I crave
As I tell the tale of Lord Seamus the brave
Who slew a great dragon, a terrible beast
So listen, my fellows, to the tale of this feast