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Shaun Herron Poem
I met a man the other day
I think he thought he knew me
He heard me speaking with a friend
He said "Hey, are you from Kentucky?"
Well, I'm from West Virginia
He obviously doesn't know me
He grinned and then persisted
"Do you know Jethro," he inquired
"Or maybe you know Jesco?"
I wondered who he thought I was
but could not recall these people
so I just shrugged my shoulders
He obviously doesn't know me
He giggled then and called out a name
Someone he called Hillbilly
God, then names this fellow knows
I have to wonder about their parents
I smiled quietly and shook my head
He obviously doesn't know me
He seemed disappointed and on he went
"You dropped out of school in eighth grade?"
I wish. Grad School almost killed me
Even though I was a Mensa member
This guy sure knows some winners
He obviously doesn't know me
He asked if I was a moonshine farmer
I said' "no, electrical engineering"
He then accused me of never wearing shoes
So I wiggled my La Sportivas
Boy this guy sure is off the mark
He obviously doesn't know me
He surely wasn't satisfied
and started speaking strangely
It sounded vaguely Norwegian
"Venn, er du litt treg?" I asked him
He just stared at me blankly
He obviously doesn't know me
Finally, he went on his way
I told my friend, "I think he thought he knew me"
He angrily replied, "I think that he was teasing"
I laughed from deep inside, smiled then winked
"Who was that idiot, anyway?
He obviously doesn't know me"
Copyright © Shaun Herron | Year Posted 2014
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Shaun Herron Poem
Sweet were the days though too few in number
When dread was lain over all tomorrows
By those whom upon the Rod of Asclepius swore
Sending him to seek solace
And pass by unseen
By the Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King
A blue star burned cold upon his brow
In the darkness to proclaim his coming
To this place he claimed
As the home of his heart
To play his part in this most sacred scene
By the Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King
Alone he arrived
To no greeting or welcome
But gladness filled him all-the-same
No company would be kept
For this final thing
By the Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King
There were no songs in the Hall
No one to sing
Of loves lost or left behind
Succored and scoured
By compulsive dream
By the Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King
No proof against arms was his armor
Though many times it had saved him
Against ravage and rage of weather
Their service no longer in need
He laid them before him in offering
To the Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King
Although weakened, quickly he kindled
The first glowing embers
Coached them and coaxed them
So fragile and nascent
Till they brought into being
The Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King
His presence in this hostile home
Alone would suffice
No grief-stricken children
Or wailing of women
No beeps or buzzes of cold machines
Only the Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King
He dreamt of the First Dawn of his absence
And was surprised it weighed nothing
Against the many that he was graced to see
Contentedly he caressed them
Comfortable in his memory
By the Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King.
His star dimmed slowly before the First Dawn
With dignity dwindled the last flickering flames
As cold grew the King
On his throne of Stone
Set free near the ashes
Of The Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King
Then Alpenglow burst the first rays of day
Round the only monument
To a life lived like lightning burst forth from the storm
So proud stood the peak
Glad alone to have seen
The Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King
Copyright © Shaun Herron | Year Posted 2014
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Shaun Herron Poem
Face the west.
Face the stone and turn your back on your chains.
A wraith you arrived, but now life overflows with every ragged breath.
Let your heart brim with resolve, your eyes with the mountain and wake from the dream.
Your legs be your escape, fill them with your ambition.
Bend the world on it’s side with your will and ascend Jacob’s Ladder.
Gently kindle the cold flame of fear to lend your hand a mighty aspect, and squeeze life itself from the ancient stone.
A hold secure -- your anchor to the living, relinquished reluctantly for another a little further up.
Ascend till the mountain speaks: "No higher can I bear you mortal." "Take your prize and share this lonely view with me awhile."
Pride swells as the turn of your head commands reality's scope.
This is your Triumph.
The summit -- your chariot.
The wind -- your anthem.
The mountain -- your charioteer, whispers: "Memento Mori."
A few moments of freedom and then like the doppleganger of all western heroes, face the east, turn your back to the setting sun and descend.
The journey is only half finished. Bear out your exhausted dounemount to it's conclusion and reluctantly leave the land of the living.
Home is a place you can only visit between your slumbers.
God preserve me in my sleep that I might wake once more.
Copyright © Shaun Herron | Year Posted 2014
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Shaun Herron Poem
Thrust up from the firmament and break the clouds.
Wring from the world the Water of Life in its crystalline perpetuity as raiment.
Bend the wind around your back and send to me the most undeniable of siren songs.
Send your mirage of eternity to these eye-blink lives longing for forever and I will bear my bones with feather-light heart to the sight of your object eye.
For only there can I see how tiny and fleeting are all my fears.
And all my triumphs.
Show me the illusion and may I know it for Smoke before the mirror.
The dreams of the Mountain haunt the step of every day.
Memories of freedom to those in chains.
What are they worth?
Nothing at all.
And Life itself.
Copyright © Shaun Herron | Year Posted 2014
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Shaun Herron Poem
Time spent driving past the houses of the dead
Where are those who came before
Who live now only in my head
For the Earth is now their bed
Where's your music from the front porch on the Hill
Where's your laughing faces
Saying: Child have no fear
For there is nothing but love in here
Know your blood's as thick as Time
So our song will never die
And sing it loud and clear
For those now lost but always dear
Then send it on the wind
To those now far ahead
In the houses of the dead
Many trips around this wicked star we've made
And there's been many players
On its ever turning stage
In every sundered age
But when your part is through
Behind the curtain bid adieu
Soon gone but now you're here
So play your part without fear
Then join them far ahead
We know not where
And leave houses of the dead
Copyright © Shaun Herron | Year Posted 2014
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