A silver shield—
not polished,
but burnished with time,
like moonlight caught in stone.
This is not a banner of conquest,
but of endurance.
At its center: a fox,
mid-step, not snarling—
alert, alive,
the patron saint of disappearing
without being lost.
She knows the back ways,
the soft ground,
the difference between retreat
and wisdom.
Beneath her paws:
wild thyme and yarrow,
not roses—never roses.
I want the plants that heal quietly,
that grow in stubborn places,
whose roots remember drought
and bloom anyway.
Two crossed quills above her head:
one black,
one gold.
Words as weapons,
words as balm.
My shield is etched with stories
that cut and comfort both.
Colors?
Deep forest green—
for stillness.
Ink blue—
for the sea I never stop carrying in my chest.
And a single streak of ember orange—
foxfire,
the moment just before change,
or flight,
or truth.
And the motto, curling beneath in worn script:
“Not loud, but lasting.”
Let them come with their noise.
This is the crest of the patient,
the watchers,
the ones who survive
by becoming
exactly themselves.
My crest placed upon my helmet with the surname of May upon it
Anglo-Saxon decent, I wish to capture my Lady’s eye Sitting tall on
My steed prepared for war.
My lady locked in the Kings Tower watching her tears flowing down,
A silent call for help through her tortured eyes, bond to the
Kings bed with his chains of tormented unable to be released.
I have climbed up her tower to release her by slicing these chains with
My sword, wiping her tears with a fine white cloth, reaching into her
Heart with comfort, easing her pain.
I have placed my coat of arms upon her head for we have wed,
The old King is gone for his tower tumbled down giving her freedom
To wed.
This story passed down from the old, for I have now been replaced
By another, my helmet tarnished and my coat of arms replaced now
I sit in the tower bond by invisible chains.
my coat of arms, two legged wyvern,
exceptionally surreal
COAT OF ARMS
Last night I couldn't sleep,for thinking only you...
As I wrapped in warm embrace, your spirit tinted blue
To oust away thine pangs, in hopes to see thee smile...
I'll yoke ye 'pon my shoulders, to carry through this mile
To trade your tears of sorrow, and see them shed in joy...
I'd jest for thine amusement, and be your favorite toy
For thine malady been expelled, I'd invoke it banished 'way...
Taking it 'pon mine self, so you've strength to seize th' day
Though I'm not an king, nor prince 'pon ivory steed...
Th' possessions I've procured here, are thine if felt th' need
I'll sweep thee off thy feet, if not familiar with th' waltz...
To breathe ye 'cross th' ballroom, as an feather floating 'loft
Mark mine words I state here, and hold me to their true...
I'll prove I 'steem thee precious, as unfeigned I surely do
Just promise me one thing, that next time when your down...
You'll wear these words as armor, 'til I mend thy broken crown
?Randall ('~A~')zaza Martin
a.k.a. "Thunderwolf'69" ??????
Ah, look!
here is a fat white samurai,
goes by the name of Jeffy.
I see him,
drunk and slurring insults in the direction of his brothers
what a shame.
He might have been someone
yet here he is.
If only Gawain or Kissinger or Super Mario could have been there instead of him,
maybe they could have averted the situation from its violent course...
But none of them were.
And I, Jeffy,
drunk and ever foolish
fought a dirty fight in a dying bar against overpowering odds.
And sadly, I won.
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