Long Wielder Poems
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It's shadowed in darkness, growling like a hound
Creeping about, whispering as it slithers around
Begging for attention, for it desires to be found
Silence is loud when its echoes continually resound
Behold, it comes masked, disguised in these places
Preying on the gullible ones with innocent faces
Cajoling as a lover would to gain their good graces
Offering false humility with arms of frigid embraces
Silence cries out with a stench breath for adoration
Quietly seducing the naive with phrases of flirtation
Long ago, spawned to be the wielder of denigration
Contrived as a stealth mute, soused on pride's libation
Writes with ink splotches, dripped from a toxic tongue
Its poetry is deceiving, lyrics not meant to be sung
In darkness, it leaks toxins with the scent of dung
Disguised as a pacifist, but its bile words are flung
Silence, speak what you should be wanting to say
then fade back into the shadows where you often play
Your acrimony doesn't fool the many you did betray
Sheath your querulous pen, for it leads people astray
In depth and breadth of shadows, it prowls around
always flowing, wafting on air, ne'er making a sound
It exists in dejection and rejection, and always found
in silence, too loud when its raucous echoes resound
No deafening roar of blaring thunder comes with fear
It's audible only in a mind, but muzzled to each ear
Manifested in visions, without guttural words to hear
The threat it poses in a reverie wears an implicit jeer
Solitude exhales a stale breath with eager anticipation
Quietly seducing our trust with mendacious flirtation
Spawned to be the covert wielder of our denigration
A stealth mute, besotted on doubt as a form of libation
"Take heed, people!" It screams at us without a tongue
In song the tune is hummed; the lyrics never to be sung
Anguish, leaking acid in which toxins are cleverly sprung
Disguised as a protagonist, paranoia's qualms are flung
It watches without eyes, trying to keep us in disarray
An ever lingering specter, hovering wherever we play
In reticent whispers, how deftly it schemes to betray
A taunting voice without curses, a message to convey
He was the tribal elder
A most respected man
He called for a meeting
Of every single clan
And all stood there
In a silence unbroken
Waiting for The Elder
For His words spoken
He talked of the murder
Of the planet of their birth
How a rising new comer
Would poison this good Earth
He talked of His visions
Of a world of strife
And he talked of His ideas
To start a good new life
Away from the coming iron wielder
Away from the coming world of man
And silently they listened
To His survival plan
The green ships were ready
They would range afar
To make another Earth
Around a foreign star
With immortality their ally
Time was no foe
It may be a long journey
But they surely had to go
A decision must be taken
And with no opposition of note
The counting was so easy
In the first and final vote
So Oberon called the order
And he and Mabs led
It is written in their history
Why the Faeries fled
They are out there in the Universe
They are not coming back
While mankind travels
Down his foreseen track
Maybe they have arrived
Maybe the New World founded
Maybe the Green Fleet
Has irrevocably grounded
And Oberon and Mabs
And the clans of their band
Are even now working
To build the new Faerie land
I am a creature like others, taking for granted each breath,
making mistakes, some no amount of contrition can erase
which makes my faults no less dismal than death.
Unless by the mercy of my Creator, I am to be forgiven.
Perhaps I can best define myself as God's spark as a poet.
I am a wanderer when I write of where I've been
and in tales of woe when long ago I buried myself in sin.
I am on display revealing why I lost my wings in dreams
and why I've wept for love that faded like moon beams.
There's a timeless spiritual energy in penning such things.
I am the voice of my heart, embracing its inner goodness,
allowing it to heal through bleeding when it suffers,
and to beat like timpani drums with happiness.
Within me, poetry denies bearing a name.
It's akin to having unquestionable faith in God,
knowing His words have the power to soothe my soul.
His blessing is ever a righteous honor that I would laud.
I am the wielder of a pen. Poems die at my hands,
eyes cry for Sonnets, and every abandoned verse.
Guilt, the emotion flowing inside of me, and...
the way I feel when I fall asleep before ending a prayer.
There are parts of my flawed humanity that need repair
and the reason I fear He will not forgive my trespasses.
Do the words I toss away feel as imperfect
as I think I am in my Father's eyes?
I am the Shrew, untamed, the one who bore witness
to the sun's heartache for loving the moon.
I compose words in a magical language that tell
that life can be lived eternally in lines of script
instead of being thrown into the infernal pit of hell
or decaying in a sepulcher crypt.
I am a sword, fighting battles that should've never been.
What worth are spoils to victors if none are left standing?
With my pen I am a crack in the mirror of vanity,
or perhaps the vein of insanity that I try to keep hidden.
I am hope, trying to break the thread of reality.
I am me, trying to transcend space and time in poetry.
Feed me ink and I will write. Give me parchment and
I will fill sheafs with what emanates from inside of me
for I am a poet of love and light and poetry is my clothing.
But know that without poetry I will be found loathing.
If it's taken away from me, then bare naked I will be.
The rope Hangs, still
A weapon to kill
It knew its job -
It's purpose, it's will
Yet despite that fact, this gave it no thrill
Even though its job was evil
For centuries, alone
It hung from many trees
Travelled through generations,
Seen as continuation
A prophecy, for the white man,
This his legacy
No rest for the wicked
A common phrase whispered
No way to defend
No way to end
Used an abused -
Seen as only a tool for oppression
But -
If one looked closer
It would show a reality
Not of enjoyment
But entrapment
Frayed edges,
Barely holding on
To a life of just being a weapon
But this is not a want
It hates stolen freedom
It wishes it didn't take life from black people
A witness to corruption
Of lies witnessed
No one will listen when a rope tries to talk
No one will hear the truth or who's at fault
It fatigue doesn't reside with the victim
But of a system filled with insidious problems
It has harmed, it has damaged
Done the unspeakable
Not of its own accordance
But of the oppressors forcefullness
Without a body, without legs and arms
Who is to believe a man made weapon
Instead of Blaming a creation, wouldn't logic ensue to the creator
After all what is a weapon without its wielder
Without the guide of a finger to pull the trigger
It becomes as harmless as a paper tiger
Bridgett Faerie leapt from the flames with a pop and a fizzle
Delighting her elemental dad, Hellfire, wielder of the flame
Her mother gave her the power to make leaves dance
Her purpose not apparent yet, but she was magnificent.
Hair in shades of copper we did not know had been invented.
She stood on the tallest log and stared us down, Then she flew.
New faeries can hardly ever fly. We gasped.
"Forty-one years since I saw a first day flyer,"
one of the elderly brownies whispered.
Bridgett landed next to her.
"Hi!" she said. The whole council laughed.
"She is precocious," one of the faeries said.
Bridgett turned.
I saw her face for the first time;
oval with laughing caramel eyes.
Her nose was a tiny ski slope, a tiny lift at the end. She wrinkled it.
"Where are the leaves?" she demanded. "I want to get started."
Even Hellfire was astounded; he had six daughters but not this one
Until today. She would be a force to be honored and revered.
Her snotty sisters began to make fun of her,
pretending non-jealousy.
Hellfire gave them a look and there was instant silence.
"Are those my SISTERS?" Bridgett shrieked with delight.
She flew over and hugged every one of them. Then she flew away.
How could someone with such tiny feet be so assertive?
No fairy had ever started working on their birthday before today.
Oak tree leaves began floating down into the fire.
The fire popped and crackled faster and faster.
"I love this job!" Bridgett yelled from a branch forty feet up.
Hellfire looked frightened for the first time.
He had never had a daughter who was more like his wife.
His wife flew past him to help her daughter.
That rarely happens on birthing day either.
"A mini-me-of-Enthusiasm Faerie!" someone said.
Others cheered. Someone clapped Hellfire on the back.
"Now there are two of them, he said."Good luck!"
Bridgett's twin sister Brewit popped out of the flames next.
"Surprise!" She yelled. "There are two of us Daddy!"
Hellfire's mouth dropped open. He had felt outnumbered before.
But never suffered anything like this. Brewit gave him a big hug.
Then she flew up with to join her mother and her sister.
A wonderful day in the woods, one we have never forgotten
Although that was twenty-seven years ago.
The story has been told thousands of times.
And put into the imaginations of many. Their purpose: Joy.
" My mother shed her protective love around me and without knowing why, people sensed that I had value." ~Maya Angelou
" As mothers and daughters, we are connected with one another. My mother is the bones of my spine, keeping me straight and true. She is my blood, making sure it runs rich and strong. " ~Kristin Hannah
“ I hold three magic rocks, in my hand
Rolling them over and over and over
Leaving this reality behind, far behind"
Born female, and upon my brow the magic mark ,
as my mother's mothers before me.
Red pigmented and shaped like a broken heart,
the very heart of my story.
From generations of wombs and bloodlines before,
I am chosen to take up these stones.
And being apart of this family,
I am yet destined to be alone.
The Amber, with whiskey color glowing within…
pumpkin tinged and power singed.
Giving its wielder healing power and
protection through the midnight hour.
The Sapphire stone, deepest indigo,
as the depths of the ocean's foaming folds.
Granting wisdom within it's warming light
and discernment of truth, of wrong and right.
And the third stone is a Ruby of red,
whose clarity muddles the mind and clouds the head.
Releasing passions once held in check,
while you see clearly, their pulsing neck.
Combined the three, passed down to me,
from maternal bloodline flows.
So now with these words and the heat of my hands,
I part the veil to long ago...
Though darkly, I see, far back through time,
this several great-great grandmother of mine.
And watch as she, undeservedly,
is made to lie in an early grave …
No knight in armour in this tale,
Herself alone she must save.
These stones that I now hold, she finds,
as in darkness they begin to shine.
All air is gone, her breathing stops
and the heart inside can beat no more.
Until the magic finds a home in a wronged woman's maternal core.
Then hearing
a weak pulse,
somehow
MISPLACED...
upon her brow I see
the red- pigmented mark,
the broken heart
Upon her brow,
BEGIN TO B E A T....
And now we know this history,
the story that began my own.
I await the rest of my family tale
from inside the stones, I'm shown.
When I know my true life's purpose,
when I am connected with all of them…
then my hearts blood will stop beating...
...but my magic heart beat will begin.
If there be love,
let us marry our heads
to jagged stone —
surgically carving the hearts
hidden within our depths.
Let us sow what could’ve been,
take chance with all our vanities
before passion turns to consequence.
Let us dig our graves this very moment,
arrange the canvas bloom,
hasten the stones along our waists
and submerge our young —
a mercy we were never shown.
Delicately placing our lips
on the wielder of memory,
casting the seedlings
to the depths.
Let us bathe in boiling wax,
hardening our skin —
so that when it comes
we are already gone.
But if love not be…
then why need we suffer,
if passion and fire
never graced us
their wound?
Weaving rays of sunshine to make a fairy veil,
Tiniest of stitches all to no avail,
For when the clouds slid across the sun
All that tender work was instantly undone.
Mabs never got her veil, the faeries left this earth,
But some times the spider still works for all his worth.
You can see their web bejewelled with the dew,
Catching rays of sunshine to make i t all look new.
Weaving rays of sunshineTo make a fairy veil
Tinniest of stitches all to no avail.
Queen Mabs left this earth, the faeries went away,
Took so much colourLeft so much of gray.
She’s out there in the universe with the faerie band
Trawling through the planets to find that special land
To build the faerie kingdom as far away as she can
From the bane of the faeries, that iron wielder man.
Weaving rays of sunshine to make a fairy veil
Tinniest of stitches all to no avail.
When they find the right place, made faerie land anew,
Nothing rushed or hasty, just builded fair and true
Immortality sets no time scale, but Mabs has her plan.
The passing of the Centuries may have so matured man
That maybe the old rivals can take the hand as friend
And eons of the rivalry can gently slowly end.
Mabs can wear her veil, albeit rays of an alien sun,k
The unity of man and faerie being her task well done.
Woven rays of sunshine made into faerie veil,
Tiniest of stitches that will never fail.
Agony is nigh ever-present in humanity.
It is the nefarious antagonist that unabashedly lurks in the shadows;
And With detestable malice, it strikes with a hellish wrath.
This abhorrent lash is the unintentional crafter of heroism.
It inadvertently forges a shield that encompasses willpower;
And from it, absolute fortitude inhabits its beholder.
To wield this hallowed bulwark, an adamantine resolve is vital.
For the wielder is bequeathed with the insignia of gallantry;
And with this newly reaped brand, one must also retain humility.
Inevitably, the herculean task of attaining leadership takes its toll.
It Will, unfortunately, weigh on the heart of its heritor incessantly;
Despite this, its proprietor must remain vigilant and compassionate.