Sleepless Nights At Mission Control
Insomnia poured into a cup; no cream nor sugar added. Two slabs of bacon thinly sliced [sizzling] on the skillet [burning].
My house keeps an untidy yard, for winds and rains to play in; while memory props an open window for starry nights to stray in.
Pencil poised, I hold my course: and by mid-morning of the seventh day, I’ve steered my spaceship into the sun, rejoicing: “Oh rapture!” I am done.
©Geo. Lewis Avery † [-yours for clemency]
In the south, we have no birches to bend; and neither do we get snow or ice to weight them down in a manner that would incite my muse to bleed. But more and more I find, as this life hurtles past its equinox, that I will dwell on simpler times: when my brothers and I would take turns inflating our adolescent egos by commandeering a 55 gallon drum and launching it down a steep incline to see who could hang with it the farthest.
As the barrel would careen at breakneck speeds, negotiating the deformities of terra firma, and the deflections of loosened earth and stones, and some few unimpressive trees, there would be moments of zero gravity when one felt as if he was in the clouds.
While the one was curled up in the fetal position pushing out against the rigid walls and holding on against the centrifugal force that was working to unseat him, it required all his focus to avoid a premature ejection out through the open portal, with its payout of disjointed fingers and bruised, bloodied elbows.
As I repeated the ride over and over again, not once did I consider that I chanced a broken neck, or spine, or ruptured spleen. What did I know of fear? It was the ensuing climax that I strove for. more so than the adrenaline-fueled ride itself. Having gotten away and coming back to earth, it mattered little whether the ride ended with me inside or outside of the barrel; it only mattered that the world had not spit me out for good.
Riding barrels was the closest I ever came to being a swinger of birches, and I'd be remiss if I did not see the similarities. To this day if I close my eyes for long, I can feel as if I am that child in the barrel still; waiting for this wild ride to finish. When I can once more exalt: Life is all affirming. And launch out again. One could do worse than be a rider of barrels. When he's not got his father's birches to bend.
©Geo. Lewis Avery † (yours for recreation)
The Ghosts of Childhood Past
Tonight, in moody abstraction, (while contemplating man's mortality) I stopped by that old familiar playground where the happier ghosts of my youth still haunt. When, from a distance arose the vibrant chatterings of childhood at play. They were all in attendance, minus some few. Lining up, taking turns on the playground swings, (except for the one swing with the broken chain) building a momentum to launch out and see who can gain the most air. Waxing triumphant upon dismount, and shrugging off bruised bottoms, bragadocious egos, and scraped knees; as the keen-eyed schoolmarm who chaperones the playground seems disinterested and unconcerned.
The mouse-like squeaking of the merry-go-round is akin to elevator music amid the wild den of wantonly play. T'was a feral hour between the bells, when impulsive lads pulled ponytails, braved jungle gyms, engaged in war games, and chased the ball; when strong willed lasses played hopscotch, jumped rope & made up rhyme, conquered the swing sets, braved jungle gyms, and humbled impulsive lads.
My ears burn amber as I overhear 'Georgie Porgie' being sung; although inwardly/secretly it thrills me to be noticed. And I retreat to be by myself where I can absorb of life's stimuli (unimpeded) like a sponge. As I commandeer an idle swing, I grip the pitted chains with both my hands and hang on, while the world spins. They are all in attendance, minus some. And I take tally. I know all their faces. I can place the many voices. I can name them every one.
But as I gaze out, I can see where another had ought to be. This night, where that one had been is now filled with a void (an emptiness). And it saddens me to lose another childhood ghost. The old playground will be less rambunctious now. And ere I will end this sojourn, my eyes linger on the smiling familiar faces, as at my feet a gum wrapper blows by in the wind. Godspeed.
© Brother Bard † [yours for nostalgia]
The Hazards of Heavy Armor I
As Sir Winston lay among the reeds beside a brook, relaxing his armor, a serpent crept up beside his ear and whispered a dire warning that Death was approaching; Sir Winston turned his head, to inquire from whence it would come, and was smitten on the nose by the messenger.
©Geo. Lewis Avery † [yours for leniency]
The Hazards of heavy Armor II
Sir Winston was a dauntless knight, who bethought to steal his love; fair Catherine of the Chesterfields, who'd wed the count Levine; on Winston's wrist, a scarlet sash, she'd slipped him as a sign, sent his blood into a boil, and fevered up his mind.
He met her seven kinsmen, out on the open road; and ever onward spurred him his horse, the worse for them it bode. He met her seven brothers, down in the mountain pass; and ever onward spurred him his horse, they could no more, alas. He met the jealous bridegroom, one mile outside the gate; he slew him in a fit of rage. Then, why is he so late?
Fair Catherine paces the curtain wall, with many a sighing breath. She cannot know her gallant, has met a timely death; for Winston was a dauntless knight, who bethought to swim the moat; and though his horse prevailed, his armor - did not float.
©Geo. Lewis Avery † [yours for brashness]
The Hazards of heavy Armor III
Sir Winston joined a pilgrimage, but on that sweltering day, the sun it scorched his armor so, it melted him away. He dismounted by the river, to be rid of the steam. He laid aside his metal plates, and stepped into the stream. The merry wives of Windsor came, to do their daily scrubs; and when they left, they took away Winston's knightly dubs.
A welcome swim, and woe betide, a most unwelcome site. There was no armor could be had, to clothe this naked knight. They say he hid himself away, until nighttime befell; when so white was his gentry skin, he raised a sentry's yell. Thus Winston found himself pursued by half the village mass; but none was there could recognize his fair face for his ass.
"Oh where has Winston gone?" You ask. It is not for me to say; but unless he can conceal his shame, he'll not come back this way.
©Geo. Lewis Avery † [yours for legend]
An Invitation To The Hunt
I own, these woods are mine; for I who chase the hart between the rows of pine, hardwood, and laurel shrub, am lord and master of the hunt.
Come, be my guest this night; sit beside me in the banquet hall; where food and drink is plentiful. Mead, sweet as any maidens lips, will I splash into your cup; and your plate, I will heap with the roast venison, and wild boar that I and my hounds felled in today's hunt.
There will be tender pheasant, plucked out of the heavens by my goshawk; and wild plums, gathered near the rivers edge. Like brothers, we will feast; and I will regale you with tales of past hunts; and after, when the gaiety has ended, you may choose of my servant girls and retire.
But be well rested come cocks-crow, when I will rouse you early for the hunt. I have a feeling my singular friend, that tomorrow holds much promise. And my wall is ever in need of a trophy.
©Geo. Lewis Avery † [yours in fealty]
Imagine a trout
Accustomed to anchovy
Choking on a fly
©Geo. Lewis Avery † [yours for literary fiber]
The Lamp That Burns
Near day's end, I point my toes along an untamed path, where poetry falls in sheaves of autumn shed; where layer upon layer lies mulched in volumes of composting print, [archaic type] that has been atomizing along its underbelly since Adam; and I hear, and I feel the breath of the beast, and [beast] it certain is, for the forest floor is teeming with life.
Concealed, are [etchings] of the padded heel that has scampered by on its way to the watering hole. Nary a paw print lies exposed, whereby a prudent eye might guess at the beast, to the day [and hour]. Even if I should brush the leaves aside to reveal an impression in the soil, it would be too faint for the eye; for no footprint could survive the discombobulations of rain, and wind, mole and wren, and worm, [forever]. That was my thinking, but you [my friend] have changed my view. I have seen the crater left by your shoe; a hazard to any passersby, who might blindly come, and suffer to fall; and so I thought to fill it in, as I hitched my plow to the forest floor.
But, there is not earth enough, nor time to level your track; and I am resigned to wonder how deeply the impression goes, for your footprint clearly shows in each successive strata the moldboard turns; and so I pursue, via an unorthodox, albeit archaeological dig, the underlying crux; and I find your footprints [your signature] engraved in bedrock as old as a trilobite, though you passed this way as recently as today.
As I crawl forth, with your hieroglyphs indelibly etched into my psyche, I feel like a cherub, for the night is agleam with a twilight pastel; and I make it home on borrowed wings of inspiration.
©Geo. Lewis Avery † [yours for art]
Young Hector was a mighty hound, who worried hart and hare; he would often run the fox to ground, and hold at bay the bear.
Come evenings when the chase was done, he'd lie down at the hearth; while Master cleaned his fowling piece, and praised him for his worth.
Them days were rich and golden ones, and Hector seized the years; to rear a pride of headstrong sons, with cotton in their ears.
With time, Hector let them have the stage, while he watched from the porch; like one befitting of his age, who'd done passed on the torch.
Come evenings, when the day was done, he'd lie down at the hearth; and gaze on Masters idle gun, and think back on his youth.
He'd no place in the chase nee more, he was accepting of the truth; the gun had rust inside its bore, and he was long of tooth.
Then came a night like none before, when brigands broke inside; they knocked Old Master to the floor; and kicked his dog beside.
Old Hector was a gentled hound, who'd harm nor hart, nor hare; but him who swung his boot quick found, he thought he'd kicked a bear.
More quick than sparks amid a storm, frail Hector was no more; those infidels saw him transformed, into the hound of yore.
He chewed the kneecap off the first, then flew at cheek and chin; they bled, they fought, they cried, they cursed; still, he did not give in.
Till in the melee of the fight, one struck a lucky blow; who grasped a broken table leg, and laid old Hector low.
The thieves, retreating out the door, addressed old master thus: "Old man, of this you can be sure, next time we finish this."
Old Master's grasped his hunting horn, he's called his children home; and ere they've took one day to mourn, he's led them off to roam.
They've trailed the robbers to their roost, who marvel at the sounds; they think that Hell has been unloosed; but, it's just masters hounds.
Hector beget many a hound, who worry hart and hare; they often run the fox to ground, and hold at bay the bear.
And, evenings, when their sport is done, they circle round the hearth; with eyes on Master's fowling piece; and yen to prove their worth.
©Geo. Lewis Avery † [yours for a strong defense]
Oh, The Injustice
I was one familiar with the night, and there was a rabbit circumnavigating on the spit; and a smell of hot brew wafting alongside of it. The gent was squatting, with a brace of beans he was eating out of a tin; stern face reflecting the fire; his broad shoulders to the night, fending off the cold stare of intruding eyes; nor did he indicate by his indifferent stance, that he had heard my stealthy approach [from behind]. I was not hungry, nor in need of company. What I required was a grubstake; and why need one borrow, when one can take.
I brought my club crashing down, but the stranger was one like myself; one accustomed to the night, with all its mystery and sound. I missed, but he drove 9 inches of steel between my ribs; and I spilled out onto the sand, while he wiped his blade on my tunic; and smiled with an indifference down at me.
As my wounded soul fled beyond his reach, I turned my pale eyes towards Hades; and the cobblestones grew ever warmer underneath my feet, till I was fidgeting on glimmering coals outside the pitted gate. That's when I glanced down, and realized, the smiling bastard had deprived me of my shoes. And just so, are the complaints of a rogue.
©Geo. Lewis Avery † [yours for injustice]
An Ode To Stonehenge
Eagerness and apprehension are at odds within me, as I stand here facing east; for I have yet to see a sunrise, and I hear it is a lovely sight for mortal eyes to feast on.
I have dreamed you, who parade in the light; you, that are motivated to do astounding feats, thru the awareness that your days, your hours, your seconds are numbered; whereas I, who have inherited no sundial, possess that commodity which you would acquire: immortality.
I have dreamt you, since the inception of the world; and in all that measure I have yet to see a sunrise. For this, I must endure thro all the long night, facing East.
Ask yourselves tomorrow, when the fledgling sun unveils a slumbering pillar of stone, sprung up covertly in the predawn, if a heart still beats beneath the rock. And in your insatiable thirst for its deeper meaning, suffer your theologians to ponder: do I dream?
©Thrym Fiercest of Giants † [-on the Plain of Vigrid]
Autumn Nights In Troll Camp
My appetite unappeased, I sit cross kneed before my fire cradling a bowl of calorie enriched gruel as the day has shortened into the dinner hour, when a truant of the troposphere sweeps unabashedly into camp and exhales with its colder effluvium into the flames; what grew unruly, and tickle my cauldron's trunk until it reacts with a concordant laughter, and a bubbling pabulum, whose parfume bodes me small appeal.
For my palate has grown callous from a homogenous diet of fattened poppies and bright eyed ambrosia, borne on the trays of intoxicated muses who only desire for another toke of a summertime weed, reaped in excess since the spring unleashed its sowers into the veldts.
But now, Fall is approaching; ushering in a newer talent; a renaissance master armed with brush and palette, who spatters indiscriminately; a gourmand bearing condiments, whereby a pinch of oregano, or a dash of coriander, will alter the alkalinity of the bards.
Whom now effuse a diverse flavor, whether rotating on the spit or composting in a stew; and this Troll will empty out his larder of the familiar, and refill it with a fresher store of wilder game; what will titillate his taste buds when the spoon is arisen from its simmering bath.
Autumn means longer nights for a Troll to stalk his game, and stoke the fires beneath kettles where percolate poets, whom I have found the most palatable. You should smile.
©- I am TROLL † [will that be one lump, or two?]
The Bone Collector
The strange old lady with thinning hair, decaying teeth, leathern face, and a throat that cackles with grating laughter, calls to her boney nag; who halts in stumbling stride, while she leaps down off the wagon with an ease akin to youth.
Beside herself, at finding another artifact disowned, she wrings her fingers and stomps her heels; then spins, and kisses her skinny nag square on its nose.
She has loaded me onto her cart, atop a heap of weathered bones; and the wagons wheels resume their circular motion, pressing parallel ruts into the parched earth of a dried out watering hole.
And while the horizon grows ever nearer, a lone carrion beetle scampers across the cracked and curling peat; doomed to suffer the same death as I.
The cargo jostles, and I rattle gainst the bones as loudly as they gainst I; while the old lady hums a tune I do not know. And I only care that I am leaving this plain; and am mighty grateful for the ride.
© I am Troll † [yours for direction]
What Catacombs Are These?
You up and coming scribes must envy me, for I once met my muse in persona e persona many many years ago.
From a heavy slumber, I was awakened by a voice hailing from the damp recesses of an inner chamber; a voice racked by consumption from decades of breathing the moldy air. It bid me slip into my night shoes and seek him out; and so, wit flickering candle held aloft I groped along narrow corridors, wondring at the calceous stones what crunched underfoot, half sank in the earthen floor. And I asked aloud, in a foolish manner:
"What catacombs are these?"
The reply when it came, overtook me like the wind rushing past a harpys perch on its swift flight to the sea.
"They are thine, and mine, and theirs."
More quickly it passed. It fled from me wit the rapid flight of a passing gale; growing more faint, till it was lost in the dankness; leaving me to wonder if I had heard a sound at all. And I clutched my nightgown tight against the palsy what was afflicting me timorous frame.
Before me, lay an archway whose oaken beams were supported by a portcullis of ancient iron, pitted by rust, and the few scars where size alone had quelled the rebellions of flesh, and flint, and bone; a portcullis whose skeleton ribs lay gripped in the bony knuckles of my imprisoned muse; a cadaverous gent who stared at me wit the zealousness of one driven mad by loneliness.
"Free me." He implored.
But I dared not without guessing the reason for his imprisonment. In truth, I was unnerved by the insanity what sported like matrimonial hawks behind his milky white eyen.
"I heard you speak these walls are mine, and thine, and theirs." I said. "Whom did you mean by they?"
He made no reply, for I could see he had nary a tongue; jes a gaping maw of horrid darkness where his waggin pole shoulda been; wit one scrawny arm outstretched, seeking alms.
Beyond him was the river, whose farthest bank lay cloaked in mist; but on the nearer shore one lone ferryman stood leaning gainst his pole, ignoring the pleas and the wailings of stranded travellers without silver. It did not take them long [those destitutes] to spy me standing outside the portcullis, and a horrid wail arose from the bowels of their unified throats as they poured forward like a plague of locusts to push against the unyielding barrier with scrawny arms outstretched.
And I, well I was dressed in pajamas what had no pockets to hold spare change; so I fled back up the corridor to the safety of my bedchamber where I curled upon a couch with a pillow clutched tightly around my head to shut out the wailings of the wretched; where my wife found me at dawn.
My consort was disquited by my inability to close my eyes and sleep, but she soon breathed easier for I adopted the habit of weighting down my eyelids with silver coin once I retire. The coin is gone when I awake, and I smile to think perhaps I've paid anothers ferry; and me, every night I sleep easier knowing I'll have silver wit me should I require passage across the river stiles before morning.
Meanwhile, my ol' woman just booked herself another cruise, and for the life of me I dunno where she gets the coin.
© Geo. Lewis Avery † [yours for bridge fare]
The Rigors of a Smooth Crossing
Last night, I joined a friend on a hunt. It was odd me being invited along, knowing my friend as I do. He's one of them solitary fellows [a troubled soul you might say] who keeps his face in the shadows, and what has little to say; and less time for listning; a lot like me actually.
We rendezvoued by the river, where he'd crossed over by boat. We never exchanged a word betwixt us. He just passed over the leash to his hunting dog, and once it had put its nostrils to the ground the chase was on.
Fortunately, I gots strong legs and keeping pace with that mongrel once it picked up the blood trail was no easy thing; my lungs was aching inside of ten minutes, and when I glanced over at my friend he was gliding along like the wind carried him; but that's the way with them slender fellows, they are built for running.
The varmint we was atter, once it heard our hound baying back of it, took to running; and skairt varmints can run like a rock careening down a cliff face. I seen it look back over its shoulder a couple of times; and one time, when it got a decent peek at who it was was atter it, I heard it let out a pitiable cry of despair.
Atter that, it was running so fast we couldn't get within sighting distance of it again; so I let loose the hound and it had the varmint treed in short order. My friend give me a nudge, an so I stepped in and clubbed the poor bugger on its crown. It was the charitable thing to do, as that hound was chewing him up something terrible.
"That s what you git." I said. "For shying away from your appointments. It woulda gone softer on you if you'd fought it out like a real man; or even give up without so much as a struggle. Its yer own fault that we had to o sicked the dogs on you."
I throwed the trophy across my shoulder, and I carted it back to the boat with little labor lost. Once there, I knelt and skritched his dog behind its ears [all six of them]. My companion give me his best smile from behind that inpenetrable mask he wears, and lifted his hand in farewell as he pushed off with his pole; sending boat and cargo sliding smoothly into the mists enshrouding the river.
That he had been genuinely impressed by my prowess with oaken limb and rusted spike, I am assured; and while I lean on my prized possession and gaze fondly into the fire, I am anticipating our next outing together. This time I will choose the quarry, and he will end the hunt. And as always, he will offer to make a trade of my clobbering stick for his scythe. Little chance of that. I'm holding out for the three-headed dog.
© I am Troll † [yours for attrition]
This night, whan star points map the purple scape, and moonshine lamps the water; whan windsong courts the willow tree, whose limber arms invite him, wit leafen skirts o feathered fronds baring knobby knees tha curtsy; whan glassy-eyed does wit spotted fawns wade shallow rills to deeply drink o the ripples in the moon;
Whan nature flows in harmony, but for eddies in the stream; be wary whan you stir aboot, for a ghostly fog eet rises; o'er piney wood, o'er sandy slope, born o marshy bog and bottom; like goosely down eet carries on, steady sans momentum.
Eet gains the fields, devouring crops, though eet barely stirrs a tassle; and when it meets the pasture gate, eet climbs above, eet creeps below, in pillow shapes o rapture; till it o'ertakes the unwitting kine who've bedded down to slumber.
Not satisfied by this fine feast, eet looks about for plunder; eet ascends the hill whar grass doth bend, and on towards a dwellin; eet gathers bout a earthen well, whar a gourd hangs fer dippin; downward doth it wildly slip to imbibe of drouthy blisses; then up again eet jettisons from hill to dome to city; devouring all in its path and ever so's the pity.
Until its found a city plat outside an open window, whan wit a wisp o curling lip eet mounts the sill, eet enters; wit frightful damp and chilly breath, distilled in expectation, eet takes a mighty inward pounce, in past the shallow curtain; eet then tippy-toes to whar you sit engaged, wit eyes on these words I've written; and not knowing it has come, you feel eets icy fingers; what startle you, and whan you turn....
You cannot flee, thar ees no time! For at this moment eet attacks; and bathes you in warm wishes.
[Happy Birthday sister dear.] Expressly sent from away down south by your beeg brother [.oegy]
Who should cease to be amazed at the things Nov. 6th unleashes.
© Geo. Lewis Avery † [yours, for lack of a postage stamp]
The Greatest Show On Earth
Accompany me again to yesterday, as we gazed up with hungry eyes; our hearts brimming over with wonder, and our laughter soaring with the pigeons into the rafters, high above the teeming stage of cityscape and bower.
Hear that? A carnal scream rings out from somewhere above the blinding lights, but beneath the canopy of a carnival tent where multitudes have flocked en mass to see Barnum and Bailey debut its big show.
Yellow suited clowns bearing counterfeit smiles frolic on a wooden stage; with barking seals what can juggle colorful beach balls, while astride ridiculous unicycles. A show worthy the price of admission. But our youthful eyes are rudely drawn away by a tiny tear in the canopy, where forbidden stardust steals in.
And there, high above the stage, ensues a gripping struggle between two monumental stars. One dramatically balances on a tight rope; methodically positioning a foot with surgical precision; one digit before the other; inching along the taut strand to intercept the second, who has abandoned the trapeze and now flails like a kite with its tail lopped off; and can only be saved plummeting to the stage below by an overextension of blind faith.
A faith rewarded in finding a gossamer web suspended in open space, the two contenders will rendezvu via timepieces synchronized by the fates; and one will feast on the others failure, or success [depending on one's perspective].
And in the balance dangles our fragile innocence, destined to erode like cotton candy on the tongue; what can only be spared a spider's callous feeding, should a roosting pigeon lean out from the rafter and put out an unsuspecting eye.
© Geo. Lewis Avery † [yours for buttery popcorn]
My Muse Would Have My Head On A Pike
When I was one she was the sun; her voice the wind where grasses bend; soft soothing sighs 'neath open skies; where prairies ring with song with wing; bird, butterflies, and lullabies.
Given I could, granted I would, turn back, retrace to that bright place; eight seasons long I lissed her song; and as she sang a whirlwind sprang; and danced away with her in play.
I guilty stand, let go her hand, to read a book beside a brook; and she with sighs, and tear stained eyes, felt cast away; its safe to say her spirit died; and no one cried.
At eighteen she came back to me, for just a while; and I should smile, the song she sang gave me a pang; in misery, my poetry was but a balm on days of calm.
A hurricane of wind and rain, we soared to heights; and oh the sights; but somewhere she abandoned me; once flung away, its safe to say my spirit sighed, and all but died.
Two score and one, I still am shunned; days are quiet, but come the night a tempest builds within the guilds; when I can hear a rising cheer; warhammers ring, as heralds sing.
She fiercely rides the ebbing tides, on armored steed at gale force speed; I know she comes and the hour looms; a tempest churns; my muse returns; and it may well be, she will trample me.
© Geo. Lewis Avery † [yours for a fast horse]
The Hazards of Heavy Armor IV
Sir Winston, he met a dragon once. Now what was that about? For today when Winston goes abroad, he takes another route.
© Geo. Lewis Avery † [yours for discretion]
Ever strong in battle and ever fierce in war, there is no knight that can compare with brave young lochinvar; adored by the masses, and shielded by the fates, he spurs his winded courser wildly thru the palace gates.
As a clamor builds about him he dismounts before the stairs, then ascends into the ballroom like a nobleman with airs; resplendent in his armor and his tunic made of mail; with its clanking and its clatter like a loud alarum bell.
Past hoards of waiting ladies who would gladly take his sleeve; to draw him to their chambers and disallow him further leave; past his noble attache who from behind their facades scoff, as the phoenix burns to ash and the snake goes hissing off.
He then bows before the dragon; soon the two begin to whirl. You'll see he's kept his gauntlets on, like any genteel man or churl; resplendent is his armor and his tunic made of mail, with its clanking and its clatter like a loud alarum bell.
But he's off step to the music, of which the dragon doth adore; and she (so quick to anger) strips his armor to the floor. Pirouetting dancers trample on his cindered dust; and his armor [as well his vanity] has lost its sheen, to rust.
© Geo. Lewis Avery † [yours for a doormat]
So, What If I Do Sit Up Late At Night Writing Poetry?
By my troth, I own a mistress, and nights I steal from my bed to join her in a dimly lit antechamber of my own design. You would not know of it. For secrecy is the sole key what unlocks the heavy door; and she [my mistress] shackled in chains.
Sinful, as guilty pleasures be, and turbulent [our affair] but the key I hide elsewhere to keep it safe; and afterwards, I toss feveredly in the arms of my devoted [she] who'd be the death of me [she] who has tried.
Last night, shortly after I had slumbered, a weight fell on my chest. I was alarmed to find I could not breathe; oxygen [the precious commodity] was unattainable, and my lungs began to "screeeeeam!" My eyes darted, and there was [she] laughing in my face. I could feel a hand covering my mouth [another] pinching my nose; shutting off the air.
And she, astraddle of my chest [her] whose knees were holding my arms pinned so I could not protest; nor grapple at the air to breeeeeathe it; was laughing heartily. She released my mouth [momentarily] only to press her own against it and kiss the very life from my lungs [long enduring] till a darkness loomed; and shadows leapt before my eyes.
At the final moment [mercifully] she ended the kiss, and I felt her heated breath at my ear: "now you know how I feel" she whispered, and she playfully nipped my earlobe before releasing me. Sloooowly, my tortured lungs healed themselves and I felt the pain of Caesar [a hundred flaming daggers] piercing my torso; till I lay gasping [breathing deeply] as blood dribbled down my chin from swollen lips [she had bitten].
Yes [by my troth] I own a mistress; and the time was our trysts were confined to late hours and dim candlelight. I was ashamed [of our union] so much so I swore her to secrecy. I bade her wear chains [of fidelity]. I kept her locked away in a room with no windows, and little air to breathe [that has changed] she has more freedom now.
Today we dined on the veranda, and this night [in my study]. As my pen scribes gainst yellowing parchment I can sense her footfalls on the carpeted floor. I feel her arms wrapping around me from behind; and her teeth roughly drawing color from my ear. In the early hours of the morning, I will fall asleep in her embrace; and while the scented candle flickers and wanes, my pen will drop loosely from my fingers; and I will yet have fretful dreams.
For [tis true] she has her freedom. But what of me?
© Geo. Lewis Avery † [yours for devotion]
A Writers Bloc By Any Other Name
I could hear the waft of weeping from afar out in the cold, whar the darc ness lashed out wildly with its shod hooves in my soul. I was hongry, I was weary, I was far from friendly inns; but my eyes brimmed wit tears what anticipation sends.
I hoisted up my breechclout, then I hitched into my stride, as I scouted wit my hammers, and both me slanties ogle eyed; till soon I come upon heem, downcast - wit heem s head upon a bloc; just a sighing and a warbling, while the minutes helter skelter d [ticker tock] [ticker tock].
On the sand lay a parchment, and a pencil idly thrown; by a poet sans invention, what caused me smile down to the bone. For there s naught a stricter tariff enflicted by this troll out on his trek, than whan a bard sinks in depression, and bares heem s dainty neck.
A fire is ever needful of the kindling it is fed. And invention doesn t creep into an idle head. What gives me pause to wonder if any a morbid, wordless smith has ever rebounded from the shock of a cumbrous club a pounding down onto his writer s block.
And later ... as I dip into me cauldron, whar simmer s aplenty food for thought; I pause to reap ovation for the cure that I just wrought.
© I am Troll † [yours for inspiring]
Where The Quill Ink Flows
For a poet in need of inspiration there can be found uncharted talent inside the catacombs, where reside many a garroted muse without voice, imprisoned in limestone sarcophagi; whom have existed on both sides of the veil; and only require a backing off of the screw for their tongues to waggle and spit forth rhyme.
Catacombs, whose only access is the shallow archway what opens betwixt adjoining pages in volumes of ancient text. I journeyed there tonight by torchlight. For there abides abysmal darkness in those underground galleries of antiquated vaults; and the earthen floor is strewn with a hazard of skull and bone displaced by artifact seekers wit boorish manners; and one could trip and sprain a ankle or a hip; and lose ones way.
But I carefully routed into a chamber, whar by removing a ornate slab I uncovered the mummied carapace of a lady bejeweled in bedroom garb; but wit an asp clasped to her bosom; both equally preserved. Whan the torchlight fell across her countenance she opened her eyes, and the asp slithered off to conceal itself in the shadow.
[Marc Antony have you come]? she asked, wit a voice dry and hoary.
[Not he] I answered [but another].
[But I had hoped ...] she sighed. [However it matters little. If you are the measure of a man come stay the night].
[I cannot] I replied. [The nights here are far too long to sustain my mortal fiber].
[But you must. For I am Cleopatra; whom no man has denied].
[It is tempting] I said. [But I have come only to ask if you can spout poetry].
[What would I know of poetry? I am a paramour who possesses teachings of the flesh; come closer that I might whisper a tidbit in your ear].
[Well] I said, leaning close. [I could always use some tutelage in the doctrinates of love].
But instead of a whisper, she thrust the viper up at me; what sank its fangs deep into the flesh of my cheek.
[Now come to me lover] she screeched. While attempting to haul me into her sarcophagi.
[Not so fast]! I hollered back, as I fended off her advances.
[It was a good try madame, but you forget the viper has no venom. It is as empty as is your appeal is to me].
She was pouting like a spoiled debutante in the preface of a tantrum as I repositioned the lid on her tomb; but she cheered up some while later whan I returned from a neighboring crypt wit a sackful of bones taken from the stone coffin of a shortish gent, who reposed wit his one hand pushed back beneath the lapel of his uniform.
He spouted french, what I couldn't unnerstand a word of; but I found his demeanor insulting to my sensibilities, and thinking it a good joke, I bagged him and tossed sack and contents into the stone boudoir of the come-hither queen. [Conquer, or be conquered] I said. And I sealed them togither wit carefull attention to detail. [Sacre bleu]! I heard him cry. [Something has bitten me on the asp (sic)]. [Aha]! I chuckled. The sneaky frenchman could speak my tongue after all.
I pity the unsuspecting interloper who next intrudes on their nightlong amour. But as for me, I'd had excess of match making, and no luck in finding a muse to bring away with me; so I made my way alone back up thru the corridor and into the library whar I scribbled these few lines; and then I reshelved the volume I had referenced earlier, and blowing out the candle's flame, I retired to my bedchamber and slept benignly.
© I am Troll † [ever yours for relic hunting]
We All Have Those Days
Life, for all its mentoring, is my tormentor. For it holds me hostage in a cramped antechamber with no windows to gaze out of; whereby I might plot my escape. There are no gulls on the horizon; no panoramas; no sights; no sounds; no smells wafting in from the sea.
From where I sit [palely loitering] I can only imagine by smudging black ink on yellowing parchment as my candle burns [wavering] in the damp draft of my shallowed breathing.
My lungs afraid to [surge] surge against the light of the nurturing flames; held aloft by the torch bearers who bring my daily gruel; faceless custodians, whose ethereal silhouettes dance in agonizing pantomime on the gray walls of my prison.
As they pass, I hold my breath. If only I had the courage to live. And by living, die.
© I am Troll † [yours, for a porthole]
In Our Quest For The Holy Grail
Here lies the body of the undying bard, who pit his pen against the mighty sword; but hindered by bluntness, he was hewn down by a sharpened blade wielded by a brethren.
But fallen, a victim of his own folly, still he could not be erased; for the pencils eraser had been chewed away by his frenzied teeth, even in the throes of death.
Therefore, his scribbling remained on the assassin's blade, indelible beneath the oil of repeated cleanings. Rendering the sword hand unconquerable. For the runes caught the eye of any who confronted it.
And despite their training, despite their armor, despite any chain mail adorning their person, they became distracted briefly enough for his words to sink in.
Posthumously, we honor him by hammering that same sword into his place of interment as a monument personifying his altruism. And we wonder, why the earth reverberates with the shock of his anguished cry.
© I am Troll † [ever yours, for a sacrificial lamb]
Oh Brother, Where Art Thou
We'd met as rivals on the field; each leaning on his crested shield. Your horn sounded the battle cry. And I, with bloodlust in mine eye, replied with matching zest and zeal; convinced mine was the better skill.
Supporters rallied to our call; and some few, to see the mighty fall. Commerce improved, as mead halls filled with thirsty watchers from the field. Song was sung, and ballad was writ; as axe was swung, and shield was smit.
Blood was let, and limbs were hewn; till neither of us could rise alone. T'was then we found the field was bare. Page, nor courser, nor boon was there. The years had wearied them of the game; and none remained to cheer our fame.
There was only us two left of our gild, so we carried each other from the field. Blinded, maimed, and palsied bent, as foes we'd joined; as friends we went. But [do pardon] I must use the privy now. So um ... "oh brother ... where art thou?"
© I am Troll † [ever yours for a cudgeling]
Whitewash the walls of learning
To spite their blindness
©Geo. Lewis Avery † [yours for chalk]
On God, Man, And The Cosmos
Long long ago, in a distant tyme, before God had contemplated man; Earth was one vast stage, with no props, nor music, nor aspiring actors.
Until one fateful night alongside a goat trail in the far Himalayas, a camel cricket farted [my apologies to the feint-hearted].
And the audience busted out in a laughter that has not abated to this day.
© I am Troll † [yours for art]
Dead In The Water
A fog is creeping across the page where stalks my pen [heavy] like a rain soaked garment draped over my mind; obscuring the skylight of mine eyes, till they [sore weary] beckon to retire and draw the shade.
My pen moves but the message [scrawled] is obscured in a swirling maelstrom of sleep-deprived dementia. And I [wide eyed] never blinking, ever thinking, grope my way till I overtake the crossing.
But in my haste I overshoot the railing and plunge into the brink, where I flounder like a derelict in a sea of never lifting fog; a ghostly scow whose prow [my pen] parts nothing.
© Brother Bard † [yours for impropriety]
Zee Archetype Of Poesy
You are zee clever one to know zee juice of zee apple dribbling down zee chin.
For eet ees zee waxen apple aglow wit zee pubescent blush of burgeoning flavors, fidgeting on zee branch just outside zee reach of unwashed fingers. As of yet unsoiled and a stranger to zee intrusive worm, what ees een all sense of zee word, zee epiphany, ergo...
zee archetype of poesy.
[Deeleecious] [sic] even in zee mouth of peegs.
© doktor Zeegmund ze Fruit Fly † (yours for a McIntosh, or Granny Smith)
I never let go
Till the match burns my fingers
A sucker of thumbs
©Geo. Lewis Avery † [yours for aloe]
Brother Troll On Politics
In a time past, as the council of elders sat around the ceremonial fire; passing the pipe of knowledge from one palsied hand to the next; they dipped their feathered quill into ink, and devised a charter; a set of laws [house rules] to be imposed on their children. It occurred to them, through life's experiences, that youth seldom heed the advice of their elders. And thus it was decided:
An intermediary was needed who might relay their edicts to the populace. But whom could they place at the podium to deliver their ultimatums who would not be associated with the aged council? Only a popular man of the people. Someone the masses themselves might elect as their champion. Indeed. A chosen leader.
And we will nominate him ourselves, mocked the council of aged chieftains; while smoke billowed about their shiny heads; and the pipe passed around once more.
We will select not one [they agreed] but two candidates. The populace will vote for their choice of the two; and in their limited comprehension they will believe the winner is their voice. Let the first be a dithering dunderhead, and the second a pompous ass. And either way the vote goes, we will have our say; and a good laugh at their expense.
Thus ended their parliamentary collusion; with lots of congratulatory bum slapping. And after, seated on marbled benches with garlands on their heads, they wrap towels about their portly selves; and squeeze imported grapes past balmy lips, whilst dangling manicured toes into steamy baths where young and sumptuous harlots bathe one another in exotic oils to rekindle in old men, memories of lost libido's.
© I am Troll † [yours for POTUS]