With its absolute control.
As you feel it grow inside you,
You, too, grow to more than wife.
At last, you know the meaning
Of the symphony of life.
This one is dedicated to my late grandmother and I tried to emulate the sound of Native American drumming and cadence.
Spirit Daughter
Spirit daughter, tiny feet,
Treads the path alone
Dancing to a special beat
Off to find a home.
Spirit daughter, we are with you
Where'er you may roam
Spirit daughter, hear our singing
You are not alone.
Spirit daughter, heart so brave,
Though the world is cold
Hungry, shunned, unwanted slave
Though she's but years old.
Spirit daughter, we are with you
In your cage of stone.
Spirit daughter, hear our singing
You are not alone.
Spirit daughter, smile so sweet,
Laughing through the pain,
Warming others with her heat,
Healing them like rain.
Spirit daughter, we are with you
As you make hell home.
Spirit daughter, hear our singing
You are not alone.
Spirit daughter, gleaming soul,
Finds her heart's own mate
Finds a love that asks no toll
And offers a clean slate.
Spirit daughter, we are with you
As your heart has flown.
Spirit daughter, hear our singing
You are not alone.
Spirit daughter, mother's love,
Children at your breast.
They're the magic you dreamed of
Through your fearsome tests
Spirit daughter, we are with you
Love you'd never known.
Spirit daughter, hear our singing
You are not alone.
Spirit daughter, spirit's strong,
Children find their way.
Leaning on the right and wrong
You'd tried to teach each day.
Spirit daughter, we are with you
Ah, the seeds you've sown.
Spirit daughter, hear our singing
You are not alone.
Spirit daughter, body's pain,
And a late life's loss.
Sons and husband gone again
Your body is your cross.
Spirit daughter, we are with you
Even when you moan.
Spirit daughter, hear our singing
You are not alone.
Spirit daughter, life's release,
To tread another way
Spirits wait you, offer peace
And a painless day.
Spirit daughter, we are with you
Let us bring you home.
Spirit daughter, hear our singing
You are not alone.
Multiple personalities fascinated me (it's called something different now) and I was enthralled by When Rabbit Howls by the Troops of Truddi Chase (since deceased). I was always struck by her genius and creativity and frequently wondered what marvels she might have accomplished if that incredible spirit hadn't been torn to shreds. Hence "Song of the Hundred Souls."
Song of the Hundred Souls
There's a hundred in here with a story,
Each one tells a different tale,
Each one with a special torment,
A scene that will never go stale.
There is one in here that remembers
That he tore her in ways never known,
That he ravaged that innocent baby
And turned into hell what was home.
There is one in here that's reliving
How she dropped in a deep well of black
While things she feared most slithered down from the sky
As her hold on her soul became slack.
There is one that can see without seeing
How her mother struck out in her shame,
And added more torment to her little girl
And gave her the brunt of the blame.
There are those that are there for protection
To guard and to comfort those souls
That are weakened and frightened, even those that have died
In the hands of his evil control.
There's a hundred poor souls in the heart of this girl
Some who never caught sight of the sun,
Bright and courageous, such talent, such strength,
This genius, by one man, undone,
What wonders if she'd been but one . . .
I don't know for sure who M.M. was but I know I liked him or her.
M. M.
They told me he was quiet
Quiet crazy, quiet strange.
They told me that his thinking
Stayed outside the normal range.
I saw that he was quiet,
But I glimpsed that facile mind
And stayed to see him closer,
Not quite sure of what I'd find.
And saw that there was much to see
To one who won't be blind.
I'm glad I stayed that morning
That I found out who he was
For I like those very features
That might make another pause.
I like that quiet strangeness,
That slow spreading of his smile
And like his new perspectives
And his own distinctive style.
I like a friend who'd different
From the "normal" rank and file.
The father of my first husband was a kind and admirable man. I liked him a great deal. Unfortunately, a few months before my daughter was born, he was diagnosed with Stage 4 colon cancer and, before she was born, he passed away. But I was rooting for him.
For Cyril
He stands there, the boxer,
His hands in the air
And fights for the future
He knows can be there.
He knew it was coming
But didn't know when
Or how or how quickly
He'd be taken in.
But, now, he must face it,
A terrible foe,
That feeds on his power
As, inside, it grows,
But he is a fighter
And stands there, alone,
For no one else really
Can know what he's known.
He fights for his future,
His freedom from fear.
He knows the odds scorn him
But victory's dear.
He's hit. Takes another.
But will not go down
And fights off the terror
Where he might be drowned.
Someone is waiting,
Many pray he will stand,
They lift when he's fallen,
They steady his hand.
He must fight this battle,
But they're fighting, too.
For husband, for father,
For brother e'er true.
And someone is waiting
Soul he's never seen,
But someone who needs him
To wipe himself clean.
So, fighter, keep fighting
As you gasp on the ropes.
Our hearts, and those waiting,
Will not give up hope.
This one's a little different and might be hard for some to read. I have a weird knack of getting people to tell me stuff about themselves they've never told anyone else. When we first meet, even, and, when I met this person in college, during the course of an evening, she told me about a suicide attempt that nearly succeeded and her reason why. It wasn't a mindset I'd had myself, but I wanted to try to capture it and wrote this. When I
showed my new friend, she told me I'd captured exactly what she felt.
Goodbye
It's not your fault. It's not his fault
That I should want to die.
It's not your fault. It's not your grief.
I beg you not to cry.
I know how much you loved me,
Gave me all that you could give.
It isn't that I want to die—
I just can't stand to live.
He didn't want to hurt me,
Tried as gently as he could,
But I could see his leaving me,
That he was gone for good.
Don't let him know I could not stand
To live when he's not there.
Don't tell him. He'd feel guilty.
Don't tell him how I cared.
Warmth is flowing from my wrists
Once cleanly cut and neat,
And all my body's cold and dark,
As dark as stainéd sheets.
I'm sorry for the trouble here.
I'm sorry for the pain.
I hope you know I love you all—
I love him just the same.
I do not die in terror
For, of life, I have no fear.
I don't die just in sorrow
For my eye holds not one tear.
I do not die in anger
For it's not his fault I care.
I do not die in anything,
Except, perhaps, despair.
I am not all in love with death
As I would seem to be.
My life is just so empty now
And that's enough for me.
It's not your fault—
Epic (largely original) stories
In case you're wondering if I wrote anything that was wholly original. Yes, yes I did but you can see the influences of mythology and my other epic work in them as I took errant notions and crafted them into singsong stories. So, original stories, ancient themes. With this first, I must apologize as I had not realized white tigers were limited to blue eyes.
Ermine and Ebony
She was the queen of the midnight cats
With a pelt like obsidian coal
And eyes like the gold of the sun on the lake,
Eyes that stole Banthazar's soul.
She moved like the wind with the ease of dark smoke
And to fight—ah! The huntress was she,
A panther of lithe and most beauteous form . . .
A tiger, not panther, was he.
His pelt was the white of the mount's snowy peak
Slashed through with thin streaks of pitch black,
And no cat was greater, more skillful than he.
No cat had as near broad a back.
He moved his huge limbs with a grace unexcelled,
His pelt gleamed bone-white in the sun,
But it was his eyes of a soft summer's green
That cause Baleen's heart to be won.
Panthers breed panthers and tigers their own,
But Maleen held Banthazar's heart,
And each vowed, no matter what hardships arose,
From each other, they never would part.
The cries of the panthers were shocked and dismayed:
"Maleen, don't forsake your dark tribe!"
But she turned away and then vowed to them all
She'd only be Banthazar's bride.
The tigers were furied at e'en such a thought
For Banthazar must love his own
But Banthazar vowed that without his Maleen
He'd much rather travel alone.
Each tribe tried to hold them, convince them, to beg
But the lovers would never be turned,
And then they escaped in the deep of the night
With the love they had lived for, had yearned.
He stood in the moon bathed to silvery-white
And gazed at his blue-black Maleen
And gazed at her eyes gold like two tiny suns
And adored with his eyes of soft green.
They slept curled around the most comfortable way
So close that their heartbeats were one
And didn't awake from this slumber of love
Until they were struck by the sun.
Onward they traveled through days and through nights
So happy to stride side by side,
To sleep in the warmth of the one each one loved—
The snow-king and his midnight bride.
But always the tragic will find those in joy
And take what the happy love best,
Then leave the beleaguered with all but their loves . . .
And what need have they for the rest?
The men came and stole him, the love of Maleen,
That tiger, the one thing she craved,
And skinned him and tanned him to put on their floor
So all the young women would rave.
But Maleen is smoke now and strikes like the wind,
Is swift and is gone before dawn.
She takes out her torment on all known as man
While the true perpetrators are gone.
And she sleeps all alone with no panther in sight
For her tiger had died with her soul,
But, sometimes, she wakens and feels Banthazar
Still sleeps with his panther of coal.
Fire and Ice
Once there dwelled a goddess,
A goddess, Queen of ice,
Of ice so fine, exquisite,
'Twould be worth a diamond's price.
Her eyes were cold and icy blue;
Her skin was frosty white.
Her hair was made of snowflake strands
That glistened in the light.
Her form was slim and dainty,
So soft her crystal tread,
A beauty made of blue and white
With lips of cherry red.
She dwelled upon a mountaintop,
Her face raised to the sky,
For therein lived her happiness
That made her long to die.
She loved a god, a brilliant god,
A minion of the sun,
Who'd but to gaze upon her
And, once more, she would be won.
His hair was wrought of brilliant bronze,
His eyes of red so deep,
His skin of golden sunlight,
This god from sunny keep.
His heart was also taken
By the maiden made of snow.
This love was all their happiness,
And cause of all their woe.
For never could he take this maid
Who held his molten soul,
And never could she touch her love
Or take a wifely role.
If they came any closer than
The distance should be kept,
His flaming fingers sputtered
While her melting fingers wept.
Her eyes would swim with icy tears,
As they gazed upon her god,
So sadly slipping down her cheek
To splash on frozen sod.
His eyes would dim with sorrow
Dripping tears of fiery dew.
"Don't cry, my love," he'd beg her.
"All my heart belongs to you."
"Do not think I love another;
There's a fire in my breast,"
Said the goddess to her lover.
"Put my love to any test.
"Do you think that I would be here,
Loving what I cannot hold,
Whose world's a conflagration
While mine is snow and cold
"If I did not love you dearly,
So much more than words can say.
I curse my very being
That keeps my love away!"
"Don't hate yourself, my dearest,
For, to me, you're more than life,
Which I would gladly give away
If once I held my wife!"
And they'd sit there, at a distance,
And bemoan their tragic plight,
'Til her love would leave at darkness,
In the last soft rays of light.
Then, she'd stumble down in silence,
Blind to everything but woe,
But someone wasn't blind to her,
This maiden spawned of snow.
The river god, he waylaid her,
Enraged by her rebuffs,
And ravaged hard the maid of ice
With hands unkind and rough.
She crawled up to the summit
As the early morning dawned,
And waited for her lover,
Her god, of sunshine spawned.
He came and gazed in horror
As she said, in tearful voice,
"I've lost what I had saved for you.
Please, love, I had no choice!
"He took me, tore me, stole from me.
No more I want to live,
And yet, my dearest, want to leave
You all I've left to give.
"Darling, I am dying.
I would rather die with you;
I'd rather touch your fiery hand
With mine of icy blue."
He looked on her with sorrow
For he knew that she would die,
But knew his life was nothing,
That his vow was not a lie.
He came down to be with her
One first and final time,
A goddess, young and wondrous fair,
A fire-god in his prime.
And, then, at last, her icy hand
Was clasped by hand of flame,
And both were lost in rapture
That transcended all their pain . . .
Alas, they grew to nothing
As they'd known they would before,
As the flame was quenched to memories
And ice was seen no more.
And, yet, on snow-capped hilltops,
As the sun sinks in the sky,
You can see fire dancing in the snow,
Relive the day they died.
I have a real problem with any sort of prejudice, any situation where "what" one is trumps "who" one is. It's a fairly common theme in my writing.
The Demon
They called the man the Demon,
For he had those fiendish eyes
And a body formed for power,
Mighty arms and tireless thighs.
He'd flawless skill with weapons