The Wind

Hear the strong wind blowing,
Blowing the cause of our sorrow,
Our sorrow far, far away,
Away, leaving no cause for joy,
For joy. Only emptiness stays,
Stays, only emptiness stays...

T. G. 2/24/19

The Sea at Night

Sunk is the sun beneath the sea,

    And now across the spray

Stealing as softly as can be

    In place of radiant day

Comes peaceful night; its silver lord,

    The shadow-spattered moon,

Orders the waves without a word

    To sparkle as at noon.

 

Frothy and light, the waves take heed

    And glisten as they go.

Each droplet, like a crystal bead,

    Into his beams they throw.

Yet, as they play and splash the light

    And never seem to cease,

All still and silent rests the world

    In undiminished peace.

 

T. G. 2/27/22

The Reincarnation of Darkness

 Dispel, O scarlet Dawn, the drapes of night!

Let shreds of crimson cloud allow to shed

upon the darkened indigo of the bed

of night the light of brilliant Eos. Bright

spots, lines brought to being by the yet

unrisen sun, the scorching flammifer,

make, like the burdock does for foxes’ fur,

to catch the day an all-ensnaring net.

 

Fret not that night’s death draws sleep to a close.

Although some busy hours of labor long

are heralded by rosy-fingered Dawn,

you need not daydream, nor in daylight doze:

for you shall sleep when, after Evensong,

again the navy drapes of night are drawn.

 

T. G. 9/4/21

Queen Anne's Lace

How like pure white lace is this inflorescence!

It radiates outward from the spear-straight stalk,

And each white bud or bloom, round as a rock,

Graces the compound umbel with its essence.

 

It grows amongst the grasses of the dale,

Outshining monarch’s milkweed’s hideous pods.

This flower is much more fit for queens or gods,

Though fragrance is there none should one inhale.

 

O Anne, Queen Anne! What would you think or say

If told that this wild, poisonous, white weed

Earned more remembrance for you than your reign?

Would you then bless or curse you crowning day

And every royal decree and queenly deed?

I hope you would be filled with joy, not pain.

 

T. G. 9/4/21

The Song of Nolakotos, Canto I

OSONYL, grant me voice to sing

of fair Nolakotos, the king

most noble who was ever born

of Dynish wife, who crown has worn

upon his shining, golden hair:

the ancient Dynish king so fair.

His father made the Amethyst,

a mighty hammer in his fist:

Twtyl it was, who tamed the beasts,

and ate not meat at Dynish feasts. 10

His mother Ylys was, who made,

colored like trees within a glade,

the Emerald, fairest of any gem

that e’er adornéd crown or hem.

She, with her brother of the Stone so red,

was of the Dynish armies the head.

In Ylon Abak, Chysyr and she

strove from Erytyl to free

the Dynish peoples, and in the night

of Erytyl’s darkness to bring light. 20

His name, at first, was Kolyson,

and e’er he yet was fully grown,

and e’er he acquired honor or fame,

he showed he was worthy of his name.

His golden hair was as a mane,

falling down his back like rain;

and his voice commanded, in peace or war,

obedience, like a lion’s roar.

In fencing he succeeded fast,

and soon his masters he surpassed. 30

‘Tis said that none who wielded sword

could, over him, earn a reward.

Not only could he wield blade well,

he wrestled like a beast from hell.

His hands were hard, his body strong,

his legs were short, his arms were long.

For lengths of time he stood his ground,

defeated ever in but one round.

It was the time he had to face

good Chysyr, full of strength and grace. 40

Only he could quickly defeat

Kolyson, who was seldom beat.

Though Kolyson was not as skilled

at making things with power filled,

he could, when asked, produce a work

from which a lesser Dyn might shirk.

Upon a time he made a thing,

a harp of beauty that would sing

whenever his mother Ylys sent

her gentle breath upon its bent 50

and gilded form. This harp he gave

to her, and the present she did save,

and often, when her mood was low,

she on this gilded harp would blow.

Then music sweet would fill her ears,

and ended would be all her fears.

Just so all things he crafted were;

he made them musical, for her

whom he was proud his mother to call.

Not lightly grieved he at her fall, 60

for he had loved her. Twtyl too,

his father, who was brave and true,

he loved. It nearly broke his heart

when from those two he had to part,

when he had laid to rest the bones

of those who helped to make the Stones.

In Dynish legends is it told

that Lythyar, the strong and bold,

was not of Kolyson a friend,

and each the other wished to send 70

with sword-thrust to the pits of hell,

or else to hold on long and well

to the other’s throat in a choking grasp

so he could speak nor breathe nor gasp.

A challenge Lythyar gave one day,

in April or the month of May,

that they should fight ‘till death might take

one Dyn, and him his life forsake.

Kolyson gave his answer clear:

“Though fight we may for all this year, 80

thy challenge I accept with joy,

for I would slay thee, insolent boy!”

This answer angered Lythyar,

because the gap was not so far

between the ages of the two.

Then each from scabbard sword there drew,

and circling in an eagle’s span,

those two their famous fight began.

In deadly peril on they fought,

‘till Kolyson came upon a thought. 90

The skill of Lythyar he perceived,

and he said, “I would be sorely grieved

if now thy life by me was stilled.

I say that thou art highly skilled,

and I would have thee as a friend.”

And thus there was that day no end

of his or of the other’s life.

They ended then their foolish strife,

and ne’er did any love his kin

as Lythyar did that noble Dyn. 100

T. G. 2018 (?)

The Sleeping Man

THE waves seemed to shimmer with a silver light as the crescent moon shone upon the shore. White sand drifted in the gentle wind that wafted from the south with the scent of lilacs. The washing of the surf along the rough edge of the land was lent a lonely counterpoint by the even breathing of a single sleeping man. The moonlight illumined his sand-dusted pale-gold hair, which curled about his ears and rested like a bed of overgrown moss upon his brow. One hand lay still upon the worn leather of the jacket that was wrapped tightly about his body, while the other seemed to clench ever tighter something that he dreamed was in his grasp.
    Not all things can be seen as well under the moon as they can under the sun, and thus it was that Louis nearly stumbled upon the slumbering form before he saw that he was not alone on the beach. The quietness of the tread of Louis’ feet did not prevent the raising of small storms of sand with every step, and some of that sand sprayed on the face of the sleeper. He stirred and sighed. The hand on his chest dropped to the ground, while the other maintained both its position and its desperate grip. His head turned slightly to one side, allowing several grains of sand to drop from his smooth cheeks like the dry tears of one who is used to sorrow.

    Louis caught his breath, and with the breathing of the sleeper briefly interrupted, there was for a single moment no sound but the flowing water glacially devouring the shore away, grain by grain. He wondered if he should wake the man. He was a few feet farther up the shore than the tide would rise, so there was no danger of his drowning, but one could occasionally find a thief bold enough to sift through the sand-filled pockets of any who made the beach their bed, even in these remote parts.

    Although the man’s furrowed countenance and clenched fist led Louis to believe his dreams could not be pleasant ones, he decided that to wake him would be an act unloving and erroneous. Instead he steeled himself to spend the remainder of the night sitting by his side, making any thief think twice about the wisdom of engaging in pick-pocketry. He set his satchel down and put his foot inside its strap. Then, lowering himself onto the cool, rough sand, he sat still and waited for the rising of the sleeper or the sun.

    At first he often glanced about to watch for any sign of thief or vagabond, but soon his eyes fell more and more upon the slumbering form before him. His head was filled with questions, and his thought lingered upon them. Who was this man, and where did he come from? Why did he choose to rest here, on the beach at night alone? What would he do when he awoke? Of course, this last thought led to the realization that Louis would know all these answers, or as many as the man would tell, when he awoke.

    Comforted by the postponement of curiosity, and lulled by the lapping waves, Louis left behind him thoughts of danger or of day. He watched the waxing moon sink lower, and even as the crescent was swallowed by the crest of the last moonlit wave, he closed his eyes and slept.

*

A glare of brazen sun slapped his eyes and he awoke. With the light of day came back to him all the thoughts of night—the danger, and the curiosity. Setting his squinting eyes before him, he saw white sand that stung with the brightness of the sun’s reflection. He let his gaze rest awhile in his own shadow, to give his eyes time to become strong enough for the morning light. At last he could look at the place his eyes had looked so often the night before.

The sand was slightly pressed downwards, but no form of man, sleeping or awake, was there to be seen. Before the dawn, Louis supposed, the man must have woken from his slumber, seen that he was not alone, and gone on his way, knowing as little about Louis as Louis did about him. Disappointed that his curiosity would not be satisfied, he checked his satchel to assure himself that the danger had not visited him. Everything was as it should be—the silvery canister of fresh water, the soft bread and hard cheese, and the small pouch of money—but there was something new within the leather confines of the satchel.

Louis plucked the small object from its shadowed resting place and held it up to the light. It sparkled and shimmered in the glory of the sunrise, seeming to change its hue with every movement. Smiling, but unsure, he nestled it among the clinking coins in his money pouch. He stood up, slung the satchel over his shoulder, and brushed the sand off his jacket. The way the white grains fell to join the countless others below his feet reminded him of the sleeping man, shifting his head and one hand, but keeping the other clenched tight. Louis wondered now if the souvenir that he held in his pouch was what the sleeping man had grasped so tightly, and which he had believed was a fantasy woven from his dreams.

    Turning away from the washing surf, Louis pointed his quiet sandstorm steps toward the edge of the rough beach. As he stepped onto the firm land, a blooming lilac greeted his senses. Plucking a white and purple blossom, he let the scent waft over him as he walked on into the warm wind. The mounting sun shone with a golden light upon his path, and in the shadowy closeness of his satchel an answering light still seemed to shimmer.

T. G. 03/03/21