A Really Good Villian

This poem is inspired by a few moments I spent in my basement last week and a sight I saw as I ascended a set of stairs back into the light.  Here’s what I saw and wrote.


A Really Good Villain

His dungeon, of course, is dark,
shadows stitched over shadows
as blankets are laid on a bed
when winter’s pit is deepest.
And yes, it’s damp, moist,
like a goblin’s armpit,
rank and sticky,
and the air is laced

with the kind of chill
that asks your skin to tighten
around your bones.
The dungeon guards
are foul, hairy men,
as large as trolls,
with voices deep,
choked with misery and phlegm.

Maggots swim in each bowl of gruel,
and rats, as quick as fear,
scuttle from cell to cell
to gnaw at prisoners’ toes
once doom envelopes their senses,
but, now and again,
a really good villain
is certain to gift his prisoners a flower,

the orange silk of daylilies
or the hope of ivory tulips,
reminding them the sun still shines
and beauty flourishes,
but they’ll never embrace either again,
sentenced to watch each petal wither,
as they wither, into the grime
of a dungeon floor.

I Ask You

A friend of mine recently told me that I, via my poetry, can craft something special from the mundane. I hope I’ve done that here.
Image result for dewy grass

I Ask You

Where else would I be,
but here, gratefully,
in the old oak’s shadow
as the sun,

with quick fingers,
filches each gem of dew
clinging to the grass,
stuffing that light

into the pockets 
of deep August?

Summer

I spent the day kayaking on a beautiful, beautiful lake with my wife, a beautiful, beautiful lady. Surround by exquisite nature, simple and pure, eagles, hawks, fish, turtles, frogs, trees, I saw a yellow butterfly race across the lake. I might have touched it, if I had a mind to. It clearly touched me.

Image result for yellow butterfly painting

Summer

A yellow butterfly
graced

a ribbon of wind
like a kite

above the black pond,
slipped into the dark air

stitched to the reeds,
tall,

buzzing with bees
and heat.

When I Found a Feather

The following is a true story. This piece is still growing. Revisions will be made, but presented here is how my words spilled from me when I began writing this morning.

Related image

When I Found a Feather

I found a feather,
hues of shadow
and late summer sky,
under a berry bush
where the birds snatch

tastes of September’s sugar.
I wrapped it in a sheet
of white paper
laced with this poem’s ink
and tucked it in an odd book

where time will forever tomb
both feather and words
or gift it to you,
a memory to keep,
my memory of a morning

when I found a feather,
the air was cool,
and the grass
was wealthy with dew.

Sage Advice

My last post inspired this one.

Image result for gandalf

Sage Advice

You see, the air that flounders
beneath the brim of a wizard’s hat,
in that shadow, is tainted
with the spice of arrogance
or the perfume of kindliness.
Mind you, both the haughty and the kind
can be harkened to anger,
twisting darkness and light
into fire and wrath, but, swiftly,
gentle wizards smile,
reminding you all will be well.
Therefore, when in the wood
or between a sea of mountain crags,
smell wizards before you prattle on.
If he wears no hat…run!