Poetry, lyrics, other words and art…
A lifetime of memories
And even some regrets
I took it to the limit
But, I wasn’t quite done yet
You see I’ve got this little itch
That keeps me moving on
To find the next adventure
Yeah, in this life and beyond
A lofty goal
That’s fair to say
But how can I refuse
There’s something just so comforting
When talking to my muse
What is it like to capture a dream
To hold it your hands
Like a beautiful scene
How do you keep it
And not let it go
But for a second it was yours
Like one flake of snow
Only to disappear to the past
A picture in the mind
That may never last
Yet, just for a moment
The dream did come true
It put a smile on my face
Has it happened to you
I found myself wondering among silver moons and broken stars. Here, is where I happened upon a hollow of stardust swept in by a nearby celestial body that was too bright for my eyes. Momentarily blinded, I knelt and splashed the stardust onto my face and eyelids. A technecolor rainbow of light streaked across the horizon of my soul as I jumped up to my feet and blindly ran. I discovered that gaining any type of purchase upon the billowing soft pillows of a cloud is fruitless at best. Therefore, I gave in and sat down upon that very cloud, and with my face held in my hands, I wept. As the tears slid down my cheeks, I could taste the sweetest saltiness of gratitude from my heart as I came to realize I had nowhere left to run, because my days of running were over, and my time for eternal life had begun! Silly me… What little faith I truly had even in the end…
From whence doth despair
Find its rosy rouge
Placed upon thy fair countenance?
Was not your prince,
Adorned in fawning armor,
Enough for your virtue?
Aye, tis with deep vexation
Your king beckons
This besmirching wraith
Be cast off his princess
With its superciliousness visage.
Alas, the bite of one’s own blade
Did bring dishonor upon our house.
Verily, the lineage falls.
Limbo came to haunt my dreams
In iridescent blues and greens
Tiny lightning strikes my synapses
Holding me hostage
Convoluted climaxes
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Escape, futile while chained in place
Bogging down further during the race
The ball is heavy
The weight stays still
Thoroughly testing all my will
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Reflection I see in the mirror of time
Contorted and strained is every line
My voice is silent
I try to yell
Never shall I elude this hell
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Breaking point, I shall not die
Some glimmer of hope touches my eye
I’m still here
Upon my bed
No longer asleep to wake up dead
Valhalla awaits the brave of heart
A sacrifice for more than he
Amour-cladding could not prevent
The piercing sword to eternity
Now his body lays upon the pyre
But his soul has long since gone
Into the promised Eden land
The warrior’s final home
THE LOST HILT OF THE SCABBARD OF KALIESPIS
Part 2
Suddenly, darkness fell and Mika feared for his life. He felt as if the whole of the world had encompassed him. In his panic, he held tight to what he thought could only be the Lost Hilt of the Scabbard of Kaliespis.
The day was bright and sunny with a subtle breeze that did little to cool the sweat forming on the faces that stood solemnly staring. A voice was droning on but the old man wasn’t really comprehending what he was hearing. To his left were two figures that were shaking and sniffing.
Reaching out the old man placed a hand on top of the small coffin wherein lay his precious, grandson. As tears formed, welled and dropped heavily from his eyes he said a silent prayer.
“God’s speed my dear, sweet grandson! I hope you found what you were searching for. I’ll be with you before you know it, and we can continue our adventures… I love you, Mika!”
Mika had not returned that day. His small body was found beneath a ton of earth where one side of the gully had caved in. He was sitting upright clutching a lump of clay against his chest while his other hand lay at his side grasping a stick.
THE END
THE LOST HILT OF THE SCABBARD OF KALIESPIS
Part 1
Legend tells the story of a great warrior of days gone by. Stories passed down through generations, now, are only stories. Some call them pure fiction based on wild imagination when winters were long and indoor activities were few. However, others believe they are based on truth. Such is the case of the Lost Hilt of the Scabbard of Kaliespis.
Mika sat mesmerized as his grandfather recounted the story of the Lost Hilt. In his mind, he could picture the sword fights and the blood, decapitations, and thrusts from the infamous weapon as it sliced and diced through the enemy of the Kaliespis tribe of Shear.
Mika loved the sound of his grandfather’s deep, melancholic voice. He was always disappointed to wake up the next morning having fallen asleep during the story. Though he knew the story well he never tired of it.
Now, Mika, an over-enthusiastic young lad of 11 years, would often play down in the gully near his home and pretend he was one of the warriors of the Kaliespis tribe of Shear. With the perfect stick in hand, he would thoroughly thrash the bushes and trees with his overwhelming skills in swordsmanship. In his mind, he too one day would wield the infamous sword.
On such a day as this Mika was tired after an intensely fought battle. Against the shaded, shear bank of clay that made up one wall of the gully, Mika sought his rest. He found that if he dug out some of the walls that the clay was cool and comforting. This was especially attractive after annihilating and dismembering so many of his dreaded foe on this hot summer day.
As he leaned back against the wall he was aware of a distinct discomfort pressing rather obtusely upon his left shoulder. He turned and with some effort, he managed to dig out the offending clay-encrusted clump, using his trusty sword (stick), and lay it down before him. “What the heck is this?” he wondered aloud. Poking and picking away the clay Mika gasped at what he held in his hands. Running down to the very bottom of the gully Mika found a small puddle of water left over from the last rain. He thrust his prize into the water and feverishly rubbed it clean. Holding it up in front of him he exclaimed, “no way!”
To Be Continued
Her only hope was cascading away in a whimsy of words appearing upon the walls. This spell, the one she found in her great grandmother’s diary, the one she thought was only words of lore, now have meaning.
And, from her childhood, she recalled the eerie words of her grandmother who often talked of witchcraft and her own mother’s ability to deal with undesirables who came uninvited into her home. Even the small memory of her great grandfather, who she never knew, but who she had heard terrifying stories about began to make sense. He had disappeared without a trace.
Isabelle accepted this fate seeing her existence fading into light, like the spell read, but she maintained her composure and watched her very being subjugated into nothingness.
Coalescing out of nothing
But the ashes of tears
From the wayward son
Ostracized over years.
Denounced in his worth
As the gods watched and sighed.
“Tis not the end to our chosen!”
And the Phoenix flared to life.
Kevin Parish 
