Monthly Archives: March 2016
Wanderer, wanderer, where do you sleep?
On the lonely road, do you rest your feet?
Do you lay your weary head in caverns deep?
Or in the tallest tower of an abandoned keep?
Wanderer, wanderer, how far have you come?
From over the hills of the setting sun?
On how many roads have your worn boots run?
On what shores of distant land will your journey’s end come?
Oh wanderer, wanderer, where are you going?
To the greenest fields where seeds they are sowing?
To the driest canyons that sing with wind’s blowing?
Or to the distant mountains, where always it’s snowing?
My wanderer, wanderer, you’ve come to journey’s end.
Rest your tired feet and let them mend.
The name of wanderer, to someone else lend.
For wander no more, you have found me, my friend.
Doing a bit of housekeeping on the site. Added some new poems already, hopefully a couple more tomorrow. There should be some short bits of prose soon as well.
I’ve decided to dedicate this blog wholly to my art and writing, and have thus deleted reblog posts. If you want a stream of articles, fandom-related rambling, and other non-work-related stuff, you can check out my tumblr. I will also have a tumblr that mirrors this site and has some smaller stories and doodles, which can be found here (still under construction).
This site is likely going to see some visual changes as I spruce it up. If nothing else, I need to fix the banner so the bird doesn’t randomly show up in different places.
This poem I eventually hope to do as a song. Written while abroad in Spain, during a particularly heavy downpour. Alternate title is “Mother Nature”
The walls, they ring,
And the windows are clattering.
Outside in the storm,
The heavens are shattering.
The thunder rolls on,
It’s pounding the sky.
It rattles our bones,
To remind us we’re alive.
Had a story concept involving a band but I didn’t end up liking it much. I did however save one of the songs that they would have sung. So mentally read this with a Paramore-style rock sound and female singer.
Your old glories,
They look so perfect in your mind
It’s so much brighter,
You’re a better fighter,
When it’s viewed through the mists of time.
Short poem about the area around a bunch of fraternities at my university, where broken glass from countless bottles has been ground into the sidewalk. Alternate title “Shards of Glass”.
Scattered like a galaxy of shining stars,
Strewn on the sidewalk and streets by the bars,
Tiny specks of glass that sparkle and glitter.
A most enchanting sight and dangerous form of litter.
Trees of blue and seas of green,
Skies of violet and the color of dreams,
Grass with a certain silvery sheen,
And gardens of flowers in colors yet unseen.
In the land of diamond and ruby shores,
Of ancient libraries of forgotten lore,
Bustling markets with multitudes of stores,
On the winds ride the sounds of mountains’ roars.
Anything can happen here, anything at all.
Stories and legends, myths great and small,
Whispers and rumors and tales stretching tall.
Here there be dragons, and the sound of sirens’ calls.
Dwarves stand under eaves to hide from the heat,
While salamanders sun themselves in the hard-packed street.
Gargoyles take the shade by the colossus’s feet,
While in back alleys, wizards of forgotten gods meet.
Mermaids look wistfully at the golden sands.
On shore, pixies wander in roving bands.
Circling overhead fly creatures with taloned hands.
Things of imagination made real prowl this land.
You can take the river there, though the port’s rather far.
If you want the scenic route, go on foot or by car.
Or by carriage, though the view from airship’s more on par.
If in a hurry, just wish yourself there on the next star.
I’m going to preface this by saying this is probably the angst-iest poem I have ever written. On the one hand, I like the writing. On the other hand, it seems a little pretentious when I myself have never been in a war or lost someone to it.
I am, however, trying to keep a record of my writing, good and bad, and maybe this will resonate with someone more authentically. At the very least, we’re hearing a lot of war talk in the latest election cycle here in the U.S., and I very much hope whoever wins keeps in mind the civilian populace that is bound to exist in the same places that terrorists do.
Am I just one of millions?
Am I part of your analyzed cost?
I’m not a soldier, just cannonfodder.
I’m not a tragedy, just an acceptable loss.
I’m not a martyr, or even a name.
I’m just a pawn in your sick game.
I’m just a number, I’m not a person.
I’m just a death toll as everything worsens.
A simple factor of calculated cost.
And if I die, you say nothing’s lost
It’s all part of your proportional response.
Because I’m a part of your acceptable loss.
You say the good of the many outweighs the good of the few.
But what if that “many” didn’t include you?
What if everyone you cared for, all that you knew,
Were the cost, a sacrifice; what if you were the “few”?
Is this sacrifice no longer easy?
Does the size of those numbers finally make you queasy?
As you imagine them, every single face,
Give them your language, your religion, your race.
Don’t make them strangers, but your family and friends.
Would your acceptable loss be so acceptable then?