Last Commented Fantasy/Science Fiction Poems (811)

PART ONE OF TWO

The castle overlooked the vast Cornish Sea,
where Lady Igraine birthed a strong, healthy daughter.
The High Court of Cornwall feasted in celebration,
applauding Duke Gorlois as husband and father.

Morgaine was dwarfish, with piercing blue eyes.
Some say that fairy blood ran through her veins.
Her fate was to answer Avalon’s calling,
and revive the old ways with the dawning of change.

The child was fostered far from her mother,
and childhood coursed with study, not play.
Her maidenhood kept for the rites of Beltane;
so sacred a thing would Vivian betray.

Arthur remembered the eyes of the maiden,
for he was the Hunter at Beltane that night.
While Morgaine went queasy, silent and bone chilled,
her mind was crazy with panic and fright.

Her own dear brother had sired her child,
the bastard kin of Arthur, Camelot's King.
How could she tell him the horrible truth,
knowing the scandal and pain it would bring?

Arthur’s betrothed, the Lady Guinevere,
was the maiden he loved with all of his heart.
Merlin knew well she would prove herself false,
and in time, she would tear his whole world apart.

Versed in the old revered art of the druids,
Morgaine knew herb lore, magic potions and charms.
The spinning of spells was not without cost,
or she would have taken to Lancelot's arms.

How was it Guinevere dared to reproach her,
with sins of adultery and lust on her mind?
Time and again, she did well betray Arthur;
when her womb gave no yield, she thought God unkind.

King Uriens of Wales, wed the fair Morgaine;
a man old enough to be her grandsire.
At nine years and thirty, her purpose seemed scattered.
The King's son once kindled her passion and fire.

Once she had fought him with all of her might,
till his charm and persistence won her at last.
Handsome and virile, how Accolon teased her,
but that was a time that belonged to the past.

A time when they bowed to the will of the Goddess.
in service of Avalon, ensconced in the mists.
The mark of the blue crescent moon on her brow;
the great serpents twining 'round both of his wrists.

Morgaine resisted the fate of her calling,
not Queen of North Wales, at Uriens side.
She long had been groomed as Priestess of Avalon,
who ran all these years, yet still could not hide.

The wee fairy folk looked on from the woodland,
speaking in whispers none other could hear.
Their voices led Morgaine straight to the Ring Stones;
the circle of life, wherein, all things were clear.

Five years were spent retracing her footsteps,
the teachings of Avalon, she now must recall.
Each day, there was left, a gift near the Ring Stones,
by fairies who longed for their Queen to stand tall.

When Uriens died, Morgaine took her leave,
and journeyed to where seemed the edge of the world.
Her heart beating fiercely, she parted the mist,
watching as Avalon, before her unfurled.

The bells chimed out at Glastenbury Abby.
She thought of her mother and wanted to cry.
One served the Goddess and one the Jew King.
With a heavy heart, Morgaine passed its shores by.

War had begun its great sweep through the land,
while a dreadful homecoming awaited Morgaine.
The High Seat of Avalon was soon to be hers,
the Priestess, Vivian, had been recently slain.

An angry exchange occurred their last meeting.
Morgaine was lost in the throes of regret.
The people of Avalon grieved, seeking guidance.
Rebuild, they would together, but never forget.

Morgaine had finally made peace with her failings,
when a voice and a vision gnawed from within.
She rode hard toward Camelot, choking on fear,
and there found reward for her ultimate sin.

Gwydion spewed forth a lifetime of anger,
the son of her own flesh and Camelot's King.
He charged at his father with hatred and malice,
screaming, then knowing Excalibur's sting.

Morgaine cried outright as never before,
the truth of this deed taking shape in her head.
Arthur was dying by Gwydion's blade,
alas, their dear son, he already was dead.

Arthur’s passing marked the end of an era,
though Camelot’s legend was never to fade.
He and his son were buried in Avalon,
lovingly honored as celtic harps played.

From that day forward, the Lady Morgaine,
cared little to venture from Avalon’s shore.
Her visits were mainly to Glastenbury Abby,
where she found contentment as never before.

WHITE QUEEN


Her flight in dance there was nothing to compare
Graceful her steps shadowed her flowing hair,
Her clothes fit the mood of the music so loud
Her people amazed how she captures the crowd.

Come and see the white queen is here
She dances with harmony to everyone’s tear,
The flora swirls around her body in grace
Never a fear but a smile to her face.

Tangled up in sheets of desire
Wrapped in satin strands
The silkiness slides across
Smooth skin un-attired
Stirring ever so slowly
From uncensored dreams
Of two becoming one
Emotions unleashed within
Brushing locks of hair
From sleeping eyes
I roll over again
To return to ecstasy

Through these moonlit skys
I ride of the winds crimson
fire
I am the raven of the mystic
Celtic oracle
I search the lands for the
knight who carries the bronze
shield..
I must complete my mission for
I..am Atura~

Gaze that pierce into ones soul, the mystery of rare blue rose. Hope of untouchable love that might, only the strong hearted unlock its majestys lite. Magic and wishes grant it might but only in the moon lit night.

Here I sit behind a screen
I see the world beyond it
How I long to be out there
And leave my mark on it

So much care they take with me
In case I should escape them
But one day soon my time will come
And then they will regret it

Today it seems my time has come
They've been less than careful
A gap they've left, I can escape
And joyfully I flee my prison

Up the curtains I quickly run
And then across the ceiling
Down the walls into other rooms
Soon the house is a blazing inferno

How good it feels to run amok
And eat all that's around me
Maybe I can jump to neighbouring house
And start the process over

One by one they began
to file in..
Finally! The Poet's
Corner gathering was
commencing..
I stood on a high terrace
of the castle just gazing
in amazement..
The court Magicians were
ready to spin their magic
Against the still black of
a moonlit sky an endless
line of torches lighted
the cobble stoned pathway
The words of the poets were
inscribed on the massive stones
of the castle walls
The elegant curtains swayed
gently from my terrace arched
window as the music grew louder
The court musicians were attended
by an army of the knight's finest
drummers
The huge round tables were set
by two hundred maidens dressed
in white satin and scarlet sash
A mystic glow reflected off the
castle walls from the ruby studded
gold candle holders that was placed
on each table
Then one by one old friends began
to embrace as if soul-mates rejoined
Tears of joy fell to the red carpet
as a shout from the royal guard
signaled the blast from the trumpets
It would be a seven day feast of
dancing and endless merry-making
The poets had come home..
We were together at last~

Bards who recorded Arthurian legend,
remembered the imprudent Round Table knight,
who quested for long years in constant pursuit,
of the Beast Glatisant, who kept well out of sight.

The beast, they all said, had the head of a serpent;
its body, a leopard’s, sinewed and taut.
The hindquarters and tail were those of a lion;
yea, this was the Dragon that Pellinore sought.

The knight swore in blood his unshakable passion,
before kin and country, peasant and crown.
This Dragon would know the sword of his father,
and with one great thrust, he would lay the Beast down.

The monster was clever and swift as the wind,
leaving Pellinore weary, body and mind.
His obsession brought much grief upon his household.
His spirit grew somber, his words more unkind.

At times, the great beast would bay near his chamber;
so haunting a cry, that he quarreled with sleep.
Come dawn, he would search all the crannies and caves,
from cliff sides to mountains, both rocky and steep.

His prime years behind with no conquest in sight,
he would not accept that his quest was in vain.
Though his sword arm was strong and breath filled his lungs,
the Dragon had taken his life all the same.

Scoundrels and drunkards embellished the stories,
of men frightened senseless, the Beast ate or burned.
One midsummer day, a knight rode out eastward,
to search for his Dragon, and never returned.

The Song of the Siren

In the evenings of Spring would form the mists
Just out beyond where the shoals breakers exists
A maiden of exquisite beauty would appear to see
A radiant Goddess of loveliness, the pearl of the sea

She would smile, and to come she would beckon me
To join her on the misty shoals just as the Sun would flee
A delirious melody she sang, that siren's song
Making many a sailor be lost and to the sea belong

I kept to myself, though I so desperately wanted
To be with this lovely maiden as her siren's song taunted
In the taverns are told all those mariner's strange tales
Of ship wrecks, and sailors lost, to neither storms or gales

Lost in the mist they became out on those shoals
With no reason to be out where the waves crest rolls
Lured to the shoals no doubt thats where they steer
Hearing that lovely maiden's siren's song so clear

All alone in the dark of the night, so often in my dreams
I toss and turn to her siren's song I hear so clearly it seems
Her radiant beauty forever etched into my memory
Of that lovely siren whose song calls me to join her out at sea