Last Commented Fantasy/Science Fiction Poems (812)

-~}}} Siren Bride {{{~-

Upon the bow of the sloop that bore us in haste…
I heard the call of a maiden as pale went my face!
No mortal maid could make music so passing fair,
I longed to join her, just wash away all my care…
No mortal man could want a dream, so very bad!
I heard the crew muttering, saying that I was mad.
My knuckles tightened on the railing, so very raw,
As my angry voice lashed out, like a raven’s caw:
Let no man judge me for none have been so bold!
I’ll not let a single mutinous swine grow to be old.
I am the captain, and these waters have a power,
So gather round and listen for nigh is a dark hour.

And all the crew, they gathered before the bow…
Every man had heard the music from below now.
Some became fearful, and prepared escape rafts,
Whilst a fire that burned not was about the masts!
Pale and blue: an omen of spirits from the depths.
Whence, came they: from out darkly sunken rifts?
They were rising up and in their ascent so mighty,
I heard songs that would have shamed Aphrodite.
Slender arms reached up and dragged men down,
As terror gripped my soul I so thought I’d drown.
On each dying man’s face was a smile so sublime,
That one might think them content to sink in brine.

I heard the voice, of one who with Dagon dines…
And I felt sharp barbs of the divine trident’s tines.
In the places where seaweed adorns maiden hair,
The sea gods awaken, in their long forgotten lair.
Above, the world is shaken: by old gods, stirring!
I waited for their return, their powers conferring…
Madness to those who cannot grasp the mystery,
Of those who were ancient: before man’s history.
Dagon arose that day, and sent the sirens to hunt,
For those already tainted, to drink of watery font.
I cast to the gods a coin from a Spanish treasure,
And a sea goddess showed me wicked pleasure!

My crew came up from below; I am captain still…
Now we sail forever, seeking living blood to spill!
My bride is a green maiden of the depths, a siren:
She sings when men die beneath our blades again.
Pale azure flame that consumes not, in the rigging,
Announces our ship of fools, her bell dully ringing.
Once, we were privateers, of fortune and esteem,
But now we drift on the sea, in our waking dream.
The old ones who dwell in their cities of the deep,
When they ensnare a soul, it is theirs to ever keep.
The lads cannot die, and in my sleep is nightmare!
So if you hear the cry of the sirens sailor, beware.

- Beneath the World Tree -
A Modern Retelling of an Ancient Norse Myth


Part One: The Pool of Destiny

In the jungle 'neath the World Tree's lofty canopy,
A man and a woman gazed into a shimmering pool.
The man believed he could see much of his destiny,
Whilst the woman saw nothing, thinking him a fool.
And so the man closed his eyes, not looking again,
Whilst the woman gazed deep into the cool water.
She saw men and women, each the other's friend,
But both were as lonely as any childless daughter.
Having known pain before, she wanted it no more,
Not knowing that love without pain was so near...
And so she left the pool by the World Tree's core,
Not seeing that the man was crying a single tear.

Part Two: The Serpent's Words

In time, the serpent that gnaws the tree came by,
And asked the man why he wept in such solitude.
The man saw the serpent below that green sky...
And welcomed its' company, not once being rude.
He told the beast that no one ever loved him true,
Despite that all he saw in the pool was his desire.
It was wrapped in a vision, from out of the blue...
And wreathed in sensations that burned like fire.
The serpent was wise, and told the man honestly,
That the pool only showed was was wanted most.
But that the images might not be true as can be,
Soon come, then gone, like some half-seen ghost.

Part Three: The Power of a God

And so the man now stood before the tree's root,
Whereon rested all the nine worlds in their glory.
The man bade the serpent to bite and to pollute,
That tree, which created the pool's every story...
And so the pool gave it's deceptions never again,
As the World Tree sacrificed itself to divine whim.
Loki was the man's name, and so eager to begin,
The end of time was he, to ease his pain within!
At last the World Tree began to crash down fast,
Bringing the nine worlds close to the final hour...
Loki, god of mischief, in order to forget the past,
Brought about Ragnarok with a serpent's power.

Part Four: The Sorrow of Loki

Men say this deed was born of hate for Asgard,
The world where the gods lived eternally so fair.
For Loki was treated as an outsider in that yard,
And in his loneliness, he sought wisdom so rare!
Once had Odin, king of the gods, gone thereon...
To the pool beneath the World Tree's branches.
For wisdom to prevent the end of his kingdom...
He gave an eye to the pool for second chances.
But Odin was tricked, for he saw only his dream,
For an eternal kingdom that would gilded gleam.
It lasted for only a brief time, 'ere Loki's sorrow,
Arose to make an end to time, on that morrow.

I haven't slept in days
My eyes they do so burn
There's nothing to say
When will I ever learn?

Sweet dreams, slumber
Must a slave I stay
My lids heavy as lumber
Will I be forever this way?

Insomnia, a bully you are
Stealing peaceful sleep
As I stare at bright stars
In your arms me you keep

No, No, No, I remember
A time when sleep came
It was last december
Before this Hurricane

You don't know what
you have til it's gone
Memories of eyes shut
Keep me drifting along...

As I write, as I write
This crappy poem.

"Rest your weary nodding head
Upon this mossy stone for a bed
While I sing a sweet lullaby -
If you fall asleep, I'll stay for a while.

I'll stay all night if you want me to
Singing soft lullabies by the light of the moon
Under the lavender and jasmine too
Their sweet scents chase away the blues.

Tomorrow when the sun is high
And swallows are flying in the sky,
I'll skip with you down Foxes Lane
And to your village I'll point the way.

No, I cannot go with you all the way
For I must go back to my fen to stay.
But you can come and play anyday
As long as your mum says it's okay.

Come back soon one day again
To where we are in the fairy glen
Across the fields and through the woods,
Over the stream and beyond the moors.

We'll play on the dunes with the sandy folk
And listen to the waves as they heave and drone.
We'll dance to the song of the garden larks
And play long after it has become dark.

Then you can rest your weary and nodding head
On a mossy stone or in my lap instead.
I'll sing sweet lullabies till the moon is high
And if you fall asleep, I'll stay for a while."

Small, wizened, brown she
Harvesting wheat in the field
All alone in the quiet of the early morn
As sun's rays touched the earth and were born.
Nothing but silence pierced the air -
No birds to be seen or heard anywhere.
Out of the corner of her eye
She saw that creature so foul and sly,
So she ran to find the biggest tree
So she could climb up it to be free.
She ran and the foul creature chased
Until she found the biggest tree's base.
She climbed up it nimbly and quick
Till she reached the very last stick.
Then she stood on tiptoes and bared
Her brown arms, and with eyes stared
Towards the heavens, to Father Sky
As she called out to him, he heard her cry.
Suddenly she grew wings of silk
The color of silver and new warm milk.
She spread her wings and flew high
To the heavens, to her Father Sky,
Whilst far down below the beast
Was seen slinking through the wheat.

I spied a famished fairy
Cold, skinny, starving
Her feathery wings had lost their sheen
And no shoes were upon her feet.

I brought her in to my sunny room
And sat her on a thimble for a stool.
I fed her bread & butter and fairy cakes
And brought back a smile to her ashen face.

Now she lives in my doll's house
And rides as her steed my pet mouse.
She dresses in gowns of velvet and satin
And is learning to speak French and Latin.

She dines at my table every night,
She savours every morsel - every bite.
Her once ashen face is rosy and cheery
My once famished friend is now a robust fairy!

- The Dying Gunslinger -

Across a plain in old New England, walked…
The wanderer who had been a slinger of guns,
Who had dealt death to many a boasting man!
One bullet still remained, no victim stalked…
By a deadly aim, more terrible than the Huns,
And so, that wanderer set out across the land.
One maid was left for him to court, one hour,
Fair to look forward to as his weary feet tread.
Across the bleak plain of white melting snow!
Compelled was he, by some mad inner power,
To continue on, when he should be long dead.
He did go, where no rivers could even flow…

From the west he came, a man with no name,
Seeking forgiveness, for a life of wickedness.
No man could grant his heart’s fierce desire…
Nor woman, but one with eyes like hot flame,
Who could ease distress, and his sins confess.
And so was he resolved, like phoenix to pyre!
To a mighty stockade fence, his feet took him.
A wall where none reared by living hand lay…
Did greet his eyes beneath chilled winter skies.
His heart was glad, but his spirits were grim…
For he knew that wall where no birds did play,
Save for whatever hour, the lonely raven flies.

Out of a portal in the wall, there came but she,
Her skin as white as the snow, that lay around.
A mane of black hair was hers, black as night!
It was the moment of the gunslinger’s victory,
For he had arrived, where she could be found.
He rushed forward, so anxious for her delight!
Her lips were red as blood, her mouth opening,
To grant her kiss to the man who loved her so!
They held each other, passions erasing thought.
The gunslinger did not live to see that spring…
He was found dead, upon a plain of cold snow,
His last bullet fired, by the maid he had sought.

Baby Mara was brought in and instantly the Meeting Hall seemed brighter and more cheerful. People craned their necks trying to catch the baby’s eyes and receive one of those warm smiles for themselves. Many did and their own countenance lit up.

The Shaman, wrapped in his official furs, stood before the child, raised his sceptre high into the air and intoned a litany. On and on he went in a language unknown by the people. Finally he seemed to reach the end and with a final wave of the sceptre he stopped and faced the people.

“This baby shall from now to the end of her days be known as Mara Goddess of the Sea” with this he turned back to the baby and spoke one last incantation. Once again he turned back towards the people. He scanned the room then nodded to the midwives. “It is time for the Blessings. Please come and sing your blessings to Mara.”

The first midwife came up, she represented North. With a husky voice she sang her blessing of how beautiful this child would be. How when she grew her smile would warm the hearts of men. On and on she sang to the cheering of the crowd.

The next came forth, she represented South. She sang of brains, of how her beauty would be matched by her intelligence. How learning would come to her and how men would be in awe at her knowledge.

The next represented East. Her song was of health. How illness would not dare trespass on her person. She would be healthy and full of vigour, energy end strength and that nothing would be beyond her reach.

Now I’m sure that you remember Gresunda. Who could forget that nasty midwife. If you remember was Gresunda, she was the oldest of the midwives, and like the compass point she represented, down, she certainly was. Short, fat and yet wizened, usually people of her ample stature were smooth of skin. Low to the ground she shuffled barely managing to put one foot in front of the other. Well she certainly had not improved.

It started out as just whispering around the village and soon it grew into more than just whispers. People remembered that it was Gresunda that had placed the curse on poor sweet baby Mara. Now people of Hamburg could, if the circumstances were right, become quite nasty.

Soon the whispers turned into nasty stares as Gresunda walked past. The Ettobels, owners of the local Buyem Here store refused to serve Gresunda and she had to resort to catching Grobels from the woods. For those that don’t know Grobels are furry little creatures looking a bit like a rat with eight legs. They make good eating especially if you pickle them in Bier for a day or two.

It was not long before the whispers and stares turned to outright threats. When Ergthortar one of the local hunters and father to be visited Gresunda to elicit her aid he found the invite to the christening stuck under the carpet with just a corner sticking out. Quickly the word spread throughout the village.

Gresunda did have an invite and it was just her sloppy ways that made her misplace it. There had not been even the faintest reason to curse baby Mara. Whispers had turned to stares had turned to outright threats and now was the time to act. A meeting of all the villagers was called.

It was almost the season again when the Slithers would come down from the hills and terrorise the villagers. They would try to get the chickens or the pigs. Chickens was their favourite food and given the chance they would eat them all. They had a ferocious appetite. Cows were safe, they didn’t like them because they were too big.

I did mention about the Slithers didn’t I? They are like dragons in appearance except they only have two tiny forelegs by which they pull themselves around and the rest of the body just slithers along.

Mara, who was now five years old came up with a new invention that would save the chickens without putting the villagers into danger. The Slithers were not able to eat the villagers, babies or little children if left unattended were on the menu, so they were safe that way but could still get hurt quite seriously. Anything that took them out of danger was greatly appreciated.

Mara had invented a long tube that shot out a bright light from the end. It could be adjusted to the extreme strength where it would slice a Slither in half to the lowest level where it would stun and repel the Slither. In general the people of Hamburg were a gentle folk who abhorred unwarranted killing and this seemed like the perfect solution. Mara decided to call her invention The Nug Resal.

And what a wonderful invention it was. Four of the villagers sat on the roofs of houses waiting for the Slithers to come. And come they did, slithering their way down from the hills. Slowly they slithered towards Hamburg, lifting their heads catching the scent of chicken in the air. You could see their mouths opening and salivating. If you were a chicken that was the last sight that you would ever want to see and sometimes it was literally the last sight before disappearing down their gullet.

At the word of command the for men started operating their Nug Resal. The result was instant. Slithers stopped dead in their tracks and reared up high before falling back to the ground. Ever so quickly they beat a hasty retreat heading back up into the hills. Once back in the hills they would not return until next season. It was hoped that they would learn and never return.

That night there was a huge feast with Mara being the guest of honour. There was singing and dancing well into the night with many barrels of Bier consumed. The next morning there would be more than one villager awakening with a sore head.