Postby skylsganin » Thu Feb 14, 2008 11:36 pm
as Promised.
The day has dimmed the last dull glint of light,
Across the bay the sun gives up its fight,
Diurnal birds embark on final flight
And lights come on across my line of sight
To signal the descent of quiet night.
I hear the nightfall even as I stand
And look across my shallow plot of land,
The shadows fall over the heat-baked sand
As well as my translucent, out-stretched hand.
How I wish that I could paint the twilight!
A curlew calls a song beneath the sky,
As sand crabs scuttle home, innately shy.
In moments such, I would that I could fly,
The better to explore before I die.
Earth-bound I am, though Heaven is my right.
The water shimmers with the rise of heat
And cools around my sinking, wandered feet.
Soft-silvered waves do prove a winding sheet
That will befit me until we can meet
Once more, in that pure, perfect, final white.
An ink-spill crawls across the dusk in black
So now from night there is no turning back.
Who wrote this life? There is so much I lack.
I scrawl your name in stars, a last attack
Upon the darkness of this coming night.
By Fleur.
The Ballad of Sticks Mallace
Mud on his shoes, blood on his hand
storms through the inn like a marchin' band
nobody questions where he come from,
or why he walks with no eyes, yet able to see some
A fine lookin' lass from across the inn,
spots his eyes and his ruff bearded chin
She shakes her hair, and pouts her lips
as the assistant approaches looking for tips
A curious gentleman reaches slyly over Sticks,
trying his luck with Sticks' sight, to get his fix.
He recoils in shock as a dagger comes down,
with sticks facing the other way, and thought blood to be drawn.
The assistant continued his approach, a determined look on his face,
as he crumbles to the floor before the lass' purse case
a mighty loud shriek as the crowd protests,
a firmly pushed dagger through his chest
Sticks remained quiet as the roar lead to him
The inn folk, weapons a broad, ready to tear him limb from limb
cunningly he dodged them all
nodding to the lass as he stomped down the hall
Sticks was never seen again,
Wanted no more, after the mystery set in.
To everyones surprise, shocked across the land,
An ornate steel dagger in the assistants right hand!
How Stick's foresaw this,the attempted death of the lass,
is like askin' how ya can see through glass,
Sticks was blessed without eyes,
to save this lass from an asassin in disguise
by Doors Ages,
I donned my Armour, to walk the lands,
My Sword was heavy in my hand,
I chanced on footprints in the sand,
and chose to follow on.
And children, once locked safe away,
Had taken to the streets to play,
As smiling mothers watch and pray,
Perhaps the King will come.
I followed the footprints further still,
And met a farmer, on a Hill,
He worked his lands renewed of will,
perhaps the King will come.
The footprints led me to an inn,
the voices raised in cheer within,
All spoke of battles, a war to win,
Perhaps the King will come.
I never met the Knight that day,
But Humbled followed in the Sway.
of footprints that had shown the way
Perhaps the King will come .
My weariness then, it did dissolve,
I Hefted Sword with new resolve,
And thus do warriors evolve,
And Perhaps the King will come.
By X
A smile that pauses, lingers,
An arrow that pierces through,
Palms pressed with gentled fire,
A burst of mingled hue.
It is light that springs from nothingness,
And grows to everything
It’s knots that slowly tangle
In gentled tethering.
It’s purposeful and poignant prose
That quilts your every thought
It’s backing down and giving ground
Compromises wrought.
It’s narrowness and openness, solemnity and joy,
Purity, hilarity and promises that cloy.
Innocence and quietness and sometimes without gloss,
Luxuriance and latitude and lassitude and loss . .
By Jael
A very big thank you to the Authors.
and good luck to the finalists.
Last edited by
skylsganin on Thu Feb 14, 2008 11:48 pm, edited 1 time in total.