Free-form Poetry: Listen to them.

[ Sometimes I vent through free-form poetry. I have been trying to find a way of expressing the fear / frustration / heartbreak over the various gun violence incidents that have occurred in the States recently. I support the Parkland students, and the countless number of victims who have been taken in terrorist shootings, both home-grown and extremist. These are only my opinions and feelings – take them as you will. ]

Listen to them.

It’s hard not to get lost in it. The state of threat, the overwhelming feel of it.
Every day the news blares a new symphony of tragedy.
Painting the daily grind in fresh new blood bleaker then the day before.
It makes you want to run and hide, sink deep inside – screaming out “NO MORE”.
I’m tired of these same stories puncuated with violence and ammunition.
Brother to brother, Sister to sister – we all bleed red, and I’m tired of the stain.
Look, so much pain has to remain the same, because it’s too big for us.
I’m not foolish to think we can just wish it all away,
I’m no superman – we can’t change the world.
But it’s not lost on me that some of those tradgeies are here.
We’re fighting a war on our own soil, that’s bloody clear.
Children have been dying while trying just to get ahead.
Killed by home-grown terrorists even though the news leaves it unsaid.
And trust me that is what they are, no pleasantries need be placed –
A terrorist. It’s a moniker, not a bloody race.
The same weapons used in war used to kill the children that your soldiers die for!
There is so much things in this tragic world that we can not change,
Yet you have the audacity to give more rights to a gun then someones daughter or son –
left to bleed out while you jack off to your jacked up assualt rifle?
I’m sorry to be crass but can you all just stop a moment and think!
I’m Canadian. I don’t have a reason to lecture you about politics.
But what you’re facing is detonation and that’s a lot bigger then you.
Brother to brother, and sister to sister – we all bleed the same.
Out the mouth of your youth comes wisdom they earned in pain.
It’s wisdom bathed in the blood of their friends and the scars they wear.
They don’t want all your bloody guns! They don’t want your prayers!
They want to know that they can go to school and learn without fearing it’s their turn.
They want to be able to hear a bell without suffering an aniexty attack,
Yet you have the audacity to give more rights to a gun then someone’s daughter or son?
How is it that gun regulation is so big and terrifying that it scares you less then that?
How is it such an insane suggestion that some restriction needs to be in place?
When did you trade in your empathy for an assault rifle and a collar stamped ‘NRA’?
My heart hurts because I see the youth of your nation standing up and crying out –
In their utter desperation they are unified.
Trying despertly to end the tide of needless violence in their backyards.
I see them fighting for their lives.
Trying desperately to end the tide of needless violence in their backyards.


Veilreach (previously untitled): Chapter Fourteen

[Finally continuing on with the story… Prime Dean Marthis sits in his study and ponders the crew he will take with him…]

Jeramiah had written the five names and key information about each student rather elegantly on the thick rolled parchment. The reason it was so stiff and heavy was due to it being expertly culled from the skin of a large oxen, and it still smelled slightly of dank old leather and ink. Considering the teachers heritage, he had a surprisingly fine script that was almost better then the Dean’s own writing. However he was able to write so finely with his beastly claws was none of his concern.

Five names. And with the cryptic prophecy it seemed the Dean was only supposed to pick two of them to go with him… or was it three? He was rather certain the dragon said only three of them should leave, but did that mean three of the students, or three in total?

His head was already throbbing. He drank back another long glass of Nebula wine and pondered the details closer.

Tanis Hawthen. Age 17. The youngest on the list that was certain, but excelling in physical magicks. He would probably be pretty useful if things were to get messy. He apparently showed little success in theory work, and had been written up twice for not submitting thesis work and refusal to attend the quarterly health assessment.

Roden Draper. Age 26. This was apparently his first year. He seemed to be an interesting one who came through the school on a special sponsor by the Crestfall Guard. Apparently they thought him special enough to pay for a years scholarship rather then have him continue with his military work. This must mean that he showed some sort of talent, right? Unfortunately there wasn’t much in the way of notes on what skills he showed yet.. but he would have some basic combat experience as well so that definitely helped his chances.. the Dean’s chances that was. After all the mission was simply to find and subdue a thief – how much skills did they really need? And he was certain that the Crestfall Guards at least had -some- knowledge on how to track a felon on the run.

Ghav Tarr’en. Age 20. Marthis snorted simply reading the name and looked no further down the notes. This would be an automatic no. The Tarr’en name was one that he knew well and he was already in deep enough troubles for that nonsense. That was an Elven bloodline from somewhere near Kingswood, and if Marthis had dared to get one of them killed his reputation would suffer immeasurable damage. Sure, they weren’t Highborn – but any Elvish blood was far too political. Let alone the mess it would make with nasty politics and a lot of paperwork from the Elven courts. He didn’t care how bright and shining their nomination might be – there was absolutely no chance he was getting them involved especially when he needed this matter to be kept close to his chest.

Maude Lucane. Age 19. Although there was little in the way of background information, her skills in Resonance Magick made him pause. It was even underlined. He vaguely remembered hearing about a rather excellent student who the late, now non-deceased Jen’Rar spoke of. Someone who had the potential to rival even her adept skills one day… was this her? He wished he had paid slightly more attention to the daft old woman now. Although Jen’Rar was horrid at moving objects and transporting them – she was quite good at finding them, and someone highly skilled in that branch of magick would make identifying the real artifact far easier.
Last but not least was the name: Cleo Denwater. Age 63. 63?! Dean Marthis rolled his eyes and grunted loudly. How on earth did Jeramiah come up with some of these names? He expected him to bring a wet-nurse along with him while he was trying to track down a thief! What would she be able to do? Knit him a bloody sweater?

She was definitely out. At least that was another easy one.

He rubbed his eyes and grabbed a hunk of cheese rather unceremoniously and jabbed it into his mouth. He wished he was in a better mood to enjoy it’s rich creamy flavour – but he tried to all the same. After-all, it was expensive.

“Fine.” He mused when he’d finally swallowed the cheesy lump. “He said two will remain, so I leave the Elf and the Hag behind.”

He raised his glass mockingly towards the names of those he would bring. “A toast to whichever one of you fools gets killed off. Cheers.”

Poetry: Queen of the Pride

Lioness; beauty in golden fur,
Calm in the storm of your own power.
Majesty of emerald plains
Prowling in moonlight hours.

Your pride is my family,
Your place is at my throne,
In your eyes I see myself,
In your presence I am home.

Lioness great queen on high,
You are Maiden, Mother and Crone-
You are all things joined in one,
Strength made into flesh and bone.

The sun rises on your back,
The moon rises in your eyes.
Great lioness I call to you,
Be with me at my side.

Share with me my burdens,
Whenever I may feel weak.
Bless me with your strength,
When lost among the sheep.