OwlsNestBard

Name:
Location: Shire of Trisel, Trimaris

I am in my late forties, a proud husband, father, and a bard. I am a book pedlar by trade and a bookman by vocation. I am a romantic, a realist, and a Believer. I like a good joke, and a bad one even better. I admire all ladies for the innate beauty that is in each one, but my heart is sworn to the fair and gentle Lady Lorelei, who has consented to share my life and my name.

Thursday, November 30, 2006

And So It Goes

Reflecting in the cold hard light of day,
I only blame myself for what I’ve lost.
I chose to gamble, heedless of the cost,
And now that I am done, I have to pay.
The risk seemed within reason at the time.
The lady needed me, and I could give
To comfort her distress, in hopes she’d have
A place within her heart which could be mine.
She accepted my assistance, but held me
At arms length, and told me how her pain
Kept her from desiring love again.
Her fickle heart was elsewhere, now I see.
While she lies easy in another’s arms,
I’m poisoned by the memory of her charms.

A Fantasy

If circumstances were different;
If you were not who you were,
And I not what I am,
Then gladly would I whisk you away
To my yacht at anchor off St. Kitts,
Or to my chalet in St Moritz;
And I would seduce you with honeyed words,
Spend long nights exploring your delectable flesh,
Delight your senses with sweetmeats and oranges,
Building fantasy, mounting upon fantasy
In a tower reaching to the heavens,
A pleasure castle for the two of us,
Unmatched in splendour,
And ungrounded in reality,
That breaks in to remind us
That you are you, and I am me,
Constrained to play our appropriate roles,
Congenial, but separate,
As we are supposed to be.

But still, I can dream.

Sunday, November 26, 2006

For Edric, The Parentally Challenged

Friends, let us commemorate the birth
Of him who casts his name in infamy
With questions on his parentage, and worth.
He chose his name. No arguments from me.
His cause for celebration, I presume,
Because he has survived twenty one years,
Finally, he’s able to consume
To his heart’s content , of legal beers.
So lift a glass, and join in his refrain,
And may he long continue to endure.
Despite his lack of stature, in his brain,
He’s going to authorize next week, for sure.
I toast you, Edric. Your greatest claim to fame
Is how bastardy, in you, gets a bad name.

Thursday, November 23, 2006

Who Says We Can't

The other night I heard Sigurd mention that Owl's Nest had an old reputation as the "little shire that couldn't". But when I think back on all I've seen accomplished in just the almost year I've been around, I think we've opened some eyes in the kingdom about who we are, and what we are capable of. I think it is very reasonable for us to set some very high goals for our shire in the coming year. For is it not said that when you aim for the moon, even if you miss, you land among the stars.



We here joined together
Represent a force
To determine our own destiny,
Chart our own true course,
For as long as we remain
Connected to the source
Of the dream we serve that makes us strong.

When we are unified,
There’s nothing we can’t do,
No goal we can’t achieve,
And you know that we will, too,
As long as we have the will
Together, to see us through
To the dream to which we all belong.

Let the scoffers laugh at us;
They only know the past.
They’re too blind to see in us
The kind of strength that lasts.
But we’ve thrown down the gauntlet,
The fateful die is cast.
To turn back now would be the only wrong.

Ahead of us lies victory,
The prize for those who dare:
To risk the showing of our hearts,
Revealing how we care
For each of us together,
And the dream that we all share.
Come and dare with us and dream along.

Friday, November 17, 2006

The Value Of Poetry

I’ve not been blessed with Herculean form,
Nor have I looks to make a damsel swoon.
Though my enthusiasm for swordplay is warm,
I doubt my skills would win some lover’s boon.

I’ve neither power, nor wealth with which to draw
Attention from some fair and gentle eyes;
No titles, honors, trappings which would awe
Any to look on me with longing sighs.

I’ve nothing to suggest that I might be
One who might awaken passion’s fire,
Except my words, with which to make you see
A poet’s heart, to breed in you desire.

My verses are my only way to woo;
So in your ear, I whisper rhymes to you.

Thursday, November 16, 2006

Tell The Story

Who writes the history of kingdoms?
Who records more than mere names?
Who treasures the lore
Of what’s gone before,
And makes sure the memory remains?

Through long nights I’ve sought out the stories,
The legends of heroes gone by;
The tales that last
And connect with the past,
And remind us of wherefore and why.

For it’s what we remember together,
The we see fit to teach and pass on;
Our mutual story
Of past deeds and glory
That binds us together as one.

If we would be truly a kingdom,
More than the sum of our parts,
Then our story’s the key
That allows us to see
What endures and lives on in our hearts.

Saturday, November 11, 2006

Pathya Vat

A Pathya Vat is an ancient poetic form originating in Cambodia. This is my response to a challenge to try and write something according to its very minimalist rule.

Don't force the verse.
Let the words come
Like birds fly home,
Where they fit in.


The form makes you
look deep within
Your thoughts to win
Through to your goal;


Coherent lines,
Concrete and whole,
Cut from your soul,
Aimed for the heart


Of him who reads;
Who plays his part,
Receives the dart
Made from your words.

The Rescue

A great and mighty noble knight
On errantry did ride,
Mounted on his trusty steed,
His good sword by his side.
When to his hero’s ears did reach
A desperate cry for aid
That echoed through the countryside,
O’er hill and fount and glade.
And so the good knight turned his horse
To follow that plaintive cry,
Which led him o’er a blasted heath,
To a tower, by and by.
Of blackened stone, this tower was built,
With battlements barren and bare.
And from its top heart-rending shrieks
Disturbed the evening air.
So without hesitation
Our noble knight did act;
Dismounted his horse and drew his blade,
And bravely he attacked.
He forced the gate of that tower grim,
And up the steps he ran,
Determined any terror to face,
With his war blade in his hand.
And there, at the peak of the tower,
He beheld a tableau surreal.
In a room filled with eldritch fire and smoke,
Giving all a hellish appeal,
He saw a lady of noble mien,
Dressed in ribbons and lace,
A gown of the finest linen,
With ruffles that framed her face.
And there, across the tower,
An image the knight found queer,
Was a scaly slimy dragon
Quivering with fear.
Still, the knight raised his battle sword,
The slinking worm to slay.
But the dragon spoke, so he paused to hear
What the loathsome creature would say.
“O noble knight,” the dragon said,
“You misunderstand what you see.
Yon princess is one evil bitch,
And the cry of help came from me!”
Although, tis true I captured her,
And sought of her a meal,
I never thought that I'd be on
The raw end of the deal.
By the time I'd flown her back to here,
I was ready to cough up a lung.
I learned why she was a virgin still,
There's none can endure her tongue!
Screaming, I can deal with.
Crying, I take in stride.
But her whining and complaining
Made me long for suicide!
So strike me down, Sir Knight, if you must.
Strike me, and end my life.
Claim your royal princess,
And take her for your wife.
May my treasure bring you comfort,
And help you to maintain
Your pride when you discover that
You've married a royal pain."
The dragon ceased,and hung his head,
The picture of despair.
And the knight stood, hesitating,
In the center of the lair.
"I'm waiting," said the princess.
"Kill the beast, and we'll celebrate.
Mother and I can't wait to move in
To your castle, and re-decorate."
Then, with new determination,
The hero gripped his sword,
Struck with firm precision
And claimed the dragon's hoard.
Now, the knight still rides on errantry
Over the country wide.
On the scaly back of a flying steed,
Our hero is sen to ride.
And as for th royal damsel?
Well, all that I can say
Is after he tied and gagged her
She made a lovely flambe'.

Friday, November 10, 2006

Greetings to a Bardic List

My fellow poets, greetings and well met.
You may know me as Raemun Mac Aoidh,
Called Raymond the Scot here in Meridies,
Where I am bard of the Shire of Owl's Nest;
A highlander of the sixteenth century,
And known to play with rapiers, now and then;
But primarily in service to the Muse,
Recording what she stuffs into my brain.
Happy am I to find this gathering
Of fellow versifiers on the Web,
For as iron sharpens iron, so our verse
Is made the better when we share it, thus.

United in our service to our pens,
Let us be good critics, and good friends.

Thursday, November 09, 2006

We Stand On The Shoulders Of Giants

We stand on the shoulders of giants.
We're the heirs of all who've been here before.
We build on the achievements of our heros
So those who follow us can be even more.

In the beginning, a few came together
To re-create the honor of an age past.
Just a party in a back yard playing dress-up,
Who would have thought that such an idea would last?
Four decades later, the party continues
From coast to coast, and even over the sea.
A society of chivalrous adventure
Living life anachronistically.

We stand on the shoulders of giants.
We're the heirs of all who've been here before.
We build on the achievments of our heros
So those who follow us can be even more.

Do you think those founders ever imagined
What would grow from what began as a lark?
Making things up by trial and error,
Building a fire from that first tiny spark.
We speak their names with unbridled reverence,
Repeat their stories by the candle light's gleam.
They blazed the trail, and we follow after
In pursuit of that same midieval dream.

And we stand on the shoulders of giants.
We're the heirs of all who've been here before.
We build on the achievements of our heros
So those who follow us can be even more.

So those who follow us can be even more.

Thursday, November 02, 2006

The Owls Are Flying Again

As Autumn turns green leaves to gold,
And the days grow short and cool,
It’s tempting to think one can take one’s ease
By the fire, and let none fear misrule.
But warnings as well as leaves
Are dancing on the wind:
To the Lords of Talmere,
They’d best beware.
The Owls are flying again.

Twice before on Honor’s field
Owl’s Nest and Talmere have met.
And who shall keep the shrubbery
Has not been settled yet.
Now Owl’s Nest comes with sword and board,
It’s ownership to win.
So if you ask why His Grace
Has a worried face,
The Owls are flying again.

November’s melancholy winds
Echo with martial drums.
Southward, the peasantry huddle inside
As the Might of Owl’s Nest comes.
And when the dust settles, and the heralds declare
That all deeds of valor must end,
We’ll bring the bush back
Clad in red gold and black
When the Owl’s fly homeward again.