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Will You Walk With Me in the Springtime.

Will you walk with me in the springtime
When all creation brings forth new life?
We will make our vows in the moonshine;
I'll be your love and you'll be my wife.
Larks and turtledove
Sweetly sing of love;
Nightingales keep our watch till dawn.
Flowers in your hair
'Gainst your skin so fair;
Posies and roses shall be your crown.

take your joy with me in the springtime,
Side by side as our fields grow green.
We will build our nest in the meantime,
As fine as mortal has ever seen.
A cot by the waterside,
There our hearts abide;
Our little kingdom to call our own.
Our lambs play in the sun,
Daughter and a son;
A touch of Heaven that's ours alone.

Come, and sit with me in the springtime
Though days grow short and our years grow long.
When I'm with you it always is springtime;
My heart's renewed and I'm filled with song.
Though I'm growing old;
Silver 'midst the gold,
I'm as young as a morn in spring.
With your hand in mine,
Love as sweet as wine,
I am capable of any thing.

So will you walk with me in the springtime
When all creation brings forth new life.
We will make our vows in the moonshine.
I'll be your love and you'll be my wife.

Crossroads Recognition

Amidst the tumult of this day's events,
There's one with subtle hand behind the scenes.
She shuns the limelight, yet she still presents
The one who is the ways behind the means,
Facilitating all the vast details
Ensuring all the populace has fun,
She rises to the challenge and prevails
From the dawning to the setting sun.
Yet, of all her vast heroic feats,
Her mightiest achievement here is plain;
By taking all the labors she completes,
She manages to keep our Captain sane.
Cry Excelsior, and give the Lass a hand.
She is our Lady, Sirona Boann.

Greetings unto fair Meridies
From this humble bard who's wandered long
In Trimaris and Atlantia many days.
Finally I sing a homeward song.

Twas mundane cares that caused us to depart;
I and my lovely Lady Lorelei.
But now the Fates have had a change of heart,
And led us back beneath Meridies' sky.

We look forward to old friends and new, of course.
Perhaps I'll have some songs to fill your ears
Around some welcome fire at Castle Wars,
Or when we meet to toast our Forty Years.

What once was rumored, now confirmed as fact.
Corona Vult, Good Gentles, we are back!

For My Tammy

Age is but a number, so they say;
All that matters is your attitude.
But as I contemplate you on this day,
Thinking, at the risk of being rude,

That age is something we should celebrate,
Marking milestones as we pass the time
We spend together, knowing how it's great
That I am surely yours as you are mine.

So let us toast each other with a kiss,
And celebrate the way our love ensures
The passing years can only bring us bliss;
Our joy together as our love endures.

On this, our birthday, let me say anew:
I'm happy to be growing old with you.

Happy Birthday Lorelei

Poets have exhausted the cliches
In praise of women that they hold most dear.
So when I speak of you how can I raise
Those same old phrases that have grown so drear.

And yet how can I not give vent to words
Describing she who fills my life with joy,
At risk of sounding trite, or else absurd
Despite the greatest efforts I employ.

For in a choice twixt ego and of love
There never is a contest that I find.
Cause pleasing she whom I am speaking of
Is the greatest pleasure to my mind.

My Lady, Happy Birthday, from my heart.
Loving you is now my greatest art.

My Father's Sword

My Father was a warrior,
In many battles strong.
His armor hung in readiness
Awaiting duty's call.
For many years he served his liege,
A loyal man at arms.
And always he proved faithful
To the summons of his lord.

And o'er the mantle there was hung
My Father's greatest pride,
Given by his liege lord
On the day he swore his oath;
The honor of his household
That he guarded with his life,
Encompassed within the scabbard
Of my father's sword.

My elder brothers coveted
The honor of that sword.
The image of our Father,
They grew up strong and tall.
Within their pride they struggled
For the precedence of place,
Till in their rage they struck the blows
That broke our mother's heart.

What then of Father's youngest son
Born in humility:
Never meant for battles,
A poet in my soul.
Honor grows in many forms
Un-noted by the world:
The one who lived to carry on
My Father's house and name.

The call went out for warriors
To ride in raid and war.
My brothers dead, it fell to me
To represent our house.
As final son I was forbid
To throw away my life.
And so I chose to serve with words
And not my Father's sword.

Although I've not fought battles
Nor ridden in the wars,
My name is known in noble halls
Because I make the words
That sing the praise of warriors
Saved for posterity,
And earned for me a lady's love
That I have lived to share.

So here I've built a home and life
With children of my own.
Upon my wall there hangs the warblade
That my Father loved.
Around my hearth is gathered here
The glory of my house.
A legacy of Honor
Worthy of my Father's sword.

And you, my son, I see you play
Here dreaming of the day
That you might ride with sword in hand
To Honor and renown.
My Father's sword may one day hang
Upon your wall as well.
For your Honor is within you
Written in the life you live.

And if you live true to yourself
Your Honor you will find.
And thus you will prove worthy
To bear my Father's sword.

And thus you will prove worthy.
To bear my Father's sword.

The Rebuilding

The horse-drawn plow breaks ground
Beside the rusted tractor.
No one remembers when last it ran,
Or when last there was fuel for it.
Homespun cloth and leather is to be had
For those with the means to barter for it.
Barnyards sprout through asphalt,
Where narrow farms grow just enough,
And maybe a little more.
No soldiers have come in many an age.
Old weapons rust and older ones
Regain their relevance.
The aged ones say the last days were dark
Before the fall that came.
Those who died did not know how to live,
Falling helpless to their dependency.
Some lived for a while by taking
Until there was nothing left to take.
Some were enslaved, while others;
They sold themselves, willingly.
Many simply broke down,
Having believed the sweet lies
that promised assured security,
Trusting the wolves to safeguard the sheep.
They died, still incredulous
While their substance was devoured.
Still, others hid in their towers of glass,
Pretending to the end that all was well,
And that they were the wise and good.
The few who saw the truth took the time
To prepare themselves, learn the old ways,
Armed themselves against the chaos,
Kept their heads down while judgment rolled.
They were the remnant, they who survived
By the strength of their own arms
And the resolution of their hearts.
They determined to be neither victims nor slaves.
Now they replant, reclaim, and rebuild,
Sifting through the abandoned artifacts
Of a culture collapsed in upon itself
Of its own contradictions.
History judges harshly the hubris of each age.
Babels rise and fall, yet always a remnant
Is left to pick up the pieces.
Maybe this time they will get it right.