“Look at that,” he said, “how the ink bleeds.”
It mirrors the way the rivers
of the soul soak in the parchment
He loved the way it looked
to write on a thick pillow of the pad
To him, it was like music, a song in his hands–
all of the possible drawings,
curves, relationships–
all of the answers, questions, mysteries,
all of the problems solvable in that space.
The pen in his hand,
a key to the prison, that white space.
By his hand, a new beginning.
By his hand, imagery–flights of arrows
Piercing through the stark confines
Like a sword dashing through the dark,
Revealing a new light
in his work, in his words
The Maiden of the Gardens
Through solitude’s blooming orchid garden,
A graceful and elegant maiden does stride,
Enters our lady, Camille Desjardins,
Lavender waves across an amethyst tide.
The flowers herald her arrival,
Blossom with each step serene,
As if her presence Spring’s revival,
All in her grace stay evergreen.
Careful she gazes upon their beauty,
with every floret’s form observed,
For she accepts her kingdom’s duty,
to see them on a scroll preserved.
Her brushstrokes capture and acclaim,
the trappings of renown and glory,
To skill and service she does bring fame,
And to great battle, and claimed quarry.
Upon her parchment she infuses,
Life into the artistry she weaves,
She is the favored of the muses,
Her inspiration the lakes and leaves.
She captures the beauty of color and light,
Immortalizing honors with ink and quill,
To bring glory to those who do right,
Her patient hands bear unwavering skill.
This art alone could be life’s labor,
Yet her talent flows without such bounds,
Her voice, her stitch, her nimble saber,
The quality of which astounds.
Her voice can soothe a heart of fire,
Granting peace and granting reason,
As a lark’s call disperses ire,
that sounds upon the warming season.
Her mastery of fiber weaving,
Shows clearly within her stitch,
The way she blends fiber receiving,
awe from those it does enrich.
And none would dare to test her mettle,
As this gentle flower does adorn,
Herself with not just purple petal,
But with our kingdom’s golden thorn.
A woman finely celebrated,
In talents stitched and inked and floral,
Does rightly need be elevated,
Into the Order of the Laurel.
The Birth of Ravensbridge
This piece was composed for the the incipient shire of Ravensbridge. They has put forth a challenge to compose a Song/Story/Poem about their inception. This was my response. Recording to come.
Down by the swan-road we soar on the wing
and from our hearts a song we did sing
Over the mountains it rang o’re the ridge
about the birth of Ravensbridge
Trapped between rivaling nations we stand
This place was not home, no not on this land
Together as people the plain that we spanned
to make a home not written in sand
Down by the swan-road we soar on the wing
and from our hearts a song we did sing
Over the mountains it rang o’re the ridge
about the birth of Ravensbridge
We searched for a center, a place to call home
Two strongholds that stood, both we did roam
Endewearde, headland of swords north fair
Malagentia lit South, by the light of Sif’s hair
Down by the swan-road we soar on the wing
and from our hearts a song we did sing
Over the mountains it rang o’re the ridge
about the birth of Ravensbridge
Our men speared-din worn, our people lost drive
‘til an outstretched arm lent our kinsman to thrive
A spot between moon and shield to be shown
Our wound-hoe, blood-ember and arms soon to be grown
Down by the swan-road we soar on the wing
and from our hearts a song we did sing
Over the mountains it rang o’re the ridge
about the birth of Ravensbridge
Nameless the many who wandered are we
A name and an image we’re proud to be seen
In honor of friends and this place that we stand
The Raven and Bridge is our chosen brand
Down by the swan-road we soar on the wing
and from our hearts a song we did sing
Over the mountains it rang o’re the ridge
about the birth of Ravensbridge
Ballad of the Balladeer
This piece was written solely to honor Mistress Analeda Falconbridge. This was presented to her at Birka 2016 to honor her at her Vigil for receiving her Laurel for her years of dedication and inspiration as a Bard to the SCA.
.
There is a tale set not long ago
Ventures a maiden, rare and bold.
Locks of silver, tresses of flame.
Her songs, her charms, her stories remain.
Fearless she seeks tales, ever forth.
Lo! The shield maiden appears from the north!
Besides you she sings, besides you she fights.
Circled by shield wall she’ll take up the pike
With bolstered hearts, the army ne’r yields
Joined the warrior, bard on field.
Fearless she hunts legends, e’er forth.
Lo! The shield maiden appears from the north!
Warrior, friend, a sister on field
Ready for a tune and ready with a shield.
A leather bound book, great stories inside
If you are not careful, you too will reside.
This Balladeer n’er will leave your side
Your stomach soon filled as time would abide
A hearth ever lit where her songs resound
Souls never empty when she’s to be found
You will find savour burgeoning forth
Lo! The shield maiden feeds from the north!
Warrior, friend, a sister on field
Ready for a tune and ready with a shield.
A leather bound book, great stories inside
If you are not careful, you too will reside.
As fire lay dying, coals lay to rest.
Fellowship lines the walls of her nest
More songs, more tales, the crowd would plea
She’d exclaim, “Said you! post the last 3”
As stories of snails and epics came forth
Lo! The shield maiden sings of the north
Warrior, friend, a sister on field
Ready for a tune and ready with a shield.
A leather bound book, great stories inside
If you are not careful, you too will reside.
If you are not careful, you too will reside.
If you are not careful, you too will reside.
Meddlings of the Minnesinger 