ACT II: A Tale of Derring-Do
Inspired by Blue Moon Rising by Simon R Green

I

Once in a blue moon is this story told,
of bravery and valour justly famed,
of knights of old and daring deeds so bold
that history is by their colour stained.

A man will journey unto distant parts
upon a magic beast become his friend.
This journey will perfect his martial arts.
His kingdom, once returned, he shall defend.

Across the land, great challenges he'll face; 
such horrors made of magic, flesh and bone.
He'll meet his foes with mind and sword and mace 
until his skills and wit are surely honed.

At quest's end waits a monster in a cave;
a dragon our young hero must defeat.
It keeps a stolen princess as it's slave.
He'll fight until it falls dead at his feet.

This story lives in legend for all time:
The knight will slay the dragon for its crimes.


II 

"The knight will slay the dragon for its crimes." 
Jack winced at that, he hated every word.
Why me? He thought, against cathedral chimes;
his send-off on this ancient quest absurd.

The crowd roared its approval as he left,
his quest; to fetch the maiden from the beast.
His young enthusiasm was bereft.
He wished his stomach's butter-flies would cease.

He met his mount at town's edge, on the lane;
A horse, but with a difference on its brow.
A unicorn - so white! - shone in the rain.
"I'm John," it said, "you're Jack. I never throw."

"Well, John, that's good; I'd rather stay aboard."
He climbed atop the not-horse like a pro.
"I see you've not known woman, thank the Lord."
Jack started. "Is there something I don't know?"

"By lore, only pure souls can mount my back."
"That sounds a contradiction," muttered Jack.


III

"That sounds a contradiction," muttered Jack.
"It's true, these roots can walk," replied the tree.
"Then clear my path or this here axe will hack."
"No deal, good knight. You haven't paid the fee."

"What fee, you twig? Me and my 'corn would pass."
"A pound of flesh, or we will remain shut."
"Mine or my 'corn's, from belly, back or arse?"
"Call me a 'corn once more, I'll have your nuts!"

The tree was adamant, and very proud,
so Jack took action, turning to his sword.
He chopped a root; a pound, his hand allowed,
and passed it to the next tree, who looked bored.

A path did open, huge trunks slid aside,
so John and Jack proceeded into shade.
The trees around shuddered and tittered snide,
as in their wake a monstrous fuss was made.

"I'll bite your legs off, bastards, just you wait!"
They left the trees behind to seek their fate.


IV

They left the trees behind to seek their fate,
and found an icy tundra in their path.
"And how will I," asked John, "my hunger sate?
I eat not snow, nor relish icy baths."

"Just move," said Jack, "we'll manage to find food."
Towards the white horizon they did trek.
"My hooves are cold." "Shut up, not in the mood."
"Snow makes me prance. It gives me a stiff neck."

Then suddenly a screeching split the air.
Jack's sword flew from his scabbard nervously.
A Yeti leapt in anger at the pair.
"Asleep I've been, until hooves stepped on me!"

Then paw met sword and blood pattered on snow,
but angry Yetis don't such warnings heed.
It lunged, and lost its head to Jack's next blow.
"I'll build a fire, now we have some feed."

As unicorn and knight ate "Krispy Yet",
The orange Eastern sun did slowly set.


V

The orange Eastern sun did slowly set,
and shadows did cascade upon a path.
It led the way until the summit met.
"A staircase to a mountain's top," John laughed.

"I'm bloody waiting here," he stated then,
"I'm not a goat. I'll guard the camping gear.
The legends state this is the dragon's den.
Good luck, my friend. Don't give in to your fear."

Jack thanked the unicorn become a pal,
and started up the steps to fiery hell.
He hoped to kill the dragon, save the gal,
mayhap survive his burning thighs as well.

He climbed all night, and half into the day,
until his legs were jelly in the sun.
At last, the summit! Yet he did delay
to rest before his sword went seeking fun.

Before the big black hole, he made his plan.
The dragon would be dead in hours' span!


VI

The dragon would be dead in hours' span,
but only if some light was to be found.
Jack navigated by an outstretched hand,
until he groped a warm and fleshy mound.

A woman's scream let loose an inch away.
"Get off my breast!" Jack's face filled up with heat.
"I come here for the dragon I must slay!"
"YOU FILTHY KNAVE, RELEASE THE LADY'S TEAT!"

A flame dispelled the darkness like the sun;
above Jack's head a mighty serpent reared.
His bladder filled, his legs wanted to run!
He looked at her, and all else disappeared.

Her eyes were perfect emeralds in the light,
her hair the fairest frame, her face of art.
"Jasmine," she said, her face a dreamy sight.
"Me Jack," (drowned by the beating of his heart).

"GIVE ME A BREAK!" the mighty dragon groaned.
Love at first sight had claimed them for its own.


VII

Love at first sight had claimed them for its own,
and so they talked all evening of them two.
By nightfall Jack's old plan was rotting bones,
they'd made their minds before the day was through.

The kingdom, Jack would tell, now lacked its beast,
and Jasmine would return to be his bride.
The crowds would yell and sing and dance and feast.
The dragon had a job, to keep his pride.

He'd guard the borders from all enemies,
for fifty sheep and gold on which to sit.
Two lovers 'cuddled' all night, 'not to freeze',
and morning saw them flushed with benefits.

The unicorn was glad to see them back,
but on his saddle neither now would fit.
John fixed a disapproving glare on Jack.
"Only pure souls may mount, you dirty git!"

And so they walked home in the damp and cold.
Once in a blue moon is this story told. 

Author Notes

. . BEFORE YOU READ: I don't wish to overly contaminate the poetry with notes, but please bear with me briefly. Syllable count is a much-debated subject, and there are many words with differing numbers of syllables depending on how they are pronounced/read. Hence, before you start, please bear in mind the following usages and counts in my poem: Steel - 1 syllable Fire - 2 syllables ("Fi-yar") Natural - 2 syllables ("Nach-ral" - colloquial) Tickling - 2 syllables ("Tick-ling" - colloquial) Genius - 2 syllables ("Geen-yus" - colloquial) Pale - 2 syllables ("Pay-al") Every - 2 syllables ("Ev'-ry" - colloquial) Power - 2 syllables ("Pow-er") Separate - 2 syllables ("Sep-rit" - colloquial) History - 3 syllables ("His-tor-ry") Difference - 2 syllables ("Diff-rence" - colloquial) Hours' - 2 syllables ("ow-ars'") I have done this rather than write the words "in diallect", as I believe words look better spelled "correctly". Anyway, apologies for holding you up; please enjoy! _______________________________ Actual Author's Notes/Credits First of all, if you've made is as far as this, I salute you! I also thank you humbly for slogging all the way to the end of this most epic of endeavours. These two crowns are not linked other than as part of a poetic journey I have taken in their creation. I could not choose between them for my contest entry, so I have posted both; think of this as a "double A-side release" :-) Now, this has become a bit of a labour of love for me, and it's got to the point where I can no longer see the wood for the trees. You've read my thoughts on syllables above, and I am happy with the syllable count. I know my reasoning is inconsistent (some to be pronounced colloquially, others not), but if it's good enough for Chaucer, it's good enough for me ;-) HOWEVER, I am aware that the iambic stresses may be out at times, so my eyes are open for pointers on exactly where it is out, and how damaging this is. THANK-YOUS Thankyou very much Hitcher for both your comments and your support and suggestions; and to Babylonia and Domino for very similar reasons :-) Additional thanks to Rama Devi and (once again) Domino for further pointers after initial release. Your words have been absorbed and heeded. I would also like to say a big thankyou to Poetry's Protege for conjuring up such a fascinating and challenging contest. Please click the contest link at the top to read the parameters, as I can neither abbreviate satisfactorily nor do justice in explanation to the words of the original. I hope you enjoyed joining me on my journey! Mike (aka Fleedleflump) . .

I

In darkest days, the legends surely tell,
when Evil's shadow casts a choking pall
and monsters roam the land, ugly and fel,
a hero will arise with wherewithal.

His fire will split the night like heaven's dawn,
his strength will vanquish any beasts of woe.
With justice in his hand, he'll smite Hell's spawn,
alight with righteous power and God's glow.

The darkness will retreat before his might
and once again the kingdom will know peace.
The hero's deeds will win the queen's delight;
a princess for his hand, and mighty feasts!

In merriment we'll toast to his success,
this hero come to clean the kingdom's mess.


II

"This hero, come to clean the kingdom's mess,
shall fight the beast, like Beowolf in the tales!"
the herald yelled, much to our Dave's distress;
another saga, fools to soon regale.

He tightened up his greaves, strapped on a sword,
and donned his horny helm without a sound
to any of the crowd hung on his word;
he knew the horror where his soul was bound.

'I'm like a whore in front of altar boys,'
he thought as hopeful faces filled his view.
Head full of angst, aloud with terror's noise;
the screams of fear inside. If but they knew.

The cowardice raged hard within his mind,
yet determined to Dave's courage unbind.


III

Yet determined to Dave's courage unbind,
the wicked beast chose right then to attack.
With rancid maw and eyes of mad design,
it feared the crowd then sat on a haystack.

Our Dave approached, a-scratching at his head.
"You'd better leave, or die right here," he said.
All twenty feet of monster roared with dread,
"I'll neither do, for this hay is my bed!"

The hero's sword unsheathed shone in the sun
as though the light fought on the side of Dave.
He smote the monster's knee, then turned to run
as claws swept shreds from any sense of brave.

The monster chased our hero round the town,
as screams rang out, accompanied by frowns.


IV

As screams rang out, accompanied by frowns,
the beast called out in pleasure and it swelled.
It stopped to laugh and turned from grey to brown;
it grew as fear washed over it in yells.

Its muscles bulged like iron in the light,
distended claws cast shadows on the ground.
Our hero paused for breath after his flight
and watched it grow to terror's heinous sound.

An idea formed within his ailing brain,
and so Dave turned and ran with all his speed.
The beast let out a laugh of cold disdain,
anticipating smorgasbords of feed.

Saliva flying from its snarling face,
the monster gave a roar and then gave chase.


V

The monster gave a roar and then gave chase,
and followed Dave into a wooded glen.
As trees replaced a populated place,
our hero turned and smiled a smile of Zen.

He threw his sword aside and set his chin,
then balled his fists to rest upon his hips.
As fangs approached he swallowed his chagrin
and blew a kiss with wildly puckered lips.

The beast then halted, standing over Dave
and cocked its head just gently to one side.
"I took you for a Knight, man, not a knave,"
it said, "those macho men I can't abide."

Our hero looked into the monster's eye.
They shared a tear and knew that one must die.


VI

They shared a tear and knew that one must die,
but for a moment both did show regret.
They each had roles to play, none could deny,
and blind as justice was, the laws were set.

The beast unleashed a roar of primal ire,
and with one swipe it tore our hero's guts
into a shower of ribbons, blood and mire,
and so he fell amongst the leaves and nuts.

Hysteria then drove into Dave's brain
and forced a laugh that struck the monster's ears.
It screamed and clasped its head against the pain
as giggles tore its mind and played on fears.

Our hero laughed in horror, his heart sank.
The beast roared out and steadily it shrank.


VII

The beast roared out and steadily it shrank
until it was but seven inches tall.
Without the screams and fear to feed its bank
the laughing did its work and cast its pall

across the monster, turning it to naught.
The crowds arrived and trampled it to dirt
just as Dave's eyes turned heavenward, devout.
He'd done his job, and now life didn't hurt.

The story goes that laughter saved the day,
a happy truth as life returned to norm,
but not the deeper truth to fears allay;
that sacrifice can come in many forms.

He did this deed with heart, and did it well
in darkest days, the legends surely tell.

Author Notes

. . I hope you enjoyed the read. A crown of sonnets is seven sonnets which tell a tale. The final line must be the same as the opening line, and each sonnet must begin with the final line of the preceeding one. Crowns often take the form of an ode, addressed to a single person, but this is not a requirement. I have dotted humour through the tale intentionally, in order to better impart the underlying meaning. Mike :-) . .

Chapter 3
Seven Shades of Inspiration

By Fleedleflump

A dictionary isn't poetry
but avaricious minds live by the words
spewed forth in lengthy lexicology;
the perspicacity of the absurd.

They clamour with industrious aplomb
for phrases that will raise attentive glee,
vocabulary's intellectual bomb
exploding with applause's verity.

Sometimes the word 'betrayal' springs to mind
to barricade a foot inside the door
of inspiration's benefits, designed
to see the muse bamboozled and abhorred.

It's then that monosyllables will reign;
the effervescent muse never abstains.

*

The effervescent muse never abstains;
instead it innovates to seize the day,
unhindered by the moribund cold rain
that dampens appetites and spreads dismay.

When desolation rules the atmosphere,
derogatory words will denigrate
our restless souls' demonstrable dark fears
with detrimental rants for anger's sake,

but jocularity defies the draw
of desperate depression in our hearts,
reminding us the future's still in store,
with all the ramollescence that imparts.

It's then, within our fortresses of light,
a humorous approach can grant insight.

*

A humorous approach can grant insight
by poking at the sanity of life
until unravelled laughter shines a light
and threads the darn repairing undue strife

with yarn spun out from possibilities
and needles sharp as sly shenanigans.
The silly witticism grants us ease,
a pun is ammunition for our guns.

We duel naysayers dogging at our heels
denouncing our unmitigated joy,
but just occasionally they strike our wheels;
a vulnerability they can destroy.

When levity's bombarded from the sky,
sometimes the Katharos can pass us by.

*

Sometimes the Katharos can pass us by,
depositing our conscience in a pit,
extolling all the privilege denied
us lowly ones denied all benefit

until the end of terminality;
inevitable destination's dark
existence for a personality
once earmarked for the pinnacle of spark.

Intolerable as these thoughts may seem,
a force exists to demonstrate the hope
of family and dreams of great esteem;
the strength we venerate to help us cope.

When navigating in your nadir's lee,
romantic beauty is your herbal tea.

*

Romantic beauty is your herbal tea;
a bolstering tisane to fight the cold,
the gift of shared responsibility,
the path to replication for the bold!

We postulate in one another's stew,
pontificate on saturation's bliss
and paint the walls in our emulsion's hue;
reality is spectrum's armistice.

In colours multitudinous sublime
we sear towards our destiny as one;
aligned, designed, delineated time
will line up our pathology begun

as spirits both chaotic and in love,
so randomly we tease what's up above.

*

So randomly we tease what's up above,
enrapt by our psychoses wrapped in text;
our minds create cocoons, protective gloves
and freedom flirts at anarchy's behest

so soon majestic carpets are our mounts,
wove from the mythical our minds create
and fuelled by poetry of grand word count;
the generating urge we're called to sate.

Lost in our consciousness, utopia,
its palpable arrangement boldly penned,
unfolds in rainbow's synaesthesia
and we're divinity, our will amend,

for every stroke of quill emancipates
anthropomorphic presences of state.

*

Anthropomorphic presences of state
preside within palatial fantasy,
unhinging all the physics we relate
to living in our false reality.

And so the 'they' are lost to history,
become the fated 'we' of destiny.
Through strata of perception's mystery
our muse's destination's enemy

is myriad distractions referenced here;
by definition, inspiration's death
becomes pretentious trappings we all fear,
philosophy of wordplay halting breath.

Absurdist perspicacity can see;
a dictionary isn't poetry.

Author Notes

. . Like a precious stone turning beneath a jeweler's light, inspiration has many facets that call to us in different ways at different times. This is my journey from concept, through those very facets, to my personal conclusion. I'm sure we all have our own pespectives on our stones - like Cleopatra, writers are creatures of infinite variety; both a blessing and a curse. My thanks to yeltel for sponsoring this wonderful contest. My thanks also to jgrace for the beautiful artwork. The requirements are that every line must contain at least one word of at least three syllables, and that the poem must be in a rhyming structure over at least three stanzas - beyond that, the form is up to us. I chose to write a Crown of Sonnets. This is seven sonnets in sequence, connected by repeating the final line of each as the first line of the next. In addition, the final overall line must be the same as the opening line, bringing the whole piece full circle. Each sonnet is three quatrains with an ABAB rhyme scheme followed by a rhyming couplet, with all 14 lines written in iambic pentameter. Some definitions that may or may not be necessary: Ramollescence - a softening or mollifying Synaesthesia - the visualisation of sound and other senses in swathes of colour, as often experienced by the blind. Katharos - word of greek origin meaning untainted, peaceful, clean and pure Tisane - an infusion of leaves or flowers used as a beverage Anthropomorphic - having the attributes of a human form Perspicacity - acuteness of discernment or perception My grateful thanks for stopping by, and I hope you enjoyed the read :-) Mike . .

Chapter 4
By Nightmare's Dark Decree

By Fleedleflump

In barren dreams, I suffer endless nights
of dark derision, platitudes unclean,
that beckon blighted, pestilent insights
to rabid filth, befouled beyond obscene.

These devil's tunes, to which I click my heels
with unforced, sly irreverence and fear,
are melodies to rob my fervour's steel
with repetitious horror without peer.

And so, as dawn emancipates my thoughts
with fresh arrears to pay as hours caress
all egos as they stroke with passings bought
by purpose, I will finally confess

the haunted landscape where night terrors stride,
the nightmares that may leave me petrified.



The nightmares that may leave me petrified
begin upon a road, of cars devoid.
As wind accosts dark emptiness, I'm tied
to shades of brown that make me paranoid.

Upon the road is cardboard once alive,
now crumpled by the hatred of obscured
dark recollections, sight for which I strive
through muddy shadows traitor thoughts have lured.

The boxes cannot stay, my panic rides
upon a wave of desperation's clutch.
Illumination fades; I can't abide
the cardboard's droll and dust-affected touch

that drives a spike of hatred through my soul,
and so I flee into the deepest hole.



And so I flee into the deepest hole,
while somewhere in the dark, a malice waits
to set a giant boulder free to roll
without a destination to its fate.

I only know those boxes on the road
are waiting for the hands that cannot move
and somewhere is the boulder's fell abode
where Destiny lies helpless in its groove.

I shriek in fear, protective anger's fate
when rolling rock's behest remains unknown
and all my hope begins to dissipate
as senseless visions will not be outgrown

despite the years that separate their call.
I am a child alone, within the thrall.



I am a child alone, within the thrall
of measurements along a tube of glass,
abused by horror, robbed of wherewithal
by black events in nightmares come to pass.

A plunger sinks, syringes loose their wares.
Repulsive liquids slide into my veins
against my will, as cardboard boulders stare.
The victim of a vote I can't abstain.

I reach without a hand to grasp a tree
ephemeral as justice wrought in hopes.
No explanation's saving grace for me;
I'm lost between the lines of terror's tropes,

forever victim, raging and confused,
participant and torturer amused.



Participant and torturer. Amused,
I turn to find myself upon a car
that surfs towards a pavement underused
by populations raised by folk afar

in media and perspicacious lies
to ignorance. I crash upon their shores
and fly across a field of eyes surprised
towards a razor fence on concrete floor.

Before I'm dashed into a hundred parts,
I fade into a vacuum; stars' repast,
and breathe no air as colour's vim departs
the desolation of the future's past.

Celestial visions no man understands
bereft of chance, I grasp loss without hands.



Bereft of chance, I grasp loss without hands,
and plunge into an ocean full of stone.
As gravel fills my lungs and air is sand,
cold rock becomes my world, replacing bone.

I cannot swim, nor ride the wave of dust
that cakes my being, dry as barren death.
All faith forgot, my mettle turned to rust,
I curse the womb that nurtured my first breath.

But, just as distance dissipates my life,
I fall away, to darkness blessed with cold,
and once again my thoughts and dreams are rife
with endless nights of frozen fear untold.

Full circle is my vicious nightly curse
in desperation's lee, and now in verse.



In desperation's lee, and now in verse,
I cast my plea into the world's abyss
to seek a meaning for the universe
as represented by these thoughts amiss

and passionate to steal away my time
upon the dreamscape's clement visual treats.
If roads and cardboard boulders are a crime,
and dark syringes suckle gravel's teat,

perhaps there is no sustenance to find
and relevance is stymied by attempts.
It's helplessness that rots the dreaming mind
and uselessness that every day pre-empts

attempts to find the enemies I fight
in barren dreams. I suffer endless nights.

Author Notes

. . Hi all! I know this is a longy, but I've promoted as much as I can so I hope it's worth your while. Some time ago I told Erica (Rasp E) that my only recurring dream (read: nightmare) would be impossible to describe in prose, and would have to be a poem. This is the resulting piece :-). A Crown of Sonnets is seven sonnets in sequence, connected by repeating the final line of each as the first line of the next. In addition, the final overall line must be the same as the opening line, bringing the whole piece full circle. Each sonnet is three quatrains with an ABAB rhyme scheme followed by a rhyming couplet, with all 14 lines written in iambic pentameter. I hope you enjoyed the read. Mike . .

Chapter 5
A Dream of Droll Dichotomy's Design

By Fleedleflump

I


In every sunrise lurks the lee of night,
the aftermath of nightmare's chill decree,
emulsifying streams of terror's might
into the gulf of daytime's killing spree.

These ghosts, we bear like children of our fears
that wail away the fabric of our minds
until, in tattered threads, we soak our tears
on tissues of our life, with lies and blinds;

the benefits that sanctify with balm
and mollify the edges of the pain.
In decades' hindsight, sadness shatters calm
as understanding burgeons in the vein;

that thought is overwrought, and justice claimed
by tyrants of interpretation's strength,
and in our minds' perceptions we're defamed
because we measure power's vim, not length,

for only death exists to quell the storm,
if final wry soliloquies conform.


II

If final wry soliloquies conform
to bind us in subservience to stars,
they tease us from the sky in which they swarm
and mock our words with glory from afar.

Our only freedom rests in passion's vent,
expression borne on streams of consciousness
to lap against what consciences prevent
from seeing light or understanding bliss

with anything but darkened, hooded eyes
that bat with ineffective deference
against the cloak designed to mesmerise
with fallow lies the sight of our defence.

So poise those pens, you brave almighty scribes,
you articles of words' sly, patient reign
across the culture drowning in the jibes
of pop tart defamation's cliched stain

evaporating all the sense we shot;
with rhetoric, we follow better plots.


III

with rhetoric, we follow better plots
unto a land of dreams without aplomb,
to effervesce in nature's bubbling pot
and understand the beauty of the bomb.

So finally, we comprehend the truth;
that contrasts hide connections unresolved.
Reality is perfectly uncouth
and nothing in the world has yet evolved

beyond an ooze that yearns to seize the day
with dominant compassion and a dream,
to suffocate with hopeful tourniquets
all traces of the danger in the seams

of senses' limits and perception's role.
We are the enemy we must unseat,
the devil we incarnate in the hole
we dug to hold detritus of defeat

beneath the well from which denial springs,
a symbol of the sustenance fear brings.


IV

A symbol of the sustenance fear brings
is wrought in brands we burn into the hides
of worker drones that weave as profit sings
an aria to rote, fame, lust and brides

who work towards that perfect match's grasp;
the lifelong hold of power's verity.
It's damaged gloss reflecting light we clasp,
the chipped veneer of cloaked barbarity

applied in coats so thick we can deny
an education of misanthropy.
We worship lies designed to justify
the slaves we show in stunning panoply.

Wrapped up in comfort sanctified by hope
that we might trick the angel at the gate,
we head into the future, and we cope
so long as none may hold us in debate

of all the sacrifices made for good
while shadowing our faces in a hood.


V

While shadowing our faces in a hood;
a firewall built against all question's gaze,
we generate connections understood
by only minotaurs lost in the maze

of circuitry and airwaves uncontrolled
except by artificial thinking's wiles.
For every dream that dares to break the mould,
a nightmare draws reality in tiles.

Invention is a fantasy; our yearning
for urgent breath to shake monotony
engaging us in predetermined learning
designed to trap our minds in felony

committed on the hopes of artists' thoughts
and predilections to avoid the heap.
Rebellion's the natural state we ought
to hide if our society's to keep

financial hold; dominion 'cross the earth
we've hated since the day pain gave us birth.


VI

We've hated since the day pain gave us birth,
and only death has perspicacity
enough to elevate us from the dearth
of barren listlessness' capacity

to keep us mediocre and defined
as creatures of the instincts we all trust
to generate the glee that makes us blind,
not realising just beneath the crust

potential lurks, available and full.
We sit upon our castles, hoarding fun
as though to share a hand will only pull
the pins from our grenades, and turn our tuns

into a fresh horizon all can view
with vuln'rable delight and shy approach.
Just one dark soul need sacrifice anew
to start a chain reaction of reproach,

and thereby find a path all creeds can walk.
Of generosity, all creeds can talk.


VII

Of generosity, all creeds can talk,
so language cannot stifle our attempts
to weave a rope so strong that none will balk,
each human twining like a strand of hemp

so all can climb into the guiding glare
with aspiration's elevated fire.
Inducted in a sigh beyond compare,
the world will see potential doesn't tire

when mined with open minds and fervent grip
upon the haft of demonstration's blade.
We'll take society on such a trip
with pillars to the sun our fervour made.

We only need remember, with the dusk,
to batten down the hatches while the dark
invades with calculation and the husk
we shed with understanding, bright and stark,

that sometimes evil dwells behind the light;
in every sunrise lurks the lee of night.

Author Notes

. . My thanks to Yeltel for sponsoring the contest that gave rise to this piece. My additional thanks to Brooke (Adewpearl) for catching nits early enough for me to correct them, Rama Devi for her essay's worth of thoughts, and Yeltel and Ashley Scott for rooting out rhyme issues. A Crown of Heroic Sonnets is seven heroic sonnets in sequence, connected by repeating the final line of each as the first line of the next. In addition, the final overall line must be the same as the opening line, bringing the whole piece full circle. Each heroic sonnet is four quatrains with an ABAB rhyme scheme followed by a rhyming couplet, with all 18 lines written in iambic pentameter. As regular readers will know, my muse has been stuck on the concept of mixed blessings recently; of how good things can harm, and bad things can be beautiful. This feels like the culmination of those themes. Perhaps now I can move on! I know this is a monster-longy, but I've promoted all I can, so hopefully it's worth your while. If you're not into the technical side of poetry, I'm more than happy to hear you reaction to rhythm, sensation, theme and words. I hope you enjoyed the read, and if you like the form, please feel free to browse back through previous chapters :-) See below a live performance of Our Solemn Hour by Within Temptation and the Metropole Orchestra. Ostensibly about the futility of war, it speaks to me of the contemporary human condition that inspired my poem. Don't be fooled by the catchy chorus; this is a song with plenty to say. Mike . . . . .

Chapter 6
Contrast & Evasion

By Fleedleflump

I - Awakening

If life is just evasion of the dark,
acceptance is the road to verity,
and light against the dawn is way too stark
to hide a nightmare's fear in midnight's lee.

It's only when I break my sight's design
to focus on the gaps we slip among
and train myself to know I'm not benign
the truth can rise; the peg from which we're hung

like tattered frocks clutched feebly to the chest
of victims wrought by devastating pain
as puppets of a violence home to nest
in doubt our creed will tell us to abstain.

A shuffle of the feet is all we need
to kick the desperate detritus aside
and clear the path to sow the future's seed
with deferential dreams we can't divide

by culture, creed or crass divinity --
in inspiration's hopeful tapestry.


II -- Lights On

In inspiration's hopeful tapestry
we weave a vision driving us to hope
there's more than just a paper parody
we act in cliche, double-Dutch and trope.

Our brushes soar across a great expanse --
a canvas brought to life in colours' verve
while ink describes the classical romance,
alive upon the passion of its curve.

Creation is the dawn upon the sky,
horizon's purpose blooming into light --
the sun aloft like butter for the eye,
the hopeful lubrication for our sight.

To see the purpose lurking in the shade,
enlightened by the artist's insights met
with understanding -- art is but a spade
unearthing thoughts we otherwise forget.

But no illumination can be seen,
without the darkness keeping our sight keen.


III - Lights off

Without the darkness keeping our sight keen,
we cannot see the spark to feed the flame --
the blackness of a void so dark it's clean,
a backdrop for the stars we like to blame

for every ill we visit on ourselves
and every pain to grace a teardrop's fall,
a hell exists for masochistic delves
into the blackness holding us in thrall.

For only in the darkest realm of thought,
debilitating desperation's tone
becomes the confidant we never sought
to whisper urges never to condone

or paint as friends we hide in silhouette
for fear their faces beckon evil deeds.
Indeed, we sometimes seek the will to vet
our driving lusts and hate's repellent seeds

by quaking in the blackest of our fire,
reminding us the things we most admire.



IV - Eyes open

Reminding us the things we most admire,
the nightmares are the bed that dissipates
as dawn encroaches, wetting our desire
to banish fear with life that compensates

for every darkness hampering our dreams
with dogged doubt and fey disharmony.
By waking to the beauty of the beams
we steal away the nightmare's hegemony.

We spread our arms and welcome in the sun,
suffusing every pore with bright-eyed joys,
until we are ablaze with hope and fun --
the very building blocks we stack like toys

to build a tower soaring to the sky,
a ladder to the stars we wish to join
with visions of a life where we can fly
and flit amongst the heavens we purloin.

Until the dusk comes, beckoning with shade,
we are the masters, proud of what we made.



V - Eyes closed

We are the masters, proud of what we made
but fearful of the slumber of the mind
where rampant hordes of demons can invade
the palaces our weak minds have designed

with violence borne on wings of our own spite
like angels spawned to wield the swords of hate
we sling around our daily lives with might
we borrowed from the night to devastate

our enemies and foes of our desires --
frustrating crooks to steal ambition's plaques.
But when our eyes are closed we see the pyres
impaling those who fell between the cracks --

the innocents with purpose in their gaze
but naught to fight with, come the acid time
when in we strode to blast away the maze
of life, and rend their hopes to never climb

from deepest pits we fill, or be remiss,
with kisses wrought in flames of the abyss.



VI - Blue is the day

With kisses wrought in flames of the abyss,
we love each day as if it were the last.
These deferential pastiches of bliss
like blankets spread across an ocean vast

enough to drown all champions of man
are paper cups we use beyond their means.
We smile through doubt like only monsters can,
ignoring humble lessons learnt as teens.

We sparkle with an eye for beauty's shine
like magpies, value lust above a home,
and fumble our fat fingers at divine
assumptions gleaned from studying a tome.

Existence is a tool we use for blight
and justifying truth as we see fit --
to demonstrate our transcendental right
to designate the world on which we sit

a dig, to be investigated free --
without any responsibility.



VII - Black is the night

Without any responsibility,
we dance the day away and call it fun,
but when our feet approach the midnight's lee,
our payment is the process we've begun.

Our nightmares are accounting for the mind,
investigating what a thought denies -
the reparations driving us to bind
ourselves to seek a way to loose the ties.

For only in the deepest tenor's voice
can our soprano soar upon the wing,
and only with inspired freedom's choice
does anybody have the chance to sing

of contrasts nature's beauty can create,
the facets gleaming, perfect diamond's blink.
With every breath, we must appreciate
the elegance of opposition's link,

because a death is meaninglessly stark
if life is just evasion of the dark.

Author Notes

. . My thanks to Yelena for sponsoring this most challenging of contests. I've written several of these over the years and they're always interesting to undertake. In case you're baffled, a heroic sonnet is similar to an English sonnet, but for the addition of a 'heroic' quatrain before the couplet, resulting in 18 lines rather than 14. A crown of sonnets is a set of 7 linked poems, connected by the repetition of each one's last line as the first of the next, and brought full circle by ending with the very first line. I hope you enjoyed the read. Mike See below a link to the song that helped me write this, by Thea Gilmore. "You're shouting, but you're shouting softly, so no one can hear you." . .

Chapter 7
Here We Go Again

By Fleedleflump

I - Journalistic Ambition

The journalists are out in force today
with brandished pens and outrage on their minds,
each manufacturing their own dismay
to weave with webs of words a tale designed

to fit a set of purposes at once;
to be the first to coin a tragic phrase,
to nab iconic photos of the hunt,
to be the face exposing the malaise.

"Find me a family, broke and diverse -
then gather up their tears to form a toast.
We’ll make our circulation in a hearse -
to raise awareness (of The Morning Post).”

And so the circus barrels into town
to play the harbinger of dark renown.


II - Spirituality

To play the harbinger of dark renown,
we introduce a straw man to the mix -
his name begins with J, perhaps a clown -
a jester doomed to dance and waggle sticks,

and so his message battles to be heard.
“If only we all danced my merry jig,
no evil acts would ever be incurred.
for my dance is the coolest, and so big

that only love and laughter can survive.”
And lo, the lambs are bulletproof, it seems,
and all the dancer’s dancing friends will thrive,
inheriting the rhythm via dreams -

as fundamental sustenance as food,
as ammunition loaded for the good.


III - Amendment

As ammunition loaded for the good,
so metal, powder, fire and freedom's vim
are tools each man can bring to bear, and should,
to wield his right, defending everything

from those who think the government is all.
"If every teacher packed a forty five,
they'd have those spotty teens all held in thrall.
The other kids (without the guns) could thrive."

And so we need to reinforce the right
by stocking up an armoury in schools,
By teaching teachers they can shoot on sight
next time the anguish twists the hearts of fools

and turn each lesson into a war zone -
a thought to chill the marrow in their bones.


IV - Re-Amendment

A thought to chill the marrow in their bones -
that we can still just buy the right to kill.
We're losing children. 'Rights' cannot atone
for all the death and venom they instill,

and so we need to shield what we have left
behind a wall of international balk,
"Find me a family, broke and bereft.
I'll blow the dust off this old bill, and talk

until the house won't dare to say a word
because we have the socials on our side."
Before a full discussion can be heard,
let's get this through, let common sense reside

and suddenly, no-one will want to harm,
'cause without guns, there's no need for alarm.


V - Personal Signals

Cause: Without guns, there's no need for alarm
or censorship, for freedom cannot bleed.
Effect: We can be free to be the balm
for poetry is all this dark world needs

to effervesce like bubbles in a stream
and jabber like the ducklings in my dreams
and shower me with heaven-sent esteem
and pen some aphorisms feeding memes.

We all must show the world that we are shocked
(by world, I mean my distribution list)
for my truth is the best and can't be blocked
by any words or thoughts that may exist

to remonstrate a novel point of view
by demonstrating what we all should do.


VI - Corporate Signals

By demonstrating what we all should do,
we hope to feed a better balance sheet.
Our customers, both old guard and the new,
must read a mission statement's text replete

with those amendments we might deem are due,
addressing what we're seeing day to day.
Whatever else we might see on the news,
our corporate message must be made to play:

“We want to reassure the world today
That, as a brand position, we declare:
The murdering of children, we should say,
should be discouraged, as it is unfair.”

And so, our interests covered by some fluff,
we walk through life, convinced we've done enough.


VII - The Circus

We walk through life, convinced we've done enough 
so long as we have shouted in the streets.
"More guns, more words, more laws, more puffed up bluff,
more empathy, more sales!" (In comfy seats.)

There are no words or ways your soul can act
assuaging guilt or bringing back the dead,
no chance to change the horrors become fact
or hope for absolution in the stead

of living in a world where laughter thrives
and growing up is planting hopeful seeds,
and sunlight never burns, but lights our lives
without the need to ever have to read:

Another bloody school is in dismay.
The journalists are out in force today.
 

Author Notes

Artwork by Geralt on Pixabay. Please note, this is not an attack on anyone - it's just a bit of observation. A crown of sonnets is seven interconnected sonnets which form a whole. The final line must be the same as the opening line, and each sonnet must begin with the final line of the preceding one.

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