Sunrise

Quietly the light it gathers

slowly comes the start of day

tranquillized and peaceful forces

gradual trail from eastward way

Pastels of colors carefully formed

and crystal moons in the rising sky

through which direction wind is blowing

every sound echoes softly by

Independent, cherished gold

soulful, touching through beauty’s eyes

there is waking on the Earth

welcoming the warmth of the sunrise

-3344marigold, 2017

 

 

 

 

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Sonnet No. 1 – The Fighting Sonnet (Part Four)

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“Thy face itself, it puts me in a rage.

I must hold myself back with all my might,

Or else I’d call thee out right up on a stage.”

The bard looked up a few lines in and found Oswalt staring up at her in confusion, brow furrowed as if he were angry but wasn’t sure why.

“What is it about thee that irks me so?

Am I the only person who can see?

Now, foul wretch, prepare thyself for a blow,

For here comes a smackdown for thee, from me.”

Oswalt’s face had turned an unpleasant color like a raspberry a few stages past ripe. “How dare you call me a wretch?” He lunged at the bard, but she skipped backwards out of his grasp and continued.

“Thou art devil spawn, a child of Satan,

Horrid, ancient evil straight from scripture.

Thou would not be loved by gods most pagan;

Of things corrupt, thou’d be the victor.”

The towering man roared senselessly, scrabbling at the rock before him in an attempt to reach the bard. She hoped desperately that the mage would make his move soon, because she only had two lines left.

“I shall not call you out by thy crude name,

Return to the depths from whence thee – “

There was a bright flash, and then Oswalt’s roars were cut off abruptly. The silence was so complete that the bard could hear creaking, like that of falling tree, as Oswalt keeled over, revealing the slight frame of the mage.

” – came,” the bard finished, eyes wide. She grinned at the mage, who lowered his upraised hand and returned the grin with one of his own. Folding the sonnet up and stuffing it in her pocket, the bard dropped off the boulder and crouched to peer at the fallen giant. “Wow. What did you do to him?”

“Just a stunning spell amplified by three.” The mage stared down at his hands as if taken aback by his own power.

“He’ll be fine if we leave him? I mean, he was trying to harm us, but I don’t want him to be eaten by wolves or anything like that.”

“I imagine Oswalt will be awake before dusk has totally fallen, but just in case . . .” The mage flicked his wrist, and a few specks of light floated down from his fingers to Oswalt. “There. A simple protection spell.”

Still beaming, the bard turned to the mage and held up a palm. “We took this guy out. Teamwork for the win!”

The mage high-fived her. “Yeah, that was pretty awesome. And speaking of teamwork . . . we should probably fetch our other team member.”

They turned away from Oswalt and began to walk to where the mage had hidden the warrior.

“Do you think Oswalt will come after us again?” the bard asked.

The mage shook his head. “No, I think he’s finally learned not to mess with us.”

A voice came from the grass a few yards away, startling the bard. “Because you don’t mess with the Three Musketeers if you know what’s good for you!”

The mage led the bard off the path to where the warrior was curled up like a fawn in the grass. He grinned up at his companions, eyelids fluttering under the weight of sleep.

“I’m pretty sure that name has already been taken,” the bard told him. She bent to help the warrior clamber to his feet. “But I bet that between the three of us, we can come up with something just as catchy.”

“That should be a task to keep you awake for a few more hours, right?” the mage teased. “We need to reach Kulreach before nightfall if we want to stay on schedule.”

“I’ll give it . . .” The warrior blinked sleepily. “. . . two hours before you two are outright carrying me. . .”

With the warrior stumbling between the mage and the bard, the three companions retrieved their belongings and picked up their journey right where they had left off. But the bard, though she did not yet know it, had only just started her own journey into using words as weapons of her own.

 

Sonnet No. 1 – The Fighting Sonnet (Part Three)

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“Ooo, a performance!” The warrior laughed delightedly. “Break a leg!”

“Or don’t,” the mage advised, and then the two disappeared into the gently rustling stalks of grass.

The bard rummaged through the mage’s bag for another moment before finding what she had been searching for – a crumpled, worn piece of paper. “Here we go . . .” she muttered under her breath, unfolding the paper and squinting at the words scrawled across it in purple and black ink. “Oh, yeah. This is perfect.”

What she held in her hands was not a spell of any kind, though a grimoire would certainly have been helpful (the mage would be a lot more useful if he had a way of guiding and expanding his talent). It was a sonnet of her own making from before she knew much about the form. Thus, it was certainly not the best she had ever written, but she believed – or at least hoped – that it would properly enrage the giant Oswalt.

At that point, Oswalt was quickly drawing nearer to the bard. When the warrior had originally caught sight of the man, he had been perhaps 500 yards away; now, the distance had shrunk to 100 yards. The bard realized that she did not want to face Oswalt on level ground. Projecting her voice would be easier from an elevated surface . . . and the man wouldn’t be able to step on her and squash her like a bug. So, she kicked her and her companions’ supplies into the grass where it would be hidden and set off down the path the way from which they had come, searching for a cluster of rocks she’d seen a few yards back.

Once Oswalt the Enormous Viking Man had finally caught up to the bard, she was sitting crosslegged on a medium-sized boulder that reached above the man’s shoulders. The bard gave him a bored look as if she’d been waiting for a long time. “There you are. I was beginning to wonder if you had gotten lost.”

The man stared at her flatly from the shadows of his helmet. In a voice that was nearly subsonic, he growled, “Where are they?”

“I think I know who you’re talking about, but you might have to be a bit more specific.” She imagined that the warrior would be rather proud of her for being sarcastic even in the face of this terrifying giant, who looked as though he could snap a full-grown tree like it was a twig.

“The one who can throw light and the golden one with the sword and the attitude.” Oswalt shifted from foot to foot, much like a bull would before charging. “Tell me where they are.”

“Oh, yes. They wanted me to give you a message.” The bard rose to her feet and shook out the piece of paper she held to unfold it. “Of course, being a bard, I had to take some creative liberties. So be aware that while the words are mine, the meaning behind them is one hundred percent from my two companions.”

“I have no time for this,” the man thundered. He took a step back, shielding his eyes with a forearm; the bard had wisely positioned herself so the sun was at her back. “I am not interested in your games.”

“This isn’t a game,” the bard retorted, seeming rather offended. “One might even argue that it’s a work of art. Just let me read it to you. Then I’ll tell you where they are.” She held the paper up, and in a clear, strong voice, read out her fighting sonnet.

“Good sir, I must ask: dost thou wish to fight?”

To Hear You Speak

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I love words

And the only thing I love more than devouring them

By the handful

Is creating them.

Sometimes I throw them together haphazardly,

Sprinkle them wildly about myself;

Other times, I piece them together as carefully

As if I were assembling a living thing,

Each one a delicate cell with its own important purpose.

 

I love words,

So is it any wonder that I want to see

What you do with them?

I do not know much about you,

But I think

To hear you speak

Would tell me everything I need.

Forgotten

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My throat has ached for the longest time

my eyes are teary and dull

this deep depression overtook me

and loneliness filled my soul

My face is blank and I cannot speak

for I have nothing to speak for

there is nowhere for me to walk

I can only encounter this closed door

I’m trapped inside this somber cell

sitting at the bottom of your weathered well

until you change forever I’ll dwell

boiling in misfortunes’ spell

My thoughts are clouded by gloom and grief

swarmed in hatred and disbelief

my heart is enveloped in the darkest wreath

and yet you still stand there with one half of my missing piece.

 -Marie Walters, 2017

 

 

Outcast

Outcast

I drift away

Never to be seen by the light of day

Some may say it makes me dark

While I slowly back away form the brightness that once surrounded me

I lose my spirit when I bask in that black emptiness

It hurts me with such pain

So, I stumble in a frenzy of panic

The Thing steals me, haunts me, and takes me as their own

The desolation is a vacuum waiting to consume everyone and everything

My long gone spirit filled with a one-of-a-kind confidence has been taken

The hollow effect it has causes me to bail in an outburst of tears for hope of a better day

Sorrowfully I drift away from the mainstream society

Oh, how I constantly ask myself, Why am I such an Outcast?