You can look in your books,
Old and new,
Of beginnings and births,
Journeys and exiles,
Looking for truth
In a burning bush,
Or hanging on a Roman tree.
Search the history of time
For big bangs and clouds of gas,
Using probability and fuzzy logic,
Rationality and intellect,
Dialectic and dialogue,
Searching for truth outside the cave
In the depth of a black hole;
In the cry of a baby universe.
You can look inside,
Examine the depths of your soul,
For compassion and humility,
Poetry and purpose,
Knowing the only thing
You can truly know,
Controlling the only thing
You can truly control,
In the only moment you have,
Looking for truth
Under an Indian fig tree,
With an Athenian gadfly;
Between the pages of an emperor’s journal.
You can look outside,
At starving children on the streets,
At parents slaving to survive,
Living in quiet desperation
At the pleasure of the oligarchs
In the castle on the hill,
500 yards from urine stained crack houses,
6 miles from Robert E. Lee’s hoouse
And the tomb of the Unknown Soldier.
Looking for truth
In the eyes of a stranger
Or the hand of a friend.
Do you recall that wick’d day of destiny
At Camlann when Arthur fell
Near the corpse of murderous Mordred,
Nephew, some say the rightful heir
By the reckoning of the old ways,
Through his mothers blood,
As still practiced by our Pictish cousins to the north,
His noble blood still staining Caliburn’s blade?
The great king outlasting his sister’s son
By mere hours.
Enough to ensure his enchanted elvish blade
Was returned from whence it came,
Flung into calm waters,
Or—perhapse–taken over water
To that other worldly island
where it was forged by fay hands.
The king is dead,
The kingdom lost, fractured beyond repair.
Though the crown passes to another
None could now hold back the tide
That Vortigern let loose:
The barbarian men
Pushing us west and north,
And naming the land for themselves.
Yet hope still persists
In the tales we tell,
That the king merely sleeps,
Recovering from deadly wounds,
Nursed by fay magics.
To return one day,
Grasp his mighty sword,
And set us free.
Half written poems and unfinished thoughts
Scribbled in notebooks and scraps of paper,
Lost and forgotten in the chaos of my mind.
Fragments of stories
Of elves, heroes, and kings,
Timelines and lists,
Outlines and ideas,
Vaguely remembered feelings
From fading dreams,
Evaporating in the morning light.
Alβiz Alfar Föðr,
Born of moonbeams
Dancing on the fog of the forrest
Near the river of Rhun,
Patriarch to seven brothers and sisters
Awoken on the riverbank.
Married Nerþuz, earth mother,
Daughter of sunlight
Refracted off the dew drops
Dripping from a rose petal.
Five sons and four cities founded
In the north west of the world,
Where the Alfar found a home:
Falȝaz the wise, student of Nature,
Keeper of her secrets.
Warrior twins, Gorȝaz and Finđȝaz,
Defenders of their tribe.
Murȝaz the cultivator
Of fruits, vegitables, and lamb.
Đwerȝaz the fabricator,
Crafting tools, weapons and treasures
For his parents, brothers, and people.
Đwerȝaz Dvergar Föðr,
Molding metals as if so much clay.
Digging at the misty dark
Mines of Niðavellir,
Searching the earths for metals and gems
For his father and brother, Durinn,
To mold into swords, stones, spears and cauldrons,
Treasures kept in city vaults
Until their time of need.
Alfar = Al-far (old Norse, Elf)
Dvergar = D-verg-ar (Old Norse, Dwarves, Plural of Dvergr)
Alβiz = Al-viz
Föðr = Fa-ther
Rhun = Rune
Nerþuz = Ner-thooz (“th” as in Thor)
Falȝaz = Fal-yaz
Gorȝaz = Gore-yaz
Finđȝaz = Finth-yaz (“th” as in father)
Murȝaz = Mer-yaz
Đwerȝaz = Thwer-yaz (“th” as in father)
Móðsognir = Moeth-sog-near (“th” as in father)
Niðavellir = Nith-a-vel-ear (“th” as in father)