pulling up to the starting line

i begin writing full-time on may 1st, starting at 9am. i will be working on my novel 8 hours a day, 5 days per week (at a minimum). since my last book update, i have gotten plenty of productive brainstorming done and have managed to nail down a key plot element for a later chapter.

i've bottled up my writing for the past year, so i'm feeling like i have a lot to put down on paper. hopefully, i will be able to achieve quite a bit in the months to come. the plan is to finish and submit the manuscript for review by the end of august, 2009.

of course, nothing ever goes according to plan, but i figure i had better get a move on.

a midnight tryst

gently whispered laughter
hearts are beating faster
muted sultry banter
clothing ripped to tatters
quiet moans thereafter

males telling tales over ales

a bard with missing teeth
and a dirty, smelly thief
sat down telling tales
over misbegotten ales.
they sat on a tavern bench
to discuss a certain wench.
"she's mine!" the thief cried,
to which the bard replied:
"my friend, can't you see?
she belongs with me."
so they argued long and hard,
did the thief and the bard.
they argued into the night
and there may have been a fight,
but for the timely arrival
of she for whom they were rivals.
there she came, that lovely wench.
hips swaying, she passed the bench
"there she is," said the thief,
and the bard stared in disbelief.
but there she was, beauty fine,
and both thought: "she's divine!"

the 'wench' came into the tavern,
as dimly lit as a cavern
it was, so dark and so dank
and the smell of sweat so rank,
that she dared not inhale,
as the air was rotten and stale.
but though it was dark and grim,
she pushed through the din
of dirty and rowdy patrons
and girls with soiled aprons.
somewhere within this place
a man lay with his face
in a sodden pool of ale
and vomit upon a table,
as was his custom nightly;
a disgrace most unsightly.
his daughter it was who came,
worried he may besmirch his name,
at the same time every night
to rouse him from his plight.
and so it was once more
that she walked through the door,
through the murky gloom
of the smoky room,
when whom did she espy
as she was walking by,
but two men telling tales
staring at her over ales.

"come sit upon my bench,"
said the thief to the wench.
"are you jesting?" said the wench,
"you give off such a stench!"
"Don't mind him," said the bard,
"he always tries so hard,
but what he thinks ingratiation
comes across as desperation.
come to me and you will see
it is with me that you should be."
the wench began to laugh
and said "are you daft?
for toothless as you are,
your friend is better by far."
with that she walked away,
and thief to the bard did say:
"that wench will love me yet,
though she plays hard to get."
"forget it," said the singer,
"she's wrapped around my finger."
the girl retrieved her drunken father,
who could not see she was his daughter,
and brought him through the gloom
of the dirty, smoky room,
past the thief and bard
who were trying very hard
to pretend they didn't care
and that they didn't stare.
then when she had gone,
they both looked forlorn,
and like all rejected males,
they returned to their ales.

of ice and ashes

this blog is meant as an outlet for my creative energies, be that poetry (as witnessed by my first 6 posts) or any other idiosyncratic whimsy.

it also serves as a place for news concerning the novel i am writing, tentatively entitled 'Exodeus', which is the first in a planned series of eleven high fantasy novels.

updates concerning this mighty endeavour will be infrequent, as i plan to spend the majority of the next year writing the novel with as few distractions as possible. happily, however, some of those few distractions may manifest themselves as poems or other minutiae on this blog. what's that you say? you couldn't care less about poems or minutiae? ahh well...

oblivious oblivion

nursing growing
and becoming
living loving
and belonging
making shaping
procreating
laughing singing
sometimes weeping
sewing weaving
never thinking

that the thread will snap

discarded gifts

petals strewn about
so indiscriminately
callous rejection

secret shame

i wish you could know
my innermost thoughts

for though it would seem
at a casual glance

that my heart is cold
and blind to your charm

you wouldn't see me so
could you read my soul

fragile awakening

if all of our thoughts
are leaves on the wind,
then how do we know
where to begin?

how do you say,
to the one you love,
that leaves on the wind
are just not enough?

if life flows like sand
through grasping fingers,
how can we show
that our love will linger?

fragments of sanity

dim awareness
no sleep in 3 nights

the voices are telling m-
zzzzzzzzzzzz

a dark suspicion

Eight number the wicked
In the days of old
Seated on their thrones
In the freezing cold

Eight number the wicked
In their fury bold
Reigning over bones
In their frosty hold

Eight number the wicked
Or so I have been told