A Dragon, A Knight, and A Moral (an irreverent fantasy poem)
Once there was a gallant knight,
Who said, to a Dragon, “Beware, foul wight!
For I have come to slay your kind,
And steal what treasure I might find.”
The Dragon said, “You lack acumen;
A ‘wight’ is a ghost, or unlucky human,”
…but the Knight continued, as if he’d not heard:
“I heed not thy trickish word!”
“Note you this sword!” he did continue;
“It slices through the toughest sinew!”
The Dragon said, “Thy sword, I hail;
But I’d note I’m covered with armour’d scale.”
The Knight went on, “I have come hence!
And I’ve brought my own audience.”
And, indeed, in looking down,
The Dragon noted half the town.
They’d come out to see his end;
And to his funeral attend.
They cheered the Knight, and his actions spurred,
And they called the Dragon unkind words.
“You see!” the Knight, in triumph, cried,
“I now have many on my side.
We’re here to dispense righteousness
(And also, to loot thy treasure chests.)”
The Dragon then a sigh did heave.
“Are you sure you all don’t want to leave?
I don’t enjoy your smug disdain,
But I’d hate to see all of you slain.”
The crowd did boo. The crowd did laugh.
“Why, he’s a proud one, by a half!”
Said one wag, to loud applause;
The Dragon sighed, and clicked his jaws.
“I know our species are not friends
But must we work towards crosswise ends?
Leave me to my cave, and you to your lives
Everyone goes; everyone survives.”
The Knight then struck a Knightly pose
“Foul beast, too late – for everyone knows:
Dragons are sickly things, and weak
They’re scarcely smart enough to speak.
They do not fly. They breath no flame.
They’re easier than dogs to tame.
These things, our Bards have taught us well.
We know you’ve neither strength, nor spell.”
The Dragon shrugged and did let fly
A blast of flame more than twelve feet high.
The crowd, in turn, all eyes did roll.
“That’s just a trick,” the Knight did scold.
The Dragon said, “What do you believe?
What you’ve actually seen? – or the words you receive
From Bards, who (if I might remind)
Are not all truthfully inclined.”
The Knight cried out, “Now, that’s enough!
Speak thy no more of this lying stuff!
We know what’s true, we know what’s real
Because what we’ve been told matches what we feel.
If a truth’s displeasing, then – forsooth!
That alone proves its untruth.
The World is easily understood:
Those we like tell the truth, and are good.
Those we dislike, lie, and all of those
We’ll someday hang by their big toes.
And so, weird lizard, thy words do grate!
And thusly shalt thou meet thy fate!”
So saying, the Knight’s great sword did slash
The Dragon’s belly, where it made…no gash.
Instead, it bounced – in fact, it bent,
A thing the Knight didn’t live to resent.
For the Dragon sighed, and took one inhale,
And swishing, a tad, his giant tail,
Breathed forth a flame so vast and huge
It was like some mighty, fiery deluge.
But it wasn’t rain; it was pure heat.
And it fried six tons of human meat.
The Dragon gave a sigh of consternation;
Now he had problems of refrigeration.
But a local Wizard, for a moderate cost,
Cast, in the back of his cave, a Frost,
and helped him moved the tasty remains
Of a bunch of humans with too-few brains.
So now, the Dragon’s catching up on reading,
And he’s got lots to chew if he needs feeding.
And as for the town, it continued to exist
And none of the mob were very much missed.
Need morals? To start, know that many a Knight
Looks good in armor, but ain’t very bright.
And: some lessons are cruel, and ain’t lenient:
Reality’s real, even when it’s inconvenient.
Seven Card Studs
“Cassius Marcellus Coolidge,” Mary shrieked upon entering the living room, “get those dogs off the chairs and away from that table this instant.” Startled by his wife returning home earlier than expected, Cash sheepishly replied, “Yes dear. Sorry dear.” Although today’s portrait session was cut short, this didn’t upset Cash because he had already completed most of the painting. The rest he could finish on his own later.
♪Immortal♪
Beethoven pens
the Music
Internal
Ppa Ppa Ppa Ppum!!
to Feel the Sound
as we Heard it
in Boxes, in Halls
and Wood or Metal
Tunnels
what Passes on
in Movement
on Breath
by Extension
he Bends himself
as Tapping a Finger
or Heart in the Breast
the Slow
and/or Quick
Exhale
as Hands
in Embrace
or Footsteps
in Haste
Major Gestures
as well as Lesser
bodily Functions
Beats that Fall
Sharp or Flat
and Charge
the Rhythm of
the Atmosphere
as Captured
on Lined Paper...
Dot chasing Dot.
Starry Starry Night
Vincent stood aways from the cafe finishing his second bottle of cheap red wine, the easel stood unsteadily on the cobble stone road and the stars were so strange tonight.
He dipped the brush into coloured paint of his choosing, not what he saw, life was a phantasm anyway thought Vincent.
Tonight he would see her again, the girl, and if she did not love him he would prove his love to her.
Perhaps his brother would buy this one he painted now, for a few pennies.
Such a strange light tonight, such a strange strange light.
Perhaps
Is Mona Lisa Looking at You?
Pencils don’t bend;
four minus two is two;
and Mona Lisa’s eyes
don’t follow you.
Science and math
say these statements are true,
even if you insist
she’s still looking at you.
Using computers,
measurements, and subjects,
researchers have debunked
that Mona Lisa effect.
But researchers
came to the conclusion
that the Mona Lisa
does have an illusion.
In his painting,
experts say, da Vinci snuck
into Mona Lisa a smile
that’s a frown when viewed close up.
So, pencils don’t bend;
four minus two is two;
and Mona Lisa is just
messing with you.
The Glass Lady
I once heard someone say that sculptures are like moving pictures. That's not to say that the pieces are alive or sentient. But that the fluidity of their third dimensional forms seem to give the audience a sense of movement. And that is exactly what I felt when I first set eyes on The Glass Lady. Made entirely of clear crystal, the life-sized figurine was the shining star of St Gerald's Art Gallery. People from all across the country came to see it, overcome by the intricacy of her flowing gown and the delicate strands of hair blowing in an invisible wind. But what truly drew the visitors attention was the woman's face. She appeared to be crying, crystalized tears running down her face. It was as though the artist had captured her in time, immortalizing her sorrow for all to see. I was enraptured. I had never seen anything quite so beautiful. Her eyes, like the Mona Lisa's, seemed to follow me as I moved. The small black plaque, where the artist's name was usually written, was blank. I remember asking the man next to me if he knew who had worked on the piece, but he too had no answer. No one seemed to know exactly who the artist was, only that they were a friend of the gallery owner's, and the only correspondence they had had with the director had been by telephone, and that they wished to remain anonymous. I stared in an equal measure of awe and puzzlement at the woman's crying face, and I remember thinking about the kinds of people who can create such beautiful art and not want to claim credit. But as I continued to stare into those shining glass eyes, I began to wonder if the sculpture was a manifestation of the artist themselves. That perhaps they too felt made of glass.
