This temporary page is dedicated to a poem I am writing in a series of installments. As each new "episode" is added, I will copy and paste it from the main page of my blog to this page. That way, the experience of reading my poem will flow in a more chronological order, instead of forcing the reader to locate each installment via the archives on my main page. Enjoy!
The King of the Forest
Can the King be seen?
His eyes twin rocks, his face set stone,
Far-seeing gaze as grim as bone,
He lurks in forest eaves.
He rests his hands on columns wide,
Beneath such touch, smooth pillars glide,
A colonnade of trees.
This is his fort with living walls,
With courts of green and thicket halls,
A sheltered forest strong.
Deterring thieves are thicket moats,
Sharp, twisting brambles knotting close,
They guard from harm or wrong.
And he, the King, yet speaks no word,
But watches while he waits, unheard,
He searches for the morn.
For when dawn comes, a blast will ring,
Alerting wood, reminding King,
To keep their duties sworn.
Do they greet the sun?
Green ramparts glow as fire ascends,
Revealing silent, hidden glens,
A wood-cock plies his trade.
This trumpet wild awakes the trees,
They dance and leap without a breeze,
Light crowns their brows bright jade.
Can these notes be heard?
For, what thing is this?
A streak of dun, some movement vague,
Begins anew another day,
The wood is taking flight.
Faint flapping fills the far-flung fort,
To match the grunting of the boars,
Cacophony of life.
Dank moss resounds with shrieking calls,
Primeval snorts soon fill the halls,
A distant roar replies.
Wide-spreading still to every trail,
This morning rite which never fails,
Enchanting, screeching cries.
Can these notes be heard?
And now, he stirs, the Master grim,
He lifts his face and greets his kin,
The subjects of his realm.
Extending palms to hail the dawn,
He breaks the silence lasting long,
And shouts out to the sun.
With one swift leap, he ends his song,
And hastens on new journey long,
The Master's feet are swift.
While breaking branches swipe the air,
And tangling roots are cause for care,
This King will never trip.
But, lo! he stops and glances 'round,
A warning vague, a throbbing sound,
Forewarns, perhaps, of harm.
His heart leaps up, a sudden flash,
Pervades his sight, and then a crash,
Black crows scream in alarm.
For, what thing is this?
Obscenely, from a stripling ash,
Protrudes a deadly, feathered shaft,
So perilously crude.
The forest dark is thick and wide,
Concealing many holes to hide,
To sleep, to eat, or shoot.
Who, now, is this knave?
Avoiding clearings open wide,
Exposed to sight, poor place to hide,
He walks on toes of air.
Without a sound, the King escapes,
Behind the trees, whose mossy capes,
Disguise their Master fair.
Around he stalks a circle path,
Then spies his foe and halts his tracks,
A man lurks in the briars.
Attacker brash is now the prey,
Invader dressed in colors gay,
What foolish, vain attire!
Who, now, is this knave?
He smirks, the King, and bites his tongue,
Perhaps this jest was all in fun?
For what sane man would wear,
A crown of weeds and holly reds,
A necklace tied of grassy threads,
And daisies in his hair?
His jerkin died the brightest green,
His tunic stained of blood, it seems,
To be so scarlet bold.
And cushioned feet, with mossy soles,
Revealing dainty, pinkish toes,
No more than five years old.
What has been done here?
Is this no mere child?
But as he stares amazed, in mirth,
King low'rs his eyes upon the earth,
And smile transforms to gape.
A tremble shakes his face once kind,
Amazed, struck dumb in shock to find,
Amazed, struck dumb in shock to find,
Sick death has stained this place.
What has been done here?
A family of field mice fair,
Small birds with open, dreadful stares,
Lie prone on grass of green.
Two deer, both young, with flanks exposed
Once gracing wood like friendly ghosts,
Have joined this death-still scene.
Gross, dripping rivers, red and slick,
Entwine together, running thick,
Upon the forest's floor.
This carnage spilled around the Child,
Soon fills the King with anger wild,
To stand the sight no more.
But all this anger turns to fear,
As Child turns 'round when King draws near,
And bares a gruesome face.
Black eyes, round orbs, of onyx coarse,
Expressionless, without remorse,
King falters in his pace.
Is this no mere child?
Beyond old age, beyond work-tried,
Scabbed wrinkles mar, and scar, and line,
The Child's perverted grin.
Small, rotting teeth, a crumbling score,
Entrench his mouth, a stinking sore,
And drip upon his chin.