Industry

Shakespeare to Homer gives sway,
As Beowulf calls forth Hemingway.
The task at hand is a hardening,
A harrowing, a sharpening,
The workman labors at the mill,
The craftsman hones sacred skill,
The pilgrim seeks on road and rood,
While philosopher ponders the good.
I hear the call of klaxons. Rise!
Heft the harpoons to the skies,
And wrestle in the deep
Or sail beneath moonlight’s keep.
Hearth and home, lover and kin,
Must for now pass beyond ken.
The work at hand is not romance,
A saccharine song, sacred dance;
No, the furrowed field, the arena shout,
For the son to manhood to step out.
Labor on with loyal zest
To engrave honor in your family crest.
Romeo’s tipsy and Jacob’s pledge
Must recede to the tradesman’s sledge.

Hephaestus

Hephaestus lifts his gavel high,
Pronouncing verdict with iron’s cry,
Forging fates in steel and stone,
Probing deeper than mortal bone.
Heft and heart in sync shape,
Hewing future into current’s nape,
To craft a vision buried in his soul
That will spark more than fiery coal.
Hammer falls, and falls again,
Flattening, fixing, form to plane,
As if mystic substance solidifies
Upon his anvil with swift, deft ties.
Hephaestus measures out his plan
For both divine and mortal man,
A clever trap, a subtle feat,
His workmanship can’t be beat.
Warily watch and learn, o son,
The end is made ‘ere he’s begun–
So, the heavens will the earth,
And craft in us our eternal worth.

Fair Falls the Leaves in Lothlorien

Fair falls the leaves in Lothlorien.
Winter frost has nipped her buds, bit her blossoms.
Still lies the remnants of golden summer days…
O Lorien the Lovely, your years are young
Compared to your sire across the sea.

Fair falls the leaves in Lothlorien,
The silver boughs quiver as winds howl,
A darkening day even as the sun climbs
The ramparts of the naked sky.
Where will now the songs of joy arise?

Fair falls the leaves in Lothlorien,
The fabled halls of elven kings of old,
Which call mortal men to deeper thoughts,
To a land far beyond the seas, West of West.
Who can bring feeble gaze to Valinor’s abode?

Fair falls the leaves in Lothlorien,
Still the world will seem without her mirth,
Yet the gleaming stars on Varda’s brow show
The Song of Begetting persists and stirs,
Spring may yet return to the halls of Lorien.

Turncoat

Instant was your transformation,

Though for months the change wrought within,

Hidden by the festering storm of family and friend,

Far eyes gleaned darkening center, ripening seed,

But each word spoken was taken and called “screed,”

Now the rot that ruined blossoms into noxious petal

Reminiscent of the sickle moon and poisonous metal,

Can you claim the purer path, having stitched foe-cloth

Under the mantle of friend and first love, stained by froth?

Can you truly speak of kindness amidst deceit, or do lies

So become your steps of late to true name you “vile and sly?”

You speak of love, forgiveness, and agreement, as if rot was new,

But did I not ask you winter last why your lips were colored blue?

Having conned, connived, carved, condemned, will you lift your eyes

To look down upon the friend who bought your lines, now despised?

Shall the assailant the battered accuse, or the robber judge the robbed?

Is it wrong to rage against the evil painted just, forbidding loss to be sobbed?

What is logical to the deceived is but madness to the mind,

And sadly, it is the loveless, not love, that is truly blind.

Turncoat, turncoat, turn once more, from your rotating door,

Before the Master of scales decides to settle unbalanced score.

Oar-Bearer

Sea-strand wrestles with the whale-road in eternal war,

I stand at the mouth of many waters with ready oar,

The ships are sailing to the edge of the world,

Good men make ready, clan-signs on banners unfurled,

Raise the Wolf, howl once more, for the waves

Are hard-beaten by united advance of our staves,

We hunger for new earth-homes far-off, unseen,

Glimpsed only in the distance in an Oar-bearer’s dream.

Ring-Breaker

Shudder, earth! Shatter, heavens! He walks alone,

No oath-master, no oar-friend, no blood-brother, no one,

He walks with eyes before him, behind, and beside,

Else the night-reaver, blood-seeker, sneak-thief override,

Burn, earth! Blaze, sky! a lone wolf cannot live,

The world was made for packs of men to commune and forgive,

His eyes speak of wrath, his voice of steel, no solace to find,

His face is wolfish, his gaze hawkish, his teeth-fangs grind,

Slither on your tail, your talons, your serpent-tongue still?

No clan or kin will follow your lead, no true son abide your will,

Bleed, and repay the weregild you owe upon the rock-bones-below,

Burn, so that your ashes, spread far, may atone your guilt-blow,

Run, ring-breaker, kin-slayer, first-love-lost, until the wind howls,

The Wolf chase you until Ragnarok, where it will devour your bowels.