Musings of a Nascent Poet

by Stephanie Barr

  With its absolute control.

  As you feel it grow inside you,

  You, too, grow to more than wife.

  At last, you know the meaning

  Of the symphony of life.

  This one is dedicated to my late grandmother and I tried to emulate the sound of Native American drumming and cadence.

  Spirit Daughter

  Spirit daughter, tiny feet,

  Treads the path alone

  Dancing to a special beat

  Off to find a home.

  Spirit daughter, we are with you

  Where'er you may roam

  Spirit daughter, hear our singing

  You are not alone.

  Spirit daughter, heart so brave,

  Though the world is cold

  Hungry, shunned, unwanted slave

  Though she's but years old.

  Spirit daughter, we are with you

  In your cage of stone.

  Spirit daughter, hear our singing

  You are not alone.

  Spirit daughter, smile so sweet,

  Laughing through the pain,

  Warming others with her heat,

  Healing them like rain.

  Spirit daughter, we are with you

  As you make hell home.

  Spirit daughter, hear our singing

  You are not alone.

  Spirit daughter, gleaming soul,

  Finds her heart's own mate

  Finds a love that asks no toll

  And offers a clean slate.

  Spirit daughter, we are with you

  As your heart has flown.

  Spirit daughter, hear our singing

  You are not alone.

  Spirit daughter, mother's love,

  Children at your breast.

  They're the magic you dreamed of

  Through your fearsome tests

  Spirit daughter, we are with you

  Love you'd never known.

  Spirit daughter, hear our singing

  You are not alone.

  Spirit daughter, spirit's strong,

  Children find their way.

  Leaning on the right and wrong

  You'd tried to teach each day.

  Spirit daughter, we are with you

  Ah, the seeds you've sown.

  Spirit daughter, hear our singing

  You are not alone.

  Spirit daughter, body's pain,

  And a late life's loss.

  Sons and husband gone again

  Your body is your cross.

  Spirit daughter, we are with you

  Even when you moan.

  Spirit daughter, hear our singing

  You are not alone.

  Spirit daughter, life's release,

  To tread another way

  Spirits wait you, offer peace

  And a painless day.

  Spirit daughter, we are with you

  Let us bring you home.

  Spirit daughter, hear our singing

  You are not alone.

  Multiple personalities fascinated me (it's called something different now) and I was enthralled by When Rabbit Howls by the Troops of Truddi Chase (since deceased). I was always struck by her genius and creativity and frequently wondered what marvels she might have accomplished if that incredible spirit hadn't been torn to shreds. Hence "Song of the Hundred Souls."

  Song of the Hundred Souls

  There's a hundred in here with a story,

  Each one tells a different tale,

  Each one with a special torment,

  A scene that will never go stale.

  There is one in here that remembers

  That he tore her in ways never known,

  That he ravaged that innocent baby

  And turned into hell what was home.

  There is one in here that's reliving

  How she dropped in a deep well of black

  While things she feared most slithered down from the sky

  As her hold on her soul became slack.

  There is one that can see without seeing

  How her mother struck out in her shame,

  And added more torment to her little girl

  And gave her the brunt of the blame.

  There are those that are there for protection

  To guard and to comfort those souls

  That are weakened and frightened, even those that have died

  In the hands of his evil control.

  There's a hundred poor souls in the heart of this girl

  Some who never caught sight of the sun,

  Bright and courageous, such talent, such strength,

  What if there'd only been one?

  This genius, by one man, undone,

  What wonders if she'd been but one . . .

  I don't know for sure who M.M. was but I know I liked him or her.

  M. M.

  They told me he was quiet

  Quiet crazy, quiet strange.

  They told me that his thinking

  Stayed outside the normal range.

  I saw that he was quiet,

  But I glimpsed that facile mind

  And stayed to see him closer,

  Not quite sure of what I'd find.

  And saw that there was much to see

  To one who won't be blind.

  I'm glad I stayed that morning

  That I found out who he was

  For I like those very features

  That might make another pause.

  I like that quiet strangeness,

  That slow spreading of his smile

  And like his new perspectives

  And his own distinctive style.

  I like a friend who'd different

  From the "normal" rank and file.

  The father of my first husband was a kind and admirable man. I liked him a great deal. Unfortunately, a few months before my daughter was born, he was diagnosed with Stage 4 colon cancer and, before she was born, he passed away. But I was rooting for him.

  For Cyril

  He stands there, the boxer,

  His hands in the air

  And fights for the future

  He knows can be there.

  He knew it was coming

  But didn't know when

  Or how or how quickly

  He'd be taken in.

  But, now, he must face it,

  A terrible foe,

  That feeds on his power

  As, inside, it grows,

  But he is a fighter

  And stands there, alone,

  For no one else really

  Can know what he's known.

  He fights for his future,

  His freedom from fear.

  He knows the odds scorn him

  But victory's dear.

  He's hit. Takes another.

  But will not go down

  And fights off the terror

  Where he might be drowned.

  Someone is waiting,

  Many pray he will stand,

  They lift when he's fallen,

  They steady his hand.

  He must fight this battle,

  But they're fighting, too.

  For husband, for father,

  For brother e'er true.

  And someone is waiting

  Soul he's never seen,

  But someone who needs him

  To wipe himself clean.

  So, fighter, keep fighting

  As you gasp on the ropes.

  Our hearts, and those waiting,

  Will not give up hope.

  This one's a little different and might be hard for some to read. I have a weird knack of getting people to tell me stuff about themselves they've never told anyone else. When we first meet, even, and, when I met this person in college, during the course of an evening, she told me about a suicide attempt that nearly succeeded and her reason why. It wasn't a mindset I'd had myself, but I wanted to try to capture it and wrote this. When I
showed my new friend, she told me I'd captured exactly what she felt.

  Goodbye

  It's not your fault. It's not his fault

  That I should want to die.

  It's not your fault. It's not your grief.

  I beg you not to cry.

  I know how much you loved me,

  Gave me all that you could give.

  It isn't that I want to die—

  I just can't stand to live.

  He didn't want to hurt me,

  Tried as gently as he could,

  But I could see his leaving me,

  That he was gone for good.

  Don't let him know I could not stand

  To live when he's not there.

  Don't tell him. He'd feel guilty.

  Don't tell him how I cared.

  Warmth is flowing from my wrists

  Once cleanly cut and neat,

  And all my body's cold and dark,

  As dark as stainéd sheets.

  I'm sorry for the trouble here.

  I'm sorry for the pain.

  I hope you know I love you all—

  I love him just the same.

  I do not die in terror

  For, of life, I have no fear.

  I don't die just in sorrow

  For my eye holds not one tear.

  I do not die in anger

  For it's not his fault I care.

  I do not die in anything,

  Except, perhaps, despair.

  I am not all in love with death

  As I would seem to be.

  My life is just so empty now

  And that's enough for me.

  It's not your fault—

  Epic (largely original) stories

  In case you're wondering if I wrote anything that was wholly original. Yes, yes I did but you can see the influences of mythology and my other epic work in them as I took errant notions and crafted them into singsong stories. So, original stories, ancient themes. With this first, I must apologize as I had not realized white tigers were limited to blue eyes.

  Ermine and Ebony

  She was the queen of the midnight cats

  With a pelt like obsidian coal

  And eyes like the gold of the sun on the lake,

  Eyes that stole Banthazar's soul.

  She moved like the wind with the ease of dark smoke

  And to fight—ah! The huntress was she,

  A panther of lithe and most beauteous form . . .

  A tiger, not panther, was he.

  His pelt was the white of the mount's snowy peak

  Slashed through with thin streaks of pitch black,

  And no cat was greater, more skillful than he.

  No cat had as near broad a back.

  He moved his huge limbs with a grace unexcelled,

  His pelt gleamed bone-white in the sun,

  But it was his eyes of a soft summer's green

  That cause Baleen's heart to be won.

  Panthers breed panthers and tigers their own,

  But Maleen held Banthazar's heart,

  And each vowed, no matter what hardships arose,

  From each other, they never would part.

  The cries of the panthers were shocked and dismayed:

  "Maleen, don't forsake your dark tribe!"

  But she turned away and then vowed to them all

  She'd only be Banthazar's bride.

  The tigers were furied at e'en such a thought

  For Banthazar must love his own

  But Banthazar vowed that without his Maleen

  He'd much rather travel alone.

  Each tribe tried to hold them, convince them, to beg

  But the lovers would never be turned,

  And then they escaped in the deep of the night

  With the love they had lived for, had yearned.

  He stood in the moon bathed to silvery-white

  And gazed at his blue-black Maleen

  And gazed at her eyes gold like two tiny suns

  And adored with his eyes of soft green.

  They slept curled around the most comfortable way

  So close that their heartbeats were one

  And didn't awake from this slumber of love

  Until they were struck by the sun.

  Onward they traveled through days and through nights

  So happy to stride side by side,

  To sleep in the warmth of the one each one loved—

  The snow-king and his midnight bride.

  But always the tragic will find those in joy

  And take what the happy love best,

  Then leave the beleaguered with all but their loves . . .

  And what need have they for the rest?

  The men came and stole him, the love of Maleen,

  That tiger, the one thing she craved,

  And skinned him and tanned him to put on their floor

  So all the young women would rave.

  But Maleen is smoke now and strikes like the wind,

  Is swift and is gone before dawn.

  She takes out her torment on all known as man

  While the true perpetrators are gone.

  And she sleeps all alone with no panther in sight

  For her tiger had died with her soul,

  But, sometimes, she wakens and feels Banthazar

  Still sleeps with his panther of coal.

  Fire and Ice

  Once there dwelled a goddess,

  A goddess, Queen of ice,

  Of ice so fine, exquisite,

  'Twould be worth a diamond's price.

  Her eyes were cold and icy blue;

  Her skin was frosty white.

  Her hair was made of snowflake strands

  That glistened in the light.

  Her form was slim and dainty,

  So soft her crystal tread,

  A beauty made of blue and white

  With lips of cherry red.

  She dwelled upon a mountaintop,

  Her face raised to the sky,

  For therein lived her happiness

  That made her long to die.

  She loved a god, a brilliant god,

  A minion of the sun,

  Who'd but to gaze upon her

  And, once more, she would be won.

  His hair was wrought of brilliant bronze,

  His eyes of red so deep,

  His skin of golden sunlight,

  This god from sunny keep.

  His heart was also taken

  By the maiden made of snow.

  This love was all their happiness,

  And cause of all their woe.

  For never could he take this maid

  Who held his molten soul,

  And never could she touch her love

  Or take a wifely role.

  If they came any closer than

  The distance should be kept,

  His flaming fingers sputtered

  While her melting fingers wept.

  Her eyes would swim with icy tears,

  As they gazed upon her god,

  So sadly slipping down her cheek

  To splash on frozen sod.

  His eyes would dim with sorrow

  Dripping tears of fiery dew.

  "Don't cry, my love," he'd beg her.

  "All my heart belongs to you."

  "Do not think I love another;

  There's a fire in my breast,"

  Said the goddess to her lover.

  "Put my love to any test.

  "Do you think that I would be here,

  Loving what I cannot hold,

  Whose world's a conflagration

  While mine is snow and cold

  "If I did not love you dearly,

  So much more than words can say.

  I curse my very being

  That keeps my love away!"

  "Don't hate yourself, my dearest,

  For, to me, you're more than life,

  Which I would gladly give away<
br />
  If once I held my wife!"

  And they'd sit there, at a distance,

  And bemoan their tragic plight,

  'Til her love would leave at darkness,

  In the last soft rays of light.

  Then, she'd stumble down in silence,

  Blind to everything but woe,

  But someone wasn't blind to her,

  This maiden spawned of snow.

  The river god, he waylaid her,

  Enraged by her rebuffs,

  And ravaged hard the maid of ice

  With hands unkind and rough.

  She crawled up to the summit

  As the early morning dawned,

  And waited for her lover,

  Her god, of sunshine spawned.

  He came and gazed in horror

  As she said, in tearful voice,

  "I've lost what I had saved for you.

  Please, love, I had no choice!

  "He took me, tore me, stole from me.

  No more I want to live,

  And yet, my dearest, want to leave

  You all I've left to give.

  "Darling, I am dying.

  I would rather die with you;

  I'd rather touch your fiery hand

  With mine of icy blue."

  He looked on her with sorrow

  For he knew that she would die,

  But knew his life was nothing,

  That his vow was not a lie.

  He came down to be with her

  One first and final time,

  A goddess, young and wondrous fair,

  A fire-god in his prime.

  And, then, at last, her icy hand

  Was clasped by hand of flame,

  And both were lost in rapture

  That transcended all their pain . . .

  Alas, they grew to nothing

  As they'd known they would before,

  As the flame was quenched to memories

  And ice was seen no more.

  And, yet, on snow-capped hilltops,

  As the sun sinks in the sky,

  You can see fire dancing in the snow,

  Relive the day they died.

  I have a real problem with any sort of prejudice, any situation where "what" one is trumps "who" one is. It's a fairly common theme in my writing.

  The Demon

  They called the man the Demon,

  For he had those fiendish eyes

  And a body formed for power,

  Mighty arms and tireless thighs.

  He'd flawless skill with weapons