Note: This poem was inspired by Laura Elizabeth's story The Dying Atheist. I couldn't quite get the story out of my head, so one day I sat down and wrote this. Thanks Laura Elizabeth for helping to inspire me to write this! Your story was quite moving! If anyone has not read it yet, I highly suggest they do!

No song to fill the moment,

Not a splash of color shown,

No feelings left to feel,

Not a gentle word was sown.

No parade to fill your senses,

No light to fill your eyes,

No joyful dancing present,

He lives in a sand-bleached tower
No, he’s not a fairy tale
He’s a mighty, regal light house soldier
While his enemies are rain and hail

His bed is small with cotton sheets
They barely keep him well
He shivers under the blanket of night
Why the gray waves swell

He stays up until dawn some days
Battling out a storm
Flashing light across the water
To make sure ships stay warned

He’s saved and ended lives, he’s had
His eyes no longer tear
His hands are rough and calloused
His heart is rid of fear

I'm in the mood to experiment.

Uh-oh--right as I'm making my morning tea, too.

I shouldn't, I know, but yes, here it comes:

that feeling, that urge, that I just can't resist;

that enticing little voice that says "Just try it!"

The teapot shrieks and I'm helpless to fight it.

Here I go, once again, to "try it!"

So out comes the teacup from China;

in goes the teabag, steeping it strong;

in goes a good dash of nutmeg,

 and two big drops of lemon extract;

Oh dear! it hasn't let up, that feeling,

I really love writing clerihews. Unfortunately, most are inside jokes between me and my friends, so here are some of my better ones about book characters and musicians.

~~~

Benedict, Fish,
Had only one wish
If she would come-to
That wish would come true.
 

~~~

Dear Nickleback:
I want four minutes back.
Your new single is lame.
Your songs all sound the same!

~~~

My Darling Adam Young,
So sweetly have you sung
To me for near a year
And I love you, Adam, dear!

~~~

The shadows fell like rain filling the streets of a victorian London but on second glance it wasn't Earth. A boot black boy ran past, his tan cap wet with rain.  His ears pointed.

It was night in the land of the Fay and the rain toumbled down.  A tall dark shadow slipped threw the deserted streets.  His cloak pulled tight around him obscured his face.  He glanced back and forth to see if he was being followed before stepping into the shadow of a shop door. 

The bell on the door jangled softly as he shut the door behind him.  

I haven't posted anything for a while now--I apologize. It's been midterms, and I've finally figured out where I want to start editing Ander, and I've been working on Flyer for a contest...so I've been a bit distracted. Until we can return to the shady glens of Sherwood, I present to you a speech that I recently did--though you get the nice version without the sweaty hands, shaking knees and stammering voice. You also don't get my nice PowerPoint pictures, but I don't think you'll mind too much. :) Anyway, enjoy, and I'll get back to Robin and Marian soon. Promise.

You're my beautiful tragedy
and I’m laughing all the while
loving your somber eyes
as your feet drift on floor and tile.

You take your seat, saying old words.
I listen to your cadence as if it were a play.
As if I weren’t the one
who answered the prayers you couldn't pray.

 The clashing of blades, the pounding of hearts pumping more and more blood from pulsing wounds. I am alone. The calling of hate, the screaming of pain, the cheers of small victories. I am isolated. The shaking of the trampled ground, the smell of liquid life, everywhere, soaking the earth. I can't move. Tears falling freely from so many eyes, young and old, new and seasoned. I feel no emotion.