Note:  I've posted this essay on my blog, www.jimmyboone.blogspot.com.  Comments are welcome here of course, but if you wish to further the discusson on this topic or debate it, I suggest that you comment on my blog, as you probably do not want to use up your comments here (and also, this site isn't really meant to be a debate forum).

<><~~~~~~~~~~~~><>

It’s a three legged stool of control.

They’ve taken the second leg, and they’re after the third.

Jevran downed a glass of water in one gulp and closed his eyes. The councilmemebers were giving him a headache. They sounded like so many gossiping scullery maids. Comments and reflections on Varians' like were tossed back and forth, with the general consensus being, "Well, if he hadn't been half-Highlander, he would've made something of himself."

Jevran brought his fist down on the table so hard that it stung. The counselors flinched and glowered at him.

"Yes, sir?" Danilos asked.

           The events in his life seemed unavoidable; as if nothing in this world could have stopped the things that transpired in the dark night, yet we will never know. I wonder if he ever imagined the terror that he would have to endure forevermore the night that he closed that window and replaced the sword up against the mantelpiece were it had rested for generations. He must have known that thoughts of the past would haunt him forevermore, causing him to seal himself off from the world permanently in hopes that they would never find him. But who can tell?

            Gerhard slammed into the guard’s side, knocking him to the ground. His vision clouded over, all he could see was the initial glimpse he had caught of his sister, pinioned between two hulking soldiers. The sight stayed imprinted on his mind for the rest of his life. A young man was just turning away from the scene and Gerhard felt even more anger sweep over him. Why hadn’t that other lad made even an indication that he would stand up to the brutality of these men?

Dark windows;

Dusty panes

Creaking stairs,

Rusty doors.

Grey little light

And a silent old piano.

A broken stool,

Sadly there.

Her old glass mirror,

And pearl lined strings.

Yellowed and tarnished

All lonely now.

Hear the doorbell ring,

More than the sum of our thoughts
is our parallel December,
moving like a swordfish
under such inclement weather
We are but lonely beings when the wind comes,
to give us feathers

Less than the sum of a soul
is our parallel December,
cradled like an acorn
in such a deep and dark forever
We are but children sleeping when the wind comes,
to say, remember

More than the sum of our coins
is our parallel December,
crouching like a lioness
a tawny, starving mother

Note: I am trying to post something at least three or four times per year. This is a collection of small and unfinished poems, most of which were written some time ago.

innocence and grace
the treasures of her faith
as a baby into a child
she is unsoiled, pure and mild

but then time passes and she grows
into someone who doesn't care to know
someone who gets lost in fads
only because it's what society says

she becomes the phone she holds
not because of force, she chose
just because the world pushed it
she has squeezed herself in to fit

innocence erase
the mask she holds to hide her face
take from her a life of sorrow