The Minstrel - A Poem

Friday, October 8Th, 5:58 P.M.
Mood: Whimsical, Musical
Music: Remember When It Rained, by Josh Groban

A Note: This poem was written for a friend of mine, who is an author. It symbolizes all who write, read, and enjoy the stories that pour forth from the mind of a writer.


The Minstrel - A Poem
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Look upon the ink that traces,

gentle lines upon the faces,

Of the ancient, cracking pages,

of the tale yet to come forth.

See her hand as it goes flitting,

adding lines both new and fitting,

To the story waiting to be born.

Hour on hour 'til time grows late,

weaving tales of death and fate,

What could cause that such a state,

should intrude upon the mind?

So it seems that she is fated,

still she writes here unabated,

though the hour grows late and light grows dim.

Spinning stories, weaving tales,

from her open mind that hails,

To the stories as they enter one by one.

Words, like rain pours from her pen,

crossed out, revised, then scrawled again,

Upon the page as blank and white as snow.

Lives and stories,

deaths and glories,

come from the hand that strokes the page.

Ghosts that flit about the gloom,

stories, told inside the room,

were she sits and writes yet still.

Dreams they are, that pour forth waiting,

to be told, of love and hating,

upon the page that waits.

Dreams, for without them we are nothing.

For what are we ourselves?

I shall tell you.

Dreams.

The Brief Yet Wondrous Life Of A Flame Struck In The Dark - A Poem

Thursday, September 23Rd, 4:35 P.M.
Mood: Foggy, Slightly Bored
Music: Life In Technicolor Part 2., by Coldplay



The Brief Yet Wondrous Life Of A Flame Struck In The Dark - A Poem
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The darkness crept in all around,
and filled the air without a sound,



The utter darkness hung about,
that filled the senses, stilled the shout,


And brought to one a dreaded feeling,
so dark, so cold, and yet revealing,


Of the tears, the moans, the screaming,
and the places, cold and teeming,


With the creatures of most ancient and forgotten lore.


Then for a second, a brief second,
light burst forth, though darkness beckoned,

Shattering the darkness, dispelling the gloom,
lighting the contents of the forgotten room you stood in so long ago.


And for moment fire shone,
and lit the air, the dust, the stone,



In that place now so far away.


And then it flickered, waved and sputtered,
as the wind with sighs and mutters,


Sought to quench the flame so dear,
the light that banished
darkest fear,



And then at last there in the dark,
the flame dimmed to but a spark,



And then at last the flame receded,
though it's light was sorely needed,



And the dark came swirling back,
from the corners and the cracks,



And filled the room once more.



What is the flickering of the fire but a life?

To be born into darkness.

To bring light.






To live.







To love.






And to dim, in the fullness of time,

leaving the mystery of darkness as it was when we came.

Is it not extraordinary?

The simple life of a flame struck in the dark.
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Amongst The Graves, A Poem

Thursday, August 12Th, 3:50 P.M.
Mood: Poetic, Excited
Music: 2112, by Rush

Amongst The Graves, A Poem
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Darkness creeps across the stones,
and mingles with the sinking bones,

and stirs within a chilling sense,
of life and it's indifference.

For here they care not what you did in life,
there is no hurry here, no eternal strife,

only rest and quiet.

A grinning skull, a sunken tomb,
the dark, the damp, the endless gloom.

Fills me with a sense of dread,
as I sit here amongst the dead,

and think of life and all it's pain,
the loss, the strife, the thoughts of gain.

But there is none of that amongst the graves.

No greed, no toil no suffering,
only rest.

The restful bones, the sleeping bones,
the ancients now make here their homes.

They sleep in their beds so peacefully,
and it seems as if they speak to me,

And reach towards with bony hands,
some goal eternal rest demands,

And I will sit amongst the graves,
in peace until the end of days,

And I will join them there at last,
and there find peace at long, at last.

And sleep here in a stony tomb,
fearing no more my mortal doom.

Here amongst the graves.

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The Rain, A Poem

Thursday, July 22Nd, 2:11 A.M.
Mood: Tired, Fascinated
Music: Voyager, by Daft Punk


The Rain, A Poem.
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See the rain, the lovely rain,
as it goes trickling down my skin.

Let it fill you, bind you, send you,
into the memories of then.

And see the rain, the noble rain,
as it falls to cobbled streets bellow,

And watch it run beneath the feet,
of the people as they come and go.

And remember then as we walked,
together in the rainy, misty weather,
the fog as it curled about,
and clung to the hem of our cloaks as we walked,
on that dank morning so long ago.

We looked about and in the rain,
you whispered of the things you saw,
the life, the light.

Though all I saw was death,
and sorrow, you saw happiness.

I remember you, your gentle manner,
your smile, your whisper, your ways.

The way you could lift the gloom,
and take me from this preemptive tomb,
and banish the darkness.

Though it never truly left.
It clung to me, never leaving.
Even in the light it hid in the corners of the room.

Waiting to fill my mind with thoughts of dread and doom.


And now without you it swirls about me,
never leaving.

Never leaving.

It has become my friend, my aid,
my companion.

Like the rain.
The Cold.

They are my family now,
my only friends.

But I remember.
I remember because of the rain.

The noble rain.
The gentle rain.

And as it trickles down my face.
I lift my head up to the sky and call your name.

And feel the rain.

The rain upon my skin.

As it has always been, here with me.

In the rain.

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Alone in the Dark, a Poem

Wednesday, June 16Th, 3:13 P.M.
Mood: Gloomy, Rested
Music: Sinkin' Soon, by Norah Jones



Alone in the Dark, A Poem
by: The Raven King





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Do not leave me in the dark,
for I am so afraid.


The grinning skulls with their empty eyes,
stare blankly into mine.


And all around the spirits stir,
and gently sigh my name.


They blew out the lamps,
and said good all,
and left me here in the dark.


Alone.


In the damp I sit.


Alone.

'Til morning comes.


Alone.


'Til end of time, for that is what I am.


Alone.

Alone!

Alone!

I cry from the depths of this cell that holds me.

In the blackness I clutch my heart, and weep.

Weep for all that is gone.

All that is lost.

All that I will never see again.

The warmth of the sun.

The smell of the new fallen rain upon the bare earth.

The sight of lightning illuminating the sky.

The sound of the trees as the wind tosses them to and fro.

All this I have lost.

All there is now is darkness.

And I.

Here.

Alone.

But am I?

For I can hear the spirits.

The souls of those who have passed before me.

And when I hear this I smile.

Though I may be alone in the dark.

For I know that when I join them, I can rejoice in their company.

But for now I am lost.

I

am

alone.

And will be until the day,

I leave this mortal toil.

And ascend into light.

"Til then I am here.

Alone.

My Art

Monday, June 14Th, 6:08 P.M.
Mood: Tired, Pleased
Music: Sunrise, by Coldplay

For the past few days I have not been blogging, I have been drawing.
I seem to have found a new occupation of my time, pencil sketching.
Here, see what you think.

This is me...

I refer to him as "the conductor"

That is all for now. Over the next few days I will be posting more of my art, so stay posted...

Pondering the Skull

Friday, June 4Th, 7:17 P.M.
Mood: Much Better, Contemplative
Music: Beautiful Day, by U2


The ancients often contemplated the skull and all of it's meanings. As early as the fourteenth century we see examples of monks collecting skulls and, believing them to be the home of the soul, collected hundreds of them and built them into walls, chandeliers, and even furniture.



The skull is a really fascinating thing to me, as it holds so much significance for so many cultures. It carries not only symbols of death for some cultures, but symbols of victory, rebirth, or the ascension into the afterlife.

The skull is a symbol of death, and as prince hamlet so eloquently put it, "Poor Yorik, alas, I knew him well." But why has it become associated with death? Perhaps it is the first thing that we, as humans see in a skeleton of a poor dead soul. Perhaps we are looking for a face, and seeing the cold dead eye sockets of a skull are put off by their cold and unemotional gaze. Perhaps.

Sad and Lonely I now Sit

Thursday, April 22, 10:24
Mood : Wistful
Music: Northern Skies, by Dido






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Sad and Weary I now Sit.
A Poem.
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Sad and weary I now sit
a credit to my end.
For she is dead and gone away.
her eyes, nevermore shall lift,
to heavens high or earth below
the ground in it's embrace, covers all and hides in dark,
her gentle, smiling face.

Tis Gone.

Tis Dead.

All over shall it be.

And tears roll down my stony face,
into an endless sea
that churns, and breaks, and cries, as if bemoaning me.

And for all a credit to my life,
Death and I go hand in hand.

Into Eternity.

And now I leave alone, alas,

that silent, cold deep sea.