Pining Phoenix

Haven't written such a long poem in a while.


In the grassy, green, slopes in realm afar,
East of Crinsehr, West of Tyatora,
North of the Coastline, south of the pits of tar,
Lies the land of the Phoenixes of Pierah.



The Phoenixes of Pierah,
Who came from distant land,
Growers of peach and aloe vera,
Far from Leprechauns and men.



A wondrous race of bird were they,
Those fire-birds of wingspan great,
Whose feather like red roses in May,
Whose beak like carven stone of agate.



And so these orioles of flame,
Came upon these open slopes,
Upon a land without a name,
A land of freedom and new hope.



They settled there,
And grew their aloe vera and peach,
they colonized their kingdom fair.
out of man's and giant's reach.



For a thousand years their people rule,
lived upon the hills and dales,
In the kingdom of mountain and pool.
There they were, scarlet wings, plumed tails.



Then the men of Korasarrh,
Came into this wondrous land,
They came to raid; to break; to mar,
With the power of the lances in their hands.



The phoenixes now rose, united as one,
and sharpened the blades their ancestors had born,
Rallied they, Flame-Birds of the Sun,
Who now wore the armor their forefathers had worn.



But alas, the phoenixes were broken,
Crushed by charging spear,
before the axes of the Korasarrh men,
And many, for their loved ones, shed tear.



The phoenixes left the Land Without Name,
dispersed to the distant corners of the earth,
Sad were they, to leave the Kingdom of the Phoenixes of Flame
The land of their heritage, the land of their birth.



Now, today, they hide by cover of night,
englow the fields with their burning fire,
They emit a sad, mournful form of light,
In the fiefdoms and shires.



Tonight, you might hear a sorrowed phoenix pining,
Weeping for the pain that throbs within her heart,
Perhaps see her feathers shining,
As she spreads her great wings apart.



Their song is heard now,
Loud and piercing,
One that saddens men, birds, and cows.
One that sends the ground to quivering.



Shaking mountain,
Halting wind,
breaking fountain,
roaring din.



And such is the pining of the Phoenixes,
wailing and sad.

Teeth, or the absence of them

Last week, one of my molar teeth fell out.

Today, the dentist yanked out the last other milk tooth (he said it was a premolar).

We had beef noodles for lunch (with my family, not my dentist).

The pain caused (by the pulling of the tooth) hardly detered me from finishing my bowl.

What a greedy fellow I am.



What a short post this is.

Eagle Poem

The Eagle soared upwards.
Wind flew past his outspread wings.
Old feathers flapped a little
in the Mountain Air.

He swooped down, upon his nest,
and folded his wings relaxedly.
Then he went deeper in his rocky stronghold.

The Old Eagle perched there sadly.

Maybe it was in the way he carried himself,
or the flicker of something incomprehensible in his eye,
but that was the only thing that betrayed his fear.

Fear of Death.

He was old,
very old,
some say he was as old as the stars,
or as old as the mountains.

He was once king of the skies,
ruler of high outcrop
from the west coast to east coast.
But not for ever.

He coughed,
a sick, mournful cough.
Then a swallow turned its head.

"Alas, the king is dying!"
It smiled in comtempt,
"Liberty to swallows!
Down with you, Brute!"

THe Eagle stood up,
impassively.
But he could do little.
His beak was far from sharp,
His sight vague and blur.

With that, the swallow departed,
and another bird took his place.
It was the Eagle's son.

"What do you have to say now,
Father?"
It dripped with hate.

THe Eagle remained silent.
How had his son become so?

"Do not insult thy elder,
Be honorable to thy enemies,"
it said, mimicking its Father's voice.

"Who is thy enemy now, Father?"

The Eagle father sighed.
Had he only taught his son what was right?
What had he done wrong?

The Son retreated,
to another rock outcrop south of here.

The Eagle cried inwardly.
Agony ripped his soul
like a double-bladed knife.
To try so hard to raise
his son.
And fail.
Why?

The Eagle went backwards.
His mate swooped down proudly from the outcrop north of here.
"Here you are, Ostolrivarl.
Ex-mate."
Her voice cold as metal.

The Eagle bent its head a little.
The ex-mate continued,
"Remember the days, before I met Constofinarl?
When you would go hunting for me,
and come back with but a small sparrow in claw?
You were such a pathetic husband,
king-you-once-were."

A tear rolled down the Old Eagle's face.
"Do you not remember when I came back
with the finest soft hay from the east
to decorate your nest?
And the best cuts of meat I sacrificed for you during the famines?
Do you not remember?"

"My new husband gives me
the softest cotton from the south.
And the best slices of venison,
famine or no famine."
She flew off,
her feathers flecked gold in the evening sky.

The Old Eagle looked at last upon the wife he had loved,
remembered the swallow,
and his twisted son.
The happy days of life,
and the joys of his childhood.
Memories of youth,
Pride of Maturity.

Now, with bitter regret,
he stood up,
to the edge of his rock,
and with the last of his strength,
collapsed into the gorge below.

Death.