24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
I wish to sleep,
to lay my head at rest,
to allow my soul to flee to realms that none can see.
But my road is long,
and the voyage not yet done.
Though it has been hours since last I’ve seen the sun.
So on I go
with weary tread
until at last my goals are met.
The sleep of peace
will overtake me then.
And dreams of maidens wait to comfort tired men.
A choice is given to every man it seems.
A choice to rise.
A choice to flee.
Even a choice to bend the knee.
But my choice was taken from me,
on that long ago day beside the sea.
The final thrust of my enemy’s blade,
proved more than my body could take.
I blame my Thane,
but he did not strike the blow.
I blame my luck,
too fickle a thing to reliably flow.
I blame the gods,
but they are all dead, their souls lost below.
Without choice I make my way in this world.
Wondering if the god’s were alive,
would they notice me here below.
A lowly man with a limp and one arm.
Surely I could do no harm.
But the gods are dead,
and my luck is fled.
And I must suffer on till I find a place to rest my head.
I stand at the prow of my ship,
watching the world burn.
Many was the time I stood in victory,
watching the conquered slip away as we sail for home.
Today it is I who am conquered.
The fires of Surt visited my halls.
Black ravens of war flew to the enemy’s cause.
He was too strong.
Our defense too weak.
Now at the end, we take to our sheets.
To find a new land,
a home beyond his reach.
If Odin is merciful,
we will be dashed upon the reef.
Raise your mugs.
Shout for joy.
The Thane has returned with spoils and plunder.
His name has been made greater by his heroic deeds.
Many warriors shout his praise.
The valiant dead drink to him in Odin’s halls of gold.
While they feast his glory at the unending table.
The Thane provides for his people
as good father and king.
May his beard never be cut,
and his teeth always be strong.
Raise your ale.
Lift high the mead.
The Thane will provide for every need.
There will be a time of mourning for those gone to Odin’s halls.
But it is not this night.
Tonight we drink.
Tonight we feast.
Tonight we slay the hunger beast.
For fear is gone
and terror is fled
While might and wisdom sit upon the the Thane’s head.
As his glory grows, thus does ours.
Sing his name and drink his health.
Now, someone pass the roast elk.
I just spent the morning compiling the list of winners of the poetry marathon and half marathon. I’ve linked to the all of the participants pages below. Note, there may be a few names missing –– if you’re not on the list and should be, please let us know! (poets@thepoetrymarathon.com)
––Jacob
Long ago,
before the realms began to die,
the trickster god Loki played his games on high.
None could master him.
None could contain him.
His tricks and jests were the bane to all who see him.
Then one day, the Trickster met a man named Bard.
Bard was short.
Bard was fat.
Bard wore a battered old hat.
He was old.
He was frail,
but his wits were sharp as a finely honed nail.
Bard and the Trickster met on a lonely mountain road.
The path was narrow.
The alls were high.
The ravine was deep as Helheim
Two could not pass,
One would have to go back the long way round.
The two argued until the sun rose.
Not one would give an inch,
even when Bard’s belly began to twitch.
Finally, as the sun began to western on the second day of debate,
Loki proposed a deal to send Bard back to the bottom’s gate.
“Take this,” he said, holding out a worthless cap of leather.
“With this on your head, your luck will never be better.
It will lighten your step and speed your travels.
You will succeed in all your endeavors.
Why, it will even keep you warm in bad weather.”
Now, Bard was no fool.
He knew the hat to be a useless tool,
meant to make him look no smarter than his mule.
But Bard had a trick of his own to play.
His horse was weak,
and his mule was lame.
This climb would be the end of its days.
Bard countered the Trickster with a trick of his own.
“I cannot return,” says he, “for I must take this mule to the top of the spire
and bless him there with holy liquid fire.If this task I complete before the moon’s next turn,
a curious change he will perform.
For if this mule is blessed at the summit,
nevermore will he plummet.
For a flying mule he will be.”
“A flying mule!”
The Trickster shouted, he changed his mind in a flash.
“I must snatch this beast no matter the task.”
“I will return to the summit,” said the god,
“If you gift me the mule and holy fire.”
Bard did argue, and he did protest,
but in the end, he allowed the god his price, but with a single request.
“If the mule be carried by a god,
his flight will be swifter and his heights the higher.”
Thus a beast of burden became the beast of Loki’s burden.
To the top they went.
The god ached and strained beneath the mule’s weight.
Sweat poured from his brown and stung his eyes.
Bard rode behind with a contented sigh.
Once at the peak, Bard thanked the Trickster.
Then gave him the mule,
for Bard knew the beast’s death was long passed due.
He gave Loki a flagon of water,
some gibberish words,
and a fool’s dance.
Loki took it all greedily without a second glance.
As Bard rode away,
a smile on his weathered face,
he heard the god singing nonsense and dance like a mummer.
The last thing Bard heard before making his descent,
was a mighty scream as Lokie rode his mule down into the abyss.
The gods created the smoking leaf,
thus they must be good.
Men discovered the leaf and crafted the pipe,
thus they must be wise.
We praise the good gods and wise men.
Without their foresight,
our means would have no end.
For who has not spent many an hour,
trailing smoke into the bowers.
There can be no joy sweeter than,
fully belly,
foaming flagon,
and sweet smoke rising towards the rafters.
a dozen will have to do
I will cross the finish line
far behind all you folks
I was needed as Grandma
A most precious dear post
Twelve poems on the books
Though a true dozen short
Too late for the deadline
I am sad to report
Bravo to the poets
Who finished this task
Understand that I tried
Is all that I ask
Though my notebook’s half empty
No certificate here
Know the writing was healing
And I’lll see you next year
Winter complainers
up from the south
Needing to tell us
The cold is all wrong
And we must be crazy
To call this place home
Quick frankly I’m happy
Each year when they leave
Cold peace and quiet
Is all that I need
It’s hot where they’re going
They must keep the air cool
In their houses and autos
And maybe their pools
Our winters are warming
The skiers all know
Even at Christmas
We are missing some snow
Soon leaves will be turning
And bees stop their hum
We all will be grateful
For the leftover sun
Wave goodbye to the snowbirds
We’ll see you next spring
After snowdrifts and ice storms
You won’t miss a thing
SB
Samantha Bigby
Is an annoying child
With too many toes
And a big snoopy nose
Samantha Bigby
Orders every kid around
With her loose floppy lips
And wiggly blue hips
Samantha Bigby
Doesn’t like to share
Her orange head just so
Making sure you always know
Samantha Bigby
Pushes to the front
Poking meanly here and there
Cause she really doesn’t care
Samantha Bigby’s
Birthday was today
Purple candles brightly shone
As she sat there all alone