Story telling is an organic process, at least as far as I define it.  I can outline all day long, but when the actual story telling begins and words meet paper, it has to flow or there is no reason.  When I wrote the poem below, it was just cute and was never meant to have any real meaning.  Now, fifteen years later, I find meaning there I never intended.  I like to think this makes it a good poem .  and it is, at least to me:).  Judge for yourself and leave comments!

A DREAM

I dreamt of you
Last night my friend.
We sand and we spoke,
We laughed and we joked,
We passed on the hours
While Mr. Sun sank
Beneath a field of large, yellow flowers.

Stories we told
Of the good times of old,
Like the tale  of a ship
On the briny sea.

And if you remember,
A giant bee
Had stolen our soap
And we thought we would choke
From the stench emitted by we.

Or the tale of the well
(And we saw who fell
From top to bottom fastest,
Didn’t we?)

Yes, through it all
My friend,
The dream was of you,
And in the end,
Of what a great friend should be.

Though their appearance is rough
Their countenance, stern,
A joke will they tell
To cause e’en the Black Wizard,
Amidst his evil toils,
A slight grin, if not a jolly laugh.

Their origin - unknown.
Their future - uncertain.
Yet still they prance along
Down the path of their wondrous lives.
To live forever
In the memory of our hearts.

OK, so this isn’t the best of poems, but some of the phrases I still really really like. Just remember, this was written 15-16 years ago (give or take) and judge lightly:).

The first entry is called “Bondage.”  It is not about what you might think:

BONDAGE

This world, of all worlds,
Has ties
Ties that bind men hand and heart
To Lucifer’s headboard
And as he slumbers
The struggle and strife of men
Long to awaken him
Only a few bear the blade
Which might sever the cords;
But so abhorred are they of
Violence, so ashamed of the power
And glory they wield,
That their actions become but words
And so forever tied are we.

And a most engraved headboard it is
Wrought of the finest hardwood by the
Hottest fires of Hell, Polished by the
Caressing hand of Heaven;
And so both reign supreme in the design
One without the other is nothing
Existing in a moth, fanning a never ending flame
And so it is we are forever in bond.

Continuance only is brought by hope that
The Few will overcome their fear
And slice with their scythe
The most binding of bonds,
Setting our emancipation into motion
‘Fore the Waking of the Beast,
Destroyer of worlds, material master
Of men’s souls, holding us in
Bondage, forever and ever, Amen.

Where is my daddy?:

People climbing (and unsureness of feet, but look how he landed!)