He sits upon my desk with a wily grin,
Hair tousled and fair, falling into his gray eyes;
His name is Aelfric, he’s an Anglo-Saxon Muse
Who fancies the color green and merry music.
No more than five inches high he’s light
And airy, transparent to all in the world but me.

He watches my pen move, and speaks softly to me,
Tracing the lines of ink with a wry grin;
With rapt attention he looks me in the eyes.
I ask him for inspiration, my Muse--
Gentle Aelfric, he answers me with music;
Sweet music made of art, words, and light.

Once Aelfric was a prince, to his nation a great light,
He fought valiantly with an unwavering grin.
Yet, there was something amiss behind his eyes,
A desire to create art, to be wooed by a Muse.
All night he would weep and play his sad music--
In truth, I think he was much like me.

So, you ask, how then did Aelfric come to me?
Well in his sorrow, he saw then a great light,
A divine realization made him grin.
He would petition the gods, with tears in his eyes,
And ask them to make him a Muse;
He would inspire painting, poetry, and music!

The great gods, ceasing their heavenly music,
Paused.  Zeus said, “Who is it who calls me?”
Aelfric trembled, looked up into the l ight,
And said, hair in his eyes, with a steady grin,
“Today for the first time I have opened my eyes,
I desire above all that you make me a Muse!”

With a moment’s breath Aelfric was made a Muse,
Taken from this world into one of pure music,
Where he sits quietly on my desk and watches me.
Sometimes I get mad when he stands in my light,
But he always meets me with an innocent grin.
He knows there is always favor for him in my eyes.

My Medieval Muse, sweet Aelfric, pure music--
He has shed upon my art a great light.
But he is mine, my Aelfric, my only Muse.
 
 
 
 
 

Urban Pastoral

She stands in her doorway, quiet and still,
As fetid water flows down the sidewalks.
Her hands rest by her side softly moving
In the folds of her filthy pink apron;
A sigh falls from her lips, she don’t know why,
But she feels like crying her fears away.

He watches her from an old broke down car,
Gray eyes tracing her curves and lines with care--
Dirt and hair have given him a mustache,
The streetlights reflect off his sunglasses.
A smile, curved and strange, forms on his lank face,
As if to claim that girl all for himself.

He won’t call it love but she’ll think it is,
And she will welcome him into her home.
No merry chase or flowers in his hand,
He’ll just take what he sees as his, move on,
And leave her.  Dirty kids play in the street.

She stands in her doorway, quiet and still,
As fetid water flows down the sidewalks.
 
 
 

Yuletide Carols

I recall the wonder I felt as a child as we walked
The icy landscape of a world frosted in winter.
With muffs and coats, scarves and mittens, we braved
The weather to sing our songs, to warm the chill.
Our mothers ushered us along, we happily complied,
Sheet music clutched, awaiting the next door.
Together we would sing, our noses cold and red,
Our eyes tearing in the wind; we shivered in our boots.
But yet we laughed in the face of brutal winter,
Scoffing at her attempts to freeze us out for good;
Our little voices rose in the night and warmed
The hearts of those who heard our carefree songs--
“Silent night, Holy night, all is calm, all is bright.”
 
 
 

The Warrior In Old Age

Old Orin sits silently,       slipping into a soft slumber,
His hands still holding his       honored sword Helmdring.
A pewter wine glass waits       while he wheezes in his sleep;
As moments meander to minutes       once-marvelous Orin dreams.
In his dreams he’s daring,       his arms tremble with ardor,
His eyes flash furiously       and he frightens his foes;
Cursing those who crossed him       with a bloody battle bawl.
Gold hair gleaming he glides       along the glades, intent on glory,
Helmdring helps him hew foes       he mentions mercy to no man--
Youthful vigor is volatile in his veins,     blood lust burns his brain.
With a wince he awakens,       watching and waiting, wishing
His dream would not dull.     Defeated, he drains the dregs of his drink.
Alone, Orin only hopes for rest,       rest without waking or wandering--
Forgetfulness without fear.       He looks down at liver spotted limbs,
Lonely and lost, looking for       the life he left so long ago.