National Poetry Month2024-03-28T17:39:17Zhttps://d.moonfire.us/tags/national-poetry-month/D. MoonfireCreative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 InternationalPoem - Why Not Let it Be?2019-04-30T05:00:00Zhttps://d.moonfire.us/blog/2019/04/30/poem-2/For the final day of National Poetry Month, I present a poem about the Internet culture and unwanted discouragement.
<p>For the final day of National Poetry Month, I present a poem about the Internet culture and unwanted discouragement. This is based on many incidents when someone says “I like this” and then someone says “I don't and you shouldn't.” It doesn't have to be on the Internet, I've seen people ranting about gay couples in restaurants or bitching that someone wears their pants too low. It doesn't hurt anyone, so why not let it be?</p>
<p>Related to that, it doesn't have to be for me either. The saggy pants is not my thing. Watching hours of <em>Temple Run</em> on YouTube is not my thing, but if someone wants to do it? Let them. If someone asked to be called “they” or “him” or “her” or “mx”, then I'm the type of person who will do that. Let it be.</p>
<p>We all look for our sense of identity. When it is a new one, it doesn't quite fit as smoothly as one would like it to be. Realizing one is gay or lesbian or neither takes a while to adapt. Finding out that someone loves all genders or no genders or only close friends, it feels right but it also hasn't quite settled into place like a puzzle piece. So, let it be.</p>
<p>Sometimes it's a phase, sometimes it isn't. Sometimes you know from an early age that they are poly and pan. Other times, it hit someone in their forties that they like model trains, or BDSM, or teaching ceramics. It doesn't matter. Let it go.</p>
<p>Please, let people love what they love.</p>
<p>If you don't like it but it doesn't hurt anyone, then just… let it go.</p>
<p><em>Why Not Let it Be?</em></p>
<pre><code class="language-poem">She likes a book.
You don't read.
Why not let it be?
They like to draw.
You don't like it.
Why not let it be?
He liked a play.
You don't watch.
Why not let it be?
They like to game.
You don't play.
Why not let it be?
She loves a girl.
You don't approve.
Why not let it be?
They aren't a boy.
You don't agree.
Why not let it be?
</code></pre>
Poem - My Father's Ring2019-04-30T05:00:00Zhttps://d.moonfire.us/blog/2019/04/30/poem/On the thirthieth day of National Poetry Month, I present a poem about battle and fighting for a cause.
<p>On the thirthieth day of National Poetry Month, I present a poem about battle and fighting for a cause. The specific culture doesn't have a lot of details in my world yet, but <a href="https://fedran.com/hound-of-illustir/">The Hound of Illustir</a> will probably be one of the first (and my world's version of <em>Old Yeller</em>). It will be interesting because I only have a few notes so far and a number of <a href="https://fedran.com/almanac/">Almanac</a> entries.</p>
<p><em>My Father's Ring</em></p>
<pre><code class="language-poem">My father's ring
Worn in the Battle of Takair
He died a week later
Now I wear it to my own battle.
My father's father's ring
Cut from his finger in disgrace
His betrayal still hurts
Now I wear it to remind me to charge.
My father's father's father's ring
Forged when we still had a home
Shapes of irons he dug up
Now I wear it to survive.
My father's father's father's father's ring
Given to us by a foreigner
A payment for his youngest daughter
Now I wear it to save her children.
</code></pre>
Poem - A Child is Born2019-04-29T05:00:00Zhttps://d.moonfire.us/blog/2019/04/29/poem/For the twenty-ninth day of National Poetry Month, I wrote about poem about my son's first breath.
<p>For the twenty-ninth day of National Poetry Month, I wrote about poem about my son's first breath. Yeah, it's a bit more slanted for the world, but I actually managed to get a photograph of that first breath (both of my children were born with the cord around their necks). It was scary but also startling, a moment of silence as if the world was waiting for that first… single… breath.</p>
<p><em>A Child is Born</em></p>
<pre><code class="language-poem">A gasp of air.
A wail.
A cry.
A breath.
Crystal chimes ring out,
Cries rise up in cheerful harmony,
Music fills the heart,
Hands touch and caress with joy,
Tears dripping from faces,
Names are thrown out,
Promises are made happily,
Gifts are stacked high.
A child is born.
</code></pre>
Poem - Love Among Girls2019-04-28T05:00:00Zhttps://d.moonfire.us/blog/2019/04/28/poem/For the twenty-eight day of National Poetry Month, the theme is forbidden lesbian lovers.
<p>For the twenty-eight day of National Poetry Month, the theme is forbidden lesbian lovers. Why? Because my desert culture is aggressively homophobic for the sole reason I am not. This will come up in <a href="https://fedran.com/desert-child/">Desert Child</a> but the seeds are still there.</p>
<p><em>Love Among Girls</em></p>
<pre><code class="language-poem">She has the sweetest smile
That I want to kiss so badly.
I want to touch her hand
And rest my palm on her hip.
I tried, I tried so many times.
I've been beaten and caged.
My father no longer speaks.
My mother won't see me anymore.
I want the girl and she wants me.
But was even the hint of our desires
Enough to ruin our families?
To cast us among the clanless?
If I turn back, I might have a chance.
My family may speak to me again.
My clan name could return to my breast.
I'll have a home and a bed.
If I don't, what will she do?
Will she return and leave me?
Does she need her family more than me?
Is it love or just lust?
Can I survive alone in this desert?
With the hot sands burning my feed?
With no one to hold my hand
And no lips to caress in comfort?
She has the sweetest of smiles
Laughter that brings joy.
If she leaves, I have to accept it.
If she remains, then I will kiss her
And hold her until the end of days.
</code></pre>
Poem - Fifty-Three Years2019-04-27T05:00:00Zhttps://d.moonfire.us/blog/2019/04/27/poem/On the twenty-seventh day of National Poetry Month, I wrote a poem about my marriage.
<p>On the twenty-seventh day of National Poetry Month, I wrote a poem about my marriage. When I was getting married to my spouse in 2000, we talked about renewing vows. I wanted to renew every decade to give them a safe and easy “out” if they were ever tired of me. They wanted it to be forever… and maybe into the next life if possible.</p>
<p><em>Side note, I'm still trying to figure out how to haunt her to keep with her after I die.</em></p>
<p>We compromised on a fifty-year marriage. In 2050, we'll decide if we want to keep going or walk away. After fifty years, chances are, I'll stay, but the same thought remains: I don't want them to feel obligated to be married to me “because.”</p>
<p>This is the same philosophy I have with authors from <a href="https://typewriter.press/">Broken Typewriter Press</a>. They can walk away if they feel the need. Yeah, I'd hope they pay my costs but right now, if it doesn't work, then don't continue it.</p>
<p>I almost ended this poem with the way Buckminster Fuller died, but didn't.</p>
<p><em>Fifty-Three Years</em></p>
<pre><code class="language-poem">Fifty-three years as of this midnight.
So many years of looking into his face
And seeing the wrinkles spread across
And the eye glaze over with age.
So handsome.
Fifty-three years as of this midnight.
So many years of holding her tight
And seeing her breasts drop
And her hair go gray.
So beautiful.
Fifty-three years as of this midnight.
So many years of living together
And seeing our rings tarnish
And our children grow.
So wonderful.
Fifty-three years as of this midnight.
So many years of saying "I love you"
And repeating our vows
And remembering how to love.
So joyful.
</code></pre>
Poem - A Child On a Bed So Soft2019-04-26T05:00:00Zhttps://d.moonfire.us/blog/2019/04/26/poem/On the twenty-sixth day of National Poetry Month, I have a little poem about losing a child.
<p>On the twenty-sixth day of National Poetry Month, I have a little poem about losing a child. In a rough world, I have no doubt that this happens with depressingly frequent occurrence and I still see the lost of those around me who have lost their own children over the years. There really isn't a way I can't write about it.</p>
<p>This may also be inspired by a video I stumbled on years ago while browsing the Internet. It still haunts me.</p>
<p><em>A Child On a Bed So Soft</em></p>
<pre><code class="language-poem">a child on a bed so soft
eyes open but no longer seeing
her hand no longer grasps my thumb
fingers slack and splayed
a child on the deck so cold
the sea washing around us
my foot holding her hair down
to avoid our grief being stolen
a child wrapped in canvas
my mother's first blanket
my father's cherished belt
my tears on her chest
a child bobbing in the waves
face washed with salt
dress billowing in waves
the sea holding her tight
a child lost in the waves
one ribbon floating in the water
one aching hole in my heart
and a mother who will never not cry
</code></pre>
Poem - Yes, Sir, I Understand2019-04-25T05:00:00Zhttps://d.moonfire.us/blog/2019/04/25/poem/For the twenty-fifth day of National Poetry Month, I have a little poem about slavery and racism.
<p>For the twenty-fifth day of National Poetry Month, I have a little poem about slavery and racism. While I'm an apparently cis white male, there are some themes in my world about the former slavery of the <a href="https://fedran.com/dalpre/">dalpre</a>.</p>
<p>I'm not planning on writing a lot when they were slaves (not really my story) but I am planning on working out how society handles them after they are “freed” both from the point of the dalpre and for the humans.</p>
<p><em>Yes, Sir, I Understand</em></p>
<pre><code class="language-poem">"Dog, move that wagon."
Yes, Sir, I understand.
You don't care who I am
Only the fur on my back
And the muzzle on my mouth.
"Dog, carry those boxes."
Yes, Sir, I understand.
You don't see me as human
Only an animal that can listen
With fingers that break.
"Dog, build those gallows."
Yes, Sir, I understand.
You don't see this as a crime
Only breeding your pets
And getting rid of the bad ones.
"Dog, step up."
Yes, Sir, I understand.
You don't see me as a being
Only empty eyes that can't see
And my tail between my legs.
"Dog, rot in hell."
Yes, Sir, I understand.
You don't see me has someone
Only a beast that went too far
And bred with one of yours.
</code></pre>
Poem - She Speaks For Death2019-04-24T05:00:00Zhttps://d.moonfire.us/blog/2019/04/24/poem/For the twenty-fourth day of National Poetry Month, I have a little spoiler for a novel I'm planning on writing.
<p>For the twenty-fourth day of National Poetry Month, I have a little spoiler for a novel I'm planning on writing. If you read my novels, you can probably figure out who it is about but I could imagine there is something terrifying for any child who speaks for a spirit capable of killing anyone.</p>
<p>She is also one of my favorite side characters.</p>
<p><em>She Speaks For Death</em></p>
<pre><code class="language-poem">She's just a little girl.
Innocent with brown skin and green eyes.
Her words are quiet and infrequent
But terrifying just the same.
When she speaks, she speaks for death.
The full force of the desert behind her.
When she says quiet, then even magic dies.
When she says listen, she steals your air.
When she says no, there is no chance for yes.
Not even the sun and moon
Can refuse her anything.
She's just a little girl
But she speaks for death.
</code></pre>
Poem - Kill Them All2019-04-23T05:00:00Zhttps://d.moonfire.us/blog/2019/04/23/poem/**Content Warning for Suicide and Murder** For the twenty-third day of National Poetry Month, I have a poem about the horrors of growing up.
<p><strong>Content Warning for Suicide and Murder</strong></p>
<p>For the twenty-third day of National Poetry Month, I have a poem about the horrors of growing up. I've written before about my suicide attempt when I was seventeen. It was a rough time, one where the feeling of being alone and constantly mocked reached a peak. This is a poem that brings some of that back, so it might not be for everyone.</p>
<p>One thing that was thankful was that I've pretty much always been a pacifist. The idea of even hurting someone sickened me, despite the fact that one specific had tried to run me over with his car because I was involved with his suspension (he slammed my head into a locker hard enough to cause me to bleed).</p>
<p>High school was really hard on me.</p>
<p>However, what if I wasn't that way?</p>
<p><em>Kill Them All</em></p>
<pre><code class="language-poem">Endlessly mocking students
Watching all my movements.
Some know that I manifested
And let me know I'm detested.
Down the street and across the way
I wish they would just go away.
The hate is building inside me
And I don't know of my empathy.
I want to kill them every day
And see the bodies I slay.
My magic is already flowing
And my hands are glowing.
I want to kill them all
My fantasies are gore and vitriol.
I shouldn't and I can't.
I have to show restraint.
My dreams are violent
But my magic is silent.
</code></pre>
Poem - Pumps and Gears2019-04-22T05:00:00Zhttps://d.moonfire.us/blog/2019/04/22/poem/For the twenty-second day of National Poetry Month, I have a poem about steam engines.
<p>For the twenty-second day of National Poetry Month, I have a poem about steam engines. As I mentioned before, <a href="https://fedran.com/">Fedran</a> is on the cusp of two great ages: the descent of magic and the rise of machines. This is going to be an interesting time to say the least, but it is at a point where cars and trains are <em>new</em> and interesting to most people.</p>
<p><em>Pumps and Gears</em></p>
<pre><code class="language-poem">Fire roaring mutely
Metal groaning with pressure
Black smoke chugging
Boiler hissing steam
Gears squeaking in rhythm
Piston driving endlessly
Wheels turning forever
</code></pre>
Poem - The Stone and I Breathe2019-04-21T05:00:00Zhttps://d.moonfire.us/blog/2019/04/21/poem/For the first and twenty day of National Poetry Month, I wrote a poem about attuning oneself to rock.
<p>For the first and twenty day of National Poetry Month, I wrote a poem about attuning oneself to rock. This power is related to the Wamifūko in <a href="https://fedran.com/sand-and-ash/">Sand and Ash</a> but with a specific named character's coming of age that is planned for a future novel. Kanéko's father, Ronamar, also has similar experiences with stone being a Earth Knight of Kormar.</p>
<p><em>The Stone and I Breathe</em></p>
<pre><code class="language-poem">The stone below is still
My held breath burns my lungs
Nothing moves but the beat of my pulse
My chest burns with the need
The faintest of trembles
I opened my mouth
A quiver, a touch, a dance
I can finally let my breathe go
The ground stills once again
I inhale slowly but steadily
Nothing moves beneath my fingers
I hold my breath, waiting for the next
</code></pre>
Poem - Wisps of Clouds2019-04-20T05:00:00Zhttps://d.moonfire.us/blog/2019/04/20/poem/For the twentieth day of National Poetry Month, I have a little poem about flying. There is something about fliers I love, both the joy of losing oneself in the clouds but also the freedom to move.
<p>For the twentieth day of National Poetry Month, I have a little poem about flying. There is something about fliers I love, both the joy of losing oneself in the clouds but also the freedom to move. As a young one, I <em>adored</em> stories about races with wings. I even had a go-to favorite race of elves (my mithral elves from my old D&D world) that had wings.</p>
<p>In <a href="https://fedran.com/flight-of-the-scions/">Flight of the Scions</a>, I always had the plan to make Maris a flier. How it turned out, the casual collateral damage with an unexpected and happy part of her personality. This poem was written with her in mind, though it would probably be something that happens between the <a href="https://fedran.com/pack-daughter/">second</a> and <a href="https://fedran.com/son-of-vo/">third</a> book.</p>
<p><em>Wisps of Clouds</em></p>
<pre><code class="language-poem">the rip of wind across the face
of bugs in teeth
and tears in eyes
the ache of breathing far too hard
and the pressure of flying too fast
always rising higher to the sun
until the warmth burns
and the lungs strain
to keep breathing
the taste of lightning
the wisp of clouds all around
the caress of moisture
plummet down
racing for the ground
faster, always faster
</code></pre>
Poem - Unexpected Reduction of Memories2019-04-19T05:00:00Zhttps://d.moonfire.us/blog/2019/04/19/poem/For the nineteenth day of National Poetry Month, I wrote a poem about how telepaths view the world.
<p>For the nineteenth day of National Poetry Month, I wrote a poem about how telepaths view the world. In specific, how the group mind of Vo would create a form of poem. Their language is based on using shared memories, however art comes with the meta of memories. In this case, the presence of memories concerning a specific door.</p>
<p><em>Unexpected Reduction of Memories</em></p>
<pre><code class="language-poem">1,238,842 memories about this exact street.
1,002,248 memories about this exact house.
874,823 memories about this exact porch.
584,052 memories about this exact door.
184,823 memories about this exact handle.
9,742 memories about this exact keyhole.
92 memories about opening this exact door.
87 memories about entering this exact door.
1 memory about leaving this exact door.
</code></pre>
Poem - Ageless and Invulnerable2019-04-18T05:00:00Zhttps://d.moonfire.us/blog/2019/04/18/poem/For the eighteenth day of National Poetry Month, I present a little poem about being immortal. Remarkably, I'm not fond of immortals as a theme.
<p>For the eighteenth day of National Poetry Month, I present a little poem about being immortal. Remarkably, I'm not fond of immortals as a theme. Regardless of how old they look, they are still far more mature than anyone they fall in love with. This disparity of age and maturity is why I didn't really fall in love with the <em>Twilight</em> series and <em>Interview with a Vampire</em>.</p>
<p>That said, I really liked Highlander when it was on TV. Duncan's and Amanda's relationship was the part I like the best, because I love the relationships between immortals. The same with <em>The Librarians</em> and the couple in the first few episodes.</p>
<p><em>Ageless and Invulnerable</em></p>
<pre><code class="language-poem">I had not forgotten the first time.
I was crushed under a mountain.
There was no pain, no fear.
Only sadness that clung to my thoughts
And I dug myself out,
One handful at a time.
Others tried to kill me.
Oh, they have tried so many times.
Poison, stabbing, flame, and magic.
I think it was supposed to hurt
Or at least stop me from trying,
but it never did.
I've been a king, a priest, and scribe.
I've loved so many until I no longer wanted.
I drank every wine known to man
Until I no longer felt the buzz or joy.
I've smoked, injected, and sniffed every
substance man had long forgotten.
I'm still here, waiting for the end.
The world continued to move forward
Time marches on
But I'm so tired of it.
I desire not to be part of history
And just want it all to end.
</code></pre>
Poem - I Am Shadows2019-04-17T05:00:00Zhttps://d.moonfire.us/blog/2019/04/17/poem/For National Poetry Month, I present another poem for day seventeen: I Am Shadows. This is a little piece about assassins using shadow magic.
<p>For National Poetry Month, I present another poem for day seventeen: I Am Shadows. This is a little piece about assassins using shadow magic. I'll be honest, I know why I like this theme but I can't really point to what caused it besides the Shadow Dancer prestige class from Dungeons and Dragons.</p>
<p><em>I Am Shadows</em></p>
<pre><code class="language-poem">I am shadows:
Dark,
Quiet,
and Hidden.
I am at the door:
Sealed,
Locked,
and Forbidden.
I am inside:
Stealthy,
Armed,
and Ready.
I'm behind you:
Bladed,
Quiet,
and Killing.
</code></pre>
Poem - Drifting Thoughts2019-04-16T05:00:00Zhttps://d.moonfire.us/blog/2019/04/16/poem/On the sixteenth day of April, I present another poem for National Poetry Month. Today we have a little piece about high society and telepathy.
<p>On the sixteenth day of April, I present another poem for National Poetry Month. Today we have a little piece about high society and telepathy. Much of this was inspired by <a href="https://fedran.com/second-hand-dresses/">Second-Hand Dresses</a> and <a href="https://fedran.com/her-silken-touch/">Her Silken Touch</a>.</p>
<p>I would also say it is inspired by novels with heavy use of telepathy which would include <em>So You Want to Be a Wizard</em> by Diane Duane and <em>The Last Herald-Mage</em> by Mercedes Lackey. I absolutely adore both of those books growing up. One might say they were both influential to my current views today.</p>
<p><em>Drifting Thoughts</em></p>
<pre><code class="language-poem">Drift in and look around.
She's thinking about her dress
And what the handsome man by the wine is thinking.
How much did she spend on her shoes?
She could get a better deal.
Drift out and then to another.
He's thinking about money
Where to move one investment
And where to hide a few coins for later.
Oh, only one drink tonight for him?
Drift around, looking for thoughts.
Something dark and violent.
Flashes of war across my mind
As the smiling baroness
Tries to forget her final battle.
Drifting endlessly
The woman in front of him is staring
Wondering if I think she's pretty.
She is, but her thoughts are flimsy.
Too shallow for me tonight.
Drifting without hope.
The party is going on long
And no one seems to have interesting thoughts.
Money, sex, and vanity
In an endless wave.
Drifting to a newcomer,
A woman in a black dress.
Her thoughts?
Nothing.
Black as her elbow length gloves
And as deep of despair that I've felt.
Focusing, looking for answers.
Her eyes catch me across the room
Brown with hints of red.
And then a smile.
I imagine saying hello.
"How interesting," came the answer in my mind.
</code></pre>
Poem - Damn the Sands2019-04-15T05:00:00Zhttps://d.moonfire.us/blog/2019/04/15/poem/There are three parts to the so-called war between the sun and moon clans: [Mifúno](https://fedran.com/mifuno/). Mifúno is the personification of the desert, kind of a combination of bad luck and death combined into one.
<p>There are three parts to the so-called war between the sun and moon clans: <a href="https://fedran.com/mifuno/">Mifúno</a>. Mifúno is the personification of the desert, kind of a combination of bad luck and death combined into one. In the culture, Mifúno is critical to the survival because everyone lives on her, but they also are afraid to say her name.</p>
<blockquote>
<p>The others continued to yell at him, filling the tiny room with overwhelming noise. It beat against him, slamming against his chest, and crushing him with the pressure. Even Hyonèku joined in the yelling, though his weak voice was drowned out by Gichyòbi, Kamanìo, and the dogs.</p>
<p>He waited a few seconds and then drew in his breath. “I am Rutejìmo, and I speak for Mifúno!” His voice slammed against the walls of the room and the power crackled around him. It sparked along Gichyòbi’s weapon and the connection with the pack. Arcs of lightning speared through the air and scorched the stone as a field of brilliant, magenta light surrounded him.</p>
<p>The sound of his voice didn’t echo back. Instead, a suffocating silence draped over the tiny room. A whisper of wind slipped through the cracks of the door, sending streamers of sand cascading across the floor.</p>
<p>Everyone stepped back from Rutejìmo, their faces pale. Rutejìmo stood in the silence. The fear he felt declaring war was completely gone, replaced with a determination to perform his duty.</p>
<p>Hyonèku whispered, “What happened to you, Rutejìmo? How can you speak for her? You’ll… she’ll kill you.”</p>
<p>—<a href="https://fedran.com/sand-and-bone/chapter-24/">Chapter 24 of Sand and Bone</a></p>
</blockquote>
<p><em>Damn the Sands</em></p>
<pre><code class="language-poem">Damn the sands
Forbidden memories rising up
Choking me in a storm of grit
Of silt, of darkness.
I feel it scratching my back,
Sticking in my hairs
And along my thighs.
Why did he have to die today?
His memories stick to me
Like the grains in my wounds
The throbbing pain
Echoed inside my heart and head.
Damn the sands,
Why did he have to die?
</code></pre>
<p>That doesn't mean people don't get angry when they lose a cherished one. They just can't call her name in anger. So you find poetries and essays talking about ones Mifúno had taken.</p>
<p>So far, the desert doesn't have a concept of reincarnation. Once someone dies, they remain dead until all time.</p>
Poem - The Desert Sleeps2019-04-14T05:00:00Zhttps://d.moonfire.us/blog/2019/04/14/poem/On the fourtheenth days of April, I present another poem for National Poetry Month. Today, the poem is about the conflict between [Tachìra](https://fedran.com/tachira/) and [Chobìre](https://fedran.com/chobire/), the source of most clan's magic. This also ties into the creation myth for the north western part of the desert.
<p>On the fourtheenth days of April, I present another poem for National Poetry Month. Today, the poem is about the conflict between <a href="https://fedran.com/tachira/">Tachìra</a> and <a href="https://fedran.com/chobire/">Chobìre</a>, the source of most clan's magic. This also ties into the creation myth for the north western part of the desert.</p>
<p>As I continue to write in this world, I realize that the day and night clan differences are frequently spoken but not acted. I plan on having a scene in <a href="https://fedran.com/raging-alone/">Raging Alone</a> about it, but the night clans provide just as valuable services as the day.</p>
<p>It's when dedicated warriors get in the way. There is a stark difference between the two because of <a href="https://fedran.com/resonance/">feedback</a> between the two energies; it is easy to hate someone who causes you pain by their physical presence. However, in the desert, it wouldn't help to be at war with half your neighbors constantly.</p>
<p><em>The Desert Sleep</em></p>
<pre><code class="language-poem">The desert is quiet tonight.
The two warriors are sleeping
And either fight for her love.
No screams of battle
Or whimpers of the dying.
Just sand rustling
Like an old woman's blanket.
She is sleeping tonight
And everything is at peace.
</code></pre>
Poem - Hush Child2019-04-13T05:00:00Zhttps://d.moonfire.us/blog/2019/04/13/poem/On the thirteenth day of National Poetry Month, I have a little lullaby. I like cadence poetry a lot more than rhyming. In this case, you have 2/3/3/3 syllable pattern. It also fits the pattern I sing to my kids when they are feeling sick.
<p>On the thirteenth day of National Poetry Month, I have a little lullaby. I like cadence poetry a lot more than rhyming. In this case, you have 2/3/3/3 syllable pattern. It also fits the pattern I sing to my kids when they are feeling sick.</p>
<p><em>Hush Child</em></p>
<pre><code class="language-poem">Hush child
Time to sleep
Close your eyes
Go to sleep
Hush babe
Come to me
Rest your head
On mommy.
Hush love
Quiet down
Go to sleep
Against me.
Hush hush
Time to dream
Of family,
You and me.
</code></pre>
Poem - He Said Yes!2019-04-12T05:00:00Zhttps://d.moonfire.us/blog/2019/04/12/poem/For a little sweetness, I wrote a little poem about a trans girl finding a boyfriend. I figured it was a good unicorn chaser to yesterday's poem but also because there are parts of my world that is accepting of trans and queers.
<p>For a little sweetness, I wrote a little poem about a trans girl finding a boyfriend. I figured it was a good unicorn chaser to yesterday's poem but also because there are parts of my world that is accepting of trans and queers (we all have to have a safe place).</p>
<p>One of the things about how I decided to write my world is that the point of views are limited and biases. However, this means that it came sometimes come off as a certain author making a proclamation that a main character was gay but never having it shown “on the page” as it were.</p>
<blockquote>
<p>“A banyosiōu of the night, another runner with a dépa spirit.”</p>
<p>Five years ago, ostracized from his clan, Rutejìmo had become one of the banyosiōu. He was treated as one of the dead, someone who could not talk or attract attention without the fear of being killed. His time ended after a year, and he rejoined the living. For most, becoming a banyosiōu was a punishment for the rest of their short, brutal life.</p>
<p>Rutejìmo knew the courier. They both worked for the same person back when Rutejìmo had been kicked out of the Shimusògo for a year. They were as close as day and night could be, the common bond of chasing a dépa giving them solace. But, Rutejìmo was allowed to return to the living and the other man was not.</p>
<p>—<a href="https://fedran.com/sand-and-bone/chapter-26/">Chapter 26 of Sand and Bone</a></p>
</blockquote>
<p>I hope that if I get to the stories, like Kanochyòba above, that it will be something special. At least it will be for me, though I suspect knowing everyone's back story will make it more emotional to me.</p>
<p>In this world, the desert is <em>no</em> friendly toward queers. One might say it is rather aggressively determined to shove people in specific sexual roles. This is part of the story of <em>Neither</em> and a few other stories. However in this case, the poem is set in Lorban which is “mostly” accepting.</p>
<p><em>He Said Yes!</em></p>
<pre><code class="language-poem">He said yes!
Yes to me and my shy question.
Yes to me as I tugged on my dress.
Yes to me as I feared the worse.
He said yes!
Yes to me and my chosen name.
Yes to me as others mock me.
Yes to me as I'm ready to run.
He said yes!
Yes to me for who I am.
Yes to me knowing what I am.
Yes to me even when I revealed myself.
He said yes!
Yes to me.
</code></pre>
<p>Of course, there is something to be said that I'm catering to a “diversity bingo” card. I don't think it is, I'm writing about people in my own life and aspects of my own experiences.</p>
Poem - Burnt Hills and Embers2019-04-11T05:00:00Zhttps://d.moonfire.us/blog/2019/04/11/poem/I've organized much of my planned [ideas](https://fedran.com/ideas/) for future novels and stories around three phases related to a world war that marks the passage of [Fedran](https://fedran.com/) from a world of magic to one of industry and steampunk.
<p>I've organized much of my planned <a href="https://fedran.com/ideas/">ideas</a> for future novels and stories around three phases related to a world war that marks the passage of <a href="https://fedran.com/">Fedran</a> from a world of magic to one of industry and steampunk.</p>
<p>Phase one are the stories that happen before the battle that heralds the world war, the <em>The Betrayal of Kosòbyo</em>. This is the battle hinted by in <a href="https://fedran.com/sand-and-bone/">Sand and Bone</a> and will be written in more detail in <a href="https://fedran.com/desert-child/">Desert Child</a>. All of my stories at this point, including <a href="https://fedran.com/second-hand-dresses/">Second-Hand Dresses</a> are phase one.</p>
<p>Phase two are the events during the war itself, up to and including the point where things settle down.</p>
<p>The last phase, which is technically phase zero, are stories that don't really have a place in the world war. I suspect most of them will be placed in one of the other phases.</p>
<p>Now, one of the things with both my style and my interests is that the world war is not going to be “pretty”. I'm not sure how far I go, but there were will be scenes that show the horror of battle, much like I write about the damage abuse can do in my more recent stories.</p>
<p>This poem is related to the phase two stories.</p>
<p><em>Burnt Hills and Embers</em></p>
<pre><code class="language-poem">Stench of burnt wood
Scorched centuries of growth
Crumbling away in burning winds.
The sharp taste of melted wood
Still glowing cherry red
Inside ruined forges.
The gamy scent of burning leather
From the mountain of books
Now only ashes in a pile.
Sweet and savory corpses
Mothers reaching for the children
And children clutching toys.
The salty sting of tears
As I walk among the carnage
On my way to kill the murderers.
</code></pre>
Poem - Soft Browns2019-04-10T05:00:00Zhttps://d.moonfire.us/blog/2019/04/10/poem/For the ninth day of National Poetry Month, I wrote a little poem about racism.
<p>For National Poetry Month, I've written another poem about racism for the tenth day. This, like yesterday, is biased by the writer but from one of the desert clans talking about a coastal.</p>
<p>Eye color ended up being a strange thing for me. The bulk of the world is brown because it is a dominate eye color for humans. The desert has green eyes, as a general trend, because of genetics but in the later years of <a href="https://fedran.com/">Fedran</a>, you'll see different colors show up for my phase two and three stories.</p>
<p><em>Soft Browns</em></p>
<pre><code class="language-poem">soft lives
soft homes
no struggle
no pain
weak spirits
weak magic
bloody blades
bloody wars
always fighting
always invading
brown eyes
brown hearts
</code></pre>
Poem - Black Skinned Monsters2019-04-09T05:00:00Zhttps://d.moonfire.us/blog/2019/04/09/poem/For the ninth day of National Poetry Month, I wrote a little poem about racism.
<p>For the ninth day of National Poetry Month, I wrote a little poem about racism. The cultural differences between the desert folks and the coastal is one of the big points of friction in my world. Each one considers the others to be barbarians because each one has (I hope) a rich culture and society.</p>
<p>That doesn't stop them from insulting the others.</p>
<p><em>Black Skinned Monsters</em></p>
<pre><code class="language-poem">They came from the desert
In the middle of the night.
Howling, screaming barbarians.
Their skin dark as obsidian
And their eyes green with malice.
They moved in perfect concert
Attacking when they saw the light.
First, they went for the librarians.
Then across the road meridian
Before raiding the palace.
</code></pre>
<p>This poem has each stanza ending with a rhyme that matches the other stanzas… mostly. This is also the theme of <a href="https://fedran.com/ramus-and-the-savage-slasher/">Ramus and the Savage Slasher</a>, a pulp style adventure with significant racist tones.</p>
Poem - Inscribing the Rune2019-04-08T05:00:00Zhttps://d.moonfire.us/blog/2019/04/08/poem/On the eighth day of National Poetry Month, I return to one of my favorite topics: crafting.
<p>On the eighth day of National Poetry Month, I return to one of my favorite topics: crafting. This ties into the katas earlier, but I frequently get into this sense of peace when I'm writing or programming.</p>
<p>This poem also ties into the entire concept of fire runes being the trigger for the industrial age. The only difference is that they use magically charged runes instead of coal or gasoline to power their vehicles.</p>
<p><em>Inscribing the Rune</em></p>
<pre><code class="language-poem">Start with a number two
With sharp cutting blade
Set it down
Put on some weight
Keep the hand steady
To bring it down in a swoop
Then a cut followed by a second
The details are precise
And the lines memorized
At the same time
The image is flowing
And the shape is made up
A mix of pattern and chaos
There is a science in crafting
And an art for enchanting
Neither can do it alone
Both are needed
For balanced harmony
Slice into rock
The delicate blade cuts easily
The energy flowing through the tip
Draining with every cut
The energy slowly charges the rune
Until each line glows brightly
Sparking with potential power
Runes are beautiful when charged
And world changing in their beauty
They start with a single cut
</code></pre>
<p>This is another descending stanza poem starting with seven and going down to one line.</p>
Poem - A Stranger2019-04-07T05:00:00Zhttps://d.moonfire.us/blog/2019/04/07/poem/For the seventh day of National Poetry Month, I have a little one about [body integrity dysphoria](Body integrity dysphoria) or the feeling like a limb doesn't belong to yourself.
<p>For the seventh day of National Poetry Month, I have a little one about [body integrity dysphoria](Body integrity dysphoria) or the feeling like a limb doesn't belong to yourself. This is a theme that shows up relatively frequently in my writing and I already have a number of novels and short stories planned that touch on it.</p>
<p><em>A Stranger</em></p>
<pre><code class="language-poem">Decades later, they still aren't mine.
Physically they have always been there.
The bones inside should be the same.
Skin stretched out is one big piece.
But when I look down, I don't feel it.
My feet belong to someone else.
The sensations are filtered and faked
Not quite real, not quite mine.
Even pain is shadowed and fractured.
The ultimate tell, not show.
Unbroken skin transitions me from not-me
But there is a distinct, invisible line.
Above? Mine.
Below? Theirs.
My feet are not my own,
But they are attached.
My muscles respond to my will,
But I'm asking someone to move.
A stranger shares my body.
</code></pre>
Poem - I Love Them All2019-04-06T05:00:00Zhttps://d.moonfire.us/blog/2019/04/06/poem/So, to contrast yesterday's poem for National Poetry Month, I have a poem about polyamory.
<p>So, to contrast yesterday's poem for National Poetry Month, I have a poem about polyamory. Like asexuality, there are aspects of this sexuality in my life but I'm pretty sure no one wants details. However, I also feel they both present and therefore are important in my world. I don't want either to be the “evil” sexuality nor the “good” one.</p>
<p>What I want is sexuality to be an aspect of a character, present but not identifying. Sinmak is not a “gay mercenary”, he's a mercenary who happens to be gay. Likewise, <a href="https://fedran.com/lily/">Lily</a> ends up being poly but <a href="https://fedran.com/rutejimo/">Rutejìmo</a> is straight.</p>
<p><em>I Love Them All</em></p>
<pre><code class="language-poem">That woman in a suit
crossing the street?
Yes.
That man painting
Every car that passes?
Please?
The dark-skinned warrior
With glowing golden swords?
Oh, the Divine Couple, yes.
The golem shaped
Of some man's fantasy?
Without shame, I do.
The dryad out by the stream
Of dancing flowers and spring?
I do.
Gender, shape, and purpose.
Form, personality, and loves.
There is something that pulls me
To every one I see.
I love them all.
</code></pre>
Poem - Leaving My Love2019-04-05T05:00:00Zhttps://d.moonfire.us/blog/2019/04/05/poem/On the fifth day of National Poetry Month, I have a little poem about asexuality.
<p>On the fifth day of National Poetry Month, I have a little poem about asexuality. Now, the topic is probably not for public discourse, but there are aspects of asexuality that have always been in my life so I do have a kinship toward the topic.</p>
<p>Mainly, I just wanted to write a poem about a sailor who loves the ocean for being the ocean and nothing else. No personifications of a woman (or man), no gods or goddess to take the place. Just the longing to be out at sea, in love with it.</p>
<p><em>Leaving My Love</em></p>
<pre><code class="language-poem">Here I stand,
On the border between
Land and sea.
Sand beneath my feet,
The spray in my beard.
I'm so tired of this.
I hate when I leave.
Being gone cuts deep.
Those lonely nights
Always missing her.
Soon enough,
My feet are back on sand.
Walking up the plank again.
Only minutes away
To return to my love.
Waves untouched by land.
The cold damp wind blowing.
Sun searing along my skin.
She stole my heart
And never gave it back.
</code></pre>
Poem - Sand Bites Hard Now2019-04-04T05:00:00Zhttps://d.moonfire.us/blog/2019/04/04/poem/On the fourth day of National Poetry Month, I write a little poem with my least favorite pattern: rhyming.
<p>On the fourth day of National Poetry Month, I write a little poem with my least favorite pattern: rhyming. I suspect I know why I struggle with rhyming, I don't sub-vocalize when I read. In other words, I don't sound out names or places as I got but “parse” them as symbols. If you ever talk to me, you'll hear it because I mispronounce a lot of words, even ones I don't know.</p>
<p>It also means I have a remarkably difficult time <em>starting</em> to talk. Though, as coworkers will tell you, once I get going, I don't shut up. It's like one of those big engines winding up.</p>
<p>When I'm surprise or not ready, I don't always respond with words. Sign language? That comes faster and that gets used instead of speaking. I fumbled my wedding vows partially for the same reason because I forgot how to speak (and I was thinking about a scene from <em>Hackers</em> when I was supposed to be listening).</p>
<p>Regardless, this was one of my first sonnets in a long time.</p>
<p><em>Sand Bites Hard Now</em></p>
<pre><code class="language-poem">No matter what I see across the sand,
From dunes to rocks to cloudless sky above me,
The bright sun burns my vision like a brand
And reminds me that I'm a refugee.
My blameless guilt gnaws as a thousand bites.
Blood on hands and a shadow overhead.
I didn't think there would be constant lights.
I would rather be somewhere else instead.
This new life is going to be so damned hard.
I didn't have time to make this poor choice.
And now my life is nothing but a shard.
I'm going to scream until I lose my voice.
I don't have a choice anymore, do I now?
Not if I don't want to break my new vow.
</code></pre>
Poem - Spin, Drop, Slice2019-04-03T05:00:00Zhttps://d.moonfire.us/blog/2019/04/03/poem/On the third day of National Poetry Month, I have a littlie poem about martial practice.
<p>On the third day of National Poetry Month, I have a littlie poem about martial practice. When I was into iaijutsu, it was peaceful doing the various katas with the sword. I never got really good at them, my ego and focus wasn't there, but I still enjoyed it greatly. Except for, you know, when I sliced open my hand on my sword.</p>
<p><em>Spin, Drop, Slice</em></p>
<pre><code class="language-poem">step forward
no, that lets me vulnerable
exposed on the side
open in the front and back
think, damn you, pretend
spear danced on my palms
a wide circle of death
no, too high
bring it down
they can strike low
come around, drop it down
bring the blade up from the right
only graze the ground
too slow
not real enough
two hands on the sweaty haft
ready to strike
slash hard and fast
aim for the imaginary throat
victory
</code></pre>
<p>My “natural” type of poetry is free verse but the stanzas have a tendency to have the patterns and limitations. In this case, I wrote an interspersed set of stanzas going from four lines to one with the second set in an opposite direction.</p>
Poem - Bunny Tail2019-04-02T05:00:00Zhttps://d.moonfire.us/blog/2019/04/02/poem/For the second day of National Poetry Month, I wrote a little poem about the sexualization and biases of the [dalpre](https://fedran.com/dalpre/) as they integrate into society as "free" people.
<p>For the second day of National Poetry Month, I wrote a little poem about the sexualization and biases of the <a href="https://fedran.com/dalpre/">dalpre</a> as they integrate into society as “free” people.</p>
<p>This will always be one of those topics I'm uncomfortable with, which is why I write about it. It also ends up being a tool for pushing my own understandings about racism because it is difficult to self-reflect on deep seated biases without a mirror to work against.</p>
<p>I'm sure this isn't the “right” way to go about it, but I still feel it is important step for me to take. It also is part of exploring the breadth of the world, I have a race of animal/human hybrids that were slaves for centuries. The magic that was used to create them is illegal but that doesn't mean its a happy ending. The United States' own handling of blacks is a good reason that it can and will linger for centuries, no matter how much I wish folks would just accept it.</p>
<p><em>Bunny Tail</em></p>
<pre><code class="language-poem">On the first of a winter eve,
With the icy wind blowing
And the cold damp soaking my boots,
She was there.
Just a bunny tail bobbing
Back and forth
Flex of one leg and then the other.
It moved with her steps.
In a field of her blue dress.
She drew my attention.
I'm ashamed to say I stared.
Oh, how I stared.
A rabbit woman at school?
Could she cast spells?
Did she have a talent?
Who would let someone like her in?
Why did my heart beat faster
just when I saw her walking by.
I wanted to know more,
So desperately to learn,
Aching to touch,
To see if she was real.
</code></pre>
<p>Many of the themes in this poem are also in <a href="https://fedran.com/flight-of-the-scions/">Flight of the Scions</a> for much of the same reasons: Kanéko is growing into her own sexuality and there are relatively few dalpre in her life. They are exotic and alluring and the same point she is questioning her own interests. Though, I'm thinking she's more of a “cat girl”.</p>
Poem - Waiting for Change2019-04-01T05:00:00Zhttps://d.moonfire.us/blog/2019/04/01/poem/For the first day of the month, I wanted to start with a poem about manifesting powers.
<p>For the first day of the month, I wanted to start with a poem about manifesting powers. The manifestation is usually one of the most significant parts of someone life, much like having puberty happen in a matter of fifteen minutes; complete with all the discomfort, hormones, and sweats.</p>
<p>One of the aspects about manifesting magic is the stress that triggers it. For those with an easy life and simple troubles triggering powers, the corresponding power is usually more artistic or delicate.</p>
<p><a href="https://fedran.com/lily/">Lily's</a> manifestation was having a pair of men fighting over her. It was relatively mild though, she wasn't in danger, so her power ended up being relatively creative: the ability to color any material.</p>
<p>On the other hand, <a href="https://fedran.com/desochu/">Desòchu's</a> powers came into being after losing his father and almost killing his brother in anger. As a punishment, he was thrown into the middle of the desert to either die of exposure or find his magic.</p>
<p>There is one thing to say, the desert clans are <em>very</em> efficient at creating a maximum amount of stress to ensure the most powerful magical abilities possible. This is actually why many of the clan youth are kept in the dark of what would happen to make it as traumatic as possible.</p>
<p><em>Waiting for Change</em></p>
<pre><code class="language-poem">Every second too slow.
Every moment lingers.
Something inside me grows.
A strangeness...
A discomfort...
My bones are too short.
My voice still cracks.
My insides twist.
A rising...
A bubbling...
My fingers feel too long.
My thoughts keep slipping.
The edges of my vision blur.
A changing...
A growing...
How much longer?
How much do I have to wait?
</code></pre>
National Poetry Month2019-03-31T05:00:00Zhttps://d.moonfire.us/blog/2019/03/31/poetry-month/I've decided to participate with National Poetry Month for the first time. In my case, this means I'm going to write a poem a day in April. As with the rest of my writing this decade, these poems are going to be focused on [Fedran](https://fedran.com/).
<p>I've decided to participate with National Poetry Month for the first time. In my case, this means I'm going to write a poem a day in April. As with the rest of my writing this decade, these poems are going to be focused on my fictional world, <a href="https://fedran.com/">Fedran</a>.</p>
<p>These are all written as unreliable narrators, much like my stories and novels. This means they are biased and limited in perceptions. It also means that the beliefs don't reflect my own: there are already poems that are racist and bigoted ones, a number of them are written by twenty-somethings still learning who they are, and even a few written by obsessive tendencies. Or at least I hope they will be; one of my goals of Fedran was to create a world with breadth and avoiding the writer version of “same face” where everyone sounds or acts the same.</p>
<p>I hope you enjoy reading them, they'll start tomorrow.</p>