The Ruins

I

The biting winds and scattered dust-clouds cross the plain
Their endless whirls begin a wretched grey refrain.
Wide streets, tall arches, scaffolds, spires all reaching high
All empty, lifeless, rotting 'neath a blood-red sky.
One solitary soul, in nearby lonely hills
At day's end, tolled in mind, feels night's cruel coiling chills.
He sees this desolation, barren fruit of toil,
Untimely ended, lost to pillage and turmoil.

II

A great barbarian horde doth lay tremendous waste
Unto the city's streets, with merciless swift haste.
Their chieftains cry aloud, an order new to bring.
Their praises do they force their captives all to sing;
They swear that this new age is greatest of all times.
They burn all relics of the past, they melt the chimes,
Lay fire to tomes and letters, tear great bridges down:
By morning they shall forge a wretched Babylon.

III

The wanderer above reveals his face- a child!
His eyes are bruis'd and downcast, and his hair is wild.
He wonders at these conquerors who rule the land
A rusted locket doth he hold within his hand.
A portrait lies within, of tow'ring gilded spires
The ruined city's streets, before the gnawing fires.
Two warriors seize him now, and drag him back in pain
Unto the city's ruin, to serve for others' gain.

IV

The child now holds fast to his mother's tender arm;
His father's eight years gone; his mem'ries are but harm.
Within a putrid place, with others do they dwell
They hear the tyrant's roars, they see his armies swell.
For every day, another swears a mighty oath
To purge the past away, forgotten deeds to loathe.
Beneath the ancient spires, a brutal order keep
Of every older loyalty, away these warriors sweep.

V

Inside the hovel, do the children gather 'round
These slaves supposed at rest, their hands and feet unbound.
They look upon the locket, and smell the filthy air.
They look upon an apple tree, withered yet fair.
None can remember days 'fore tyrants raped the land;
They scrape for scraps of food midst piles of ash and sand.
An elder lies nearby, his ancient heart lies broke
A little tinder-fire he aims to try to stoke.

VI

He tells unto the children tales of days gone by
Of bustling city walks, of bird up in the sky
Destruction has been brought by this new conqu'ring foe:
No greatness as before, but only ash and woe.
A few wise men remain, rulers survived from old,
They flee in fear and pain, they fight but are not bold.
Mere losing struggles are their battles, weak in will:
They lack morale, and half-believe the lies they kill.

VII

As crushing boot-steps near, as morning nears its dawn,
The foes seize up each wretch to be a slave and pawn.
The wild-hair'd lad hides deep within his frown one thought:
A question without answers, a soul's war ever fought.
Within his beaten scalp, this sacred task he takes:
When those who tell the truth bittersweet life forsakes
He shall alone preserve whate'er few truths remain
When there is naught to lose, there's everything to gain.

VIII

If none are strong whose hearts and souls are full of light,
The weak they could protect would perish in the night.
The tyrant's words, constructed with deceptive mind,
Replace true sense and fact, strike innocent men blind.
Proud banners wave from ruins where proud tyrants dwell;
All right is wrong, all wrong is right, the decadent would tell.
Proud orgies of new lunacies shroud all in gloom,
And the old man, the dying slave, crawls to his tomb.
Last words he speaks, with rasp, and bitter weeping grin:
"These foes are of our blood- they conquered from within."

The Rebel Monarchist, stanzas VI-XI

Behold! On new adventures doth our Hero swift embark.
To sail the seven seas, or maybe just to stroll the park?
His myriad crushing arguments, for Might-makes-Right's True Cause
In former times serv'd as his cymbals, clashing without pause.

But now, he chooses a new task, a most amusing chore:
He gives his challenge, whipping up a witty Poet's War.
Perhaps he entertains certain fresh subjects for this duel?
Indeed! For his old arguments, this duel's his brand-new tool!

And thus he hurls his javelins, his Monarchistic jabs!
Twice swinging at the Constitution, stumbling as he stabs,
While throngs of weeping flatterers adore his rival's verse,
Each begging on their knees "Mock Me! O! Mock me too!" 'til hoarse.

A third blow, now, the Monarchist brings down with vicious clamor,
And those around him tremble at this stroke's resounding tremor.
These new-spun stanzas show his creativity; his best!
He rhymes with eloquence, then writes it oth'rwise like the rest.

In Riotous effort to advance his point through rants and wits
In Tantrum urges 'gainst his foe, t'abstain from "Kicking Fits".
He who would freely break the Constitution for some cause
Accuses his vile rival of now posing 'bove the laws.

How public, bravely, fiercely, does he give his foe hortation
To "Lay Low and Enjoy" it all when evil chokes our Nation.
If only he'd believe in freedom- Paragon he'd be:
He puts such pain and effort toward the cause of Apathy.

The Rebel Monarchist, stanzas II through V

'Twas God ordained Authorities, of all shapes, over men,
Ordaining o'er America the sovereign Constitution.
"This law is illegitimate!" the Monarchist doth stammer-
"MY only law is law of might, of shotgun and steel hammer!"

In order to save countless helpless fools lost in deception,
He mocks the Constitution with his brilliant new perception;
That great enlightened Monarchist gives us a wise perspective:
"It is the will of God for us to follow this directive:

Against what certain is God-given power, our Rule of Law-
Rebel! For thus God wills it ever, fore and even now!
Let government throw off all limits, let the nation tremble-
And him opposing this rebellion is the real rebel!"

"Obey the laws, obey them all!" is what he recommends-
And when unto the nation's throne he mightily ascends:
"No law shall bind me, though I've sworn an oath to law uphold!"
And soon, corrupted by such pow'r, he takes a tyrant's mold.

Quatrain: The Rebel Monarchist

"Might makes right!" he fiercely cries, with rhetoric and quoting,
"The Constitution wields no gun- so therefore it is nothing!"
"Republic is Rebelliousness"- this thought he's oft promoting,
And afterwards goes to the polls to take his part in voting.

For Those who were Interested

The following link contains a copy of Raphael's School of Athens, with all the major figures identified.

http://www.newbanner.com/AboutPic/athena/raphael/nbi_ath4.html

A Haiku on Fishing

Flowing waters whirl
Trout swims in weeds 'round grey rocks
Setting sun glistens

Teaser Scene, from The Two Brothers

[Scene: A bedchamber, where Lord Royksar, a sickly old man, lies bedridden. Zashaznon, the court enchanter, Prince Nornivvus, heir to the throne, his wife Elzera, a doctor, the lady Grenella, and a few others stand round him.]

Nornivvus:
I heartily have hopes that you will get well as soon as possible, Lord Royksar.

Royksar:
Thank you, Nornivvus. But I fear I am going cold. I am weak. It is a curse upon me.

Nornivvus: A curse, you say?

[Enter Prince Razagos, brother of Nornivvus, husband of Grenella]

Razagos:
My lady, I greet you.[kisses Grenella's hand] Royksar, are you feeling better?

Royksar:
No. I am still in pain. [Razagos walks over to Royksar's bed]

Razagos:
Have you discovered the nature of the ailment yet, doctor?

Doctor:
It is a wicked curse. It is wretched witchery.

Royksar:
I feel weaker. Listen to me! If I die now-

Doctor:
You will not die, my lord.

Grenella:
You can't!

Royksar[moaning]:
Please! Help!

Zashaznon:
Wait, doctor! He needs our help, quickly!

Doctor[examining Royksar again]:
What- no! How can this be?

Royksar:
What is it?

Doctor[panicking]:
I am afraid that I was wrong. He is going, fast. I am sorry.

Royksar[coughing, voice fading]:
Let me speak. I have lived a long life. I have had my failures. But listen- please!

Nornivvus:
What is it?

Royksar[very weakly]:
My young prince, there is a plot.

Nornivvus:
A plot? What? Don't go! Don't go!

Royksar[fading,coughing]:
A plot to betray us all. The darkness..... demons..... tell your father.... danger....

Nornivvus:
Royksar? What! Pull yourself together!

Zashaznon:
It is too late. He is dead.