Playing With Dragons.

 Hill King’s Mantra.

Spread your wings and feel your fire

burning brightly in your chest.

Know your spirit.

See your power.

Grip the stone on which you rest.

Clear your throat and let your voice call.

Great green mountains,

there your kingdom

rises up to meet your presence

in the early morning light.

Stand and strut fourth proudly

as your arms embrace the thermals.

Run headlong into the sunrise

over hills so high and green.

Great, green mountains

now below you

fine, white mist upon their crowns

Flowing slowly over forests

there to lie upon the downs.

May the greenwood stand immortal

over all that lives and dies,

May the white hot rush of sunlight

Meet the fury in your eyes.

Raise your head and raise your talons

To the bright and hazy sun.

Clear your throat and let your voice call

With my kingdom

I am one.

 

Adversity.

I’ve seen it on the edge of town,

creeping,

green,

 across the ground.

Oozing up

through sidewalk cracks,

gnawing holes

in wicker sacks,

souring high

on warm winds rising,

racing fast

 in tunnels deep

it’s stirring in the air we breath

and watching

– waiting –

when we sleep.

Secrets

no man wants to hear,

wonders

many others fear,

winds that raze the widest wall,

a rushing tide that conquers all,

fires fiercer

then my soul,

waters deeper,

roar and roll,

and it lies

beneath these skies.

Outside these doors,

a dragon roars.

Its voice is louder then a siren,

warning of felony

or fate

and those who’ve stood

beneath it’s shadow

Can not help but stare agape.

For no man’s plan

it walks.

For no mans pride

it talks.

It lives for no mans table,

and is Neither fact or fable.

Yet we long for but a glance.

Forsaking peace and quiet

to say we’ve stood beside it,

and at our destiny arrived,

say we’ve seen it,

and survived.

If only for an instant.

 

(Note; every time one of these poems is read aloud, a dragon will get its wings.)

. . . and before any of you say it, yes –

I am full of crap.

and proud of it. 

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