A single horn
adorns the head
of she who treads
the dawn
of the faerie realm,
she takes the helm
of imagination
now reborn,
Category Archives: Fantasy Poetry
Myth, Stir, Ease
The mysteries of the Myth Trees,
Born in the Empyrean,
The vagaries, lost histories,
Revelations, unseen.
Song for Sibilarus
Pride Denied
Fervour, fercocious,
Fear fades in the flood,
Ancient art, atrocious,
Banishing the blood,
Ӕshanti rue the river,
That runs red with the free,
And washes wishes of salvation,
All the way to sea.
From Baldy’s mythology (see Baldmythology, The Chronicles of Cyralost), note, the Ӕshanti are humanoids with cat features and nuances, hence the title.
Forged by Freya
For the emblems of the night to thrive,
Despots should die, faith must survive,
Celestial hosts of yesteryear,
Benign, begotten, forgotten, fear –
For falling suns in distant planes,
Of existence, resistant, rebellious thanes,
Rise up from tombs and wombs that sleep,
To make the myths wordsmiths can keep.
Winter’s Morning
Picture taken by Damien Davis (my brother!). More images available at damiendavis.co.uk and copyright thereof.
This photograph, titled ‘Winter’s Morning’, was taken from Martinsell Hill Fort, overlooking The Vale of Pewsey.
Winter’s Morning
The frost of the Mӕtelmesburg,
Herald’s winter’s reign,
The icy grip of a mad god,
The rime of his domain,
Settles on the ley,
As the sun, somewhat snoozy,
Rises o’er the Hill Fort,
Reveals the Vale of Pewsey.
The long knoll bathed in golds,
Silvers, pink and purple hues,
Joined by gentle azure, then,
Perfect cerulean, blues,
That wash the sky with wonder,
And fill the heart with glee,
A picture shared by brothers,
Breathes such poetry.
Would that Mӕtelhelm could see,
His realm so beautifully painted,
The elder might believe the sun,
And world now reacquainted,
In majesty and unity,
Hope in the new day, dawning,
The frost of the Mӕtelmesburg,
Love is this winter’s morning.
Wytchcraft
Do not borrow trouble,
From a myth of a fable,
Wise men said when dead,
Or unable,
The wisdom obtained from,
Preordained doctrine, unstable,
The prophecy, hypocrisy,
A craft thought daft and sable.
Dance of the Butterfly
I watched white wings of gossamer,
Enchant a breeze, a lost glamour,
A cantrip cast, that had escaped,
The wizened wizard who just gaped,
At the majesty of nature’s spell,
The butterfly who will never tell,
How simple it is to thwart, be strange
To magic on the winds of change.
Titan Rhyme
Such sad songs are sung
As singers sing unto the sun
And dances are danced
By dancers who dance
For love, for light, to be as one.
Swans swim as swans have swum,
In lakes and ponds and rivers that run,
For love of swimming, just for the chance,
To enchant the water with romance
As singers and dancers come undone.
Spirit Horse
Running like the wind,
Through the forest,
In the moonlight,
A great Elven star,
Guiding me to the river,
Where I discover her,
Drinking in the elements,
As I stare in awe at,
Her magnificent majesty.
My spirit horse, her great
Silvery mane, parted by
A single ivory horn that
Sparkles with sorcery.
She looks up and I weep
At her beauty, then she
Bounds in to the night,
And I run also, from
Winter in to spring, a joy,
A hope. I am the wind,
Running with the Unicorn.
