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A Year of Poetry – Day 216

Private D. Sutherland
killed in action in the German trench, May 16, 1916,
and the others who died

So you were David’s father,
And he was your only son,
And the new-cut peats are rotting
And the work is left undone,
Because of an old man weeping,
Just an old man in pain,
For David, his son David,
That will not come again.

Oh, the letters he wrote you,
And I can see them still,
Not a word of the fighting,
But just the sheep on the hill
And how you should get the crops in
Ere the year get stormier,
And the Bosches have got his body,
And I was his officer.

You were only David’s father,
But I had fifty sons
When we went up in the evening
Under the arch of the guns,
And we came back at twilight –
O God! I heard them call
To me for help and pity
That could not help at all.

Oh, never will I forget you,
My men that trusted me,
More my sons than your fathers’,
For they could only see
The little helpless babies
And the young men in their pride.
They could not see you dying,
And hold you while you died.

Happy and young and gallant,
They saw their first-born go,
But not the strong limbs broken
And the beautiful men brought low,
The piteous writhing bodies,
The screamed ‘Don’t leave me, Sir’,
For they were only your fathers
But I was your officer.

— E. Alan Mackintosh, In Memoriam

Giving Thanks, And More

I’m sitting in my living room and watching a cartoon with my youngest child.  My daughter is home from college, my wife is cutting up fruit for a family gathering.  We are warm, safe, fed, and together.  While nobody is promised another sunrise, we are not afraid of what tomorrow will bring.  I have friends and family around the world who are not afraid to join me in laughter and tears.

For all that, I am grateful.

Many in this world are not as fortunate.  I am sure that within a mile of my home, someone wants for the necessities of life, or despairs that life is worth the effort.  There, but for the grace of God, go I.

I’m thankful for all I have, and I recognize my responsibility as a Christian and as a human being to provide for those who cannot provide for themselves. I’m grateful to have the means to do so.

In the next few weeks, there will be ample opportunities to do good for our fellow man.  I will try to take advantage of them, and I urge all of you to join me.  I also urge you to abandon the rancor and pride of the past few months and reach out to both those close to you and to the fellow children of the Lord you pass every day.  We are more than what we have become, and I hope we can all do better.

Anyway, please enjoy your day.  I’m also grateful for all of you.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Today’s Earworm

 

 

Rest in Peace.  Freddie Mercury, September 4, 1946 to November 24, 1991

A Year of Poetry – Day 215

The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.
Today, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.
Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay,
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.
Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After earth has stopped the ears.
Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honours out,
Runners whom renown outran
And the name died before the man.
So set, before its echoes fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended challenge-cup.
And round that early-laurelled head
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl’s.
— A. E. Housman, To an Athlete Dying Young

Freedom’s Light Anthology up for Presale

 

With all the hard work on the latest book, I’ve forgotten to mention that one of my stories has been included in an anthology, titled “Freedom’s Light“.

 

From the members and associates of the Conservative-Libertarian Fiction Alliance (CLFA) comes Freedom’s Light, a collection of short fiction that celebrates the human yearning for liberty. These stories will extol the value of human rights and the sacrifices of those who defend those rights. This collection features works from a wide variety of genres and a diverse set of authors, including Hugo Award nominee Brad R. Torgersen and 2016 Dragon Award winner Nick Cole. Freedom’s Light will entertain us and elevate the humanity we all share.

The book is up for presale now, and will be released in January.  I’m honored that my work was included with the likes of Torgersen, Cole and all of the other contributors.  I’m looking forward to reading the contributions of the other authors, and I hope you’ll join me.

 

 

A Year of Poetry – Day 214

Oh, greenly and fair in the lands of the sun,
The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run,
And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold,
With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all gold,
Like that which o’er Nineveh’s prophet once grew,
While he waited to know that his warning was true,
And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in vain
For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain.
On the banks of the Xenil the dark Spanish maiden
Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden;
And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold
Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres of gold;
Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North,
On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth,
Where crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit shines,
And the sun of September melts down on his vines.
Ah! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West,
From North and from South come the pilgrim and guest,
When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his board
The old broken links of affection restored,
When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more,
And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before,
What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye?
What calls back the past, like the rich Pumpkin pie?
Oh, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling,
When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling!
When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin,
Glaring out through the dark with a candle within!
When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts all in tune,
Our chair a broad pumpkin,—our lantern the moon,
Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steam,
In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team!
Then thanks for thy present! none sweeter or better
E’er smoked from an oven or circled a platter!
Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine,
Brighter eyes never watched o’er its baking, than thine!
And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express,
Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less,
That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below,
And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow,
And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky
Golden-tinted and fair as thy own Pumpkin pie!
— John Greenleaf Whittier, The Pumpkin

A Year of Poetry – Day 213

There’s the girl who clips your ticket for the train,
And the girl who speeds the lift from floor to floor,
There’s the girl who does a milk-round in the rain,
And the girl who calls for orders at your door.
Strong, sensible, and fit,
They’re out to show their grit,
And tackle jobs with energy and knack.
No longer caged and penned up,
They’re going to keep their end up
Till the khaki soldier boys come marching back.

There’s the motor girl who drives a heavy van,
There’s the butcher girl who brings your joint of meat,
There’s the girl who cries ‘All fares, please!’ like a man,
And the girl who whistles taxis up the street.
Beneath each uniform
Beats a heart that’s soft and warm,
Though of canny mother-wit they show no lack;
But a solemn statement this is,
They’ve no time for love and kisses
Till the khaki soldier-boys come marching back.

— Jessie Pope, War Girls

Announcement and Snippet

Quest to the North goes live today on Amazon.  Like I said the other day, this is the next book in the Minivandians series and it picks up where Tales ended. A snippet from the more serious story can be found here.

There are also a few of the shorter stories that are inspired by real life, and I thought I’d let you all have a taste of one of those.


They continued to wend their way down the hall, then heard loud cheering from one of the doorways.

“Is there a game going on?” asked Elsked, peering through into the chamber.

“Ah, the merfolk are having an afternoon match,” Weerdington said as he caught up to the boy. “Would you like to watch for a moment?”

Elsked did not answer, but instead walked through the door into a large room which smelled of salt water. In its center was a large, open tank, in which swam several merfolk, both male and female. Across its middle someone had stretched a net, and the merfolk were batting a leather ball back and forth over it. As one made an acrobatic strike at the ball, another on the other side hit it with her long tail. This raised a cry of hoots and cheers from the small crowd of merfolk in a nearby pool, who were relaxing and watching the sport.

On the other side, a well-muscled merman with long, blonde hair tracked the approaching ball and used his head to send it arcing high over the net and out the back of the tank. Derisive boos and catcalls came from both the other players and the spectators. Elsked ran to catch the ball, which had bounced across the floor and come to rest next to the wall. He picked it up and walked back to the edge of the tank, holding it out to the mermaid waiting there for him. His pale blue eyes were transfixed on the creature, who sported a head of wavy dark hair and twinkling eyes the color of waves after a storm.

She took the ball from him, saying “Thank you, sweet child!” in a breathily melodic voice, then paused. She looked from the boy to his father, then back again. After a moment, a knowing smile came to her lips and she looked back to the Minivandian.

“Hello, DaddyBear! It’s been such a long time since I saw you last!” she cried out in a sultry tone, waving a shapely arm at the Northerner. Ruarin looked up to her husband in surprise, then her lips grew thin as she saw his face blush a deep red under his beard.

“Uh, hello, Cichlidia. Indeed, it has been quite a while,” he called back, looking as if he wanted to melt into the floor. The other merfolk saw his discomfort and began to laugh and call out to him.

“Join us!”

“I know he can swim! I’ve seen it!”

“But not with those heavy clothes on!”

“Yes, he’ll have to strip down like last time!”

Ruarin, her head held high and a serene expression on her face, walked to the tank and took Elsked’s hand. She looked up at Cichlidia, still floating in front of the boy and rolling the ball between her hands, with a glare which should have set her dark hair alight. The mermaid laughed as she splashed back to her position in the game.

“Come, son, let us leave these… lovely creatures to their relaxation,” she said gently, her eyes never leaving those of the mermaid.

With a regal air, and without looking at her husband, she walked across the room and out the door. As he followed his mother, Elsked looked back for one more glance at Cichlidia, returning her wave as he went.

The Minivandian motioned to Master Weerdington to go before him, and turned to leave the hoots and cries of the merfolk behind. The deepening redness of the back of his neck was the only sign he gave of emotion as he followed his wife and child.

Once they were a few feet down the corridor and out of earshot of the merfolk, Ruarin wrapped her arm around her husband and pulled him close. “I love you,” she whispered in his ear, “but I want to know how she knew you.”

DaddyBear, for his part, mumbled a quiet “Yes, my lady,” and continued his escape from the merfolk.


The rest of the story, along with much more, can be found in Quest to the North, available now at Amazon.  Hope you enjoy it, and if you do, please leave a review!

A Year of Poetry – Day 212

Once we were happy, I
Loving and beloved,
You loved and loving, sweetly moved.
Then you became the enemy
Of love, and I to disdain
Found youthful passion change.
Disdain demands I speak,
Disdain, that in my breast
Keeps the shame of my neglected offering fresh:
And from your laurel
Tears the leaves, now dry, once beautiful.

— Torquato Tasso, Once We Were Happy

A Year of Poetry – Day 211

Looking at the grinding stones, Kabir laments
In the duel of wheels, nothing stays intact.

searching for the wicked, met not a single one
When searched myself, ‘I’ found the wicked one

Tomorrows work do today, today’s work anon
if the moment is lost, when will the work be done

Speak such words, sans ego’s ploy
Body remains composed, giving the listener joy

Slowly slowly O mind, everything in own pace happens
Gardner may water a hundred buckets, fruit arrives only in its season

Give so much O God, suffice to envelop my clan
I should not suffer cravings, nor the visitor goes unfed

In vain is the eminence, just like a date tree
No shade for travelers, fruit is hard to reach

Like seed contains the oil, fire in flint stone
Your heart seats the Divine, realize if you can

Kabira in the market place, wishes welfare of all
Neither friendship nor enmity with anyone at all

Reading books everyone died, none became any wise
One who reads the words of Love, only becomes wise

In anguish everyone prays to Him, in joy does none
To One who prays in happiness, how sorrow can come

— Kabir, Looking At The Grinding Stones