Guardian Angel

Love

You chill the blood
You fill and flood
Surrounded by emotions
You cause so much commotion
Life isn't complete without your touch
Why must you act such?
Through the ages you've changed lives
For you men have fought
In your name blood has been shed
Wars fought
Lessons taught
You send hearts racing
The reason for my pacing
Oh, Love, how bitterly sweet
Is your treat
Offered to every man
You cause so much grief
I pray it be brief

Art

It is more then oil and canvas
Some art is not drawn
Most paints an image
All are created
By a persons imagination
And thus made to live
To give
Art cannot be contained in a book
Or upon a wall
For art is a beast
Which cannot be leashed

For the Love of it

Some play for competition
Others for fun
Yet to me nothing else exists
Nay, I play only for the love of it
Some say it takes no skill
Yet who are they?
The game isn't the same
Without the rhythme
And rhyme
Of a band
Gone mad
And so I say
I play
For the love of it.

Love and Life

To most love
Is but pure folly
Yet what is life without love?
And what is love without life?
Therefore i say love is jolly
And nothing is more true
Than my love for you

Music

Nothing can quite capture life
Such as lyric and melody
Flowing spring like from the basin of tenor and drum
Music is soul
It breathes
It gives
And takes
It is.

Amulet Fued

Interlude and Chapter One: Death and Revenge
When the world seems gone
And evil rules the land
An unlikely hero shall rise
Bearing the Amulet
The fierce wind violently shook the roof. Albernâk listened intently to the rain as it pelted the shingles. Despite his age, Albernâk refused to be doted upon. He had managed his whole life. Yet as death knocked upon the door, he was loath to leave. He had raised this house and farm from the ground up. His wife, who now only set silently on the wall, had given him five great sons who surround his bed. He smiled meekly as he looked to each of them in turn. There was Hük, strong bodied and a hard worker; Beran, simple and skilled; Parâc, sharp and cunning always getting his ay through a silver weaving tongue; Rarné, kind yet stern when need arose, always keeping the peace between the rest; an last Daryan, strong in both body and will. Each one was his own apart from the others. Yet they all were a tightly wound family.
“ Boys, my life seeps from me.” Albernâk rasped. “It has come time for each of you to have your inheritance and began a life of your own.” Thus Alberâk the Wise gave each what was to be his and a blessing. To Hük he gave the land to work. To Beran he gave the house to tend and mend. To Parâc he gave his lifes collective library. To Rarné the emplorement to watch and guard Daryan, his younger sibling. And to Daryan he have the Amulet. When this was finished Albernâk the Wise, last of the great wizards, sighed his last and died in the company of his sons.
And so the sons departed, after respection their fathers ceremony, each to his separate way. All except Parâc were well pleased with his gift. Parâc, however, went away to sulk for only he truly understood the Amulet. So, during his grief, he devised a foxly plan to avenge his anger and gain the prize. Thus he left to prepare his web of deception. And the seasons past in their ever constant repetition, oblivious to man.

War

Brutally ugly
Men dying
Women crying
Blood spilling
Yet nothing unites a nation
Quite like war
This dark time brings more light
Then the peace ever could
Those fire scorched hills
Hold more hope
Than being under the suppression of a tyrant
War brings freedom
From those insane
Let the beacon of freedom ring from sea to sea in every nation
Let war purge and pop
The acne of the world

America

The land of the home and the free
Or so it's supposed to be
When will your voice be heard?
When will these beautiful hills and valleys ring once more
With the bells of churches?
The voices of Holy hymn?
Is it truly free,
Or is that just how it should be?

How could you?

Endless nights of weeping
Depression seeping all life from the veins
The haunt of her eyes
That glare which makes rest a luxury not easily afforded
Her words never leave this mind at peace
Or give a moments sleep
That painfully obvious question
The emotion inflected
Echoeing in horrific membrance down this mind's chambers
Screaming foul and for justice
Yet none came
So the words
How could you?

Loss

Surging up from deep within my being
There is a sensation
An emotion of immense size and power
It is not happiness
Nor is it hate
Rather it is the pain of loss
Of the loss of love so pure
For fickleness and lechery
But now even these sins
I have lost

Blind

I couldn't see
The pain I would cause with such an act
So I did it
And like every minute
But when it was over
I was left to fall apart
How could I have been so blind?
Oh love,
That bitter sweet love,
How fickle is your place

Good Company

They laugh and smile
At most jokes
And comfort whenyour broken
They always leave the unspoken
Unspoken
Silence unbroken
I'm alwasy in good company
Whenever I'm with you!

A Bruise

Purple and black
An odd splat
Upon the skin
A blemish
Upon the skin
Your origin is pain
Yet you leave painlessly
Tender to the touch
Slender or not
Your such an odd spot

Grass

It has no faith
No religion in which to argue
Growing were it pleases
It has reign
Over its small domain
With no care for war
Nor campaign
Dancing
Prancing
It cares not for wine
Nor even the vine
Only water and sun
And soil

Alone

Timmy Fifer was always the smart kid. He was the guy with all the answers, the kind of kid one wants by them during a difficult test. He was short for a thirteen year old, only reaching 4' 9" when standing up straight. He was the owner of a pair of piercingly blue eyes that seemed to see right through to a persons soul. He wore his hair short and neatly combed. Despite his kindly appearance and personality, Timmy never really had friends. Sure, he had "friends" when an assignment wasn't finished or on test day, but not during lunch or after school. He was a loner.
It was a rather dull Tuesday afternoon. The overcast sky promised rain and most of the spuirrels were hidden away in their nests and holes, snug and warm. Timmy ate his lunch on a lone bench by the playground most other kids had a group with which they would laugh and joke. Not poor little Fifer, though. Every now and then one of the bullies would elbow his friends and throw a rock or pinecone at Timmy. One of these boys, Henry Price, especially liked picking on Timmy. Whenever he saw Timmy walking by in the hall, he would stick his foor in Timmy's path. When Timmy fell and dropped his books, Henry and his goonies would laugh and call him a dork or stutterfoot. Then the mean boys would steal Timmy's books and play keep away with them. When they tired of this they would throw the books in the garbage can. As they left they would laugh and spit on Timmy. Yet Timmy never told a single soul, because those boys were bigger than him and would threaten him with physical harm if he was to tell. So Timmy just coped with it all day after day. Then after school he would go home to be beaten by his drunkard of a father. This was Timmy's life.
This particular Tuesday had been uneventful. He ahd left home early so as to avoid his father and Henry was sick, so no one was overly mean to him. So Timmy sat and enjoyed his lunch. He looked down to see that a squirrel had come up and was sitting by his side.
"Why hello there, little guy. You look starved. Would you like some pretzels?" The squirrel seemed to nod, so Timmy handed him a few pretzels. "Well now, my little bushytailed friend, I think I'll call you Charile. Would you like that?" the squirrel nodded again. "Ok, Charlie it is then."
Over the next few weeks Timmy and Charlie ate lunch together everyday. Timmy would always pack extra pretzels, which Charlie sould consume ravenously. They would sit together and Timmy would tell Charlie all about his problems. Both the boy and the squirrel were happy. Timmy had finally found a true friend.
One day Timmy noticed a large froup of kids gathered around Henry, who was holding something. Curious, he ventured nearer to see Henry pulling Charlie's tail. Charlie squealed and squirmed as the children laughed, which encouraged Henry to do it once more.
"Stop!" cried Timmy. Hery smirked at him and pulled Charlie's tail extra hard. Charlie screamed in agony. "That's my friend!"
"Oh really, dork face. Well then..." Henry lifted Charlie above his head. With a vicious smile he threw the squirrel high in the air. Charlie flew to the sidewalk where he landed with a sickening crunch. Timmy screamed in horror and rage. Henry and the other children laughed heartlessly and left for class. Timmy crawled to Charlie's limp body. How could Henry be so cruel? he thought. Then his sadness turned to furious rage. Henry Price would pay for his friend's death, he told himself. Then he laughed as the rain began to fall.
It was a sunny Firday. Timmy sat upon his bench eating his lunch. None of the other children were there. Oh no, they never would be again. He had made sure of that. He smiled to himself as a scream rang out from the school building.
Thirty years later, Chief of Police Joe Price and two of his deputies approached a hunched figure. As they neared, they heard a faint whisper. Chief Price spoke to the man. "Timmy Fifer," he said, "your under arrest for the massacre of the students of Sunray Middle School in 1993." Timmy rose and laughed sinisterly.
"You mean the service of justice." He continued laughing as the deputies escorted him to the squad car. Joe remained behind staring at the abandoned school building. Thirty years, he thought to himself, and I've finally have the chance to put the man who killed Henry behind bars. As he turned he noticed a small mound of dirt with a cross sticking out of it by his feet. Leaning toward it he read the inscription aloud, "Here lies Charlie, my only companion. He was cruelly murdered and righteously avenged." Joe Price, Chief of Police and a solid man, shuddered in horror.

A Tree Upon a Hill

There sits upon a hill, that overlooks our town, a tree. To most it’s just that: a tree. There’s nothing overly extraordinary about this tree. It loses leaves in the winter and regains them in the spring. It grows from year to year and provides oxygen to breathe. No, to the normal man it is just a tree. Yet if one were to look closely one would find so much more meaning in this tree. He is old. For many long years he has sat upon that hill and overlooked the land. He saw the first settlers come. He felt the thunder of the artillery during the Civil War. For lovers, his warm embrace makes moments into an eternity. For the old he is a memory and an inspiration. For children he is a challenging foe awaiting conquer, his arms waving challenge. His unkept beard of moss hanging from his wrinkled face speaks of wisdom. His great gnarled feet show the scars of hardship and the productivity of determination. Here and there is a piece of bark missing or one may see the stump of a broken branch, yet despite all of his imperfections and years of abuse, he smiles. His laughter can be heard during the winter storms. His melodious voice carries on the Autumn breeze, singing songs in a language long forgotten by men. Many a warm summer’s night have I sat beneath his boughs and listened as he whispered to himself. For hours I sit and admire his majestic spires, knowing that long before I came and long after I shall depart there will he stand, watching over the land.

Fallen

A walk in the woods can do a man so much good. This is a truth which none can successfully deny. Every man, woman and child has a certain indescribable longing for the wood. One may feel, as do I, more at home beneath the kingly spires of alder, maple and pine then in the crowded halls of the mall. The bitter cold breeze that tickles their leaves is more soothing than the harsh warmth of an angry fire. As one walks, there comes from beneath one’s feet a soft, mournful rustle. Upon looking down toward one’s toes, one finds himself looking at a thick layer of fallen minions. These loyal subjects of the kings, whose presence towers above you, are those lost in the great wars with the wind or furry foes. Thus they lay and moan upon the cold hard ground, which is to be their final resting place, crying out to their kings hoping to be restored their place of honor upon his branches. But alas, it shall not be so. For even though there is an army of ants to protect and provide for the kings wishes, the one thing they cannot do it return these fallen heroes to there rightful spot. Though many of tried and thus died. No these hapless leaves shall cover the weeds and mourn their own demise while the rest of nature goes about it’s course.