Idol
by Ted L Glines
Jungle clearing nested
stone carved head
grey like time forgotten
lichen eyes watching
eyes stalking immortal eons
open grey mouth
black hole hungry
granite tongue protrudes
licking tasting what
carved of living rock
primal nature god
worshipped to life
hard ears listening
to ululations of
some far dim past
of innocent fear
slaves of innocent belief
ancient jungle drum
whum whum whum whum
bright feathered shadows
strutting dancing circles
around the fire
thunder rolling in the heavens
primeval lightning flashes
stone eyes glow
rock deep ancient voice
rumbles long forgotten
grey tongue speaking
words no human mouth can utter
whum whum whum whum
laughter of elementals gibbering
shadow shamans screaming
red fire casts blazes on stone
god idol once more alive
and hungry
Author's Notes: Is it the gods who create our deep spirituality or is it our primal fears and generated beliefs which create and empower the gods? What if we have created the gods in our own diverse images?
Epitaph
by Ted L Glines
around the world
seven times
talked to everybody
twice
they all wanted
something
needed some
thing
their pain made me cry
'til I craved to die
a tombstone leans
on a graveyard mound
weeds and grasses strewn
around
no name or dates
just a simple blurb
inscribed with care
“Do Not Disturb”
of all the sayings
flowery script
this one request from
beyond the crypt
gives me pause
unmanned unplanned
but I smile
...because...
I understand
Needle's Doom
by Ted L Glines
Exhausted in his soul, Lord Argonne sighed and looked out upon a vista of death and ruin. A blood-red sun, just rising, cast crimson shadows across the dunes where smoke rose like mist from countless burned and blasted remains of orcs and their beasts. In the still-burning foreground, a ragged crater smoldered where the un-dead orc commander had stood. The Lady Camilla, her armor-colors faded, stirred at Argonne's side and murmured, “You did all that, my Lord.” “No,” Argonne fingered the old amulet at his neck, “I did not. I have not the power to do what you see destroyed before you.” Argonne was not sure that his own power had destroyed the orc commander. Magick had ruled the night. He stroked the amulet once more and let it drop down inside the neck of his black chain mail. Much was left unsaid. A fitful morning breeze wafted the stench of burned-bodies across the tower-top where they stood.
It was only five days before that he and Camilla had paused at the village of Bhagavad, in the northern verge of the Living Forest, thinking to rest themselves and their horses and enjoy the hospitality of Camilla's family. Argonne always looked forward to these brief visits, for the Dark Elves loved to show off their talents, and one of their finest accomplishments (he thought) was the magick they used to brew their wine. But, when he and Camilla reined their mounts through the village palisade gate, they were met with chaos. Swords clashed on shields and most of the adults were in their studded hard-leather armor, moving about with much yelling and cursing. Straightaway, Argonne and Camilla were conducted to the village Elder where a heated discussion was in progress.
At one side of the thick oaken council table, standing before his tall throne of a chair, stood the Elder, white hair contrasting with his dark skin and crimson hooded robe. As Argonne and Camilla entered, the Elder was listening to one of the clan leaders calling for their warriors to attack. Ranged around the table, the other clan leaders showed their support, pounding the table, each one in robes of his own clan color. Camilla fit right in with her mithril chain mail armor magickly imbued to pulsate with all of the rainbow colors. Argonne stood out among them in his armor and helm of deadly black, with only his bright red stars blazing on plate shields which protected shoulders and upper arms. Standing next to the Elder, in robes of pure sunlight, sparkling diadem atop her tresses of gleaming white hair, and leaning on a gnarled yew-wood staff, High Priestess Muriel's piercing gaze swept those present. Muriel was the most revered sorceress among all the Living Forest elves, and she was Camilla's great grandmother. It was she who had given the amulet to Argonne.
“Ah,” the eyes of the High Priestess directed attention to Camilla and Argonne, “It is good you have come. A huge army of orcs is on the march, coming straight toward us across the Riobi desert. If they keep their speed and direction, they will be upon us in six days. Argonne, you have fought the orcs before. Perhaps you will advise us!”
“I will try,” said Argonne, feeling the amulet against his chest growing cold. the Old One was listening. “What are your plans thus far? You must not allow your warriors to attack the orcs. They will be enveloped and slaughtered!”
“But we must attack,” yelled the clan leader who had been interrupted, “before the orcs come here to destroy the forest and all of us!”
Another of the clan heads piped up, “Perhaps we can send a diversionary force of warriors to attack their western flank, and then swiftly retreat, diverting the orcs to the west.”
“Your brave diversionary force would be swiftly caught and overrun.” Argonne wished he could explain to them how quickly the orc companies could move. “And after your warriors have been slain and likely eaten, the orcs will return to their original direction and purpose, for they are driven and their minds are controlled by orc commanders whose orders come from a higher Evil One. Your diversion would simply waste valuable young lives. I have a better idea.”
All eyes turned to Argonne, and all ears waited to hear. By this time, he had the now-icy amulet in his hand, fingers gently stroking across its central gem. As Muriel had described it, the amulet was a simple silver circle enclosing a five-pointed crimson star. The top point symbolized Spirit, with the lower four points named Earth, Air, Fire, and Water, each with its own Rune. Exactly centered was the living heart of the amulet, a star sapphire which, she had explained, was a conduit, sort of a window between the wearer and the Heavenly Old One who gave guidance and assistance in times of crisis.
“Camilla and I will ride to the Needle ...”
“The Needle?” The Elder was puzzled.
“Yes. We will ride out at dawn. If we press hard, we will be at the Needle a full day before the orcs get to that point.”
Deep in the Riobi Desert, north of the Living Forest, stood a single spire, a tower built of stone, left from the days of ancient wizards in long ages past when, it was said, dragons made this desert their home. The tower was very tall and thin. Difficult stairs wound up the inside of the tower to an observation platform at its very top. This mysterious tower was called “The Needle.”
“But, why journey to the Needle?”
“Because, from its top, we can see far out across the desert, and something tells me that the Needle is right in the orc's path. We will see the orc companies coming and signal back to our warriors. We will need to take twenty warriors with us, those with the best eyesight. They will each need to have a signaling torch. We will space them, each on a desert high point, within very long visual range of each other. That way, beginning at the top of the Needle, we can get a message swiftly back here to you.” Except for placing the signal-warriors and riding to the tower, Argonne had no plan. Somehow he knew that the Needle was important, and that was enough. A plan would come.
The Elder was still looking perplexed. “But what do you hope to accomplish, by yourselves, at the Needle?”
“Honored Elder,” Argonne answered, “perhaps we can arrange a diversion of our own.”
Much more was said and it was late in the afternoon before Argonne and Lady Camilla were free to sup and gossip around the hearth-fire with Camilla's family. Lord Argonne refused to partake of the wine, though he did vow to make up for it when this “Needle Business” was completed. He knew they must ride hard and fast when the sun arose, and be very alert.
It took more than two days to cover the long miles of rolling yellow-grey desert. The twenty warriors were deployed to the highest of dunes along the way. They only made brief stops to rest the horses. The desert heat was not unbearable this late in the year. Still, inside their armor, they baked a little more with each passing hour. Laying against his chest, right over Argonne's heart, the amulet remained icy.
On the third day, Argonne and Camilla arrived and mounted to the top of the tower. Just before dawn, they sent a torch-signal, letting the warriors know they had arrived at the Needle. Then they faced toward the north and waited for the orcs to appear. The sky was grey and overcast. Not a trace of rain, but heavy clouds shadowed all of the desert hollows and dunes. Through the day they waited. Nothing. Night fell. Soon, they knew they would see the torches of orc companies. They waited and watched, and waited some more. After midnight, a mist hovered in the hollows between the dunes. Argonne knew the orcs would come, probably hundreds of them. What was he going to do? He had no idea. Off and on, his sweating fingers caressed the amulet, hoping inspiration would come. The amulet remained icy cold and still.
Only hours before the new dawn, he saw the beginnings of torch-light on the northern horizon. The orcs were coming. Slowly, as he and Camilla stood and watched, the line of torches spread out, making a wider and wider fire-horizon to left and to right. This had to be thousands and thousands of orcs, not just the hundreds he had been expecting. Using both of their saddle-blankets, Argonne made a tent with the open end toward the south. Inside this tent, he briefly lit his torch and sent the agreed-upon signal - the orcs were in sight. Once the message was sent, Argonne snuffed out his torch and again faced the north and the coming hordes of orcs. Regaining his night-sight, he was aghast at the apparent numbers of them. Spreading from one side to the other, all across the northern horizon and now coming into the nearer distance, endless bobbing torches, and he began to hear their marching drums.
It was approaching dawn when the first lines of orcs drew near the tower. The din of their marching drums was deafening and it appeared that every third orc soldier brandished a torch along with spear or axe or mace or sword. Argonne now had the amulet between his hands, but it no longer felt icy cold. What was he going to do?
Then, in the forefront of that wide expanse of marching orcs and drums and torches, Argonne spotted the orc commander, high-seated on an armored horse, his own armor gleaming redly in the torch-light which highlighted tall horns on his helm. Brandishing a huge axe, he was screaming orders to left and right. Then, as if the orc commander sensed a presence, he slowly turned his red-gleaming eyes to the top of the tower.
Argonne felt his own eyes lock with those of the orc commander. He felt himself calming, centering, and somehow becoming one with the burning eyes of the orc. He had Camilla wrap her hands around his own and the amulet, which was now becoming hot. He told her to concentrate her mind on nothing but the orc.
It felt like a growing trance as Argonne went mentally deeper and deeper into the eyes of the orc commander, and the amulet grew hotter and hotter, burning his palms but he could not release it. Beside him, he dimly heard Camilla moaning. In the eyes and brain of the orc, he felt such hatred and horror and destruction. He went deeper and deeper and ever more deep. He never knew it when the lines of orcs stopped moving and the drumming ceased. Time stood still.
Deep within the mind of the orc commander, with electricity racing all over his body, Argonne recoiled at the detonation, the blinding flash of white light, and the crack of thunder which followed. The orc commander had exploded, simply exploded, and Argonne fell back, almost unconscious with Camilla trying to hold him up. His night vision was ruined by the awesome bright event. He could not even see the miles of orc-torches. Suddenly, lightning speared down from the clouds, hundreds and thousands of lightning flashes, from horizon to horizon, lightning struck down on orcs which were now burning and exploding everywhere. Nothing living could have survived that endless rain of lightning bolts, and thunder shook the heavens and the tower. Somewhere up above the clouds, Argonne heard a long and jagged scream tearing across the sky, full of anguish, hatred, and destruction.
It was not until later that Argonne realized that the amulet had cooled from the moment of the orc commander's death. He found himself still clutching the amulet in a locked death-grip, until Camilla pried it from his stiff fingers.
The clouds had passed on to where ever clouds go, and in the full light of early morning, Camilla and Argonne gazed out over an expanse of death and destruction such as men have seldom seen. Mists of the prior night were more than replaced by tendrils of smoke from endless burned and blasted orc-bodies. Nothing moved on this killing field. Later, after the carrion creatures finished their work, this would be a field of bones and armor and weapons. Perhaps people would pass this way and wonder at the horrific war which must have happened here
“This is not the end,” Argonne murmured to Lady Camilla, “there will be other battles in other places. These monsters will be sent against people again ... and we will be there.” He remembered a passage from an ancient text: “In fighting those who serve devils one always has this on one's side; their Masters hate them as much as they hate us. The moment we disable the pawns ... enough to make them useless to Hell ... their own Masters finish the work for us. They break their tools.” ~Thus it was written long ago and far away by the revered Supreme Elder Clive Staples Lewis ( in his most respected and studied arcane work, That Hideous Strength ).
“Meanwhile,” Argonne smiled at his Lady, relaxing finally from his ordeal, “we need to start back to the Living Forest and Bhagavad. I must discuss what happened here with the High Priestess, and I have a date with some wonderful wine!” For the first time in many days, they laughed.
So mote it be.
Birds Have Beaks
by Ted L Glines
We, the intellects, nerds and geeks,
ponder about those birds and beaks,
for it seems too true that beak and feather
have no real reason to be together.
And that bothers us no end ...
admit it - do - my friend ...
A cow with a beak would be so scary,
or a bird with teeth and skin that's hairy,
and imagine ...
if you
will ...
red-eyed Mad Cows' slashing beaks
loosed among you - awful freaks,
or flocks of crows with teeth and fangs
attacking - killing - flitting gangs,
awful ghastly nightmare things
worse than spiders having wings.
(We are pleased that spiders do not have wings.)
Birds in the forest, all a-twitter,
on her nest - a baby sitter
guards her eggs - awaits the time
the cracking hatching - so sublime,
so worthwhile - all the birthing pangs,
and now is born a chick with fangs ...
Author's Note: The rule of Natural Selection states that the creature endowed with the best features will survive to beget more creatures endowed in similar fashion. Creatures with feathers have beaks. Creatures with hair have teeth, except for the platypus (God bless Oz). Among birds, the raptors eat meat, just like wolves, but raptors have beaks. Since it makes no sense, it must be a God thing.
Tricentennial Reunion
by Ted L Glines
'Twas in seventeen-oh-five
we brought divisiveness alive
created witches from old hags
dipped them - hung them in their rags
we spread our fallacy like paint
'til life took on a bitter taint
we found the blemish in them all
made them rue the day we'd call
and with each successive test
they were damned and we were blessed
we made the cases intertwine
while drinking hatred just like wine
our bleary judgement without heart
paring families apart
as our wedge of discontent
spread across this continent
like some fungus verdure spreading
stinking - hating - fearsome dreading
now we stand here trading cheers
for the pain of all those years
so I raise this toast today
beloved brethren - let us prey!
Author's Notes: In 1705, as a result of some wild stories told by a 16 year old boy, three people died and others were cruelly tortured. Patrick Morton, the son of a local blacksmith, made allegations and accusations of witchcraft against some of his neighbours in the scenic fishing village of Pittenweem in the East Neuk of Fife, Scotland. One of the accused was Beatrice Laing, the wife of a former town treasurer, who Patrick accused of sending evil thoughts to torture him. No-one thought to question his story, and Beatrice was incarcerated, alone, in a pitch dark dungeon. After five long months, and several trips to the torture chamber, she was freed, but died soon afterwards, alone and friendless, in St Andrews. It is three centuries later. When you get inside the mind of Bigotry, it feels somewhat like this, especially bigotry which has aged and ripened (rotted) for centuries - as fallacies of ancient times morph into "truths" of today.
TourBand
by Ted L Glines
Ring my banjo splunk-ety-splunk,
let's kick their butt an play some junk,
that crowd out there is rarin to go,
so hit the beat -- on with the show!
Snare drum chatter -- rattle of death,
reaper's sticks on crystal meth,
strobe lights glarin blue an red,
mournful screams like grateful dead.
Bassman beatin down the scale,
thum-thum-thum-thum primal grail,
burnin hot -- wet with sweat,
lookin crazy -- ain't done yet.
Front man singin -- struttin his stuff,
this screamin crowd can't get enough,
one more chorus left to go,
play it loud -- end this show.
Then ...
collect the cash -- bus to load,
pack it up -- get on the road,
we're on fire -- it's in our bones,
we're on the cover of the rollin stones.
a hundred miles slide by outside,
one more town -- one more ride,
this time tomorrow -- playin more junk,
ring my banjo splunk-ety-splunk.
Author's Notes: It's a job. You wouldn't like the lifestyle. Motel room for showers and dressing - then to the venue - perform - back to the motel to shower and pack - back on the bus - sleeping through the night and morning - watching countryside slide past to the next stop - and do it all over again, and again, and again, until stops and performances become blurred and meaningless.
Sponsors
Tarantella
by Ted L Glines
Haunting dance on heaven's web
worlds all spun to spawn and ebb
as Spider Woman spins her dance
an arcane rhythm of romance
among the stars all blazing bright
her light of love shines down tonight
on moonlit lovers dancing fast
as if they'd lose tonight's repast
her music of the brilliant spheres
tarantella soothes your fears
as young hearts dance and hope and bleed
our Spider Woman comes to feed
plants her fangs in hearts gone mad
sucks out feelings good and bad
look up - look up - you'll see her there
eyes blink down from cosmic glare
her fangs are dripping avatars
dancing streaking shooting stars.
Author's Notes: The earliest historical mention of the Tarantella is the St. Vitus Dance in 1374. It’s not mentioned again until 1839, as the title of a ballet, “La Tarentule, ” produced by Jean Coaralli. In 1844, Madame Michau introduced the dance to the public. The origin may be about the bite of the Tarantula, Arania or Apulcian Spider. The dance itself was used to cure the poison from the bite of the spider. Town folks would play music and the afflicted person would dance non-stop to avoid succumbing to the poison. Or, the origin may be in the mighty universal web above us. Beware of stars that "blink."
"Some witchcrafts are deadly.
"In Singapore and Thailand, witchcrafts are exercised daily. Just pray that if you happen to fall in love with a witch, you must not part thinking that you can get away from her or regard the act of love as a one night stand. The following is a story about a Chinese entertainer in Hong Kong, who went to one of these places, and had an affair with a young woman. When he left he promised to go back there within a year, but he has never kept to his promise. Soon the woman was forgotten after the Chinese entertainer went back to Hong Kong.
"After a year had gone by, the man had acquired a mysterious stomachache. Nobody knew what was wrong. The doctors could not detect anything was wrong with him, but his stomachache continued. The ache was so intense that in the end the entertainer had suffered a violent death of stomachaches.
"When the autopsy was done, they opened up his tummy, and out poured tons of worms as large as tiny snakes. That was really scary!!!!! Why hadn’t the doctors detected those worms in his tummy? It was concluded that the young woman in Singapore, or Thailand, had put a spell on the entertainer, willing him to go back there in a year to meet her so she could administer the antidote for him to be rid of the spell. Had he remembered the girl and went back there to meet her, he would have been saved. One has to be very careful when falling in love with anyone in a foreign land, for one just doesn’t know what could befall them.
"Now, people are being warned that - On the day of departure, one must remember NOT to accept any gifts, and MUST NOT touch anything that was being offered, even if offered as a symbol of friendship, to prevent oneself from receiving a spell. On the day of departure, one must just leave without meeting anyone to avoid being spelled. The trick is to tell the person on a much later date about your date of departure, and then leave. This might avoid receiving any spells.
"This story was told to me by my relatives who were still in Hong Kong at the time, and it is a true story that happened to a very famous entertainer in Hong Kong. The man was only in his 30's when he died.
"Hope the story didn’t scare you."
Written by: Sandie May Angel :o)
Four Minutes Til Seven
by Ted L Glines
My shadow waits
for a train which never comes
beneath a station clock
which never ticks
longing for the touch of breeze
which never licks my non-face
in this time-frozen place
one moment beyond death
one sigh beyond breath
the station master standing there
says the train will leave at seven
to new life or hell or heaven
in only four minutes
on a clock which never ticks
here at the tracks called Styx.
Clicks
by Ted L Glines
Damn those brats with their toy clickers
mocking my fright - giggles and snickers
they would not laugh nor long abide
if they met the reason why I hide.
It all began in a seacoast village
wracked by mist and toxic spillage
when something moved down deep in the ground
where naught but worms should dare abound
and the sound of chanting thrummed the night
only abating in the dawning light
and deep in the shadows where the death-clock ticks
just out of sight - the sound of clicks
clicking of claws never seen on earth
wielded by something of alien birth
hunting the night for fearful food
and spawning its own young awful brood.
Many's the night I shivered in bed
while close outside something ghastly fed
screams were silenced - crunching and ripping
my mind's eye saw its fangs all dripping
and I knew the coming of cold grey dawn
would reveal someone else disappeared and gone.
I rue the night when I uttered the spell
which invited in this Thing to dwell
for it follows me now I know full well
that there is no hope - no one to tell.
I managed to flee from there to here
but the chanting follows and I live in fear
and I cringe at the sound that I know too well
the greeting clicks of this spawn from hell.
Damn those brats with their toy clickers
mocking my fright with giggles and snickers
they will not laugh nor long abide
when they meet the reason why I hide.
Lovecraft
by Ted L Glines
nor'eastern salty village
unused piers sagging -- grey fog masks
water strangely surging -- wrongness here
seagull shrieks -- almost seagull
grey tired buildings -- sheds, old stores
never open -- something in there
watching
old man shuffles -- grey slowly shuffles
hunched ancient man -- briefly seen face
almost human -- like a fish somehow
turns away -- shuffles like fog
wisping tendrils seek -- town square empty
mist shrouded -- empty -- watching
brick building looms -- squat
old merchant hall -- door open broken
something in there -- halls black inside
rooms without windows -- cobwebs dust
debris of ages -- without footprints
no kids play here -- flashlight shows dimly
outlines in black -- darkness watching
wide staircase leading down
down into black nothing
nothing with a drum -- drum beats dimly
deep below -- down these stairs
slow steps now -- down and down
rock walls wet with rotted moss
slow drum beats louder -- chanting sound
down into blackness -- turning into red glow
drum beat louder -- ancient chanted words
"Ph'hglui mglw'nafh
Cthulhu R'lyeh
Wgah'nagl fhtan"
down these steps
drawn downward down -- red glow opens
great rock grotto hall -- drum beats loud
so loud -- hundreds of forms huddled
old men -- like the other
drawn to join them -- heart beats with that drum
swaying chanting -- voices fill this grotto
"Ph'hglui mglw'nafh
Cthulhu R'lyeh
Wgah'nagl fhtan"
creshendo chanting now
drum -- thrumming beating heart -- within that altar
huge face astride the altar -- wet red alive
not quite human -- like a fish
like his face -- old shuffling man
but older -- uncounted ages older
Author's Notes: Do not say this chant aloud at home. Oh. I should have warned you before you read the poem. My fault. I'm sorry. I hope the Great Cthulhu did not make a mess in your living room. Not housebroken, you know. Attitude issues. This is, of course, a tribute to H. P. Lovecraft, one of my fav story tellers. The "chant" is from the R'lyeh Text. I hope you like it, and I am so sorry about the mess.
Sponsors
Aging
by Ted L Glines
And God asked "Do you really want this?"
And we screamed "Yes...Yes...Yes... and Yes!"
And so He said – we could live forever,
except for accidents and (?) ...We would die...never.
"But, no more children," He said (being wise),
"Too many of you ... if no one dies."
That was many centuries – way back then
when hands were steady -- to hold a pen.
Eyes are dim – can’t even see the light,
no more wars – too old and frail to fight,
no more fun of love and play and lust,
Viagra cannot cure what’s turned to dust,
and as this world grows steady colder,
we live...and live...forever growing older.
We don’t talk - there’s nothing left to say,
inside my mind, I pray and pray,
mayhap an accident may come for me today,
anything – so that I could go away.
Never knowing we would drown in tears,
we wished for everlasting years ...
Kiss of Set
by Ted L Glines
Hear the scaly serpent hissing,
homicides and kids gone missing.
Depression moans and suicides
as ever onward, serpent glides,
weaving, striking, never missing,
feel his fangs in horror kissing.
Minds twisted, hearts mangled,
every crying gasp is strangled.
Stalking weak and frightened ghouls
where lust is king and darkness rules,
a trembling moment, crying, pleading,
a soul is gone, forever bleeding.
The kiss of Set, forever here
for those who worship greed and fear.
Author's Notes: Imagine, if you will, the ending fate, the jackpot awaiting those who bring abuse and greedy corruption and death to the table of life. Imagine this poem to be a spell which binds them to their self-willed destiny.
Patty's Goblin
by Ted L Glines
Our dear Patty has a goblin,
A fat and playful goblin.
He never makes a sound
But she knows when he's around
'Cause things will turn up missing;
And not easily be found.
Her address book was gone
And she searched from dusk 'til dawn.
For that errant address book,
High and low did she look,
Under things, behind things,
In every cranny, crack, and nook.
And mystery included her,
Every minute it eluded her,
'Til one day by surprise
Did she see and realize,
There it was upon the table,
Right before her wondering eyes!
And 'twas on her hubby's b-day,
Happy fun-filled glee-day,
That she took the fateful pic,
For there he was in one fell click;
Goblin - reflected stark upon a door,
And caught forever in her flick.
He's not tiny, he's not small
Standing all of five feet tall.
His round face not gaunt nor thin
And he's got this silly grin,
Just as plain - he thinks he owns her,
Like a goblin next of kin.
If your hair rinse doesn't stay
Where you left it yesterday,
And things you cannot find,
Is someone stealing you blind?
It's likely just your goblin
Having giggles with your mind!
Author's Notes: True tale. I've seen the photo.
Promise
by Ted L Glines
In the land of popsicles
icecream and fun
dancing with fairies
who hug everyone
tickeled by clowns
with big red noses
who make me laugh
with the silliest poses
and grandma gives me
the best apple pies
with the warmest love
in her twinkling eyes
and I love all the angels
who tell me nice things
and don't mind at all
when I pull their wings,
I wanted to write you
and say it's okay,
I know I was bad
and didn't obey,
I know you feel sorry
now that I'm dead,
it hurt me so much
when you cut off my head,
but the pain is all gone
and I'm not at all blue,
I'm laughing and playing
and waiting for you.
Author's Notes: I am fairly sure that Stephen King would like this poem. I wonder, when the abusers of children finally die, might they not face their victims in a grim and eternal retribution? This is one of those which came to me basically already finished and all I had to do was quickly type it up. And, since it was written, it has caused me to rethink the whole darkside thing. We easily see the motivations of the abuser/killer as being darkside. But, how about the spirit of the victim - an innocent spirit which is twisted and scewed by the abuser/killer's actions - the spirit of the victim would be spun into darkside, too, wouldn't it? I had never thought about this extended abuser/victim darkside continuum. Frankly, I do not like the picture which is revealed, but it does hint that a history full of abuser/killers might create a sickly society (just stretching a bit there).
Sharing
by Ted L Glines
He used to be a kind and gentle soul,
giving warmth and cheers,
happily supporting
all of us throughout the years.
If you ever had a problem,
he would be your guiding light,
with his caring hand of help
to set your life a'right.
He often helped the bad and mean,
a friend beyond compare,
an angel's light in darkness,
with his only wish ... to share.
But the story of his end
was an awful gory chiller,
the way this gentle man
became a raving killer.
He gave away his goodness
to them and me and you,
and we gave him all our badness
which, inside him, grew and grew.
Even as he helped you,
he took your problems in,
absorbed them and condensed them,
and made them part of him.
Your neuroses and psychoses
slowly filled him like a page,
'til the day he bubbled over
in a blind and killing rage.
On the news, you saw his story,
pics of bodies everywhere,
and the sadness in his eyes
(he had nothing left to share).
Author's Notes: Not entirely fantasy, the process described in this poem is called "transference," and it can happen to therapists and psychologists whose empathy lures them into getting too much inside their patients.
Rewarding Evil
by Ted L Glines
Serial killers are known to keep scrapbooks containing news stories about their kills. The story is about him, is about the terror he loosed upon the community. The story is his much-sought reward for the forbidden fruit of an evil deed. Even as he scissors out the latest news story and tapes it into his album, he begins the vision of his next big story. Rewards beget the need for more and greater rewards.
May we step inside the mind of our serial killer -- do we dare? There's the story of his latest deed on the front page of the newspaper. Yes! It's an incredible high. He feels expanded out of all proportion in a blazing rush of power that screams to the sky. If only he could capture this fantastic feeling and make it last forever!
"13 Year Old Girl Reported Missing." The front page headline blares. We read the story and fear the worst. News-stands quickly sell out as the story spreads. Somewhere (probably close by) scissors are busy and hungry eyes watch TV for the coming followup coverage of her mutilated body found in that empty lot uptown. His front page position and media coverage have made him more important than world events. He is not just a man – he is a god! His euphoria is better than any orgasm. This feeling will last for a while, as always. Later, there will be a need for more.
It is obvious that the news stories are the simple result of the killer’s activities. But some would venture the opinion that the killer does his deeds in order to create the news stories; that, lacking the promise of a resulting news story – he would not have killed. His reward is not in the death of the young victim, but rather in the creation of a news event. One might further surmise that crime prevention is not in the interest of the media. No crime - no story - no copies sold - no sponsor’s dollars – and good news does not sell newspapers.
And the persons who buy the newspapers are ... you and me. We have a need to absorb and be shocked by the worst bad news available. Our need is represented by the front page positioning of the killer’s latest horrific deed. In rushing out to buy the last available news-stand copy, we are rewarding the newspaper with dollars, and we are rewarding the killer and motivating him to kill again. If it was not for our avid need for input of evil news, that "13 Year Old Girl" (and others) may not have gone missing.
What might we do about this?
Slaver
by Ted L Glines
Haaard a'starboard -- reef the jib
look lively ye scum -- yar nae wearin a bib,
no mind to the sky -- all ugly and black,
we'll outrace this storm on the starboard tack.
If the evil black wind should catch us tonight,
ye'll never see the dawn's early light,
jump up in the riggin -- no time to be slow
if ye don't want to join the souls down below.
Mountains of waves throw us down throw us up,
hang on for dear life on this little tea cup,
like riding the back of a seasick whale,
the devil's own rage in this tempest gale.
We're haulin black gold for the King on this run
and we'll be in Haiti when we see the sun
countin our gold and drinkin delight,
if we don't go down to the bottom tonight.
The cargo's all safe and chained in the hold,
frightened as cattle -- none of 'em bold,
the ones that drown get tossed in the sea,
a gift to the gods who let us sail free.
So damn the sea and damn the weather,
get ye aloft and let's pull together,
if we're livin at dawn, a tribute we'll sing
to fortune and gold -- God bless the King!
Author's Notes: This one started out to be a lighthearted ditty about bloodthirsty pirates on the Spanish Main; you know, lots of blood and gore and happy male bonding. Right before my eyes, it morphed into an English slaving ship risking death in a storm on the final night before they hit port. Considering their cargo, do you hope they survived? There will be a test.
Wee-zull
by Ted L Glines
little boys never cry
cowboy hero by-n-by
shoot the injun in his eye
pop goes the wee-zull
rockin teen - smartassed line
hotrod girls are lookin fine
hop in bed - drink their wine
pop goes the wee-zull
almost a man - what a burn
workin hard just makes you yearn
for goodies you can never earn
pop goes the wee-zull
war is hard - a hellish song
bloody field for killing Cong
horror - drugs - way too long
pop goes the wee-zull
homeless guy - just let me be
don't you dare to pity me
for I am simply living free
pop goes the wee-zull
to the rescue - really riled
you couldn't let him rape that child
you can't remember - you went wild
pop goes the wee-zull
deathrow days - you're gonna fry
ain't no point to mope and cry
all god's chillen gonna die
pop goes the wee-zull
ending moment - no goodbyes
look them injuns in their eyes
heaven's just a pack of lies
in the darkness no one cries
death - the friend who never lies
pop goes the wee-zull
Author's Notes: Eight little cameos with only a tenuous thread connecting them - telling a life that many men have lived. No logic, no reason, no unreasonable hope for anything better, nothing to mitigate a life lived a little bit out of phase - in a reality most people would choose not to see. On death row here in Texas is such a man and others have come and gone before him, and more will come and go as time marches on to the tune of a drummer who does not care. Did they somehow fall through the cracks? No, they are the cracks in our own comfortable reality.