She sits alone, the Siren,
On an isle of clearest glass,
Immortal with an angel's voice
No mortal could surpass.
She calls to passing seaman,
Enrapturing each soul,
Imploring him to come to her
And shed his self-control.
The beauty of the misting sound
That leads his path astray
Is nothing to her sorrow
Which upon his heart doth prey.
Her words are clear from far away,
Words calling for her lover,
Engraving on the seaman's soul
That love she can't recover.
"Return," she cries upon the breeze,
"How barren is my life!
Return and take me once again
And I shall be your wife.
If somehow you can sense my voice,
Return to me once more—
If only you'd return, my love,
And touch the crystal shore.
He felt her call impel him
Though her lover he was not,
But by her soft and lilting song,
His heart and soul were caught.
Each man upon that sailing ship
Turned toward the glassy isle.
A tear rolled down on every cheek,
On every lip, a smile,
For each man dreamed he'd be the man
To drown that mournful cry
If love she craved, each love-sick man
Would hasten to comply.
Yet, still, men thought, who is he,
This man not understood:
How could her love resist her call
As not one other could?
And more, why would he wish to,
With a love as true as she?
They loathed him for her sorrow,
For their own strange jealousy.
Each man prayed she'd take him instead
And still her mournful cry
That wrenched and tore through every heart
So not an eye was dry.
They beached, at last, upon the shore
Of the diamond of the sea,
Men driven by that silver voice
That sundered painfully,
But none had hearts so callous
They could counter Siren's call,
So, all the sailors left the ship
To find her crystal hall.
There, upon a crystal throne
That glowed with rainbow light,
Sat a woman, oh so radiant,
She could light a starless night.
Her hair was made of sunbeams
From the gloried rising sun,
Those glowing vibrant colors
When the day has just begun.
Her skin was white and glowing
Like the fullest April moon
And, on her cheeks, the hues
Of Autumn's splendor softly strewn.
Her lips were of the deepest
Crimson color roses grow,
And softer than the softest
Petals man could ever sow.
Her eyes, though, were what touched them,
What could melt their every soul.
Infused with such emotion,
Glowing pain and endless woe.
Her eyes, the color of the sea
When blown by stormy gale
And of a perfect beauty
Even Helen could not pale,
They looked with azure anguish,
Filled with tears as yet to fall,
A look inside those tortured depths
That matched her lonely call.
Her melancholy voice was matched
With dulcimer of pearl
That sang a song of misery
That, 'round them, ebbed and swirled.
Her honeyed voice, like nectar,
Enticed their every ear,
And plied its heartless teasing
On the men who chanced to hear.
But, now, the men were closer
And the words were twice as plain,
And now the men could see her,
Know her endless echoed pain.
"My love," she called, "Can you not see?
Alone I'm incomplete!
Return, my love, return
And take again your rightful seat.
You took my heart and sailed away—
You promised to return.
O, do you break that promise?
Must my heart forever burn?
Forever I am doomed to call
Until you come once more,
Forever call my lover
'Till he finds my crystal shore."
Those silken grieving words tore souls
And several seamen died,
Torn by the desolation
In the wrenching words she cried.
Men begged her to let go her pain,
Give up her singing tears.
Why must she always suffer
Through a thousand mourning years?
Any man would ease that heart
That cried alone so long
If she'd but stop the torture
Of her soulful sorrowed song.
Her voice, like purest crystal, sang,
"I wish I'd called you not,
And, yet, my voice must always sing
And men are sometimes caught.
A cruel storm of winter
Took the life of my sweet swain,
And, until his soul is freed,
How dare I stop again?
I alone can bring him back
If my song can reach his soul,
And take that man, who is my life,
The life that Hades stole.
With song-spawned strength, I use my voice
To lure him home to me.
I cannot stop, I cannot rest
Until my love is free.
I cannot let you go, poor men,
Or lose all I have won.
I must regain my cherished
Green Poseidon's favorite son.
You all will die, as others have,
Poor men, of anguish, slain,
Your deaths will weigh upon my soul,
Increase my load of pain."
So did they die, as she had said,
Her tears on every man,
And sweetly did she send her voice
To implement her plan.
Was he really stolen?
Or deserted on his own?
She didn't know but trusted him
Although she dwelled alone.
She called to him, "Return again. . . "
With heart and soul and will.
Many say it's all in vain
And that she sings there still.
She sits alone, the Siren,
On an isle of clearest glass
Immortal with an angel's voice
No mortal could surpass.
She calls to every seaman
To enrapture every soul
And she captures every seaman
Who allows her voice control.
Beware the beautied misting song,
The golden perfumed breath . . .
To land upon that crystal isle is loneliness . . .
And death.
This was just fun. I love the music in this one.
The Piper
"Come, come, come away,
Come along and hear me play.
Live, dance, dance astray
For there only is today!"
Came the song from verdant hills,
Came to coax us out to play,
Came and undermined our wills.
We had no choice but obey.
"Sing, sing, sing out bold—
Don't you want to ne'er grow old?
Come, come to me, my fold,
For my world is bright with gold!"
Called the s
ong and we but followed
Through the fire, through the cold.
If we straggled, we were sorrowed.
We believed all we were told.
"Come, take what you're due—
Don't you know that I need you?
Come, come all you do
For you know my song is true!"
Words of love and notes of fire
Called to us, the loyal crew,
Filled our hearts with warm desire.
As we neared, our hunger grew.
"Live, live, live to die—
Don't I make your spirit fly?
Your task to try and try—
Who are you to question why?"
We found the Piper; spirits flew.
In joy, we laughed, we cried,
But he had his full retinue
And left, his song a lie!
We hated, cursed him, cursed the tune
And claimed we didn't care,
But, even if his world's untrue,
We wish that we were there!
Birth of the Phoenix
Weary, the phoenix does not pause to rest
His mind never straying from thoughts of his quest.
Slowly he climbs up the mount, despite age,
On fire with the pain only death can assuage.
At last he is there; the summit attained.
He sees all the land where, for cent'ries, he reigned.
This is his birthplace, this altar of stone,
And, just as his forebear, he stands there alone.
The wind blows old ashes around his tired head
Now white with age, though once rich purple-red.
Tarnished scales rasp as he climbs his stone bed:
Just a gate for the living and home for the dead.
He raises his head up for one final cry
And sends up the happiest sound to the sky,
"Kill me!" it marvels, "but I still rejoice
And call my defiance with an old tired voice!"
A flame, quick combustion, the fire fills the bed
Which finally devours that bent faded head.
Now there is nothing—just ashes remain,
And yet from the cinders a soft cry of pain.
The newborn blinks up at the sun with new eyes,
Quite aware of his fate to be king of the skies.
His plumage glows brilliant of a purple so rare
And never have scales shined a golden so fair.
Why isn't he joyous, this day of his birth?
Perhaps it's because he's alone on this earth.
From his infant throat keens a cry of dismay
For the phoenix before who had died for this day.
Echo's Tale
Echo, Echo, have you heard
Her voice from hill and dale?
Do you know who once she was
Or know her tragic tale?
Once fairest of those gentle nymphs
Who grace the forest lands,
Still so fair to look upon,
But cursed by Hera's hand.
Her silver voice of dulcet tone
Is mute now in its grief
For only in another's words
Can her voice find relief.
Such was the curse that Hera laid
When Zeus, whose roving eye
Had strayed as it had often strayed,
And Echo, for him, lied.
Once more, the blameless bear the brunt
And pay the fickle's toll,
A salve for Hera's wounded pride
And Zeus' poor control.
The price is sometimes paid for years
For things we never do
And Fate had worse for Echo still
Who'd ne'er been aught but true.
Narcissus was a golden youth
As fair as one could be
With heart untouched by any maid
That he had chanced to see.
Maids loved him—could they help it?
Hair as bright as molten gold—
Face fair and form so perfect
And blue eyes, bored and cold.
He never saw one maiden
Who could cause his breath to still,
Whom he felt he could share his life
Or hope his heart to fill.
They loved him—and he scorned them:
None were more than passing fair.
Would there be no one in his life
For whom he'd ever care?
Perhaps, 'cause he despised them so
He'd fled into the night,
And, walking through a moonlit glade,
He saw a wondrous sight.
A maid of silvered beauty
Clothed in waves of moon-beamed hair.
At last, his breath hung in his throat
As she returned his stare.
She gasped then turned as if to flee
But something made her stay.
'Twas something in that handsome youth
That took her breath away.
That curséd nymph of lovely mold
Then felt her heart grow light
And lost it to that dazzling youth
So handsome in the night.
She longed to tell him words of love
And praise his sea-blue eyes,
But she was cursed to ne'er do aught
But quote another's cries.
She told him how she loved him,
How her heart she freely gave.
Through eyes of glowing emerald
Did she vow to be his slave.
Narcissus did not see this—
Too spoiled to even look
And thought she did not love him
When her silence he mistook.
Confused, he asked, "Fair maiden,
Who are you to not love me?"
She shook her head and told him
All she could: "Love me. Love me."
"Love you? When you say nothing?
When I've scorned all as bride?"
He was raptured by her beauty
But was angered by his pride.
The women all had flocked to him,
Had begged him for his name,
And now this wretched woman
Wanted him to the same?
Well, her words must precede his
For he was not a slave,
And if she thought to scorn him
She'd be lonely 'til the grave.
"Speak words of love," he pleaded.
If she would, she'd be his bride,
If she showed him that she loved him
He would take her—damn his pride.
"Well," he said when she was silent,
"Do you have no words to say?
Is love beyond your dictum?
If it is, I'll go away."
"Go away," she said, but begged him
With her eyes to understand,
But he just turned away despite
Her soft restraining hand.
"You had your chance," he told her,
"Had one chance to be my wife,
But now I'd die before I'd ever
Let you share my life."
"I'd let you share my life!" she cried
At last to say her heart,
But he looked down, that callous youth,
To tear all hope apart.
"Too late," he said. "You do not love
And, now, no more do I."
But she just said, "You do not love . . ."
And then, in silence, cried.
"You had your chance of heaven—
Now you get your taste of hell!
Farewell, O foolish maiden,"
And she whispered back, "Farewell."
Her left her then, heart shattered
But she followed like a ghost
And echoed every loving phrase
From any nearby host.
And now he fled those words of love
When sung in Echo's to
ne.
He fled the silvered dulcet voice
And prayed to be alone.
Then, in his efforts to be free,
In love he fell again
And felt that he could finally know,
Could feel each maiden's pain.
For love was the reflection
Of himself upon a lake.
He loved that face so dearly
That he knew his heart would break.
He could not tear himself away
From the beauty seen below
That melted as he reached his hand:
Its touch he could not know.
"I love you so," he told it.
Echo called back hauntingly
But he thought it was the maiden,
Lovely maiden, born of sea.
Eventually, he died there
Still enraptured by his face
And died, his eyes still watching
This "fair maid" beyond embrace.
Echo mourned him all in silence
Then she sadly slipped away
To pine away forever
And she's pining still today.
Her body's long since perished
But her voice can oft be called,
And she answers, heart still pining,
For the greatest love of all.
Dedicated to the ones I love
I'm not just inspired by fiction and stories. As a writer, I've always been focused on characters, and that means the people in my life (or who intrigued me) as well. Some of my poems about them are dedicated to them, celebrating them. Sometimes, they are just trying to capture those characters as best I can. "The Symphony of Life" is really about my daughter, about how I felt when I carried her, a hint of how that would change my life.
The Symphony of Life
In the country, birds are singing
Songs of joy and careless glee.
Grass-housed crickets' legs are stringing
And the frogs are tympani.
So you say, "At last I found it—
'Tis a world that knows no strife . . . "
For you think you found the meaning
Of the symphony of life.
Then you find a world of faces,
Voices telling magic tales,
Of adventure, wondrous places,
Where excitement never pales.
And you listen to this piping
To this lilting magic fife
And think, "So here's the meaning
Of the symphony of life."
In the city, sirens screaming,
Mourn another tragic night,
And, although the town is teeming,
Many die before first light.
Some from poisons deep inside them,
Some from gunshot or from knife,
And you think the song's a death-march
Called the symphony of life.
But you hear the muffled heartbeat,
Deep inside, another soul.
And it makes a thousand changes