The Tale of Yaqjud-Maqjud And Alexander's Dome

In the mountains of the far east
in the lands of central Asia
there once was located a valley
populated by two tribes of warriors

"Yaqjud" was one named
the other called "Maqjud"
tribes of such violent means
that their tales are full of terrors

none dares to tread near
for within that dreaded vale
"Yaqjud-Maqjud" would let loose
on any that wanders close

such is their wicked and evil ways
that the lands over and beyond
are left behind abandoned in haste
none dare to settle anyplace here on

as the years drifted by
then comes the time of great Alexander
a great general gifted by god
a man destined to legends of valor

in his march across the world
conquest and victories in his wake
came Alexander to that vale
to meet with the tribes of "Yaqjud-Maqjud"

appalled he was by their devastation
such callous disregard for nature and humans
even he in his voracious campaigns
left rule and order in lands he conquered

reason he tried to inflict a settlement
and when that failed he resorted to coercion
but of no avail was his efforts to them
his words and actions gave no resolution

so Alexander pondered upon "Yaqjud-Maqjud"
until at last he decided to imprison them both
a dome he envisioned upon inspirations by God
to seal in the malcontents under metal and earth

a trench was dug around this vale of dread
to be filled by molten bronze, gold, copper and lead
a barrier of metal a hundred paces in stead
a wall a prison in the vale "Yaqjud-Maqjud" to be kept

after the massive walls were erected
screaming and howling was "Yaqjud-Maqjud"
damning the world and Alexander included
to suffer their wrath after their freedom concluded

then Alexander had his armies cast
molds of spherical cut dome pieces
giant structures to be contructed
to build a dome upon the walls that rises

piece by piece and one by one
the dome came to shape and the valley sealed up tight
amidst the howls the screams of "Yaqjud-Maqjud"
then earth was piled upon dome to seal their plight

imprisoned were the twin tribes
these arbiters of devastation
as Alexander sets a guard
upon the site of their domed prison

off went Alexander to his conquest of the world
until later was all forgotten
of the prison and "Yaqjud-Maqjud"
the watch he task to keep are left unbidden

while we forget this tale of dread
"Yaqjud-Maqjud" in their prison sleep did not
scratching and eating their way through
tunneling the walls as they patiently dig out

as they are left imprisoned in the darkness
as monsters they became cannibals by need
as they worked tirelessly to break out
they eat their own dead as sustenance to their creed

as pale as death, nails sharpened by tasks
as hungry as hell, ravenous by need to feed
their teeth drips with blood of the dead they did eat
what terrors they become should into the world they freely slip

after destroying what was left in their prison their vale
they now look forward to devastate the world at bliss
what beast they will be what monsters from nightmare hails
the vanguard of "Dajal's" armies that one-eyed spawn of "Iblis"

for in the ending of days the time of Armageddon
shall the foul "Yaqjud-Maqjud" brings terror and bloodbath
as they are loosed onto this pristine earth
eating all in their wake consuming all in their paths

of those to be saved are only those who beheld to faith
remaining strong in their worships to God
or those who gave in to the "Dajal's" sweet staves
those who are lost forever to "Ibliss's" thrall

but these tales must wait till the ending of days
the stories that will resound upon Armageddon's wake
for now the horde of "Yaqjud-Maqjud" awaits
tunneling out of their prison's slate.

The Summit of Mountains

Alone, unattended though unforgotten
upon Everest on K2.
Or at anyplace,
where the mists of mountains flew.
There lies many a monument,
for souls and bodies left frozen askew.
The price paid most often,
for the ambition that mountain peaks does drew.

Mounds of frosted rocks,
adorned by plaques, medals and wooden carved letters.
A reminder of tales of that frightful fever,
that gripped the hearts of many a mountaineer.
To summit upon a top,
oh! the ecstasy it gives so sheer.
That death and dismemberment,
a price most thought to be in fair exchequer.

What puzzling rites does this action grants,
that simple stepping of a foot upon elevated grounds.
That draws thousands to their deaths,
or at least to life most difficult measured in months.
To suffer in altitudes above a thousand,
to slowly die in body feeding the ambitions of the mind.
What grace does this beckons,
for the abandonment of sanity and warmer climes.

But all in all in the face of history,
of Tensing and Hillary we will remember to posterity.
Those who were first,
to taste of Everest's majesty.
Such is perhaps the prize of victory,
to be there and to taste of its momentous glory.
Not much perhaps is the allure of publicity,
as to the satisfaction of summiting the peaks personally.

A fever it is a flight of fancy,
this dream to tread upon grounds most unattained.
But it is a pattern as to human progeny,
to seek and desire the most unreachable of terrain.
Though one can only wonder,
I can definitely say for certain.
That I will see in memorium more names on metals and wooden,
laid below... the summit of mountains.

From A Sniper's Perch

I have seen many targets
through the crosshairs of my scope
assigning to them a berth
on the deck of Charon's boat

in the heat of dreadful summer
under the sun's tireless rays
deep in the midst of winter
under snow and cold cold sprays

whatever the environment brought
I will deign to blend in as well
in camouflage a hiding I sought
waiting for a long long spell

among hedges on mountain ledge
in the shrubs of forest and dells
under tarp in desert sands
behind shades in buildings tall

drenched by shivering rain
wracked by sandstorm winds
with patience I am awaiting
for that one shot, one kill clean

my 7.62, a rifle from Remington
chambering a round of matchgrade magnum
topped by a scope from Bushnell's production
a ten times vision to assist my ultimatum

firstly the range by laser light
calculating the drop of bullet and windage routes
adjusting my sights I compensated to right
making sure a hit is what will come out

pulling back the bolt the rifle I cocked
inserting a round from my ammo pouch
lining up my sights my scope I locked
upon my target from my sniper's perch

a grip upon stock a shoulder to rifle butt
a breath I intake before round become shot
its strap I wrap around my arms real taut
releasing half my breath holding the rest before the jolt

upon the moment my crosshairs lined up
with the targets head I gently squeeze about
a pound of pressure nothing to add up
to release the hammer upon bolt to strike out

ignited the powder in my round loaded up
whose grains I measured painstakingly precise
expending gasses did ram the bullet out
a mass of metal that tumbles clockwise

from chamber to barrel the bullet rotates
from barrel to air slicing in the wake
travelling in seconds its impact most accurate
from air into flesh as a forcefully driven stake

its entry a hole nothing more
a gaping wound upon soft flesh
but the exit it brings to fore
is a twisted travail of rupture and mess

splattering blood, brains, organic matter
upon walls and any that's likely near
what a rush of Godlike power
to take a life upon a whim a rapture

as I watch through the scope real time real life
my victims squirming writhing their last gasps
in agony realizing that they have had their last breath
their souls arising from their bodies into death

I never questioned nor gave a thought
to kill from a distance gives no remorse
my faith in orders my superiors brought
to my nation of birth my loyalty's recourse

until one there's another and the next one hence
targets are nothing but missions to complete
till later I became as numb as my gun
with nothing to tell have a heart I once did

a vessel most hollow empty in respite
an elite among few but with none to delight
for the road that I walk are beyond all light
shrouded forever in the duties I must expedite

an enigma to follow for those without cue
to what I have done, what I still have to do
a soldier I am, a killer of women and men
but a poet at heart who weeps in the night's silent hue

what dreadful things are noble principles
when clashed with loyalty and baser pedantics
for only in the heart does it really suffers
when in mind ethics are overruled unpatriotic

once targets are strategic and tactical in nature
or villians too slick to be reached by courts of law
now politics and favors begins to appear
targets selected are more in the interest that draws

but still to the cause I must stay
to the flag, the nation, my commander in chief
for long long ago an oath I have said
upon my honor, my word and my beliefs

doomed to a life in solitaire I must
at least until this is no longer mine to undertake
but how can I find the redemption that I seek
for the lives and souls that I did terminate

wishful dreams from a sniper's thoughts
the soulful longings of a lonely soldier's heart
the poetic rendition a philosophical search
for truths and meanings to a dreadful task

a lonely view from a sniper's scope
the life of an assassin sanctioned by state
the lonely view from a sniper's perch
of a soldier's sacrifice for duty's sake.

A Soldier To your Heart

I might be just a normal man
but in the matters of the heart
I am a soldier born
a warrior by nature bred

Meek I might be in demeanour
weak in physical stature
but if you ever ever call
I will be a soldier to your heart

I need no drums no trumpets
no flutes nor bagpipes to blare
just a note of your sweer sweet laughter
leads me to arms and into any dare

I might not be a Rambo
but my enemies beware
my hands my mind my countenance
are weapons beyond compare

I might not be in the Marines
but just by your simple "hi"
to the halls of Montezuma
and Tripoli's shores would I swim by

I might not be in the Rangers
but call me if you want
I would race to lead the way
into death if that is your whim

I might not be an Airborne Trooper
but I would drop out of any sky
to whatever place should you choose
under silk parachute would I rendezvous

Upon your word on your every request
give me an order and I will salute "Yes Ma'am"
for you I am ever a soldier
for your heart is my supreme commander.

If You Ever Asked A Soldier

If you ever asked a soldier
as to why did he went to war
to fight and die in foreign corners
why do they relish this horrible endeavour

though not accurate in all the census
what you will hear will echo familiar
the answer most likely that you will hear
is perhaps delivered in this exact temper

it is not my wish to become a soldier
nor my ambition to kill and conquer
I am for the most a man as equal
as any that walked through life's adventure

but I always have this curious tingle
whenever I sing the national anthem
as I lift my sight to the the national flag
I felt these tuggings in my heart's bosom

I am not really brave though not a coward either
but I would if asked probably with vigor
lay down my life for pride and granduer
fighting to the end against scourge and terrors

for deep within my core my very being
sits a boy with his wooden sword unsheathing
with visions of glory that war does bring
the dedication to duty that my heart does cling

but above and beyond my childish fancy
is strangely enough my belief in serenity
I truly believe that for the sake of posterity
I will lay my life and partake in savagery

another anchor to my dreams of soldiers
is my belief in fellow men in valor and honor
for there is to me no greater honor
then to stand with another in glorious valor

for the true meaning of the word soldier
the true calling of the word honor
is perhaps the men you stand beside of
at that lonely hour when the need is most dire

The Mansion

Upon a hill
most desolate and bare
sits a lonely mansion
picturesque and fair

A massive Victorian
with stoneworked towers
mosaic glass windows
and sturdy weathered timbers

High walls surrounds the estate
crowned by a gate of ornate color
a sign sits plaintively and above
proclaiming the Estate of Hawkridge Manor

A road gently upward sloping
brings to a stop from gate to front door
the grounds in keeping are well-kept
well-tended a rare garden on the moors

The driveway ends in state
at a lovely terraced roundabout
in its middle a fountain stood
adorned with angels and lovely seraphs

A maze most confounding
sits in the front gardens quite plainly
the hedges tall and forbidding
its secret routes hidden most shrewdly

Where rendezvous are made
amorous or clandestine
within its green hedged walls
many an innocent lost their lustre most pristine

The doors are massive oak
adorned with the Hawkridge crest
a bird a raptor of prey
caught midflight its razor claws abreast

The entry a most spacious hall
with closets and cloakrooms spotlessly groomed
the floor paved with polished marble
its ceiling vaulted high and into the gloom

A grand staircase sits with pride
for guests as well as its residents
straight up to the floor of the first
a place of beds and washrooms where sleep calmly beckons

Guestrooms and bedrooms
adorns these sleepy halls
so remember to tiptoe
in your trysts and don't ever fall

Turning if you please
to the right staircase that looms
leading to the library, gentlemen's study
and smoke-filled drawing room

There lies knowledge in the library
in books and scrolls and tomes
the study a gentlemen's sacred sanctuary
the drawing room a place of business where friendly laughter booms

Upon the left stairwell
should you turn for just a glance
you might find the diningroom, lady's parlor
and ballroom for the dance

The diningroom for lunches, suppers and dinners
the parlor a retreat for the lady her fortress
the ballroom most grand decorated with brilliance
a place for functions, parties and merry dances

On the floor of the ground
doors on the wall to the left
leads to the kitchen, well stocked pantry
and servants' quarters in the west

The kitchen a wizard's laboratory
where grand sumptous feast are conjured
supplied as by magic stored in the pantry
staffed and manned by chefs most gifted

On that same ground floor
through the the doors on the right
are cellars underground, meeting hall
and a greenhouse under sunlight

cellars acts as stores
for more delicious gastronomic delights
the meeting hall for meets and gathers
the greenhouse where my Orchids grow colorful and bright

Through white painted french doors
that opens and leads out to the light
the wide terrace and back porch
a favourite breakfast and tea time site

Of floral and vegetable
the gardens so wide
providing much sustenance
both in meal and to the sight

A pavillion stands majestic and still
amongst gardens and by a lake
a lonely jetty and single boathouse
decorated the sights for the eyes to partake

Many a dip did I take
into the lake in many summers' peak
but mostly I would sit
and wonder at this vision magnifique

Near the borders a wooded glen
a shrubbed area as wild as it can
unsculptured nature to beautify and enhance
the taste and craft all gardeners should grant

Rabbits and other woodland animals
would caper and jump flitting all around
the delectable songs of songbirds singing
a lovely and gently melodic sound

A solitary path meanders
in loops and knots around
a trace for me to wander
taking in the sights and sounds

Welcome to my halls
to this place I have in mind
in reality it might not
but in the future perchance its mine

A mansion and my manor
in wooded glen on English moors
if by chance you should come hither
give me a call and knock on my doors.

A Wanderer Well Scarred

I am a wanderer,
my paths have walked the worlds
my routes are tangled untold
my sights have seen it all.

I am well travelled,
journeyed beyond the gates
crossed the mighty straits
and climbed the frosted peaks.

I am embittered,
having seen all of guile's designs
been shown the cruelties of men
having felt the scourge of women.

I am tired,
my steps are in defeat
my trails in marshy deeps
my hopes are dashed to bits.

I am betrayed,
by friends or those I thought
even time does runneth out
and fate cares all for naught.

I am lost,
streetsigns they no longer print
landmarks have all gone since
and breadcrumbs I did not bring.

I am scarred,
my flesh are marked by wounds
my heart were stabbed by emotions
my dreams have long been silenced.

I am a wanderer,
a wanderer well scarred.

If You Want Me gone

All through the days,
the distance of the years,
I have walked the ways,
awaiting on the tiers.

Dancing in your light,
awaiting for a smile,
loving your beauty's sight,
as I look on from the miles.

Never hoped to scorn,
nor to cause you any pain,
but if my presence you shun,
then tell me tell me plain.

If you want me gone,
just you tell me hon',
if you really want me gone,
just tell me tell me hon'.

If you want me gone,
then just you tell me hon',
this my only song,
the last of me you'll find.

If you want me gone,
please do tell me hon',
for you I will back down,
walking off to distant lands.

If you want me gone,
tell me tell me hon',
a kiss I blew forlorn,
memories to tide my time.

If you want me gone,
just you tell me hon',
if you really want me gone,
just tell me tell me hon'.

This tale of love's sweet snare,
of a man bound by his fate,
hopelessly ensnared,
by Cupid's arrows hit.

I am awaiting on the tiers,
by your graceful gentle trail,
hoping against tears,
that your love would find me still.

But if you want me gone,
then just you tell me hon',
this my only song,
the last of me you'll find.

I, Chameleon

I, chameleon,
as the creature of reknown,
changing and forming,
matching hues matching tones.

I, chamemelon,
that witty man of guile,
This tale is of a man,
subsumed by his times,
living by wit's end,
surviving by his wiles.
A hunter of comfortee,
booty's explorer,
looking for exploits,
to engorge his member.

I, chameleon,
in the times of rock and roll,
my hair is as Elvis,
guitar strings do I swirl,
my voice as gentle crooning,
a balm to swooning girls,
of their honey I partake,
to the music of the bands,
squirming in Cadillac backseats,
and humping on vibrating beds.

I, chameleon,
in the times of hippies,
to freedom I surrender,
to freelove I give in,
smiling as I perspire,
in the backs of Volkswagon vans,
in the arms of freelove chicks,
eating them as they give me head,
oh! what splendour the hippie life,
swapping partners witout care.

I, chameleon,
in the times of feminists,
marching through the streets,
fighting for female rights,
after tiring in the days,
giving encouragement in the nights,
comforting strong females,
I don't care if they are on top,
for I come not as a man,
but as sexual partner on equal terms.

I, chameleon,
in the times of Agogo,
twirling my arms,
in the dance akimbo,
bellbottoms I sport,
sideburns I lampooned,
all in the guise,
to strand aside agogo's girls,
the wiggling of their hips,
beneath the thumpings of mine.

I, chameleon,
in the times of McCarthy hearings,
standing with hollywood beauties,
protesting their innocence,
the first amendment we protect,
our right to express and believe,
communist reds they might be,
but all colors look the same in bed,
blondes, brunettes and raven haired maidens,
whatever haircolor top or bottom to them I ministrate.

I, chameleon,
in the times of disco,
strapping on white shoes,
and dancing to the rhythms,
My hips aswaying,
my groins athrusting,
ensnaring mini skirted disco chicks,
athrashing upon dance floors,
apumping within through the music,
writhing upon them like Travolta.

I, chameleon,
in the times of anti-war,
chained together to protest,
shouting "not bullets but bread!",
lounging my sleepy head,
upon the mounds of sweet delight,
later on after making bail,
we protested by making love not war,
again and again I rammed,
into the tightness of Eden's earthly paradise.

I, chameleon,
in the times of Vietnam drafts,
firstly I dodge this terrible terrible draft,
seeking due comfort in females anti to war,
hiding in their sweet smelling closets,
partaking of them in their parlour,
but later I gave up,
surrendering to the draft,
to look after the livelihood,
of the working girls of Thailand and Vietnam.

I, chameleon,
in the times of poetic discourse,
that resurgence of the arts,
in New York and Chicago cafes,
being straight I stayed away,
from girlchilds of Lesbos and gay gay men,
but the female poets are poetically,
my prey and trophy's specimen,
avaunt into sweet dipthongs rhyming to the beat of drums,
the tamborine to signal my poems's stiff climactic pronounce.

I, chameleon,
in the times of spring break surfing,
living in endless summer,
certainly has its merits,
the first in my list,
the shedding of clothing by balmy summer,
exposing the many many delights,
cleared for me to partake,
arrayed are those thonged creatures,
playthings for my tounge.

I, chameleon,
in the times of rapping dudes,
my name was sparky mike,
with reversed cap and attitude,
girl groupies I tore asunder,
exposing them to merriment,
to the scratchings of the records,
spinning upon turntables,
as I rapped my mike athunder,
wenching on and under the tables.

I, chameleon,
in the times country western,
John Denver I emulate,
along with Willie Nelson,
a stetson on my head,
a guitar I gently strum,
my sweet sweet western drawl,
melts girls hearts and all,
a bronco I be riding atwisting and aturning
on haystack in barnyard stall upon a farmer's daughter saddled.

I, chameleon,
in the times of big-bike riders,
in biker's leather all clad,
atop a swinging Harley Davidson,
a sunglass shading my sight,
a shotgun in saddle bag,
beauteous biker chicks I pursue,
winning them in races and arm-wrestling match,
riding them across statelines and in motels cheap,
just in case they are severely underage.

I, chameleon,
in the times of street racers,
owning imported or muscle rigs,
souped up to the nines and digs,
in illegal races I ran,
sweeping prizes and winnings,
filling up my extra times,
filling holes in racer chicks,
faster! faster! the engine hums,
as the pistons struggle to rev in.

I, chameleon,
of past and future times,
doing my duties,
to repopulate the earth,
reorganizing human genes,
and partaking the sweets,
loving natures wonderful hills,
its gentle slopes,
wooded dells,
and riverine valleys.

Of Abrahah And His Pride

In the early days of faith
lived a great king named Abrahah
ruling his great estates
in his lands upon Arabia.

A great ruler
a majestic king
with a million subjects
seeing to his whims.

An army he has
mounted on elephants
numbering in thousands
what a sight beholden.

But with his wealth
and perilous might
comes the spectre of pride
the undoings of faith.

As Mecca's holy shrine
the Ka'abah was a prime
visited by the throngs
touched by thousands of pilgrim hands.

A great king was Abrahah
a follower of scriptured texts
but envious he was
of Mecca's great behest.

A monument he builds
to rival the Ka'abah
to pull away the trails
of pilgrims to his vale.

Alas but for naught
no one did even sought
to travel to Abrahah's
to the monument he create.

So enraged he became
that he seek to pound
the walls of Ka'abah
into bits on the ground.

A boast he made
mounting his elephants
a great army he led
to Mecca's sacred grounds.

Avaunt his soldiers
the elite of the day
marching through deserts
oases and Bedouin camps.

The Quraish lords of Mecca
were caught unawares
with caravans in trading
their kabilahs in disarray.

No army can they mount
to protect nor to defend
Mecca's sacred grounds
were exposed to Abrahah's lunge.

So the lords of Mecca
the kabilahs of Quraish
lift their hands in prayer
to God they did beseech.

So approached the army of Abrahah
to the sacred grounds of Mecca
trampling all in their path
with great tremors in their wrath

As they drew nearer
God did send and dispatch
the force of heaven's will
to seal Abrahah's fate

Giant birds of prey
ladened with stones from hell
covering the desert skies
with a rain of fiery hail.

Upon both elephant and men
do rain these stones from hell
piercing through armor and skin
with shrieks too awful to tell.

Throughout the desert skies
echoed their deathly cries
ripped and rend to shreds
by the stones straight from hell.

So perished Abrahah
a once and mighty king
whose pride pulleth down
of his glory no one does sing.

So ends this tale
of Abrahah and his pride
a lesson to instill
lest as too often we forget.

With Aragorn Before The Gate

From crippled Minas Tirith,
a city gutted and torn,
though victorious in recent battle,
the war has yet to be won.

So rides the Lords of Gondor,
the guardians of the west,
descendents of the Westernesse,
and heirs to Arnor's Crown.

Under that fabled flowing banner,
the standard of the west,
a single tree wondrously white,
in Mithril on dappled velvet black,

Crowned upon silk,
by seven silver stars,
sacred shining jewels,
symbols of the Eldar.

Aragorn in their lead,
an exiled king returned,
Elfstone, Elessar,
wielding Elendil's blade.

Gandalf at his side,
counselor and dear dear friend,
The Wizard of The White,
with sword and staff in hand.

Eomer Theoden's heir,
and his riders on fast steeds,
the horse lords of Rohan,
the horde of the Rohirrim.

The Prince of Dol Amroth,
riding with his knights,
lords tall and fair,
descendents of the elves.

The Rangers of the north,
riding with Elrond's elven sons,
sworn brothers to Aragorn,
protectors of the land.

The knights of Minas Tirith,
guardsmen of the tower,
clad in shining mail,
topped by white-winged helms.

Out companies of Gondor,
men from far flung vales,
cunning hunters with their bows,
and hardy woodsmen with their axe.

Of the fellowship that remained,
rode the hobbit Peregrine,
or Pippin as he's known,
a Squire to Gondor sworn.

There is Legolas of the elves,
with his dagger and his bow,
accompanied by dwarven axe,
wielded by Gimli son of Gloin.

Onwards they rode,
to the black gate of Mordor,
a challenge to mighty Sauron,
in defiance of his power.

Though their numbers were few,
a token of their gesture,
less than even the vanguard,
of ancient Gondor at its height.

But their purpose all unified,
was not to win through force of arms,
but in subterfuge they hope to wrest,
distraction and time for Frodo and Sam.

Mighty rivers they forded,
hills and mountains they crossed,
at every crossroads they left,
men with trumpets as heralds.

"Make way for the Lords of Gondor,
the Captains of the west,
the rightful king has returned,
Isildur's heir with Elendil's bequest".

Through conquered lands,
once sovereign to Gondor,
crossing through borders,
straight into the heart of Mordor.

Upon blackened sand,
on the scorched surface of earth,
they advanced with caution,
crushing all that opposes.

Until at last they arrive,
upon the hills before the gate,
on three hilltops they braced,
unfurled their banner and planted their feet.

So stood Aragorn at the gate,
upon the dead land of Mordor,
with his companions at his side,
shouting a challenge to Mordor's might.

Upon the three hills they formed,
concentric circles of well armed men,
a redoubt and bulwark to contain,
the seas of Mordor's orcs and men.

Stood Aragorn before the gate,
the king of men returned,
standing fell and just as fair,
in his mail of jet black hue.

In his hand with deadly grace,
the weapon of kings Elendil's blade,
renamed Anduril the Flame of The West,
the shards of Narsil broken but reforged.

Shouting out his challenge brisk,
to Sauron's emissary at the gates,
laying their gamble for even in defeat,
precious moments to the Ringbearers they give.

Stood Aragorn before the gate,
in just enactment of his powers,
for the crown that weighs upon his brows,
brings duties as well as honours.

Surrounded by willing soldiers,
lords and warriors prepared to die,
for despite their skill and untold valour,
by greater numbers they are outdone.

Standing in ranks upon three hills,
with weapons unsheathed and buckled shields,
awaiting the brunt of Mordor's charge,
embracing their cause and laying their lives.

Before their wake stood Mordor's might,
bloodthirsty orcs as numerous as ants,
trolls and giants lumbering along,
savage warriors with evil intent.

But still they stood firm and strong,
with Aragorn before the gate,
the last hopes of free folks all,
doomed guardians of Middle Earth's fate.

Fix Bayonets

Among men,
there is no terror nor glory.
Like those lived,
through the moments of war's infamy.

But among these,
there is no terror nor glory.
Like those who lived,
through "Fix Bayonets!" and the "Charge!" of infantry.

As Shakespear's prose,
to put it most delicately.
"Once more into the breach" my friends,
once more to death and into history.

Invented in the many many,
charges of Cumberland.
The fixing of a blade,
upon the ends of musket-gun.

First used to pacify,
the Scottish highland men.
But now a creed,
to the Royal Highland Regiments.

A blade upon a gun,
a piece of metal with tapered point.
A knife or dagger nothing more,
but to spirits a power it anoints.

Its sturdy steel,
rights the spine of frightened men.
Its polished blade,
brings courage to timid souls.
Its pointed tip,
the wrath of anger in pale young hands.
Its razor edge,
dulls the fear ten-times fold.

Sally forth the Highland Regiments,
The Irish Guards forming in cadence.
Grenadier elite of the Coldstream contingent,
the silent rush of the Gurkhas detachment.

Foreign legionnaires, French Vortiguers,
Hessian mercenaries and the Khyber Rifles.
Prussian drilled American Continentals,
the Stalwart Swiss and their German rivals.

From Austerlizt to Waterloo,
the open steppes to world war trenches.
Asian tropics, deserts North African,
To the Falklands and dune filled beaches.

What was acted upon battlefields,
in time repeated on many a battleground.
"Fix Bayonets!" that cry most shrill,
"Charge!" echoed by sergeants in many tounges.

A credo amongst desperate men,
the bayonet their last defence.
The rage of inspired soldiers,
as they charge through enemy lines.

The bayonet, a focus perhaps,
a prism of power to the hearts of men.
Upon its bloodied surface lies,
the spectre of death's graceful dance.

With a lung-full burst,
an awful throated cry.
Many a soldier would thrust,
his bayonet in headlong drive.

A forest of gleaming metal,
shining blades upon front-thrust guns.
The craze of battle-rage,
anointed by the bayonet's pun.

Upon war's tapestry,
they rush on into fate and into glory.
Spurred on by "Fix Bayonets!",
"Charge!" led on by its deathless majesty.

An Ode To The Green Jackets

Hurrah! Hurrah!
Cheers for the rifles,
Loyal Green Jackets.

Hurrah! Hurrah!
Cheers for the rifles,
Royal Green Jackets.

First in the field,
and the last ones off!

"Fix Swords!"
Their fabled cry,
into the mealstrom where Dante dwells.
"Form Ranks!"
The lads complied,
Letting loose their hell.

Spiral-grooved Bakers,
lightning bolts of death.
The long-armed rifles,
whose touch the ultimate test.

Of one shot kills,
and long-ranged hits.
Snipers at will,
and marksmen to wit.

With their deadly rifles,
and their long sword-bayonets.
Marching into parables,
upon legends and martial tenets.

Serving in ranks,
and in commission.
All those lads,
who served with distinction.

British toffs,
upscale gentlement.
Country esquires,
the gentry of England.

Cockney gents,
Portobello twits.
Wild eyed urchins,
from guttered city streets.

Farm bred lads,
from shire comes.
Cityslicking men,
from factory towns.

Scottish men,
highland and low.
grandsons of warriors,
with blue painted brow.

The fiery Irish,
their tempers true.
Never get between,
an Irishman and his brew.

Welshman born,
from hardy Wales.
descendents of bowmen,
the longbows of tales.

American loyalist,
from troubled colonies.
divided in loyalties,
to empire or dignities.

Different brouges,
of different tounges.
the quarrels they had,
when they get really drunk.

Different breeds,
of different kinds.
Different in creed,
but in one regiment they stand.

Rifles they are,
brothers as one.
their jackets green,
a mark divine.

Upon the slopes,
in Portugal, Spain and France.
Beating back the tides,
of Bonaparte's advance.

The match and the scourge,
for the Vortiguers of France.
the light infantry,
in skirmishes and advance.

Upon any grounds,
contested by France.
There's a gravestone that marks,
the grave of a Rifles man.

To Denmark, to India,
the Americas and hence.
The stern whip of a monarch,
against rebellious intent.

Their ranks a bulwark,
their shots just punishment.
Traitors and oath breakers,
they punish with impudence.

Upon nearby neighbours,
or distant frontier.
The creed of the Rifles,
for the glory of Empire!

Hurrah! Hurrah!
Cheers for the Rifles,
Loyal Green Jackets.

Hurrah! Hurrah!
Cheers for the Rifles,
Royal Green Jackets.

First in the field,
and the last ones off!

The Secret of Steel

The secrets of steel,
stolen by man.
From God's battlefield,
taken by mortal hands.

The perfect mix of carbon,
that delicate careful balance.
Upon folds of layered iron,
pounded into brilliance.

Damascus blades that sings,
the Snake blades of the Goths.
The spear tips of Zulu Kings,
the Samurai's swords of wrath.

Gilded Viking swords,
the curves of Malay Kris.
Swords from Toledo forge,
the lances of Navajo myths.

In all these things,
lies the distinct temper.
Of metallic mixings,
and the forge of masters.

But in all the thrills,
of legends and lore.
The secret of steel,
is a distant aurore.

In the beatings of Conan's drum,
that wild kingless barbarian.
His prayers to mighty Crom,
his god of earth and mountain.

Give me strength,
so that I might succeed.
Upon Valeria's lend,
whom at your side does sit.

But if you do not grant,
this humble request.
Even you I will shun,
for my fate is my own behest!

Therein lies the true temper,
the discipline of steel its secret emper.
The real secret of its deadly timbre,
is as much its makings as in its master.

For the power of steel,
is only as magnified.
By the hands that wields,
this vaunted of artifacts.

The discipline of body,
of practice and skill.
Maintaining the melody,
of ripened muscles and sharpened steel.

But ware the hand!
and ware the steel!
For it does not rend,
without an iron will.

The true secret,
the discipline of steel.
Lies perhaps interred,
in the strength of will.

Pendekar Melayu Turun Ke Gelanggang (In English)

The Malay warrior,
descending to the ring.
His dagger asunder,
long Kris unsheathing.

Dancing the rhythm,
stepping in cadence.
A floral arrangement,
but a strong deadly stance.

For my country's grandeur,
the the Sultan's royal grace.
all enemies that appear,
shall I conquer and disgrace.

Bloodied besmear,
besplattered by blood.
All acts of censure,
will I oppose and fight.

For the honour of Malays,
my nation's divine pride.
My life do I lay,
upon this sacrificial slab.

The Malay Warrior,
descending to the ring,
through trails asunder,
till death comes keening.

* Malay version here

Be still my beating heart

Be still my beating heart

be still...

of what glories of enruptured dreams
of what motives do I have to live
of what hopes upon which to breathe
of what indigence upon which to believe

be still...

no more beatings to guile's deceitful ploy
no more of that repetitive ungentle drum
no more pertaining to life's impossible joy
no more tendings to that incessent hum

be still...

let hot blood cool within your chambers
let life's echo loom to a distant whisper
let your valves unspool from unceasing labors
let silence replace your pulsing rancour

be still my beating heart

be still...

Pendekar Melayu Turun Ke Gelanggang

Pendekar Melayu,
turun ke gelanggang.
Pendua terselak,
keris panjang di tangan.

Meliuk tari,
mencorak pencak.
Bunga diatur,
kekuda dipasak.

Mendaulat negeri,
raja dijulang.
Musuh yang hadir,
digempur ditentang.

Biar berlumur,
dipercik darah.
Angkara mungkar,
akan disanggah.

Maruah bangsa,
keramat negara.
Ke hujung nyawa,
keringat membara.

Pendekar Melayu,
turun ke gelanggang.
berpatah arah,
ajal berpantang.

What Makes A Poet Great

hose words enchanting syllables,
those lines a cadence unrivaled,
those paragraphs sublime surreal,
whose poetry that shines eternal.

But of what qualities do we slate,
to pronounce the title of a great,
a poet's stylings his skillful tongue,
or his heart's emotional expunge.

Though I aspire to the mantle great,
I have ways to go before that treat,
but as my humble vision sweeps,
I do see a pattern to carefully keep.

For a poet to be called a great,
certain skills must the poet consecrate,
the mastery of rhythm rhyme and metres,
the true-felt feeling of a heart that matures.

A poet's pen is heaven sent,
only if his word does dazzles the sense,
skillfully rhyming in metres concise,
or astounding in a proses' lyrical entice.

A poet's poem is of any worth,
only if it transports the reader in truth,
to portray a feeling wonderful and nice,
or perhaps a wounded heart in repast.

For a poet to be called great,
of these delicacies must the poet partake,
firstly to be skilled in the linguistic arts,
the second to open their heart of hearts.

But a third perhaps the divine principle,
gained by tedious study or from God's crucible,
a gift a flair the essence of parable,
inspired by muses a floodgate of perfect ideals.

To be called a poet great,
to perchance fulfill that exalted state,
the thirst perhaps is to write and write,
repeat it again and again until we get it right.


Among the Greeks
the princes of men
of those of seek
to return Helen's hand

in the army of Agamemnon
was a wily wily man
for whom no task is anon
and no query to great to mend

Odysseus the ever ready
was the tenure of his appeal
the prince of Ithica city
and husband to beautiful Penelope

leaving behind a son in infancy
Telemachus the heir to his seat
a man doomed to vagrancy
wandering in suffering and defeat

a favourite of Athena
granted with her grace
the master of war and bravura
as nimble in any race

the smartest of all men
among the besiegers of Troy
his was the plan
to use the Trojan Horse as ploy

victory at last after years of war
but to this unlucky man
victory parades forswore
indeed he will lose all that was won at hand

after Troy's destruction
and Priam's ugly death
the Greeks returned with Helen
ladened with much wealth

ships ahoy! they went to shore
returning in glories and gold
but Odysseus and his scores
were reserved a terrible toll

earning the wrath of Poseidon
Oddysseus and his crew
for the blinding of his cyclops son
great anger was askew

to trials and tribulations
was Odysseus subjected to
losing all his companions
to Calypso his freedom threw

until pity and Athena's wisdom
lifted Calypso's veil
to Odysseus was given freedom
to return to his estranged isle

off to the Phoenicians
was Odyseus washed ashore
gifted by Athena's vision
a sea passage to Ithica did they bore

home at last!
on Ithica's golden sands
come Odyseus to rest
with treasures he won from Pheonician lands

alas his home was troubled
suitors to his faithful wife
thinking he was dead
laid siege to his house astrife

but again this odd man I see
with Athena at his side
with his son Telemacus in lee
routed those riotous suitors dead

so united at last father and son
husband and wife
to Ithica a prince rethroned
a man so very very wise

Odysseus at last
at home and in his place
a man quick in repast
with wit that cuts with grace.

The Journals of Al-Hambra Act IV

As months went past
since the discovery of the code
the Talamasca's attempts
at translating Al-Hambra's words

they failed in all
despite their best
tensions run high
in Talamasca halls

but then
a junior Talamasca member
realised the script
was in oblique timbre

the notes resound
in melodic chatter
a musical notation
comes out hither

transposing the notes
and the melodies found
the scripts yield out
the meanderings of Al-Hambra

at last!
the work can begin
the translation of texts
understanding of words

the story was at last told
the journals read out aloud
the secrets Al-Hambra stole
are now for the Talamasca to grasp

after a time the
story was heard
the ancient tales
of fairies and fey

their wisdom their lore
and powers of old
a search was begun
to reap more that unfold

a report
to the Illuminati was made
outlining the potential
these journals had

as a means of extending
the Illuminati's power grab
and warnings of the threats
of the fairy follower's tribes

again the Order of Cincinati
was called to stand to task
acquiring the twelve relics
and destroying the twelve tribes

while the Talamasca studies
their first translation was given
the first of the relics
its location they have discerned

The Journals of Al-Hambra Act III

So the Order of Cincinnati
began to flex its muscles
grants and debentures given
for research in Egyptian culture

a professor of ancient history
from the University of Miami
made the breakthrough discovery
with the help of Talamasca

an obscure reference was found
of a vase carried to Palestine
which was given by Egyptians
as an offering for a treaty signed

later it was moved
to the site of the the city of Acre
adorning first a temple
then a mosque and later a church

as the centuries flows
the tale of the vase was followed
protected by the Knights Templars
as a relic of ancient power

but after the crusades was lost
the vase was carried to france
but later in the Templars' fall
it was carried by fleeing knights to Ireland

after months of intense study
a clear signifier was found
the vase of Al-Hambra's tales
was hidden in the Monastery of St. Alban

so the Order of Cincinnati
dispatched its forces to Ireland
to St. Alban's Monastery
to recover the vase that's told

In the guise of an exercise
with the ships of Britain's Royal Navy
an Osprey was launched
from the decks of a submarine carrier

like a stealthy bird of prey
the Osprey slips on by
flying through the night
to the monastery's sheltered bay

twelve men they were
the marines from Force Recon
fast-roping down to earth
from the Osprey's silent hover

creeping in the night
in gear that's just as black
the marines quickly overpower
the St. Alban monks in quick time manner

prods and batons were swung
bean-bag munitions fired
darts filled with potions
the monks asleep were rendered

in the holy of holies
a sanctum sealed deep
lies the codex and keys
to the journals Al-Hambra keeps

as the story in a double layered vase it sits
between pottery and copper facings
worked into the space in between
a sheet of treated papyrus sitting upon glass

the monks were drugged perchance they remember
come morning the night was to them a blur
the marines then withdrew
to board their transport with debriefing crew

a speedy transport was then dispatched
to the Talamasca the codex and keys
a study to begin upon receipt
to discover the secrets that Al-Hambra keeps.

The Journals of Al-Hambra Act II

In the treasure house of Egypt
a treasure trove was found
a hoard of findings so great
that the world it truly astounds

a shepherd and his flock
wandering in the sands
found an indentation on a cliff
a passageway to a cave

a man made rock redoubt
carved into sandstone blocks
a door sealed with mud
to keep the air intact

inside was a valuable load
a plethora of books and scrolls
a helping of ancient knowledge
saved when Alexandria was burned

Oh joy! to scholars all
to find the tales they thought was lost
interesting versions of things once thought
new speculations on every theory sought

As well as some books
one here and there
written by a scholar unheard
by the name of Al-Hambra

his books were all collected
and studied by the scholars
but even to them his coded writings
were as colors to the blind

until a librarian of Talamasca
scholars serving the Illuminati
found a reference in a text
of obscure and ancient lineage

the first pages we known
translated by this code
it tells of an emblem
of a vase precious to Amun

this vase a gift by Egypt
to the Amorites in north Africa
as a tribute to a treaty
which was carried to Palestine

it tells of a note
hidden in that vase
kept recessed under copper
molded under glass

so the Illuminati held a meeting
a counting of all their deacons
they reached a full accounting
concocted a resolution

this ancient knowledge herein hidden
could be the quickenings to greater power
so seek we must and seek we shall
to find this vase and light it's latent ember

so the Illuminati decided
all their resources compounded
the Order of Cincinnati was called
to conduct this potent endeavour

As the Illuminati's seat
their organization in North America
the Order of Cincinnati
wields influence and great power

the US Senate in their grasp
the US President is their pawn
the US treasury their assets
and the US military do they own

in the shadows perhaps
this power they wield
but their influence in general
is very very real.

The Journals of Al-Hambra Act I

In the dust of times
the sands of memories
lies the tale of tales
an epic of destiny

long long ago
in an age before history
lived fairies and their ilk
on earth with mortal men

sages they were
keepers of lore
masters of magic
and shapers of dreams

with powers beyond
our grasping notions
silhouettes of gods
still mortal beings

they lived in harmony
with humans of yore
till humankind discovered
the merits of science

with tools and knowledge
we soon unearthed
a power much greater
then the fairies themselves

for in our hands
God placed the mastery
as caretakers of earth
we can shape its destiny

sages they were
lore they kept
but bound they are
by celestial quips

we however
are unrestricted hence
the world to our will
can we ultimately bend

as more and more
of science we gleaned
more tools discovered
and knowledge unearthed

nature and fairies
holds no more expense
but are resources
to be consumed post hence

as nature withers
under our ravaging hand
so is the power of fairies
withered in recompense

bringing up the moment
magic's time to die
so ends an age of earth
the last days of Aquarius

sadly in repose
pondering their fates
the fairy court decided
upon a plan of escape

to a mirror world
will they descend
into a secret place
beyond space beyond time

a pocket dimension
created on the ends
a faraway plane
as yet untouched by science

sealed of from the earth
by a dazzling facade
a temporal gateway
bending space and time

so fled the fairies
to the lands beyond
leaving behind allies
their human clients

but not forgotten
nor left behind
but left with the means
and the plot to a plan

twelve tribes they were
the followers of the fairies
left behind to scheme
for the return of their liege

with them were twelve keys
twelve majestic artifacts
objects of great power
and the keys to the wall of lights

with each lies a power
given to individual tribes
together and in concert
they could open the gates of light

it is said that beyond this gate
lies the armories of Ra-Magda
where the ancient fairies keep
their terrible weapons of power

beyond the armories
lies the halls of Bal-Seeka
where the fairies left a taste
of their glory and their lore

beyond the halls
lies another set of doors
watched upon by Tem-Por
the dreaded fairy-lord of war

herein lies a riddle
the fabled words of power
to open the way hither
to the fairies' last refuge

so the fairies fled away
their followers slaved their plans
until the coming of the day
when Aquarius walks again

a man named Al-Hambra
got wind of all their story
sketching upon paper
a journal of their plans

the stories he told
of the tribes in hiding
the details he divulged
of the artifacts in question

but word got out of him
and the telling of his deeds
pursued he became
by assassins in the night

fearing of the worst
he hid his work and ran
leaving clues and hints
in the annals of literature

in the kingdom of Sudan
a knife did enter his back
piercing skin
and going through his heart

so ends his tale
the story of Al-Hambra
but his journals lies hidded
awaiting a discoverer.

Life's Remote

Brought up in the view
of tv's diorama
I grew up to become
a couch potato voila

a remote in my hand
soda in a can
snacks aplenty
askew in my front

the vcr is great
a tv's true companion
the features I like most
is forward rewind and pause

when bored by hours waiting
or things I don't want to see
I press the button forward
till better things perceive

to relive a favourite scene
a moment in refrain
I press the button rewind
and live again in thrill

the pause button I use
to stop things when in doubt
to check for references
and wait for toilet breaks

how great is this remote
with buttons galore
to speed up all the shows
and repeat the delights

I often wonder if there is a chance
that this wonderful wonder
can be applied to life
how would that be I seek to ask

if only to circuit city
this new remote I buy
but instead of the tv
to life its button applies

what a world I wonder
that would play out to be
to pause when I ponder
and rewind to repeat

forward when I clamor
impatient not to wait
off when I wanted
to rest a little bit

forward pause rewind
life would be a breeze
all that I will find
I have plenty of time to live.

An Ode To Lost Friends

There is no jewel
upon this earth
that are as precious
or as valuable

than the true value
of a true friend
or the rightful worth
of a friendship earned

but in the painting of life
by the brush-stroke of chance
even true friends depart
and truer friendships divide

the colors of life the palette of choices
its hues often shutters the view
leaving one alone divided in census
to walk down the avenues of solitude

in all my tales and all my wanderings
I may never ever find again
those generous delightful seraphin
the gathering of dear dear friends

though we might never cross paths again
I wish you all the best in all of things
perhaps in memories, in dreams, in hopes or in poetry
mayhaps our sundered paths will one day sing.

How Can I...

How can I describe these poundings of my heart,
but in the likeness of waves crashing upon surf.
thunderous poundings those hammering crests,
and yet a caress as gentle as the breeze.

how can I attest this tightening in my throat,
but as the tight embrace of absent lovers reunited.
a lingering feeling of constricting curves,
the sweet sweet tingle of skin upon skin.

how can I explain a glimmer of your face,
but as the landscape of heaven on loan to mortal lands.
a picture of beauty perfection formed,
the graceful depiction of an angel's pose.

how can I express a timbre of your voice,
but as a symphony of angels singing celestial songs.
the tunes the melodies a sweet respite,
tantamount to murder upon weak weak hearts.

how can I impress the sublety of your touch,
but as the gentle warmth of summer lingering on frozen winters.
a brush a tingle and perhaps a little more,
the delectable musings craddled in delight.

how can I protest the dalliance of your eyes,
but as pools of pleasure that deliciously drowns.
the waters of love crowned by lust,
a taste of the luscious pleasures to come.

how can I resist the offers of your love,
but as a willing slave donning gilded chains.
the surrender of will the lifting of veils,
opening the sight for visions untold.

The Alamo, In Repose

The Alamo,
where they stood,
shoulder to shoulder,
outnumbered a thousand to one.

The bravest men of Texas,
and their hardy women too,
standing at the nexus,
of Santa Anna's troops.

Beyond that lonely line,
drawn in that grainy sand,
by a naked sabre blade,
their voice were of as one.

"We'll stay!" out comes aloud,
a death knell if there ever was one,
with a single messenger their redoubt,
buying precious time for Houston's advance.

So stood the Alamo,
alone and in defense,
the saviour of Texas,
against the horde beyond the river grand.

Their mettle was tested,
both women and the men,
against cannon shells and bullets,
bayonets and sabre thrusts.

Till one by one they fell,
Bowie and Crockett too,
giants among men,
sons of Texas true.

In the morning that follows,
the end of all their forms,
lying bloodied broken,
dead but of reknown.

As Santa Anna's army paused,
jubilant in their cause,
burning their dead victims,
in a pyre seen for miles.

So rides the men of General Houston,
rallying to their aid,
"For The Alamo!" their mission,
on Santa Anna's tail.

But beyond the victory
the triump of Houston's band,
lies the heavy price of victory,
the sacrifice of Alamo and it's men.

So sound the distant trumpets,
beat the silent drum,
bow your head in reverence,
as we remember their names resound.

The Alamo,
where they stood,
shoulder to shoulder,
outnumbered a thousand to one.
Return top