Death’s Court

–by: R S Jacobs

The ashen soil is littered with broken, discarded hilts.
The earth and stone are spattered with darkened, disheartened stains.
Blood-scarlet moonlight descends as arrows cease their falling.
No lofty goal is fought for; all herein indulging guilt.
Each of us fights our battles all alone; surviving pain.
But I am still here, resolved, to finish this damned calling.tomb, stone tomb, underground tomb, tomb of the kings, Cyprus, Paphos

I fight alone
I fight alone
No allies, no support
I stand alone
I stand alone
No backup, no cohort
This is my own
This is my own
My audience – death’s court.

When the battle began, I thought I had an army.
I stood a chance, I could prevail, with them on my side.
Evil would fall, victory won, the day would be mine.
But this force was beset with lies; they would betray me.
And those who stayed were not enough; each one turned aside
For their interests prevailed, and mine were just left behind.

I live alone
I live alone
No loving, no good night
I die alone
I die alone
No gravestone, only spite
This is my own
This is my own
My audience – death’s court.

I fight alone
No allies, no support
I stand alone
No backup, no cohort
I live alone
No loving, no good night
I die alone
No gravestone, only spite
This is my own…

My audience – death’s court.

Wielding the Wand

[You have to hang on till the end!  Here is a shortened version of yesterday’s post…to get you to the punch line more quickly.]

by: RS Jacobs

He sat there ensconced in polished brown safety; he stared straight ahead. There before him, glowing in brilliant light, was everything he cared to know about, and so much more. Looking ahead as he did, he took on the power of the Fates themselves. He could peer into the past, study the present world, and even discover the future. He could observe, in a distant fashion, the private lives of his fellow man. Struggles, victories, sorrows; all were laid bare to his all-seeing eye. In mere moments, he could journey from forest, tcourage, courageous girl, girl in hoodie, girl with light sabre, girl with sword, light sabre, wando desert, to the depths of space. This was his telescope and grabbing claw to every universe — all in one.

At his left hand sat a sampling of the fountain of youth, seemingly seething with the energies of life itself. At his right, manna from Heaven. With the world before him, and life on either side, this was no man who graced this place with his presence, but a king.

Without diverting his gaze from the wonders that darted about his eyes, this king closed a meaty hand around the weapon of his choice: black in color, smoother than river stones, and studded with glory, but no larger than a wizard’s wand. Despite the size of the thing, the incalculable power of this weapon could end whole worlds, then bring them back as if they had never left. This rod of power could seize the reins of time, and seize them it did.

Taking on a countenance most pensive, he stroked his grizzled chin and sat in deep thought. Reactions to what he had seen raced through his head like hunting falcons. But this pondering only brought him to realize the gravity of his findings, and his hand rose to his face, as if to keep it from falling off.  He contemplated the power of the black rod, and when he could take no more, the black rod was brought up again. The flashing lights and echoing sounds were dismissed. He closed his eyes, exhaled a slow, deep breath, and said,

           wand, remote control, watching TV, watching television “Five hundred channels, and nothing on.”

(Now that you know the punch line, go back and read Tiresome Visions for the full story.)

What is it?

What is it
That drives and halts the soul?
What is it
That mends and breaks the heart?
What is it
That draws the winds of change
And brings them as but a breeze to some,
And yet a storm to others?

Is it Literature? The written word?
That sprawling, scrawling, inky text unheard?
Shakespeare, Elliot, Browning, Poe, Doyle?
Is the written word the mortal coil?
It could be argued by the greater men
Of our time, that a word can do you in.
But a word bears no power of its own.
It needs man’s mind to become fully grown.

Is it Culture? Is it politicians?
That inspires the called to their missions?
Churchill, Washington, Hitler, Gandhi, no.
The ebbing waves of culture come and go.
But if not culture, well, what is it then?
What drives the most essential life of men?
It cannot be found in the written word,
And it was not by man that man occurred.

What makes the blood boil?
For what does man toil?
What mends and breaks the heart?
Not math, science, or art.
What destroys the past without fail,
And makes the future just a tale?
The winds of change, the sands of time,
A word of reason or of rhyme.

Man does not
Drive or halt the soul.
Man does not
Mend or break the heart.
Man does not
Draw the winds of change.
He can’t make them but a breeze to some,
And yet a storm to others.
Gilded in armor of light,
Our answer is just in sight.
Do you know the Answer?