Ballade of an Unforgivable Crime

BALLADE OF AN UNFORGIVABLE CRIME

 

Pray, my dear, whatever is the matter?

Those cupcakes were well past their use-by date.

That old soda was only getting flatter,

And those crackers growing musty in their crate.

That last banana slowly turning brown,

That cheddar cheese so quickly going green,

With selective cuts can still be gotten down,

That space cleared up, that little dish get cleaned.

On all your leftovers, that never do get eaten

And all your drink, that never does get drunk

A life like mine, that's marginalized and beaten

Can learn to feed on and to like such junk.

I live my life upon the leavings and the lees

As I hobble about on knackered legs.

But every crumb your justice counts and sees:

I'm sorry that I drank your dregs.

 

That bread crust no one eats that's turning stale;

The tomato got last month, that's heading south;

That Frito pie not quite beyond the pale;

Those potatoes that already start to sprout;

That grilled rice that's getting hard and dry;

Those ancient oranges that daily shrink and wither;

The beef broccoli that's gotten rather high:

Put all them in a bag, and send them hither.

Those pink chicken thighs, now blushing gray,

I still would hazard, but with some haste.

That avacado won't last another day.

Those chip crumbs shouldn't go to waste.

But for such presumption, gluttony, and pride

You like to take me down a couple pegs.

Now I your righteous judgement must abide;

I'm sorry that I drank your dregs.

 

Envoi:

 

Princess! About your castle I must go

Treading carefully, as if on agèd eggs;

Perhaps it's my blood sugar, running low,

But I'm sorry that I drank your dregs.

 

--First Draft, Sept. 10, 2016

Notes: At the time I wrote this, I was wholly dependent on my sister for whatever food I could get, which, considering my somewhat ... robust nature, never seemed enough. Written on the ocassion of finishing of a few ounces of flat soda. Nowadays, now that I can mostly supply my own meals, she has the opposite problem, getting rid of stuff no-one ever eats. "They always talk of me drinking, but never of me thirst."

A Poem for Christmas in July

SEASONAL (AFFECTIVE DISORDER) GREETINGS

When the things that ya owns
Are a pile of dry bones
And yer books are a pile of dead leafs
And alla yer plastic's
A puddle fantastic
And yer memory a box full o’ griefs
When alla yer food
Just sours yer mood
And won't fill that hole in yer day
And new TV shows
Are suckin and blows
And the old ones are fadin away
When the things that ya did
As a stupid young kid
Come and kick yer sorry old ass
Or worse what ya didn
Or tried to keep hidden
Come and mock ya in front of the class
When dreams and diversions
Just add to the hurtins
And they make no reason or rhyme
And every damp day
Is dark grim and gray
Ya know that it's holiday time!

-- Bryan Babel, 12-21-2017

It's a Ninja, and It's a Scroll, but It's Not ...

Krezdorn!

Krezdorn

Far in the dim of a summer's eve

I seem to see, past the shadow's weave,

On the verge of sight

A distant light

Sifting through the murmuring trees.

 

Krezdorn--magic Krezdorn--

Where the mystic wizards weave--

Krezdorn--faery Krezdorn--

In the Land of Make-Believe!

 

In the gloom of the noon of an autumn day

I seem to hear, as the dead leaves play,

The fading knell

Of a crystal bell

In the wind where the bare trees groan and sway.

 

Krezdorn--eldritch Krezdorn--

Where the fauns and satyrs play--

Krezdorn--mythic Krezdorn--

Full of wandering dreams astray!

Many years ago I saw the name Krezdorn Street in the phonebook and thought what a good name that was for an over-the-top, goofy, somewhat twee fantasy land. This poem was the result.

Laughter-Loving Dionysus

LAUGHTER-LOVING DIONYSUS

 

Laughter-loving Dionysus

In his mortal garment worn

Has eternal hold and leases,

In his temple nightly born.

 

Laughter-loving Dionysus

Before the first act drains a glass.

His fingertips he lightly kisses;

Winks at both the lad and lass.

 

Laughter-loving Dionysus

Attends a party for the cast

Where they serve white wine and cheese. This

Supper is this body's last.

 

Laughter-loving Dionysus

Prepares the mortal guise to doff:

Thread-bare at top and lined with creases,

It's time to take the garment off.

 

Laughter-loving Dionysus’

As he leaves the backstage door.

Lovingly is torn to pieces

By manic Maenads by the score.

 

Laughter-loving Dionysus

Finds a garment bright and new:

Tries it on, finds it pleases,

And starts the cycle all anew!

A-Walking Through the Shadows of the Day

A-Walking Through the Shadows of the Day

 

 

From Everywhere 

Into the Here, 

Without a care we somehow dare 

To begin on our journey’s way. 

Though may be 

Simply babies, 

We come harking 

Out of darkness 

And so we start a-walking through the shadows of the day.

 

And as we go

We greater grow 

Along life's path of mirth and wrath, 

Love and sorrow, weal and woe.

The sun is high 

Strong in the sky; 

Shortens the shade 

Beneath our feet 

And so we walk unheeding through the shadows of the day.

 

And though the light

Is bonnie bright, 

It lays long in the afternoon;

It starts to fade, starts to fall.

We feel the heat 

Begin to beat, 

Steps get slower,

Heads hang lower, 

But defiantly we walk on through the shadows of the day.

 

Dusk gathers in, 

Light growing thin.

The weary road turns gray and grim, 

And doubtful runs the way ahead. 

We start to creep 

And think of sleep 

And where to find 

A final bed, 

And stumbling we go walking through the shadows of the day. 

 

Then comes the night 

Without a light. 

Our strength is done, our eyes grow dark, 

And shadow overwhelms the day. 

We rest our bones 

Beneath the stones, 

And put away 

All pride and play; 

And is it sleep that settles in the shadows after day? 

 

A Day will come

When dark is done,

And shadow falls and shadow fails,

When Sun without a spot prevails. 

Then we'll arise 

To endless skies; 

Won't fear the night 

Bathed in the light, 

A-walking ever after without shadows through the day. 

 

9/25/2018

Angel's Song: My Poetry

ANGEL'S SONG

 

Far lies the road that I must take,

Far, far the stars may roam,

But I have far and farther still

To go till I reach home.

 

My eyes were made to watch the course

Of star's eternal swing:

I listen in the audient void

While planets move and sing.

 

I was not made a common wight

Of blood or flesh or bone;

I dwelt within the Living Light

When Adam walked alone.

 

I moved the slow wheels of the world

Till Adam's time was full,

His kingship come, his rule fulfilled,

To steer the round world's hull.

 

But Adam fell, his song was stilled,

And still alone I bide.

I hold the reigns that were his right,

The wayward planet's guide.

 

Through aeon-turnings I have made

(An angel cannot weep)

I look towards Heaven even as

A steady course I keep.

 

Until a Man shall come again

To take from me the planet's rein:

Far lies the road that I must go,

Far, far the stars may roam;

But I have far and farther still

To toil, ere I reach home.

Morgish Lament

MORGISH LAMENT

 

I walked on the sand

At the end of the land

And gazed at the booming sea.

I came to a halt

When the sea brume salt

Seemed to bring to me

An ancient song

From the land I long

Had sought unceasingly.

A Morgish tongue

Sighed and sung

To the tune of the crashing sea:

 

"Come back to home,

You kin who roam

Afar in ships

Upon the foam.

 

"Come back we call

To empty hall

For absent kin

Is bitter gall.

 

"Of blood to blood

And mood to mood,

We feel the call

Of Morgish brood.

 

"Great Gammoth stands

With outstretched hands

On the green hill

Of Golberand,

 

"And calls his child

Back from the wild

Paths of the deep

To havens mild.

 

"Why wander far?

Turn sail and spar

And take the trail

Of summer stars.

 

"Yes, take the track

Past wave and wrack.

Turn west to home;

It calls you back.

 

"I call to thee

Across the sea!

Ah! Hear my song

And turn to me!"

 

So it sang, then thinned, and died away

Like smoke blown on a misty day;

And the sea roared upon the shore

And the clouds in the wind were rent and tore

And I stood still on the beach alone

While the gulls wailed and the sea moaned

And the darkness came in a silent spring

And I waited more for the voice to sing,

But heard only the sound of wave on stone

As I still stood on the beach alone.

Call to Arms

Call to Arms 

 

Ogres marching from the mountains;

Wolf-shades riding cross the plain;

Pounders thudding on like thunder;

The North is rising up again!

 

See the Black Breath spread like poison,

Creeping o’er the land like death.

The Dark Lord works his will against us!

We can feel his rising wrath.

 

Gammoth’s children, drop your plowshares;

Time to take the sword in hand.

Humans, Ghamen, brave and noble,

With your Morgish brothers stand.

 

From the cities, from the forests,

From the fields and from the sea,

Come and stand against the darkness.

We remain alive and free!

 

Dark magic cannot stand against us;

Vile legions cannot stem our tide.

They cannot bear our righteous anger;

Evil has no place to hide.

 

We shall not stop, we shall not falter,

Until this darkness purged away

No more stains the land of Forlan.

Golden shines the dawn of day!

-May 31, 2026

Update!

Friday Fiction: Technically a Poem

BLUE TEARS FALLING IN A CRYSTAL SKY

 

Lost stars tossing on an endless ocean;

Wild waves breaking on an empty shore;

West wind blowing through a ruined tower,

In dusty hallways and forgotten doors.

Every winter there's a new spring coming.

Summer's a myth and we don't know why.

Every winter there's old beauty dying,

And blue tears falling in a crystal sky.

 

A witch is weeping in the misty highlands;

A druid's dreaming in an endless wood;

A saint is sleeping under the altar;

They'd come here to help us; I wish they would.

This summer is seeming, but winter is with us.

Autumn is on you when things start to die.

When spring comes again, will it find we've been faithful?

There are blue tears falling from a crystal sky.

 

Weary and restless, it's too far we've wandered.

It seems such a long way to turn back home.

But we've walked round the earth, and come back full circle,

So now home is ahead, and we'll no more roam.

Every winter there's a new spring coming;

It's there for the winning if we'll only try.

Every spring there's new beauty birthing,

And laughter ringing in the crystal sky.

 

I wish I had dated this poem. As it is I can only guess I wrote it in the late ‘90’s; at the time I was listening to a lot of Van Morrison and The Call and (I think) Loreena McKennitt and U2 and Bob Dylan in his more enigmatic vein. It is mainly a handful of fantastic images and a kind of struggling optimism; it includes the conceit (used both in Chesterton’s Manalive and C. S. Lewis’ The Pilgrim’s Regress) of coming back to a happy beginning by taking the long way round. It is the journey that restores or enhances returning ‘home.’ Is the ‘crystal sky’ supposed to be Heaven or merely a ‘return to the innocence’? I probably couldn’t have told you then and I certainly couldn’t tell you now. It seems to me mainly a kind of tinkling, vaguely portentous verbiage in the form of a pop song. My friend Alan Peschke has since set it to music and published it here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wGTgrFlaDoY&list=RDwGTgrFlaDoY&start_radio=1

I sing it to a different tune in my head.