The Craven
(A POEm)
Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
When each diving memory wrought its ghost upon my mind.
Upon my memory’s dusty floor, fading memories evermore.
Such a carnage lay there, such a waste to shut the door
On summer’s warmth and autumn’s embers dying slowly,
As the winter wind, wanton whisperer, blew away the life of yore.
There we walked in dismal sadness my companion feline, strapped in harness,
Through the cold and gloomy grayness, striking footsteps on the floor.
And the rain soaked spatter of the wind was joined by clatter,
Throbbing beats upon the air, the deadly chill of winter’s air.
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
‘Tis some distant chopper, Sikorsky’s monster, beating harshly,
Some deranged monster beating air upon my forest’s floor.
This it is and nothing more.
Deep into that forest peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams that make men weak,
Dreams that make me sweat and knees to shake.
Dreams that in the gloaming sent my fancy into roaming
Into hells best forgotten, forged by memories best forgotten.
Hells to visit nevermore.
Here I shook my head and clutched the leash, coming back to present mirth,
And watched my feline, great companion, and walked some more upon the path,
The path that led us homeward, homeward to my parlor door
Where a fire burns so brightly, brightly in my cheery hearth,
And dispels this winter madness, madness grown on winter’s shore.
And this winter madness will then leave me to return- nevermore.
Suddenly my eyes grew wider. The throbbing beats upon the air
Reached crescendo as a bird ungainly, huge and ugly, so ungainly
Flopped upon a branch and tucked his wings not 20 meters from my chamber’s door.
Twenty meters from my door a bird of prey preened his feathers,
Preened and watched with eyes of fire, tempest tossed beside my door.
In whose shadow we were locked forevermore.
Soon I found my mouth, and heart besides, and challenged loudly,
“Though thy crest be shaven, and thy feathers glow with luster,
Thou art but a craven, driven from the night’s Plutonian shore,
Ghastly, grim, and ancient craven, what’s you business with us?
What brings you hither, hooked beak and talons, gazing at me eye to eye?
Quoth the craven, “Grendel Moore.”
Then methought the air grew denser, putrid breath from such fowl hunter.
“Wretch,” I cried, “You will not have him. Get you back to night’s Plutonian shore.
“Prophet!” Screamed I, “Thing of evil! You’ll not have him, now or ever.”
"Thing of evil- prophet still, if bird or devil! Find some other place to revel.”
“Bird or fiend!” I kept on raving, Not now not ever.
Quoth the craven, “Grendel Moore.”
The months are turning, slowly churning through the coldest winter ever.
And we sit by firelight’s embers, trying vainly to remember
Days of sunlight, days of air, scented by the flowers everywhere.
The sun arcs by us, days grow slowly, lengthening slightly,
And the water drips from branches, forming rivulets to the sea.
And from one such branch still perching, waits the craven,
Patience wavering, just a smidgeon, as the days seep into night.
When the light comes with the gardens and the earthy scents surround us
He will flee into the darkness, into ancient caverns of despair
As Grendel and I walk once again in warmed sunlight
And my fears no more upend me, and my chamber sets me free,
As I doze by hearthstone’s glitter, nothing could be fitter
Than the purring of my feline, murmurs so sublime
Of the cat who sits content upon my lap and snoozing
Dreaming of a warmer time
The lesson’s plain, the lesson’s clear, for each and all the craven’s there.
We must go out the darkest night, and live without the light.
The winter’s dark, the winter’s dreary, but one thing I see clearly.
It always yields to spring and cheer.
So if you miracle’s of birth or oil, on this darkest month of all,
The tides will turn, the planets heave, the sun will out.
So merry Christmas, Chanukah, and New Year.
From Gail and me and Grendel Moore.
Self Portrait with Human:
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