Welcome to the Gryphon's Nest!
The gryphon lined its nest with such
As none will see again
But treasured most the deepfelt words
Sung from the hearts of men
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Adaptation
You don't wear my ring anymore.
I guess I never expected you to.
I'm slowly getting used to
not having you in my arms.
Our eyes don't meet from across the room.
I guess I never really expected them to.
I'm slowly getting used to
not knowing what I mean to you.
Our embraces are no longer filled with love and need.
I guess I never expected them to be.
I'm slowly getting used to
not having the world you made for me.
We don't leave with a kiss or promise of desire.
I guess I never expected us to.
I'm slowly getting used to
not being allowed to need you.
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**Copyright 1998 by Dyrkhawk. (dyrkhawk@bright.net).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author**
For Shalene
On wat'ry music's rippling shore
Where melodies lap at ageless sands
Where notes and rhythms meld and soar
Sweeping o'er the darkened lands
A proud and lonely figure sits
Bedecked with tears of grief and glee
And in the cloak the music knits
Hides from a cold reality
Until the warm and gentle tide
Brings forth a one whose guiding light
Can thaw that chill, and side by side
Bring both out through the friendless night
For the worth of one dear friend
Outweighs all else 'til worlds should end.
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**Copyright 1998 by Marcus Lee (thenarr@hotmail.com).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author**
The Gray Rider
A single tear rolls down and runs dry.
Agony Despair Pain Loss
Those are things I have seen and felt.
Emptiness has come.
The Grey Rider is in me again.
The hollow shadow of my existence.
I am become him.
Chasing away beauty and tenderness.
Emotions are ripped apart,
Tears are no more than red eyes
Once anew am I a person with no feelings of magnificence.
Reft of my hopes to be left to my fears
My alter ego is in charge.
Honed to perfection on the outside,
Rotten to the core, unclean,
A perversion of life.
Dreams become nightmares,
Anguish becomes pleasure.
Doomed forever to be lost
Soulless and delusive.
I try to scream but my voice is gone.
Incarcerated in my own body,
I try to strike the walls to free myself but no hands.
In bondage I am, my prison the Grey Rider.
Leper, rotting flesh, forbidden to die.
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**Copyright 1998 by Olaf Kant (BeastVince@aol.com). Home Page
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author**
SIPPING
I only have apples for you
winesap apples
hanging red and green
from twisted trees
and lying on the ground
brown and rotten
soft and mushy,
not very good,
but they will do
for a break from the field,
for a break
from the work
and the
hot
hot
sun
My brown eyes
her green eyes
her red dress
my brown eyes
her red shoes
the spring trees
the blue sky
my brown eyes
her green eyes
her green
green
eyes
I am.
I have heen read by ones and twos.
I have been seen by tens
or even hundreds.
You can see me
on the street.
I am.
You can hear my voice
In
the silence,
or
in the
crowd
at
ballgame.
I am everyone
I am no one
I am the man on the street.
Tell everyone I was here.
Right here.
Now.
On this spot of soil
in this something,
this
recognition of something,
tell everyone.
I have eaten the last grape.
I hold the vine in my hands
and I throw it into the yard.
I wonder of the purpose
of the vine
(as you would,
as anyone
would)
to feed me
to reproduce
to seek the light.
When I have eaten my last grapes
I will, perhaps, understand.
Perhaps.
But the vine doesn't care anymore
It just lies there
in the green green grass
The trees are whispering to me.
They tell me the rain will come,
that spring will bring new leaves,
that birds will nest
in my branches.
They tell me not to concern myself
with the fire
nor the blight.
They tell me to stand strongly
and to lift my arms
to the light.
My tongue touches
the roof of my mouth.
My lips are stuck together
and pop apart.
I can feel the air
rushing
through my chest.
I hold this page in my hand
and
I read
these words.
Now sunrise brings a cup of coffee
to welcome the day
Our lives are measured with these days
which are poured into cups
and mixed with sorrow and joy,
We say things like
"I'll always remember."
"I'll always love you"
and we are blown like
dry leaves in a whirlwind,
rising for a moment,
then settling,
to make room
for other leaves
to be blown
to rise,
to settle.
The trees live and die.
Each blade of grass
leans to the summer light
and breaks in the winter wind.
The birds live and die.
The seasons turn
like a merry go round
and
we ride the pretty horses
and
we hear the pretty music
and
we play in the warm sun
as the merry go round
goes around
and around
and around
There is a chill in the day.
Already the birds gather.
Already the insects are frantic.
Already the leaves turn
to browns and yellows.
Savour the day.
Sip it
like a glass of
fine wine.
Breathe deeply
and glory in the song
of the cricket.
Cup the day in your palm like
spring water
and drink.
My little wife
thinks I'm odd and lazy
as she flutters,
constantly working.
She is a little worker bee,
she flutters gracefully,
picking this up,
straightening that.
She is gathering nectar
and I am in the hive,
sipping.
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**Copyright 1998 by David Michael Jackson (dave@artvilla.com). Home Page
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author**
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