The Mortals’ Dilemma

It’s been a year, but I’m finally getting back to the continuation of my Irish Epic; if you haven’t kept up with this one, I recommend reading the preceding parts of the ongoing poem and the details of its inception on my new page The Epic of Angus and Caer.

To be perfectly confusing, here’s poem number 13 for this month, which is sonnet # 22 of the Epic:

22. The Mortals’ Dilemma

The King and Queen exchanged a furtive glance
when asked about their rulership of fae,
for though their might ensured a fighting chance,
the faery realm opposed their pull and sway.
The King replied in firm but kindly words:
“While, in our world, we boast seniority
o’er men and commerce, field and lake and herd,
in fae domains, we’ve no authority.”
Upon the Dagda’s wail and anguished wince,
the Queen was quick amending their reply:
“But neither are we hostile to the Prince:
our messengers will find him, ere we try.”

And so they sent their agents to the hall
of Connacht’s Prince, to bid him heed their call.

Sibyl Supplication

I wrote a comfortable English sonnet using NaPoWriMo’s “past and future” prompt for day twelve very loosely, focusing mainly on the term I found in the Classical Dictionary and only using the SciFi source for a single (not very SciFi) phrase. They are as follows, respectively:

Albunea, a wood near Tibur and the river Anio, sacred to the muses. It received its name from a Sibyl, called also Albunea; worshipped as a goddess at Tibur, whose temple still remains. Near Albunea there was a small lake of the same name, whose waters were of a sulphureous smell, and possessed some medicinal properties. This lake fell, by a small stream called Albula, into the river Anio, with which it soon lost itself in the Tiber.
(page 68 of Lempriere’s Classical Dictionary)

inner space n.
the human mind; the innermost parts of one’s psyche
(via the Historical Dictionary of Science Fiction)


Albunea, wherein my visions dwell,
Thou shadowed grove of transcendental sight,
I bid Thee, bare your truths; and lies dispel,
to reconcile my Self in Sacred Night.

I spurn the shallow reach of civil mind
and seek the pagan depth of inner space:
by sulf’rous waters, rude and unconfined,
restore me in Thy curative embrace.

O Tiburtine Diviner, lift the veil
of words and meanings muddled and diffuse
and cast my psyche far beyond the pale
where I have sworn my oath to Thee, my Muse:

By virtue of the Goddess in the glade,
my heart is healed; my spirit is remade.


Another new form for me, the nonet:
a poem of nine lines with nine syllables in the first line and one fewer syllable in each successive line (until there are none.) There’s typically no rhyme scheme, but I chose rhyming couplets with the last line referring back to the first couplet’s rhyme.

Nine thousand, nine hundred ninety-nine
metric tons, in just a few lines,
of all the deeds yet unsaid
and all the tears unshed–
but can we dismiss
the weight of this
vice of

(Kinda sad this is my tenth poem for the month, and not #9)


Something about the service industry and putting up with it all:

Reality: checked;
mentality: wrecked.
Suffer life’s banality
(but maintain self-respect.)

Complacence: pent;
patience: spent.
A penny for your thoughts,
but I don’t want another cent.

Turnout: weak;
burnout: peak.
My restlessness is mighty
but my will is mighty meek.

Servility: expected;
humility: subjected.
One mask for proper safety;
one to show I’m unaffected.

Persistence: ambitious;
resistance: seditious.
My effort may seem honest,
but my grief is surreptitious.

Delusions: matured;
solutions: obscured.
And yet, without or with my wit,
I’ll say I have endured…

Of Names and Aims

Following guidelines for today’s poems: a new-to-me form from NaPoWriMo, and another that I’ve tinkered with before:


quiet prayers

hushed, like tombs
of dry earth and ash,
names are born
on parched lips;
will these new gods recognize
their desperate makers?



spring forth
from your cave
and dance ecstatic:
shape the names of unsung heroes
and damn the pious
who seek to