G
Guest
Guest
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After a long week of running aimlessly in circles, achieving little, it should not have surprised me that the evening at the Golden Unicorn began with nothing, or at least an ode to it. But while I achieved little this week, the same cannot be said of Siege's (in?)famous bard!
<table border="1" width="400" bordercolor="#000000" align="center" bgcolor="#000000"> <tr> <td align="middle"> <font color="#ffffff"> An Ode to Nothing
by
Yancey DeFlorio</font> </td> <td align="right">
</td> </tr> </table>
<table border="1" width="400" bordercolor="#000000" align="center"> <tr> <td>
wandered today deep in thought,
But all my thinking came to nought,
What to write about what tale to tell,
On just one subject my mind , it would not dwell,
What to jot on that cold white page,
Should it be peaceful or should it rage,
The words I write could they be honey sweet?
Or should they be be tinged with self defeat,
So many poets with sombre thoughts,
Appear to be what my eye has caught,
But doom and glooom is not my style,
I much prefer my readers smile,
So until my mind has inspiration grand,
I feel constrained to hold my hand,
And later in tones of metered measure,
Endevour to bring my readers pleasure </td> </tr> </table>
Twas a busy eve for Angharad, and it began with this fine work, of a young lass's curiosity...
<table border="1" width="400" bordercolor="#00ff00" align="center"> <tr> <td align="middle">
Flatten the Grass
by
Angharad </td> <td width="180">
</td> </tr> </table>
<table border="1" width="400" bordercolor="#00ff00" align="center"> <tr> <td>
find in the evening three times out of ten
A patch of grass has been flattened again;
It isn't the bed of a horse or a steer;
This hasn't been pasture for over a year.
I'm a young lady of savvy and charm;
There isn't that much I don't know on the farm -
Where cats get their kittens, how clouds make it rain
I pester the grownups until they explain.
Flatten the grass, flatten the grass,
What are they doing to flatten the grass?
Da says that people will look at the sky
Watching the shapes of the clouds going by
I've done that myself at the edge of the track
The easiest way is to lie on your back.
But this doesn't square with the way I behold
The patches at daybreak all empty and cold
So here is a question I'll ask for a lark;
How are they watching the clouds in the dark?
Ma says at evening folk take the chance
To practice a few of the steps of a dance
Over and over they turn on the sod
And flatten the grass in the place they have trod.
But here is a patch and I see it just fine;
Too small for a ring, and too short for a line.
And here is a blanket, you have to concede
That dancing should keep you as warm as you need!
Peterkin told me if I'd come outside
He'd tell me the answer and show me, beside
But he was just fooling: I ought to have known -
He started to kiss me when we were alone!
I was so angry I stomped on his toes
I blackened his eye and I bloodied his nose
I guess it was stupid; I figure somehow
If he knows the answer, he won't tell me now! </td> </tr> </table>
Methinks he just might, lass. He just might.
My first offering, far less sensible, was a poem gleaned from a madman, or inspired by spending too much time in the company of such...
<table width="400" border="1" align="center" bgcolor="#c0c0c0"> <tr> <td align="middle">A Waste of Time
by
Blind Otto </td></tr></table>
<table width="400" border="1" bordercolor="#808080" bgcolor="#c0c0c0" align="center"> <tr> <td>
long, long, time ago,
Only just last week,
I took the ferry to Skara Brae,
To hear a wise man speak.
The wise man was away,
Having just arrived,
And so I went elsewhere,
What a waste of time. </td></tr></table>
And, in a similar line, it does not pay to do battle with giant robot cows. You might say that, too, is a waste of time.
So, if ye have more time to waste, read on!
<table border="1" width="400" align="center"> <tr> <td align="middle"> Cows, part XV
by
Blind Otto </td> <td width="180">
</td> </tr> </table>
<table border="1" width="400" align="center"> <tr> <td>
ritain lay in ruins.
The gored and dismembered corpses of her defenders, and of hapless folk who had been stupid enough to head
towards the ferocious clanging and other noises, decorated the countryside from the Serpents Spine mountains
to Trinsic, and from the Drylands to Vesper.
Some of the citizens had tried to flee by ship, but a large chunk of Lord Britishs private bathroom
had mysteriously fallen out of the sky, and shattered the docks, and all craft moored there.
One hapless soul was seen trying to use the Royal Throne Lid as a flotation device, to no avail.
The retribution of the metal beasts had been swift, absolute, and devastating.
Soon, the last dying moan of the broken militia faded, and there was absolute silence.
Far from the slaughter, Kirsta had found some better clothes, and tried to find her way to a main road.
There wasnt one.
After a fairly long walk along the coastline lead her back to where she had started, she realised she was on the island of Magincia. A quick walk to where the public moongate was supposed to be left her staring at a large pile of mangled corpses,
the gate presumably somewhere far beneath the mound. Not knowing what had killed them all, she fled back towards the town.
Filbercio did his uttermost to be stealthy, and failed miserably several times while following her around the coast.
After running screaming past her for the seventeenth time, with an incensed mob of wisps in pursuit, he came to the conclusion that she knew he was there, and didnt care.
He determined once and for all that this girl WOULD learn to fear Filbercio, soon to be the greatest of the Controllers!
While shaking his fist at the sky, he plummeted into a solen hole, and spent the next hour running in circles with a large,
angry ant lion chasing him.
Tau held the quivering form of Lord British aloft, in the ruins of the once great castle.
With a twitch of his thumb, a severed head was sent flying through the air,
to land atop the town stone of Britain.
Revenge was sweet.
He looked around at his fellow Moogenians, and smiled as their metallic forms began to
shift and flow in the late afternoons sun. A new race would soon call Britain home.
</td> </tr> </table>
Fear not, Lord British will probably awaken in the shower, to find it all a horrid dream. Or not. But, I digress.
Thankfully, Angharad was on hand to restore some class to the night, and presented this piece.
<table width="400" border="1" bordercolor="#ff8000" align="center"> <tr> <td align="middle">
Tapestry, Broidery, Ribbon and Lace
by
Angharad </td></tr></table>
<table width="400" border="1" bordercolor="#ff8000" align="center"> <tr><td background="http://uo.stratics.com/newspics/siege/craft_tailor_cloth_white.jpg">
<font color="#a90720">hen I was young, I had much to acheive,
Learning to dance and to sing and recite,
Learning to sew and to spin and to weave,
My mother's young lady, my father's delight.
Making such trinkets as fitted my place:
Tapestry, 'broidery, ribbon and lace.
No joy lasts forever; thesparrow must fall -
An envious neighbor lord fired out keep
Barefoot I fled from the wreck of the hall
My father, my family, slain in thier sleep.
Sifting the ashes, I found there no trace
Of Tapestry, 'broidery, ribbon and lace.
I learned in my travels where gallentry ends,
A penniless lady in wintery lands.
I worked for a merchant, I learned how to fence
The sword and the scrubbing-brush hardened my hands.
My dreams they turned wistful on comfort and grace
Tapestry, 'broidery, ribbon and lace.
And when my two feet took me homeward again,
I met on the road that proud neighbor of old.
He started a fight that he thought he could win;
I went through his pockets to gather his gold,
Weeping for losses no coin could replace
Tapestry, 'broidery, ribbon and lace.
The riches I gathered this cottage did yield.
My name and my lineage no villager knows.
In the time I can spare from the flock, and the field
Under my needle, embroidery grows.
For these be my dowry, my memories, my face;
My tapestry, 'broidery, ribbon and lace. </font> </td></tr></table>
This next one is not entirely my own, but adapted from one which I heard some time ago. Two young warriors who are dear to me enjoy hearing it before their nightly slumber, so I hope ye do as well.
<table width="400" border="1" align="center"> <tr> <td colspan="2"> <p align="center">The Trials of a Dragon
by
Blind Otto </p> </td></tr> <tr> <td>
eathery wings
Divide the air,
A burst of flame,
A scaly glare,
Glide through space,
Owning the sky,
Slow, turn with grace,
And turn - turn, fly!
Gently, gently,
Far too fast,
Skid to a halt,
Stopped at last!
Dragon,oh great dragon, sire,
Can you read that castle flag yonder - there?
Nay?
Then sir Dragon, I do fear,
although ye tried thy best,
That ye've just failed
to pass thy Flying Test!
</td> <td width="200">
</td></tr></table>
Yancey then returned to the stage, and re-told his popular ballad of chivalry, valor, and virtue.
<table width="400" border="1" bordercolor="#ffff00" align="center"> <tr> <td align="middle">The Chosen Few
by
Yancey DeFlorio</td></tr></table>
<table width="100%" border="1" bordercolor="#ffff00"> <tr> <td background="http://uo.stratics.com/newspics/siege/armor_helmet_winged.jpg">
<font color="#f9feba">h, blue is the Robe of the Soldier
And gold is his fair heart so true.
And white is the belt of the Chivalry.
Those chosen and Knighted are few.
Of all those who would fight for glory,
Who wear the white and the blue,
Of all those who would be called Chivalry,
Those chosen and Knighted are few.
What special man may be called Chivalry?
What special man may be called Knight?
Who wears the spurs and chain golden,
And wears the belt colored pure white?
A man of integrity, honor,
Of courtesy and loyalty.
A teacher, a leader, a warrior,
Of these things the Chivalry be.
Today a young Squire is chosen
And before his Lord he kneels down
And gives to his sovereign his fealty.
His service he swears to the true crown.
Let all know this young Knight
And give him the honors he's due.
Of all those who would be called Chivalry,
Those chosen and Knighted are few.
Oh, blue is the robe of the Soldier
And gold is his fair heart so true.
And white is the belt of the Chivalry.
Those chosen and Knighted are few.
</font> </td></tr></table>
And so ended another evening of tales and song. There was much discussion thereafter, as to future direction, and many plans are brewing... so, get those tales and other works going - great things will be afoot in coming weeks and months!
</td> </tr> </table>
After a long week of running aimlessly in circles, achieving little, it should not have surprised me that the evening at the Golden Unicorn began with nothing, or at least an ode to it. But while I achieved little this week, the same cannot be said of Siege's (in?)famous bard!
<table border="1" width="400" bordercolor="#000000" align="center" bgcolor="#000000"> <tr> <td align="middle"> <font color="#ffffff"> An Ode to Nothing
by
Yancey DeFlorio</font> </td> <td align="right">
<table border="1" width="400" bordercolor="#000000" align="center"> <tr> <td>
But all my thinking came to nought,
What to write about what tale to tell,
On just one subject my mind , it would not dwell,
What to jot on that cold white page,
Should it be peaceful or should it rage,
The words I write could they be honey sweet?
Or should they be be tinged with self defeat,
So many poets with sombre thoughts,
Appear to be what my eye has caught,
But doom and glooom is not my style,
I much prefer my readers smile,
So until my mind has inspiration grand,
I feel constrained to hold my hand,
And later in tones of metered measure,
Endevour to bring my readers pleasure </td> </tr> </table>
Twas a busy eve for Angharad, and it began with this fine work, of a young lass's curiosity...
<table border="1" width="400" bordercolor="#00ff00" align="center"> <tr> <td align="middle">
Flatten the Grass
by
Angharad </td> <td width="180">
<table border="1" width="400" bordercolor="#00ff00" align="center"> <tr> <td>
A patch of grass has been flattened again;
It isn't the bed of a horse or a steer;
This hasn't been pasture for over a year.
I'm a young lady of savvy and charm;
There isn't that much I don't know on the farm -
Where cats get their kittens, how clouds make it rain
I pester the grownups until they explain.
Flatten the grass, flatten the grass,
What are they doing to flatten the grass?
Da says that people will look at the sky
Watching the shapes of the clouds going by
I've done that myself at the edge of the track
The easiest way is to lie on your back.
But this doesn't square with the way I behold
The patches at daybreak all empty and cold
So here is a question I'll ask for a lark;
How are they watching the clouds in the dark?
Ma says at evening folk take the chance
To practice a few of the steps of a dance
Over and over they turn on the sod
And flatten the grass in the place they have trod.
But here is a patch and I see it just fine;
Too small for a ring, and too short for a line.
And here is a blanket, you have to concede
That dancing should keep you as warm as you need!
Peterkin told me if I'd come outside
He'd tell me the answer and show me, beside
But he was just fooling: I ought to have known -
He started to kiss me when we were alone!
I was so angry I stomped on his toes
I blackened his eye and I bloodied his nose
I guess it was stupid; I figure somehow
If he knows the answer, he won't tell me now! </td> </tr> </table>
Methinks he just might, lass. He just might.
My first offering, far less sensible, was a poem gleaned from a madman, or inspired by spending too much time in the company of such...
<table width="400" border="1" align="center" bgcolor="#c0c0c0"> <tr> <td align="middle">A Waste of Time
by
Blind Otto </td></tr></table>
<table width="400" border="1" bordercolor="#808080" bgcolor="#c0c0c0" align="center"> <tr> <td>
Only just last week,
I took the ferry to Skara Brae,
To hear a wise man speak.
The wise man was away,
Having just arrived,
And so I went elsewhere,
What a waste of time. </td></tr></table>
And, in a similar line, it does not pay to do battle with giant robot cows. You might say that, too, is a waste of time.
So, if ye have more time to waste, read on!
<table border="1" width="400" align="center"> <tr> <td align="middle"> Cows, part XV
by
Blind Otto </td> <td width="180">
<table border="1" width="400" align="center"> <tr> <td>
The gored and dismembered corpses of her defenders, and of hapless folk who had been stupid enough to head
towards the ferocious clanging and other noises, decorated the countryside from the Serpents Spine mountains
to Trinsic, and from the Drylands to Vesper.
Some of the citizens had tried to flee by ship, but a large chunk of Lord Britishs private bathroom
had mysteriously fallen out of the sky, and shattered the docks, and all craft moored there.
One hapless soul was seen trying to use the Royal Throne Lid as a flotation device, to no avail.
The retribution of the metal beasts had been swift, absolute, and devastating.
Soon, the last dying moan of the broken militia faded, and there was absolute silence.
Far from the slaughter, Kirsta had found some better clothes, and tried to find her way to a main road.
There wasnt one.
After a fairly long walk along the coastline lead her back to where she had started, she realised she was on the island of Magincia. A quick walk to where the public moongate was supposed to be left her staring at a large pile of mangled corpses,
the gate presumably somewhere far beneath the mound. Not knowing what had killed them all, she fled back towards the town.
Filbercio did his uttermost to be stealthy, and failed miserably several times while following her around the coast.
After running screaming past her for the seventeenth time, with an incensed mob of wisps in pursuit, he came to the conclusion that she knew he was there, and didnt care.
He determined once and for all that this girl WOULD learn to fear Filbercio, soon to be the greatest of the Controllers!
While shaking his fist at the sky, he plummeted into a solen hole, and spent the next hour running in circles with a large,
angry ant lion chasing him.
Tau held the quivering form of Lord British aloft, in the ruins of the once great castle.
With a twitch of his thumb, a severed head was sent flying through the air,
to land atop the town stone of Britain.
Revenge was sweet.
He looked around at his fellow Moogenians, and smiled as their metallic forms began to
shift and flow in the late afternoons sun. A new race would soon call Britain home.
</td> </tr> </table>
Fear not, Lord British will probably awaken in the shower, to find it all a horrid dream. Or not. But, I digress.
Thankfully, Angharad was on hand to restore some class to the night, and presented this piece.
<table width="400" border="1" bordercolor="#ff8000" align="center"> <tr> <td align="middle">
Tapestry, Broidery, Ribbon and Lace
by
Angharad </td></tr></table>
<table width="400" border="1" bordercolor="#ff8000" align="center"> <tr><td background="http://uo.stratics.com/newspics/siege/craft_tailor_cloth_white.jpg">
Learning to dance and to sing and recite,
Learning to sew and to spin and to weave,
My mother's young lady, my father's delight.
Making such trinkets as fitted my place:
Tapestry, 'broidery, ribbon and lace.
No joy lasts forever; thesparrow must fall -
An envious neighbor lord fired out keep
Barefoot I fled from the wreck of the hall
My father, my family, slain in thier sleep.
Sifting the ashes, I found there no trace
Of Tapestry, 'broidery, ribbon and lace.
I learned in my travels where gallentry ends,
A penniless lady in wintery lands.
I worked for a merchant, I learned how to fence
The sword and the scrubbing-brush hardened my hands.
My dreams they turned wistful on comfort and grace
Tapestry, 'broidery, ribbon and lace.
And when my two feet took me homeward again,
I met on the road that proud neighbor of old.
He started a fight that he thought he could win;
I went through his pockets to gather his gold,
Weeping for losses no coin could replace
Tapestry, 'broidery, ribbon and lace.
The riches I gathered this cottage did yield.
My name and my lineage no villager knows.
In the time I can spare from the flock, and the field
Under my needle, embroidery grows.
For these be my dowry, my memories, my face;
My tapestry, 'broidery, ribbon and lace. </font> </td></tr></table>
This next one is not entirely my own, but adapted from one which I heard some time ago. Two young warriors who are dear to me enjoy hearing it before their nightly slumber, so I hope ye do as well.
<table width="400" border="1" align="center"> <tr> <td colspan="2"> <p align="center">The Trials of a Dragon
by
Blind Otto </p> </td></tr> <tr> <td>
Divide the air,
A burst of flame,
A scaly glare,
Glide through space,
Owning the sky,
Slow, turn with grace,
And turn - turn, fly!
Gently, gently,
Far too fast,
Skid to a halt,
Stopped at last!
Dragon,oh great dragon, sire,
Can you read that castle flag yonder - there?
Nay?
Then sir Dragon, I do fear,
although ye tried thy best,
That ye've just failed
to pass thy Flying Test!
</td> <td width="200">
Yancey then returned to the stage, and re-told his popular ballad of chivalry, valor, and virtue.
<table width="400" border="1" bordercolor="#ffff00" align="center"> <tr> <td align="middle">The Chosen Few
by
Yancey DeFlorio</td></tr></table>
<table width="100%" border="1" bordercolor="#ffff00"> <tr> <td background="http://uo.stratics.com/newspics/siege/armor_helmet_winged.jpg">
And gold is his fair heart so true.
And white is the belt of the Chivalry.
Those chosen and Knighted are few.
Of all those who would fight for glory,
Who wear the white and the blue,
Of all those who would be called Chivalry,
Those chosen and Knighted are few.
What special man may be called Chivalry?
What special man may be called Knight?
Who wears the spurs and chain golden,
And wears the belt colored pure white?
A man of integrity, honor,
Of courtesy and loyalty.
A teacher, a leader, a warrior,
Of these things the Chivalry be.
Today a young Squire is chosen
And before his Lord he kneels down
And gives to his sovereign his fealty.
His service he swears to the true crown.
Let all know this young Knight
And give him the honors he's due.
Of all those who would be called Chivalry,
Those chosen and Knighted are few.
Oh, blue is the robe of the Soldier
And gold is his fair heart so true.
And white is the belt of the Chivalry.
Those chosen and Knighted are few.
</font> </td></tr></table>
And so ended another evening of tales and song. There was much discussion thereafter, as to future direction, and many plans are brewing... so, get those tales and other works going - great things will be afoot in coming weeks and months!
</td> </tr> </table>