Four Poems | by Z.M. Wise

Regretful Song of the Ankaranth

 

All away, all away,
cursed and blessed,
the ordained waters bled.
All away, all away,
the Ankaranth stand alone,
letting the gods take their lives’ daily bread.

 

Sinking under the land,
crying with their struggle,
contacting death as an eager friend.
Screaming with hands upright,
letting fatigue wash them over,
adrenaline powering a futile fight,
though a massacre’s blood will blend.

They know nothing of
civilized words.
“Actions speak louder than
the weary song of swords!”

 

The actions taken,
lust  for power, not prosperity…gravely mistaken.

 

They migrate into Ankar
from the barren outer desert.
Cryers and Breathers beg for company.
Yet, exile is equality’s lessened effort.

 

Their city walls,
collapsed like an elder out of air.
Their war-torn armies,
giving off thousand yard stares.

 

The end: as inevitable as
the Sun’s protruding glare.

 

Suicide was committed, thanks to the Demon’s gaze.
Aerial rituals, performed on their last days.

 

All away, all away,
cursed and blessed,
the ordained waters bled.
All away, all away,
the Ankaranth stand alone,
letting the gods take their lives’ daily bread.

April 21, 2016

 

320px-Illustration_inset_(c)_at_page_132_of_Indian_Fairy_Tales_(1892)

 

Tribute to the Prophetics

 

They are silent as they are
an unanswered series of screams.
They are the soothsayers who
reply to the purest prayers.
They are the miracles,
the joy believers,
the hooded robe wearers.

 

Neither genuine nor synthetic,
neither false nor authentic.
Euthanizing those deemed pathetic,
castle walls, hallowed for the Prophetics.

 

The Prophetics speak
with their skeletal hands.
The Prophetics make
prophecy mandalas in the sand.
The Prophetics hold
no grudge against Ankar’s demands.
The Prophetics are silent,
though Tun completely understands.

 

They are indifferent to confrontation,
but will end one as quickly as it started.
They are the source of providence
and the catalyst for reason.
They are the immortals,
the pathfinders, and
individual zeniths.

 

Firm believers in modern aesthetics,
changes bring on anxiety’s ticks.
No illusions or sorcery tricks,
they stand before you, the humble Prophetics.

 

The Prophetics practice
preserving natural conservation.
The Prophetics thrive
in a balanced, equalized nation.
The Prophetics need
neither voices nor dialects to conduct a conversation.
The Prophetics vanish
out of mind with fair salutations.

April 19, 2016

 

320px-Illustration_inset_(c)_at_page_132_of_Indian_Fairy_Tales_(1892)

 

Wives

 

Who could keep a home of habits?
Who could keep a home of normalcy?
Who could mend the tension?
Who could tend to the angle of tendencies?

 

O’ Children sayeth,
“Papa’s in the yard, crying in the grass.
Why do his tears stain on the ground?”

 

Responding with tact,
the Papa sayeth,
“Mum has gone off to war,
that foot soldier smile.
Her eyes of valor,
her teeth of battle.
Bore us a family,
loyal wolves who drive the evening,
riding Steedus with golden saddles.”

 

O’ Men of Ankar,
remove your headwear.
Let the sun bleach the blackest hearts.
What say ye?!
What oath did ye take?!

 

“Goddess bless the wives,
the central hearts,
holders of the bloodstained swords.
Lady of Ankar bless the wives,
warriors to the bitter end,
their victories conquer said words.”

 

All the glory of the screams,
an absentee husband strolls to bed.
Half of his love, away, it flew…
to face the carnage, kiss freedom, and damn the dead.

 

O’ Children sayeth,
“Papa’s under the sheets, crying in his pillow.
Why does the water flow from the eyes?”

 

Responding with truth,
the Papa sayeth,
“Mum has taken enemies head on,
that determination roar.
Her eyes of glass,
her tongue of promise.
She commanded us to stay put until the fires died.
I was her hero and she was mine,
a vow signed and sealed in a faithful kiss.”

 

O’ Men of Ankar,
repeat from the rooftops and mean it!
Let the skies look you over and judge you blue!
What say ye?!
What oath did ye take?!

 

“Goddess bless the wives,
the Angelic Signals,
miracles beyond divinity.
Lady of Ankar bless the wives,
true fighters to the core,
the ones who preserve the keys to infinity.”

May 5, 2016

 

320px-Illustration_inset_(c)_at_page_132_of_Indian_Fairy_Tales_(1892)

 

Skeletons of Mount Charil

 

Decomposing contortionists,
writhing and frozen off the
mountainside’s perimeter.

 

They are, indeed, cliffhangers,
runners from the Narthags,
monstrosities in the shadows.

 

Skull of detachment,
screaming out silent pleas
toward the oblivious living,
living in luxurious oblivion.

 

Souls on trial,
wailing on nights of the Red Moon.
Their unstructured song,
answering the currus call.

 

“We are who we are!
A cruel, grey life we lead, lest the
flesh wafts off our back.”

 

But, the skeletons of Mount Charil
have found peace at last.

 

The insects make a home,
and their larvae crawl out.
Once homes for the spirits,
now shelters for the lesser evils.

 

Scaves take the banquet,
eating the rubbish and
sparing the bones.

 

How twigs snap when the
scent of fresh meat wanders
with the free will of a blind one.

 

 

Pitch black plummet off the
cliff’s edge, losing pebbles.

 

 

Another life condemned by the self.
Another soul, prevented from
crossing over into the light
they previously believed in.

 

 

Now, only chasing after the Sun,,
lustful, burning ball,
collective orbs go forthwith.

 

 

And the Skeletons of Mount Charil
have found peace at last.

May 10, 2016

wolffff

 

Z.M. Wise is a proud Illinois native, poet, co-editor and poetry activist, writing since his first steps as a child. He has been a written-word poet for almost two decades and a spoken-word poet for four years. He was selected to be a performer in the Word Around Town Tour in 2013, a Houston citywide tour. He is co-owner and co-editor of Transcendent Zero Press, an independent publishing house for poetry that produces an international quarterly journal known as Harbinger Asylum. The journal was nominated Best Poetry Journal in 2013 at the National Poetry Awards. He has published four full length books of poetry, including: ‘Take Me Back, Kingswood Clock!’ (MavLit Press), ‘The Wandering Poet’ (Transcendent Zero Press), ‘Wolf: An Epic & Other Poems’ (Weasel Press), and ‘Cuentos de Amor’ (Red Ferret Press). Other than these four books, his poems have been published in various journals, magazines, and anthologies. The motto that keeps him going: POETRY LIVES! Mr. Wise will make sure to spread that message and the love of poetry, making sure it remains vibrant for the rest of his days and beyond.

Besides poetry and other forms of writing, his other passions/interests include professional voice acting, singing/lyricism/songwriting, playing a few instruments, fitness, and reading.

 

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