The Forgotten Wisdom

Nature does not hide Her fury,
The wind shrieks and slices
The wave roars and crashes
The cold blasts and bites
The rain pounds and slashes
Before Her unwavering might,
Man is another lowly creature,
Trying, as taught, to conceal his fright,
But She does not disdain in her anger.
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Writing for the Masses #5 (Savoring the Small Victories)

Let’s be honest. I founded this article series on the belief that I could incite a populist movement to bring enlightenment and success to the downtrodden masses of starting writers, combined with a dash of charming Marxist rhetoric. Debatable as the likelihoods of that hope are, if you are a follower of the revolution, then we’ll all find ourselves at this point.

Define success however you like: a print publication; the first time you hear “Hey, that was pretty good”; a large blog following; or the completed novel you’ve been pounding away at for months. The reason we hold these dreams as such far off, climactic culminations is because we understand there’s going to be a good deal of work between now and that day, whenever it may come. We’re all going to have to deal with a lot of blood, sweat, and a few tears in our future. But with that struggle will come small victories, sign posts that say we’re growing closer to that high-vaulted goal.

 Savoring the Small Victories

Anyone can (and should) learn this skill. Even if you’ve already hit the big time, a published novel, unless you plan on retiring and pursuing nothing ever again, there’ll be many more projects in your future. And for us at the bottom, my fellow revolutionaries and writers, we’re just beginning the long path to victory. By taking a moment to pat ourselves on the back every now and again, we can make the journey that much easier on ourselves, and that much more meaningful.
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Hymn of the Descendants

I wrote this poem as an attempt to explore the antagonists of my first novel (and sequels in the works). Many of the best works are those that can paint the picture of an entire immersive, fascinating world. So I asked myself, what would the soldiers sing as they pillage and destroy?


Hymn of the Descendants

Over water and earth,
Across the seas to all shores,
Everywhere it shall be known,
The divine song of our lords.

Through fire and death,
We do our righteous deeds,
Those who follow the Creeds,
Know no true end.

Our talons liberate their souls,
Our beaks cleanse their minds,
The weak will cower at the call,
The strong shall rise.

We are the holy, the elite,
Soldiers and Zealots of the Empire,
Following our Master’s decree,
The tainted shall burn on the pyre.

The Call

My helm to those who have lost,
My shield to those who have suffered,
My sword to those who have angered,
My horse to those who have wallowed,
My heart to those whose love has hollowed.

In the black currents of life,
Running dark and cold through us all,
I know your pain and strife,
And you know my anguish and sting,
We both hear the distant echo; the call.

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Dreams Deep

This is a poem I wrote as a way to explore one of the antagonists of sequels to the first novel I’ve ever written. Yes, it’s still not published, but as I revise and polish, I find my mind wandering to the rich possibilities that this universe I’ve sculpted holds. It also helps to explain the Afterworld and faith of the characters in The War of the Rose, so I thought it was worth sharing with you. Plus, I think it just makes a decent bit of prose.

Marching upon the walls of Providence,
The wolf’s paws shuffled in his dream,
His black legions storming the clouded plains,
The dream that made his eyes gleam.

Long ago, he had been promised,
A place in Her kingdom for his service,
But time pushed on, and he grew impatient,
For the salvation he awaited, that he deserved.

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