House Bolton

Our blades are sharp, and this we know...
because the flayed man tells us so.
His screams resounding in our halls
The audible trappings for our walls.
And our floors are crimson true.
The only thing they lack is you.
Your cries and anguish, these conflate:
The Dreadfort shall ye decorate.

A naked man has secrets few
But everything comes into view.
A Bolton knows the truth that's whole
hidden deep within your soul.
Beneath the surface that we peel
And then the wholeness is revealed
From the breast, we take it from:
A flayed man, he has secrets none.

Greyjoy Anthem

Some men plow, oh yes they till.
To raise the grains that some men mill.
Some yoke oxen, some yoke steeds
To plow the fields that all men need.
Some men toil and work the land,
And they're a diff'rent sort of man.
Some men nurture crops to grow.
"Some men" we're not:  we do not sow.

Some men barter, some men trade.
These men we send to salty graves.
Some men purchase with their gold.
We snatch what's ours from fingers cold.
Our skin is salty--hearts of ice.
Our wealth we bought with iron price.
The hoe and ploughshare:  these we scorn.
We do not sow--we're ironborn.

The Drowned God sent us from the brine.
You will not find us in the mine.
You will not find us in the field.
Although you beg, we will not yield.
Your wealth, we take it as our own.
The salty depths are your new home.
With iron price we send you low.
Let it be learned:  we do not sow.

Drowned God, protect us on the sea.
Storm God is full of jealousy
And seeks to dash us on the rocks
Deny us reaching iron docks.
Until you need some men to row
Until the day that we sink low--
We do not dig, we do not hoe.
We only reap:  we do not sow.

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I don't even like House Greyjoy, but i think their house motto is pretty epic.

Valar Morghulis

This bitter truth won't pass us by.
There's no escape, yet how we try.
Postpone at most, yet time does fly:
Not one exempt:  all men must die.

And some they fight t'increase their days.
And in so doing, lose their way.
And was it worth the few more breaths
to suffer such ignoble death?

To die with fam'ly, riches, fame--
All by itself--is so inane.
Enjoy it duly, while it lasts.
Inexorably becoming past.

But all too soon, the end does come.
To leave us stripped, bereft, and dumb.
Our fam'ly, wealth, we cannot take.
And that we could, we did forsake...
For a few more breaths, a few more days.
That preciousness I should have saved.
I should have increased, should not have spent.
And now I'm left with this lament:

Don't busy yourself with chasing breath,
And unaware our fate is death. 
'Cause men not foolish, clear of eye,
Indeed know this:  all men must die.

Were I among them, then I'd know--
That blade and spear are not my foe.
It's to die with nothing left to show--
Ashamed and broken, forced to go.

The best of men, they plan for life.
And always loathe to sacrifice.
They build up fam'ly, wealth, and fame.
And fight with those who do the same.

They only see worth on this shore.
And greedily they're wanting more.
And on their last, they beg and plead
Before the Reaper, on their knees.

But the least of men are much more wise.
The prize they seek not with their eyes.
And plan they not increase their breath.
Instead they ponder worthy death.

When Reaper comes, they say, "You're late.
I've been past ready for my fate.
Do take this body to the grave,
Take it all, 'cept this I saved."

But to such heights, I cannot fly.
And time so bitter, passes by.
Raise your head, and do not cry.
Valar morghulis:  all men must die.

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Been watching too much game of thrones, then figured that "valar morghulis" is an interesting philosophy.  I'm not quite satisfied with this piece so I may do another.  Iambic tetrameter (with some deviations

Conceit

I burden the reader with some of my grief;
Confessing the depths of self-righteous conceit.
I'm not sure which came first: belief or the fact.
And if it's the former, that makes me a quack!

'Cause the truth I espouse you is one I made up.
To profess it as gospel?  Oh my, I'm corrupt!
So I preface my sayings with, "This I believe..."
And if it proves falsehood, correct it indeed!

But it's lip-service only, I still think it's true.
If not so then why would I say it to you?!
The myriad falsehoods that swim in my mind;
Believing them gospel as if from Divine!

If I shut up my mouth, make my mind void as space...
Well then I suppose there'd be naught to relate.
But the Zero turned One, and the One became Two
And the Two became nonsense espoused unto you.

The whole world is so hypocritically vain!
I mock of them often, although we're the same.
So I guess that does make me a bit worse than them.
And ev-er-y-day I'm repeating this sin.

'Cause they're getting better, while I'm getting worse.
Is this what was meant that the last will be first?
'Cause I used to believe of myself number one.
But I guess I'm the hare, and the tortoise has won.

Oh shameful!  How shameful!  I can't show my face!
The fleet-footed rabbit behind in the race!
And the ones I looked down on are better than me!
Oh shameful!  How shameful!  Now how could this be?!

But this too be falsehood--this specter of pride.
Another shark swims in my mind full of lies.
And the space twixt my ears, were it nothing but void!
But the None to the One to the Two became noise.

And the noise is the din that I find myself in.
Gave birth to conceit, and from that, my chagrin.
'Cause I know that it's bullshit, but what else to say?
This nonsense, I peddle it, ev-er-y-day!

I made up the facts, and I didn't observe.
I made up the proof, from some stuff that I heard.
I made a nice package, presented to you:
A box full of lies I believe that are true.


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Attempt number two, this idea from my last poem is still kicking around in my head.  I'm still trying to develop a vocabulary to communicate it.  This one is better.  I think it's almost there.

Anapaestic tetrameter on this one, I need to challenge myself a bit more.  It's harder for me to write in this meter.

Flat-Earth

Not all a man believes is true.
And I, a man, not god, like you.
So dare I not have such conceit:
To call it gospel--my belief.

I think it true, but could be wrong.
So why insist, and be so strong?
A belief is not a certainty.
I guess we'll have to wait and see.

The world is round, and this is known.
But always not believed a globe.
There was a time we thought it flat,
And not just knaves, the learned at that!

Today, there be flat-earthers still.
With flat-earth concepts for which they kill.
Which tomorrow may be proven wrong.
Too late for those thus dead and gone.

And me?  I wonder where I stand.
Conceited god, or just a man?
Accused before th'firing squad.
Am I condemned?  Or aiming guard?

And which came first, belief or fact?
And use the one, convince of that.

Believe it so it must be true.
Invent some rationale to prove to you.

And thus my bias shines as gospel.
And don't you mock, or I'll get hostile.
'Cause today there be flat-earthers still.
With flat-earth concepts for which we kill.

The chicken?  Egg?  Now which came first?
Too late for those consigned to dirt.
Too late for those thus dead and gone.
Too late to say it:  but I was wrong.

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I don't think I really captured what I wanted to say here, but I'm tired of having this idea kicking around in my head so I'm posting it to be done with it (until it comes back to bother me again).  I have a feeling this theme will keep resurfacing for a while, we'll see.  I guess it's my version of "the only thing I know is that I know nothing at all."

anyway, iambic tetrameter (becoming a favorite of mine) the meter isn't as tight as it could be, i'm claiming poetic license on this one instead of laziness :)

Hark! (A Carol)

Hark!  The Herald Angels sing:
Glory to the newborn King!
Strife on Earth, Black Friday sales--
Certain this year I'll prevail.
Shoppers, brawlers, gangstas--rise!
Join the melee for the prize!
Trample grandmas to proclaim:
Christ is born in Bethlehem!
Hark! Triumphant shoppers sing:

Glory to our purchased things!

Cash, our favored, most adored.
Wealth, our fluctuating lord.
Bring us greenbacks by the ton.
Santa rally won't you come!
Hustling hard to make more green.
Pray for rising equities.
Low we buy and high we sell.
Profit, our emmanuel.

Hark!  The bullish market sings:
Glory to our newfound bling!

Hail the red clad, jolly Nick.
Bring us everything we wish!
Granting wishes, he's our man!
If he don't, find one who can.
Celebrate while others cry.
Too bad Santa passed them by!
The Christ in Christmas been exed out.
Don't you cry and don't you pout!
Hark!  The reindeer Rudolph sings:
Glory to the mammon king! 

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This is actually one of my favorite Christmas carols, and I just noticed that it's metered like I poem, so I tried my hand at a parody of it. Don't worry I'm not a singer so I won't do a reading (singing) of it :-)

Ignore what people sell you, pay attention what they buy.
The former is misleading, while the latter seldom lies.