Poem: Blacksmith Tears

An anvil rings a deadly chant,
The forge blows a searing heat,
The blacksmith drums a solemn beat,
Upon his work and in his room.

The flat of metal, fashioned ere,
Glowing white and angry red,
Each hammer strike,
Nearing done.

The blacksmith pauses, seeing blood,
Slick and thick upon the steel,
Running deep, running far.
A curse, a pox, a mighty dread.

Eyes wide and breath so quick,
The blacksmith looks to the back,
Where family lies, deep asleep,
Innocent of all but: dependence.

Raising solid arm again,
The hammer deals out the truth,
Careless of the guilty tears,
Careless of the helpless rage.

A blade is fashioned, doused and drawn,
Ready for its deadly song,
The metal forger scrubs sad eyes,
And draws one more blank, with a sigh.

© 2012 Clifton Hill, all rights reserved.
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Perhaps a vision of Perrin Aybara, of The Wheel of Time, was stoutly entrenched in my mind when this vision came forth. The blacksmith—big and strong, gruff and silent—always working alone on their craft. Sometimes forming tools, sometimes pots, and sometimes implements of death. What would a peaceful man do?

What do we all do?

There lies the query.

Poem: The Magi

Threads of Quan,
race and play,
flying through the cold dawn’s day.

Magi works his hands,
controlling them, like an artisan.

Shifting, correcting, adjusting the flows,
a flash of energy,
and his enemy goes,
up in flame,
down in ash,
the magi turns his attention fast.

An arrow lets fly,
whistling near,
the magi slaps it to the side,
just there.

Irises glowing,
energy surround,
the magi stands,
His ground.


© 2012 Clifton Hill, all rights reserved.
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The muse struck again, but was captured and harnessed and thus a poem was scribed to the page.

What is Quan you ask?

Keep on asking, keep on wondering, or read an excerpt from my novel Veil of a Warrior and you'll get an idea. Which, by the way, is still being worked on. Time frames are always difficult when juggling everything else, but I expect to be done going over my notes for Felling Abberfaun soon and then I can tackle getting Hammerblood ready for his debut—whether it be by publisher or no.

Flash Fic: Once, But Never Again.

Look at him: mesmerizing, as he moves through the motions of battle. Pivot, thrust, slash, block, parry, swing. He lunges left, he takes a slash to the shoulder, rights himself, throwing his body like a battering ram into his opponent. He moves well, I think, but...I used to move better.
Now...I can hardly talk, I am a hobbled, handicapped mess.
That man out there, it used to be me. But...I was far better. No one could touch me, I had the luck of the gods. Alas, like a starving puppy trailing hopefully behind, I paid that luck no heed. I gave it no scraps, or love, or attention, and then one day it was just: gone.
With a foot twice broken, a hand severed at the wrist—no, I had not stolen that horse—I have little to live for. Never been a friend to any. Pushed them all away. Like batting at flies—instinctual. Now, with a pittance of pay—the sad remains of pity from a commander that found some imagined value, I subsist.

The Individual, the Writer: Keep Out of My Box!

Every individual is, surprising enough, an individual. I think we lose sight of this sometimes. We, as fellow writers, all want to write something that is accepted and adored, published broad and wide, bought by millions and enjoyed by more. And...in doing so, we are desperate—we push, we strive, we seek advice, read how-to manuals, we do everything possible to be better. Better writers, better creators and better artists.

But let’s think about this.

Art is SO subjective. So, why do we put such stock into the advice of others? How do we know that what they have to say will help us? Simple answer: We don’t. And yet someone that has sold millions, worked for years, and has name recognition in league with Bill Gates, captures our attention with their how-to book on how we can become better writers.

But will their success be an echo for you?

Poem: The Warrior

Thrumming steel,
Flying blood,
The warrior stands,
A mountain, in the mists of time.

One day—tall and insurmountable,
Another, worn and bare,
A tale of another day,
Now just dust and bone.

Do not cry,
Do not woe,
Claims the strong one,
Who stands on his own.

I will live forever.

Lies on the lips of the young.

© 2012 Clifton Hill, all rights reserved.
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The muse struck and gave me a series of poetry in an epic fantasy vein. Look for more to come, each Friday, for a while.