The Tale of Constance ~ A Broken Ballard

 

In the depths of the misty moor
Stands a castle from ancient lore
Shrouded by the tangible night
Stars hang emitting crystal light

Barn owls chase shrews and mice to kill
Across the rolling Exmoor hills
The castle built from local stone
Is enchanted with the winds’ moan

This castle has no space for time
It’s the elements greatest crime
Centuries pass all unknown
Yet see how the ivy has grown

Laying on the dungeons cold floor
A girl holds no key for the door
Thrown in there by her misery
Now she’ll cry till she finds the key

History of blood and bandages
Haunt her dreams at the fringes
In the tower a prince is found
Loneliness is what keeps him bound

To the castle, to the tower
Every single hour, tastes sour
His past wisps like the dusty wind
What he did – could it be a sin?

Constance knows the prince will save her
From the fearsome dragon, he’ll lure
The beast away, break the bars
And take her to see the stars

As hills become veiled in darkness,
Alluring music is played
On a grand piano by the prince,
This keeps the princess hoping

Every note played silences the pain from the chains
Which bind her wrists and fists
They are manacles for imprisonment,
The lock, a gaping hole, there lies

A fire, restricted, silenced
Chains of spears burn through her thoughts
Dissolution runs through her veins
Her logic has crumbled and cracked 

With the rising of many suns
She hears him on the cobbled steps
She weeps, must have slain the dragon.
Infatuation at first sight

Their bourbon eyes interlock
Transfixed.
Forgetting time, in time
Biting her lip she smiles

He breaks the bars, but he does not
Take her to see the stars
She sees the verity before her
A chilling beautiful monster

No eyes does his face hold
Or anything she ever knew
Just a frozen heart with ivory fangs
And a lurid face torn apart

She sees the awful reality
And hears the testing truth
Never again will she be chained
And never again she be pained

Her silk screams are in unison
Echoing from the high tower
The monster crying in the night
Finishes her off in a fright

Beating her to her bones
Till she falls with a thud
He wants to shred her more
But only to see more blood

Her skeleton, abandoned
On the floor that now wears her flesh
And death she now wears
As if in blessed matrimony

Constance died of a broken heart
Her melancholia is always
In the castle, every hour.
While that miscreant of Mother Nature

Winds along the dusty tunnel,
His thoughts flicker back to Constance
And his eyes turn misty in a howl,
For she is now an angels’ hymn

 

Jenna Grabey © 2011. All Rights Reserved.

 

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Mistletoe

Ice and snow cover the Earth,
Nature says, ‘stay at home
By the fire of the hearth
Now is not the time to roam.’

So on this frosty Yuletide eve,
We burn the Cailleach Nollaig*
And song and laughter we weave
In the light of the Christmas Hag.

We feast and drink sweet mead,
As we relish on the sacrificed Earth
Whose now in death but we know will seed
Once awakened into rebirth.

Under Druid blessed mistletoe
We kiss as the Sun begins to grow,
Because on the deepest, darkest night
We celebrate the rebirth of light!

*The burning of the Cailleach was the ceremonial burning of the Winter Solstice. A piece of wood was carved roughly into the shape of an Old Crone to represent the Spirit of Winter. This was then placed into a fire to burn. As people gathered to watch they would be mindful of the symbolism, that was the ending of all the bad things that had happened the previous year and a fresh start for the next one. “Nollaig” in Scottish is used to refer to Christmas. In Irish it means “December”. “Cailleach” refers to the prototypical Crone figure and thus the old wise woman in Gaelic.

Bittersweet Madness

Bittersweet Madness

The dawn of the dark moon
Brings a bittersweet madness soon
Vampires screech and wolves howl
The scent coming from the cemetery is foul
The atmosphere is cold
And the night is bold
As bats whistle through night air
And immortals dance without a care
Their white skin sun hasn’t glanced upon
For centuries as they’ve listened to the nights’ song
And their cry for death encased in a howl
As they wander through forests having to prowl
Stars glisten in all their eyes
Which hold countless memories from the sky
And now sweet blood is drained
From the mortals, oh so afraid
The dawn of the hideous sun
Brings this bittersweet madness to an end
Vampires screech and wolfs howl
The scent coming from the cemetery is foul

© Jenna Grabey 2005. All Rights Reserved.

The Tale of Constance – A Broken Ballard

The Tale of Constance

In the depths of the misty moor
Stands a castle from ancient lore
Shrouded by the tangible night
Stars hang emitting crystal light

Barn owls chase shrews and mice to kill
Across the rolling Exmoor hills
The castle built from local stone
Is enchanted with the winds’ moan

This castle has no space for time
Is the elements greatest crime
Centuries pass all unknown
Yet see how the ivy has grown

Laying on the dungeons cold floor
A girl holds no key for the door
Thrown in there by her misery
Now she’ll cry till she finds the key

History of blood and bandages
Haunt her on her dream’s fringes.
In the tower a prince is found
Loneliness is what keeps him bound

To the castle, to the tower-
Every single hour, tastes sour
His past wisps like the dusty wind
What he did- could it be a sin?

For she knows the prince will save her
From the fearsome dragon, he’ll lure
The beast away, break the bars
And take her to see the stars

Hills become veiled in darkness,
With alluring music playing
From the prince the involved witness,
The songs keep the princess hoping

Silencing the pain from the chains
That bind her wrists and fists
Manacles for imprisonment
The lock, a gaping hole there lies

A fire, restricted, silenced
Chains of spears burn through her thoughts
Dissolution runs through her veins
Her logic has crumbled and cracked

To be continued …

© Jenna Leanne Grabey 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Corset Sword

The Corset Sword

Blood breathes in an ancient bowl
Jewels are tossed with a splash
Rings form and grow reaching out to the soul
Outside winter winds sing their cry and dash.

Around the bowl candles burn at ease
To the left lays a corset
And to the right a sword
While above a caged dove sings.

And so which do I, will I, am I to love?
The question met with malicious silence.
By the ceasing of music from the trapped dove
Thus in C minor the orchestra commence.

This fills the air with ubiquitous passions
And depressions, in a dolorous harmony
A manner that allows no illusion
Anticipating the great epiphany.

The blood trembles at the orchestral sound
And the cage shatters and feathers scatter
Flying high beyond the notes the dove is unbound
And swoops down to grasp the hilt.

The corset burns as the candles tip
And into E flat major the orchestra slip
The dove unclasps the blade; it plummets into the bowl
And dissolves as the answers evolve.

The dove fades into the winter wind
And with this the orchestra silence
Realising what is now to be a personal oath
So for this life which am I to love, well both.

© Jenna Leanne Grabey 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Cinnamon Answers

Cinnamon Answers

These are my answers in cinnamon
Which taste good with Sicilian lemon
And with Mancunian honey too
Both to bitter or sweet to be true

Such tree bark of cinnamon
Is not today uncommon
Crushed upon nouns, words and verbs
And adjectives not like any other herbs

So not bitter and not too sweet
And so not exactly a treat
Thoughts inevitably summon
Coated in the bark of cinnamon

From melancholy to passion
Held in total ambiversion
Where emotion is my enhancer
For my cinnamon answers

© Jenna Leanne Grabey. All Rights Reserved.

Beautiful Anger

Beautiful Anger


She walked towards the door
And in seconds was a wretched mess on the floor,
She tried to stand but was pulled down by fires
While slamming her on her head were her desires.
Just that one single mistake she was caught doing
To you this misunderstanding would be nothing,
If it exists in the realms of reality
Longer she’ll stay in the void of morality.
Then as her relentless anger rises
Longer she’ll stay in her own pitiful crisis,
Where she turns to find self-hate
And for confidence it is far too late.

Her screams run through her head
As silent, as the dead.
She tries to stand but is pulled down by fires
While slamming her on her head, are her desires.

This is, suicide ammunition.
Growing warts are knots of emotion
Mind and body will be killed
And only she, will be billed.
In detest she views her reflection
As claws rise up cradling revulsion.
All this is seen as one blazing fire
And everyone has one, even liars.

Her screams run through her head
As silent, as the dead.
She tries to stand but is pulled down by fires
While slamming her on her head, are her desires.

The fire of anger is born from her
When self-hate entwined with mistakes, innocent as a fawn.
Why do we see these fires in a dark light?
For aren’t they perfectly natural and right?
This beautiful anger
This powerful desire
Draped all around
With a fatally silent sound.

She walks out of the door
And away from the floor,
The door left unlatched
Waiting for the fires to re-attach,
This beautiful anger, this beautiful anger.

© Jenna Leanne Grabey 2012. All Rights Reserved.

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Guilt that was Born in the Wasteland of Trust

Guilt that was born in the Wasteland of Trust

Within a desolate wasteland
Trust drowns  in quick sand
Trees stand, leafless lifeless twisted
But, there is one white rose, wilted
On this monotonous grey plane
Where colour has fallen down a drain,
This place it is dark, lonely and cold
For any wandering soul,
And harsh winds stream across the plain
As blood falls from the sky like rain
Though this place feels right to peer,
Another presence is drawing near
On this wasteland where there’s no trust
Blood rain falls heavy and gets coated in dust
This old presence does not trust this rose
Her ideology is what and all she knows
A cry is screeched from her side from a black crow
The rose fears she’s its foe and fills up in woe
And the white rose becomes slightly tainted
A thousand questions poured which are hated
And the white rose pleads to self to emblanch
As lightning hits a tree and snaps a branch
And crushes the tainted rose,
At the roots a pool quickly grows
Of bloody tears, pools of self-hate
And leads to opening another metaphorical gate,
As a blizzard of guilt fights through wind and rain
One can only hope to remain sane
Now what’s left is a girl – chocking, bleeding swallowing anger,
All for guilt, that was born, within, the wasteland of trust.

© Jenna Leanne Grabey, 2012. All Rights Reserved.

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