I was feeling particularly inspired last night, and rather than have it count as Day 9 poetry (which would probably be easier, since I can’t post every day and technically it is Day 9 right now), I’ve decided to post the following as a NaPoWriMo bonus poem!

Enjoy!

BONUS POEM: Come, Shall it Be…

Come, sings the Skald, shall it be a tale of honor?
Of men and shields and great sundering swords?
I can sing of Tybrant, the fearless Prowler
Who with his hound Freda fought in the Marshes
The long Sea Swamp, may it dry up forever!
The pair fought for honor, for death’s taunting smile
Haunted and hunted the Hunter of Beasts
Brave Tybrant the Prowler, fearless in battle
I can sing of the Battle of the coast of Brydefall
Where Tybrant and Ferda slew Werfa the Cunning
Chosen of Marsylam, Delighter in Woe.

Come what shall it be, shall it be my good patrons?
Come what shall it be, shall it be?

Come, sings the Skald, shall it be a tale of love?
Of hearts unbounded, of vow unbroken?
The tale, perhaps, of Ossa’s betrayal?
Jealous of Ihissa, the priestess in training?
For Ihissa won favor, and Rahn’s heart as well
And Ossa, dark sister, bitter in heart
Listened to Ihissa unburden her heart
To Helisod, Keeper of Secrets
Helisod, the Faceless knower of darkness.
I can tell of Ossa’s cruel plot, and Ihissa’s pure heart.
And the punishment of gods for those
Souls unrepentant.

Come what shall it be, my good patrons, please tell me
Of what shall I sing, shall I sing?

Come, sings the Skald, perhaps a tale of drink?
Of farts and whores and revelry joyous?
I could sing of Mad Ander, the Many Wived Merchant
A wife in each city, yet a child in none
How he hoped to woo the sweet maid Liasone
Liasone, blessed by the Sun Mother’s hand
Who would have none of Mad Ander, though he was persistent
And wound up in a wine cask swept out to sea

Come what shall it be, shall it be my good patrons?
Of what shall I sing, shall I sing?

Come, sings the Skald, a tale of night terrors?
Of the unbolted door, of teeth and of fear?
The great wolf Dread, the Yellow-Eyed Killer
Was not killed, as they say, by the Sun and Moon lovers.
His brother they slew, and his children they sundered,
But he lived on, and still lives to this day
Hunting the weary, the hounded, the unwary
His breath filled with blood, his yellow eyes mad.

Come what shall it be, shall it be my good patrons?
Come what shall it be, shall it be?

For the fires are kindled
The wine casks are open
This night’s made for stories
Come, what shall I tell?
As Skald I do wonder
And weave words for my supper
So pronounce, now, good patrons!
Come, what shall I tell?