Our Border Collie Betzi chases Toy Car

Another Poem Written for a Long Poetry Notebook I Wrote Recently

The Long
Forgotten Castle

A long forgotten castle stood on a long forgotten hill,

Surrounded by long forgotten waters and long forgotten mills.

The castle had dungeons with no windows to see rain,

Where traitors entered to be brutally slain.

It had studies with books that were never read,

And great wooden rafters stretched far up ahead.

Extinguished oil lamps filled every corridor,

Lined with fine carpets fit for the ambassador.

There was a great kitchen which was fine china laden,

Where chefs and cooks served the fine maidens.

It was a castle made of rock and chunks of stone,

Where noises echoed off the walls even with the faintest groan.

There was a massive great hall with pillars of feldspar,

And stained glass skylights that at night reflected the bright stars.

And even in its majesty it was a long forgotten castle,

Standing alone with the winds being its only hassle.

It seems foolish that a brilliant piece of history could be so long forgotten,

Obviously it can be blamed on the rich who have been too spoiled rotten.

But it will still be a castle with many corridors and rooms,

And it holds many secrets standing there as it looms.

A Poem Written for a Long Poetry Notebook I Wrote Recently

If Rock Won

Rock, paper, scissors! Ah! Paper beat rock.

But that is foolish! That is a crock!

Realistically, rock should win!

No? Well, how would you like it then,

If you held the paper and I threw the rock?

Philosophy of life written for school (again)

Courage

“Your determination, selflessness and courage have brought the freedom struggle towards its fulfillment.” – Gerry Adams

As stated in my opinion about love, I deemed love one of the virtues that label who I am as a person. With that said, I can confidently say that courage is also a major virtue in my “philosophy of life.” Courage, like love, can come in many different forms; it could be the courage needed to fight in wars or the courage necessary to stand up to my friends. It could even be the little voice in the back of one’s head that tells them to apologize to someone whose feelings have been wounded. Courage may not seem like a trait that everybody has, but I believe that if a person searches deep within themselves they will find courage in the form of a burning desire to do what they know is righteous.

Without courage, losing a battle would be inevitable. Harry Potter could not have destroyed the source evil without courage, our soldiers would not be fighting in brutal wars without courage, I would not be able to stand up for what is right, against my friends, without courage.

To me, courage can mean that a person acts with bravery on behalf of people who need it. It can mean that a person does what is right even if the outcome looks bleak. It can mean that, despite pessimism of others, a person acts in a way that he or she knows will benefit those people in the future. Courage can be accounted-for through many other countless manners, even if that person is not fully aware of their valiance. Merely, the only way to be courageous is to disregard your fears, and deliberately succumb to that deep, burning desire to battle on; for without fear, courage would be but a legend in the tome of virtues.

Death

“Some people are so afraid to die that they never begin to live.” – Henry Van Dyke

Why do most humans so greatly fear death even when it is a phase of life as normal as birth? This is because those people view life as their only opportunity to be a part of the world. The ancient Egyptians spent their lives preparing for the afterlife, whereas we spend our lives dreading it, as if there is a way it can be stopped. Death can be delayed, of course, but it can never be withdrawn from our lives. I do not believe that we should live in fear of death, nor should we live life anticipating it.

Death has many tricky ways of luring people into his open arms. Fearing death can turn someone into a pitiful, miserable, depressed person. One might desperately try to find ways to make them self immortal, and when they realize this is impossible they become depressed. Then, in extreme cases, one might believe that if they cannot be superior, then no one can and they might begin to commit crimes against others. Misery and depression come next and one may eventually ask for death; either because they want to get what they now know is inevitable over with, or because they cannot bear to see what will become of themselves. This is one of Death’s tricks that people can easily give in to. However, if that person sustains a headstrong mentality, death’s trickery can only be heard as a faint whisper in the mind.

To the wise and well organized mind, death is but another great adventure; therefore, people should embrace death when the time comes, as if it were a long lost friend.

Environment and Nature

"When one tugs at a single thing in nature, he finds it attached to the rest of the world." - John Muir

The environment is something that everybody on this Earth should be concerned about. It is the foundation of all life on our planet, and it provides many of the resources we need to live our modern day lives. Nature provides us with water, food products, and oil for our cars. Everything made by humans once was a part of nature.

Now we are faced with a dilemma; a disastrous chain reaction is wreaking havoc across the globe. What is the cause? The answer is simple; us. Put simply, there are too many people driving too many cars, wasting too many resources. This chain reaction is rapidly becoming worse. For instance, the increasing population demands that more houses need to be built, so trees are cut down for lumber. When those trees are felled many animals lose their homes and die with lack of shelter which causes other carnivorous animals to die with lack of their food source. This is but a taste of the catastrophe spreading throughout the world.

I believe that humans need to wake up, realize the turmoil they caused and act before it is too late. We need to conserve water and harness the power of the sun and the wind to power our homes. We need to create eco-friendly vehicles that reduce global warming, that keeps the ice caps from melting which will save the polar bears. We need to establish more organizations to go out and spread the word that Earth needs our help to recover from this calamity. Most people do not realize that with the destruction of the environment comes the destruction of our species. Many people think that because we are so smart we are superior above all other living things on Earth. But maybe we are not so smart after all.

We, humans, need to realize that our actions have an immense impact on everything around us. The world does not just belong to us, but all living things that share our Earth. If we do not act responsibly, the fate of our world would be left to chance.

Friendship

“Friendship is unnecessary, like art... It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival.”- C. S. Lewis

Friendship is among the long list of things that everyone should acquire. Friends should be cherished for there are many who lack them. Without friends a person can become lonely and often frustrated because they have no one to share their feelings with. Life without friends would be dull. There would be no one to laugh with, no one to share secrets with, and no one to spend time with and simply talk.

Friendship does give value to survival; it gives me a great satisfaction knowing that someone cares about me and wants to spend time with me. To be able to rely on someone to be there for me ricochets to the other friend and therefore creates an unbreakable bond of trust. On another note, I know I can count on my friends for a little comic relief when my life seems tense. This is what keeps my hopes up even in the most desolate state of affairs.

The power of friendship can sometimes be so great that one often forgets there is a downside to the situation at hand. It can bring hope and self-confidence to a weary mind. It can even be the main source of happiness in someone’s life if all other aspects of it look bleak. Friendship is one of those things that helps keep a person alive.

Love

“Your mother died to save you. If there is one thing Voldemort cannot understand, it is love.” - (Albus Dumbledore from Harry Potter) - J.K. Rowling

In J.K. Rowling’s book series, Harry Potter, Voldemort is often compared by similarity to Adolf Hitler. Voldemort is a fictional character perceived by the author to have never known love, its complexities, and how it can nurture and define one’s soul. I believe that the way Adolf Hitler spent his infamous life was due to identical reasons. I deem love one of the virtues that label who I am and who I will grow to become as a person. Having this asset, not only having it, but also understanding what it means can define a person in many respects.

In some cases, in its deepest form, love for someone or something can cause a person to perform extraordinary acts. One might offer a great deal of money to help someone during a time of need or even die to save someone they love. Love such as that is incomprehensible with those who have minds alike the character Voldemort or the human being Hitler. The lack of love can turn us into villains; villains who despise those who do have love. And those who do have love, pity those villains who do not, for they will never know what love is.

Love, to me, is classified under several categories. I do not love a book the same way I love an animal. I do not love an animal the same way I love a person, or an entire race of people. I think that what a person gives should expect the same in return. If someone puts their trust in me, I will put my trust in them. If someone confides in me, I will confide in them. If someone gives me a hug, I will hug them back. Once things such as these are established in one’s life they will forever be a person that lives with hope in their hearts. If this cycle of compassion and love in its very truest colors, should spread throughout the world, it would be a far greater place.

My Philosophical Thinking

Most of the depth in my thought goes way beyond description with words. However, what I have written about gives the reader a very good understanding of the five topics I chose to discuss. Yes, five, and only five of the never-ending, continuously-growing, intricate subject matter of which my mind possesses.

All of my carefully chosen topics relate to each other in some way. For instance, friendship is the foundation of love. So forth, those two virtues build courage; and having courage leads to the acceptance of death. I can tell a great deal about someone based on their attitude towards death. Courage also leads to standing up for what I believe is right; and one of the things I believe in is saving the environment. In basic terms, if one these things were to be inhibited, the whole point of this thesis would be diminished.

My favorite virtue is courage because cowardice is quite the contrary. If someone is a coward it tells me that person does not truly believe in what they feel is just. I firmly state that courage should be the main asset in one’s life.

Love and friendship are closely related because without one, the other would be futile. What is friendship if I do not love my friends? What is love if I do not have any friends to love? Love and friendship defines part of the softer side of me, and I think it takes a lot of courage to admit it!

A person’s attitude towards death determines much of their level of happiness throughout life and also controls their attitude towards the world and other people. Why should I spend my life living in fear of what is unavoidable? Death is going to occur whether I want it to or not.

I believe that protecting the environment is very important if humans wish to be around by the year 2500. The natural resources we need are also a key element to the continuity of all other living things. Yet we continue to steal what is not ours to steal. We must learn to share this Earth for it is the only one we have.

Courage, love, the attitude towards death, friendship, and caring for the environment are all vitally important to me. It generally defines who I am and who I want to become; and it defines how I would like people to reflect upon the infinite cycle of connections within my philosophy of life.

A Short Story written in 2008

One State and Another Dimension

It started out as a simple Sunday afternoon poker game.

I was born a proud American Christian on August 2, 1914 in a small town called Maple Hills. I was named after the famous composer of music, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. I kept that name until I was 26 when I renamed myself Jack and have kept that name ever since. My mother died of lung cancer when I was only 19. My father died of old age when I was 43. I never got married. I didn’t want to when I was young. That was my life mistake.

Harold, Jerry, Phillip, and I were playing a nice, relaxing game of poker. Harold, the oldest of us, was winning. He always won. Harold was mentally retarded yet he knew how to play poker, and he was quite the jokester.

Harold and I have been friends since elementary school. All his life he talked about his one dream; to visit every state in the United States. So far, he had only managed to get to one; our home state of Vermont. Travel was hard in the early 1900’s, and he is too old and disabled to attempt that now.

Our cigars were the only aroma in the room. The windows were shut, the blinds were closed, and the door was locked. The only light was coming from the single light bulb hanging above the table. The game was just about over when Harold began to cough. It started out as a weak wheezing sound, and then got louder and stronger by the second.

“Harold, do you need a glass of water?” asked Phillip. Harold couldn’t answer. His face quickly turned bright red and his eyes began to tear. Concerned, Phillip rushed to fetch a glass of water from the kitchen. Then the room became silent and Harold’s head was lying on top of his hand. His cards were still in his hand and, ironically, I noticed a royal flush. Phillip had just returned with the water but it was too late.

“Harold?” I said slowly. “Harold? Harold!” I put my middle and index fingers together and placed them on his neck to feel his pulse. “Oh, my word! He’s dead!”

On that afternoon his life was taken away. I blamed myself for his death. I don’t know why, but I did.

I attended Harold’s funeral on that Thursday. The wind ruffled my hair and chilled my spine but I did not care. Harold was the only thing on my mind. Phillip, Jerry, and I were the only people there. We were the only friends he had. I considered us family.

I read aloud the words we had chosen for his tombstone: “’Here lies Harold A. Montgomery. 1909-2002. Beloved friend, amazing poker player, and the only one with a dream to live for’…It’s my fault! It’s my fault he’s dead!” I cried loudly.

“No it is not,” said Jerry comfortingly. “It’s nobody’s fault.”

“Nobody but mine!” I yelled. “What am I to do?”

“There’s nothing you can do. Now, let’s head home for lunch.”

We sobbed into our handkerchiefs. We each laid down a bouquet of flowers, a deck of cards, and a map of the United States and left.

We walked away, Phillip’s arm around my shoulders. Harold’s death haunted me through the night. I could not sleep. My eyes were still open as my clock struck 8:30. Ghostly images of Harold swam in the pitch black depths of my dilated pupils. I sat at my kitchen table, a plate of food in front of me. It was hard to eat. I tried to dull my mind by watching T.V.

All I could think about was Harold, Harold, Harold…

Soon after, I decided to call Phillip.

“Phillip? Hello, Phillip. It’s Jack. I have a-“

“Jack?! How are you feeling? Did you sleep well? “

“Listen, what is the most reputable airline you know of?”

Phillip was an airplane expert. He knew every name of every model of aircraft made by man. He had been fascinated by them since he was eight and even kept his model airplanes from his youth. He was the right person to call.

“Why do you ask? Is this another one of those crazy schemes of yours? If it is I don’t want anything to-“

“I’m doing something for Harold.”

“What do you mean… for Harold? Harold’s dead.”

“I mean, something to clear my conscience. After all, it’s my fault he is dead.”

“And just why would that be? Harold died because of his addiction to cigars. It was his fault for smoking.”

“He was retarded! How could he know right from wrong? I should have helped him, you know, lead him in the right direction!”

“You’re crazy! You’re crazy and you know it.”

“Some friend you are!”

I hung up. I realized what I had said. I sobbed. I sobbed thinking about Harold, and thinking that maybe I really was crazy. I contemplated. What was I thinking; wanting to travel all the states?

Harold, Harold, Harold…

“For Harold I will do it.” I hadn’t realized I was talking to myself. It wasn’t until just then that I remembered that my question had never been answered. I still didn’t know which airline was the most reputable.

Airplanes are way too expensive. I decided to take a bus.

I told no one about my leaving. I was surprised that Phillip didn’t call back to settle our argument. But then, maybe I should have called him.

I sat at the Maple Hills gas station, waiting for the scheduled 12:00 A.M. bus. I was asleep when the bus pulled up. Its lights shone dimly through the heavy rain. Behind the two large window panes in front of the bus sat a heavy-set black woman. Above those windows was a sign that read Errol City, New Hampshire. I was entering the correct bus. I didn’t know when I was scheduled to arrive at Errol City. As long as I got there in one piece; that’s all I cared about.

I climbed aboard. Only about a fourth of the bus was occupied with people. It was toasty warm inside. What a pleasure it was. I worked my way to the center of the bus and sat down to my right. The seats were comfortable. There were two seats in one row; one taken up by me and the other by a young man in his mid-thirties. He wore a slick suit, and a brief case rested at his feet. His head was leaning against the window. His eyes were shut and a faint snore breezed from his nose.

He awoke from his doze as I sat down. We had a lovely conversation, just the two of us, for about 10 minutes. Then I got too tired to talk and dozed off. I deserved to sleep.

The bus’s breaks squealed to a halt.

“Oh, finally,” said the young fellow sitting next to me. He started getting up.

“I didn’t catch your name. What is it?” I asked.

“I’m Tim. Tim Montgomery.” ‘Here lies Harold A. Montgomery.’

The realization struck me with a jolt.

“Is there anybody in your family named Harold?” It was a one in a million chance that he was actually related, but I asked anyway.

“Yes. Yes there is. Harold Albert Montgomery. He’s my grandfather.” I took in a lung full of air. I just picked a blue marble out of 999,999 red ones.

“Oh,” I said. Tim sat back down.

He must have noticed the groan in my voice because he asked me what the matter was.

“Nothing. I’m still tired, that’s all.” I replied.

“How did you know that there is a Harold in my family?”

Did he know Harold was dead? I wondered.

“Oh, um, well…, it’s a common name, and I-,” I let out a large breath. “He’s-how do I put this?-um, no longer living.”

“I know, I’m taking this bus to the bus stop around the corner from his house. I’ll be staying there for a while. I have to figure out how I’m going to sell his house. I’m meeting my twin brother down there.”

“I am-I was his friend.”

“Are you Jack?!” I sensed amazement in his voice.

“Yes, I am.”

“He always talked about you…” His voice turned suddenly tragic and serious. “By the way, thank you for being a true friend to Harold. He was mentally challenged and-you know- he needed a good friend. “

I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything.

“Nice talking with you,” he said as he stood up again and hurried off of the bus.

Ten hours later I arrived at the Errol City local bus station. It was a grueling ten hours, but I made it. As I stumbled out of the bus, I asked around about the closest hotel. The most popular choice around was the Hotel Rotel. Luckily, it was right around the block.

I was in a huge city with towering brick skyscrapers along every street. It was so different from Maple Hills which is plentiful of long stretches of grass and shady trees and the occasional breeze that sent their leaves fluttering gently to the ground. I could definitely say that I missed my house and my friends back home.

I found the hotel easily. It had a narrow overhang stretching out from the building. A young man ushered me inside and lead me to the front desk.

“Welcome to Hotel Rotel. Would you like to rent a room?” asked the lady behind the desk sweetly.

“Yes, please. Single bed.”

“Okay. You’re on level four, room number six zero two. Would you like an employee to take your luggage to your room?”

“No thank you. They have wheels. No need for the trouble.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble at all sir. I can call one right now if you like.”

“No, I really don’t need one.”

“Okay. Have a nice stay!”

I made my way over to the elevator. The silver doors opened and I stepped inside. There was a young man standing in there. He wore a suit with a black tie. His black hair was slicked back and he wore a broad smile across his face.

“Good afternoon,” I said.

“Good day,” he said back. “What floor?”

“Fourth.” Then he pressed the button. We stood there in silence for several seconds. I glanced at his name tag fastened on his brown suitcase. It read: Montgomery, Harold. My stomach tingled.

“So, where are you from?” I asked him.

“I’m from New York. How about you?”

“Vermont.”

“Vermont? That’s where I’m heading. I’m meeting up with my twin brother, Tim, at my grandfather’s house. My grandpa just passed away and we have to sell his house…I was named after my grandfather, you know.”

I knew he was talking about Harold but I didn’t want to explain the story again, nor did I want to think about him at the moment. Instead, I pretended I never knew.

“I’m so sorry,” I said compassionately.

“Yeah, well. Death happens.”

“It sure does, it sure does.” I looked off into space and tried to imagine Harold deep in the havens of the heavens. I missed him.

That night Jack tossed and turned with dreams. He dreamt of Harold, of death, of heaven, of everything that mattered to him. These dreams were powerful; in some ways good and in some ways evil. These dreams rattled his mind incredibly. Then, his life left him. His dreams of Harold, of death, of heaven, of everything that mattered to him suddenly left him. They swirled away down a dark tunnel of his mind that he had never encountered before. This tunnel was like a black hole; sucking in everything, every last memory, every last living spark of hope, every last detail of life and vanquishing it. The black tunnel ended and became pure white, whiter than anything imaginable.

But where did the tunnel vanquish his dreams to? Why, it lay right there at the furthest possible end of the black hole. It lay right there in this pure white world. It lay right there in another dimension. And there stood Harold, wearing the same clothes he had been wearing during the poker game and a hand of cards (with a royal flush) between his fingers. There he stood; his arms open wide.

The Captain’s Trumpets

The massive wooden ship stood silently in its port, tethered to the wharf. Its thick masts rose skyward, casting an ominous shadow on the dock fifty feet below. In the distance, the early morning fog rolled slowly through the Norwegian mountains. The only sound was that of the mossy water licking the sides of the aged, weatherworn ship, rocking it like a cradle. This 1600’s ship was to depart in nearly two hours.

Further up the shore, atop a small, craggy cliff overlooking the harbor, sat four cabins side by side. Six deck hands snored lazily in bunks in each of the first three cabins. In the fourth, slightly bigger cabin, a single sailor slept soundly. His white, billowing mustache rose and fell with each easy breath he took. A table stood beside him with only two items placed delicately atop it: one dented, dull, tattered trumpet and one shiny, unused brass trumpet.

Two hours later, at six o’clock that morning, the captain sounded his tattered horn. The crew sleepily arose from their bunks and sighed, for today was another day that was to be spent on the open sea with their captain. As the crew emerged from their cabins the captain continued to sound his dull, tattered trumpet. Its tone was smooth and echoed off the mountains surrounding him. The crew saluted their captain and stumbled down the dock to await orders to board the ship. The captain stopped playing and looked out at the mountains and the sea with a sharp gaze. Everything stood still and silent for a moment. Then, when his focus was broken by a whistle of a deck hand, he marched with pride down the dock and without a word he saluted not his crew, but his ship.

With the captain at the rear, the crew climbed aboard the colossal ship, attended their positions and awaited orders from the captain. When at last he set foot on the deck, he stood silently, closed his eyes and played his tattered trumpet. His crew watched and waited until he opened his eyes, took a deep breath and yelled, “Alright men, untether this ship! Hoist the sails! Get ready to set sail!” He strode to the entrance of his captain’s quarters and opened the door. But before taking a step inside he swiftly turned around and shouted, “And will someone bring me some RUM!” And with that he went inside and slammed the door behind him. The captain moved his way over to the window looking out over the sea. With his signature sharp gaze he stared, but soon his focus was broken by his own thoughts. With his tattered trumpet in one hand and the unused one in the other he sat on his bed and pondered.

Outside, on the deck, two deck hands were talking about the captain: “Aye, what do ya think abou’ the captain and that brass trumpet he carry aroun’?” one said. The other replied, “No idea, he never laid lip on tha’ one, like he savin’ it for somethin’.” “Like what?” The other stopped swabbing, looked at him, and said comically, “For and afternoo’ tea with the king! How am I suppose’ to know! Ya ask him for yerself, mate! Do I look like an encyclo…uh…somthin’ to you? It’s probably nothin’. Now get back to yer work!”

After two fortnights the winter chill began to take a toll on the crew. Their clothes were sodden and they felt as if their hearts were too. Their very bones were chilled. They could hear the creaking and cracking of the condensing wood beneath their feet. The captain, however, spent most of the days in his quarters. The crew wondered what the captain was doing in there, but dared not to go knocking on his door. Sometimes, in the wee hours of the night while the crew was sleeping below the deck, they would hear the captain’s footsteps pacing on the deck above. The crew cautiously pulled down the ladder, curious to take a peek. They would “hush” each other and whisper softly as one deck hand slowly climbed the ladder. But before he could get to the top, the pacing stopped and so the whispering stopped and they listened intently. After a few seconds of silence the crew feared that the captain had detected the eavesdroppers. But then an all too familiar sound came about their ears. It was his tattered trumpet sounding smooth, soft tones into the night air. So the crew climbed back into their bunks and dozed off, using the melodic tunes as a lullaby.

Days and nights passed and the crew gradually became curious about why the captain never played his attractive, shiny trumpet and why he preferred his beat up, dented trumpet. But soon lost interest and continued to go about their business.

One early morning, when the fog was deep and heavy, a dark shadow was barely visible on the horizon. “Jus’ a dense cloud,” the crew agreed. Then the captain’s door opened and all attention went from the dense cloud to the captain’s emerging figure. He walked stately over to the edge of the ship and looked in the direction of the dense cloud. He stared with his sharp gaze that seemed to pierce the fog before them. The breeze blew his mustache to and fro as the crew squinted in the same direction. He closed his eyes and took a long whiff of the air. When his lungs were full he exhaled, and immediately his eyes bolted open. Without changing his gaze he said confidently, “’Tis no dense cloud, nor chunk of land neither. ‘Tis a ship, whether friend or foe I know not.” “W-what do ya propose we do…c-captain?” someone asked nervously. “We communicate with them, that’s what we do!” “But captain, sir, this ship is at least a league away. No man here has a voice with such a power to be heard from tha’ distance.” The captain turned fiercely to the talking deck hand and came nose to nose with him. His sharp gaze pierced the crewmember’s eyes to such an extent he could not bear it and had to turn away. The captain went back to his quarters and emerged again with his tattered trumpet. He stood at the edge of the deck and gave a single blast of the horn. There was no response. “’Tis a foe, a fiend, an enemy,” the captain said with clenched teeth. However, hearing the call, the enemy ship turned and headed straight for the crew’s ship at full speed. By now the deck hands knew that a battle was inevitable but they had no weapons. The enemy ship approached theirs and what they saw sent them into panic. Cannons emerged from square holes in the side of the ship and was preparing to fire.

Havoc was wreaked as loud explosions came from the enemy ship’s cannons. The crew scrambled on the deck. The ship’s old wooden boards were instantly destroyed, sending splintered wood in every direction. Often, large chunks of wood or steel were sent screaming through the air, colliding and killing the crew mates. Cannon balls gouged holes in the ship’s bow and water flooded the lower barracks. To escape the wrath of exploding cannon balls the few deck hands that were still alive flung themselves overboard into the merciless sea below. The ship was sinking, the enemy had won.

The bow of the ship was now almost fully submerged in the water. Crew mates screamed their final words, cannons exploded, and splintered wood whistled through the air. But the captain’s ears blocked out everything. He calmly sauntered into his quarters. Images flashed through his mind; the crew’s faces, his ship before it was wrecked, the quiet harbor and the shore and the cabins. He stood squarely in the center of his quarters and he reached for his unused, shiny brass trumpet, not his tattered one. And for the first time in the captain’s life he pressed the cold mouthpiece against his chapped lips and he blew. He played a long battle hymn filled with sorrow and defeat as cannon balls shattered his glass window, letting the frigid water rush in. The captain played and played until the salt water had risen to his chin and crept through the pipes of his trumpet and gurgled as he continued to blow. He kept his lips pressed to the cold mouthpiece until finally the water engulfed them both. When the captain’s battle hymn ended, so had his life, and his shining brass trumpet remained forever tight in his last, dying grip.

A Rhyming Poem Written for School

The Black House

Deep in a forest in Scotland, a village was nestled
Where the blue birds whistled and the grizzly bears wrestled.
Fragrant was the flowers and dense was the trees
The fountain grass grew up to one’s knees.
The forest was pretty and the air was perfumed.

Every morning, the early-hour fog began to dwindle
And the married women tended their yarn-spinning spindle
And the men and lads milked the cows and fed the sheep
While the youngest daughter was still asleep.
The villagers were content and merry.

As every household set these daily procedures in motion,
There was one house, however, that showed no commotion.
Its windows were boarded and it was painted black
And it was rickety as though it were built not with nails but with tacks.
The black house was the oldest in the village.

But the villagers paid no attention to that house,
To them it was as insignificant as a mouse.
They believed it to be deserted,
But one day something happened that made them all disconcerted.
For the first time, wisps of smoke billowed from the chimney of the old black house.
Someone was in the black house, but who could it be?
Little did they know, the inhabitant had been there for eternity.
But the villagers were unhappy and soon grew into an angry band
Because the occupant provided no aid in tending the land.
Then the villagers formed a mob and besieged the old black house.

The villagers formed a circle and the house was in a surround
And they pried the wooden planks off the windows and threw them on the ground.
Then each one hurled sticks and stones and watched as the windows broke.
Then instantly they looked up and the chimney no longer billowed any smoke.
And the hounds and collies began to howl.

The angry villagers entered the home,
It was crowded and dusty with no room to roam.
They could not help but take a peak,
Even though what they saw made everyone shriek.
What lay there before them was the body of a man no younger than ninety.

A stone lay next to his head and blood lay strewn across the floor,
But seeing as he was just an old man, the cruel, callous villagers walked right out the door.
The sun set and the hounds and collies continued to howl,
All the while staring at the black house’s chimney cowl.
Something in the air was different and the dogs knew it.


The next morning, the summer sun did not blaze,
For the whole sky was in a haze.
And when the men went out to the farm,
What they saw sent them into immediate alarm.
Something terrible had happened.

The cows, the pigs, the sheep, and the goats lay dead in the mud,
At the sight of this the women fainted to the ground with a thud.
The hounds and collies who had been howling the night before were silenced forever,
The crops turned gray and withered to ash; there was no life in this village whatsoever.
Utter devastation swept through the village and a frigid cold wind blew the hats off their heads as they stared in disbelief.

An eternal winter was brought upon the village,
Because, foolishly, the old man they pillaged.
And their narrow minds were as small as a mouse
Because they never knew their source of life came from the old black house.