Middle Earth Blessing: A Dramatic Monologue
Ordained online by the Universal Life Church
I dressed like Gandalf to perform a wedding,
staff in hand, long stem meerschaum pipe in mouth,
I looked the look, walked
the walk yet something—
the magic of Tolkien—seemed
missing: language I’d
ingeniously capture though
select Elven phrases.
“Elen sila lemenn omentielvo!”
(A star shines upon the hour of your meeting),
an Elven incantation, kicked off wedding nuptials—
surprising bride and groom—then moved
to
their preferred liturgy. “Welcome! Great &
honoured guests, devoted friends, cherished family.”
“May the north—the earth—make safe your voyage;
may the east—air—bring you joy
amid sorrow;
may the south—fire—bring
potency to your union;
may the west—water—make your
relationship sustainable.
may this union be enduring, vows unyielding & love
reassuring.”
(I was killing it; I was
remarkable; I made their day enchanting.)
To refreshen the Middle Earth wedding’ mood,
I added, “Nai aurelya nauva mára!” before they
exchanged vows: Granted, “Have a Nice Day!” the
literal translation, may
have been inappropriate—
possibly crass—but all
wedding guests nodded solemnly,
mispronouncing, yet
repeating, my words—earnest eyes closed.
When
I noticed people yawning, I drew rites & vows
to
a close. “By the power invested in me by the old goddesses
& the new, I hereby pronounce you wife and husband:
two loving voyagers embarking on an uncharted
quest as one. Let your lips a holy tabernacle be,
KISS & seal this ceremony salaciously.”
Bride
& groom departed from the evergreen grotto,
all
eyes fixed on me—the marriage rite concluded,
but
guests remained seated—then somebody yelled,
“Gandalf, please leave us
with an Elven blessing,”
expecting
either to stump me or roll with more entertainment;
modest,
inventive, resourceful, I didn’t disappoint & crafted a reply.
Austere, enigmatic, pensive, bold—without hesitation,
I
uttered, “Dartho guin Beriain. Rych le ad tolthathon,”
then
lowered my staff, moved it left to right over their flickering
torch
lit faces, beaming & wallowing contentment complete;
to
this day I wonder why participants never questioned the
insubstantial
Elven depth of my last-minute benediction:
“Stay with the hobbits. I'll
send horses for you.”
Courting Anxiety
Fear casts tall shadows like a skilled undertaker—
a sometimes gentleman—wretchedly wandering in
pitch black funeral fatigues, always at work digging,
lowering, burying, praying…twisting, turning convulsively
in light, his self’s shadow side & most sacred shade
secretly
take umbrage against an inky semblance of an animated
eclipse:
the astral dim assists while he fancies himself orbiting
other planets as
both sun & moon, revelling in lunacy’s penumbra,
carefully safeguarding
curious corners, nightfall’s gloom, where honourable
darkness
dwells unperturbed by body politics or historical
dramas—just
staccato sounds succinctly trailing ebon stars of
sight-blinding
silhouettes, piquing, flashing with dusky mortician
earnest.
Clarion Call
Sirens wail as wallflowers fade,
melt into the environment
like winter warriors wearing
ice fringe camouflage fatigues.
Like a
cat-o’-nine-tails,
violent night air lashes
over manicured arbours
and grounded noisy aviaries
where meadowlarks mix
with ravens, eagles, and ospreys
vying for an upper-branches
and small wooden porches
inside wire mesh enclosures
offering minimal flight options
fuel natures riot squad grievances,
with counter culture cries.
Bewitching tunes alter in an instant,
seductive warnings withdraw—
make room for other mantras, other voices,
other madrigals, other champions.
Yet long before their tempting lure
becomes consciously mute, they
cajole and tease outsiders,
pretenders, crusaders searching
for sacred grails or leprechaun fortunes,
eager victims choose to listen with ears
wax empty tied to stable masts,
social moorings anchored to steel girders
and ivory towers, eerie Siren arias
insinuate
that they may pursue Christ’s
silver
chalice or chase infinite pots
of gold
at rainbows’ end forever.
A Washington- based
author, poet, educator, and Push Cart Nominee, Sterling Warner’s works have
appeared in dozens of literary magazines, journals, and anthologies such as In the Grove, The Flatbush Review, Street Lit: Representing the Urban
Landscape, The Fib Review, the Atherton Review, and Metamorphoses. Warner’s has written five volumes
of poetry: Rags and Feathers,
Without Wheels, ShadowCat, Edges,
and Memento Mori: A Chapbook
Redux. His first collection of fiction, Masques: Flash Fiction &
Short Stories, debuted in August 202. In 2021, Warner’s sixth book of
poetry, Serpent’s Tooth: Poems is scheduled for publication midwinter in
2021.
No comments:
Post a Comment