This morning I was reading old poems, stories, and essays from high school and middle school. It is so interesting to me how far I have come grammatically and lyrically with my writer's voice. So many things change as you mature, experience more life, and learn more. In high school I had this fascination for Camelot literature and history. Several of my short stories and poems were based on Arthurian legend. One in particular fascinates me and I thought I would post the poem here and share it with my readers. It was inspired by the novel The Mists of Avalon by Marion Zimmer Bradley, particularly from the cover artwork.
In a land far, far away
Like a star in the galaxy.
There is magic as strong as faith.
The land is known as Avalon.
Now many wonder about this land.
Valleys of green fields as lush as velvet.
Gray skies that come low and high,
But within the mists of the swamp
That is as fluffy white as cream
That’s where the magic beams.
A broad gray pony lives there like a squirrel.
His owner on his back like
The queen of Pearels.
Like wings of a raven
Her hair blows in the wind.
Her gown glistens like gems.
Her face as white as snow,
And in her eyes
There are blue pools of water.
Her lips are as red as blood.
At her side, in her hand
There is a sword
Known as Excaliber.
The sword gleams like the moon.
Its golden handle holds on to its beams.
At the precise time as dawn she comes.
On her pony she circles the pond
Like a bolt of lightening she makes her rounds.
Nothing is missing all is well.
If you believe in magic you will see her.
Her hair jet-black,
Her skin so white.
Maybe you’ll see her eyes like drops of rain.
Maybe you’ll see her blood lips curl.
Smiling mischievously.
Maybe you will see
Excaliber gleaming like a dream.
Maybe you will see her gown of gems
Glistening in the moistly mist
Like sparkling rain.
Maybe you’ll see the whisk of a gray tail
Like a flash of a memory.
Those who don’t know of magic
If they’re lucky they’ll hear
Music of the magicians.
A snort of the gray pony,
Or the lady’s song.
Like a chorus of angels
She sings her song.
Like an echo of bees Excaliber hums.
Like gurgling toads
The water hits against the pond’s banks.
Those were the clippity-clops of her pony
On her dawn investigation
In the mists of Avalon.
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