June 2000 - Volume 8, Number 6

New Works and Words

....as seen through my heart and vision.
Pedro Sena, Associate Editor



Inspiration is a strange thing.

The muse for much work is always discussed in the academics as something sacred that only certain people can enjoy. Here at the Ygdrasil, through the years we have come across many types of inspiration and works that have driven us to madness and understanding all at the same time. It can be a political issue, it can be a personal issue, it can be a lyrical issue, it can be a romantic issue, it just doesn't stop, and it takes Klaus Gerken's acceptance of these things to make this work.

In my years with the Ygdrasil, I have done a pair of issues per year, all of them with specific themes and ideas that might be considered, for the most part, rather eccentric and unusual. I did two very personal issues in the start, all dealing with my own life and work. Then I shifted gears and did two issues that dealt with my vision. Then I did two issues that dealt with one artist. After that I did a couple of writers that would prefer to remain anonymous, one of them a wife that wishes her husband would understand this side of her. Such lovely words for the inner self, should never be wasted.

Eventually, my freedom led me to an issue that was a dream. I had always wanted to do radio, but a foreign sounding English and a slightly slurred speech pattern that causes my stream of consciousness to interrupt what I say, has not helped much. So I turned my attention to something rather unusual, which is always one of my pet jobs and abilities. I like to mix things, and try new blends of anything, from tea, to poetry. Never mind the result, but try it, my truest theater and film aspect in myself. So, with that in mind I went for an audio issue of the Ygdrasil. It worked. Did not have the many hits on the Web Site as I expected, but it made the point. I found it rather unusual that many people did not adopt this format so eagerly as I had. Or perhaps what I did was rather different, and it was again rather too tart of a mix. Even the band FIREMASK thought the choices of poems I picked were unusual and not their best stuff. I felt it was their most emotional and strongest work, rather than intellectual work ... I wanted "feel and action", not talk, and poetry sometimes is a lot of talk, in lieu of true action and inner movement.

So we come to the past year. I have not been able to do much writing due to a failing eye and the resulting headaches which prevent any reading/writing from taking place. Finally in February of this year, I had a radical surgery for the detached retina and am still recuperating from it. But in between these moments, I did the unthinkable. I couldn't write, but I could work with visuals. And a game called EverQuest, found me.

In making a decision as to which character to play in the game, I decided upon the one that made sense to me, although the game has no idea what it can really do with this kind of name -- a BARD -- fits my style.  However, though the game is run by people that have a slight Doom/Quake mentalities, it has some nice things, and it has some not so nice things. The nicest part is that they have done a beautiful job with the design and characters. The bad part, is, twofold. The game can only do one thing to progress with all the players -- always kill, kill. The other bad thing is that it does not make room, although it seems there were hints of it sometime prior to today's incarnation of the game, for much artistic work, or have much help for any one that is doing something along those lines. For example, we would like to use their "Theater of the Tranquil" but there are no props, and the stage is not setup for performance ... which should be easy to do in this game. Adding things like this would separate this game from any other "game", and make this even more special.

It took me a while to get used to these things. I was a total foreigner to these games, and the mentality needed for this highly competitive military exercise for children. But eventually, I did progress. The game's true colors do appear quickly. After a while, one gets tired of fighting critters that have the same attributes, and no variations on the theme other than a skin color ... or they may have a different face, but still behave like the others ... there is very little difference between the Goblins and the Gnolls in this game that is shown to us. This led to groups of friends and various other social communes, a veritable "Virtual" community, called a Guild, that these games liked to foster. It's really nothing more than a social event, or, a place where young boys and girls have a chance to be next to each other.  I really wanted more than that. In the middle of all this the poetry process started coming around. My interplay started getting more animated, and eventually I had something to show for it. What I didn't expect was that there were other "Bards" out there that could also create a very far out set of lines and words.

So I have taken this time to have a little fun on my own, doing small insane things in the game while watching others do their playing, gaining the experience that allows them to move up a level or two in this game. This took the form of "radio announcing", and it became a football game, a soccer game complete with the famous goal scream, a symphonic delight where the violins take on the cellos courtesy of the PDQ Bach stuff, a golf game, and a couple of other narrations like a mock up of the Russian cultural programming ... which once caused a player to almost die from laughing ... bad in that game because you get punished badly. In the process one also gets to see how good some players are ... one Necromancer dropped his kill on the exact spot we had marked for a "hole", which was a part of the golf play narration at that time. Perfection in that game does not get any better, and it takes an artist to do that!

But I digress. It appears that many of the players that work with this particular class in the game, are a little more than just gamers. These Bards write, as well as anyone, and although the subject matter is dependent and attached to the ways of the game, there is a certain muse aesthetics that breaches boundaries in the life of "poetry". And to me, this is bigger than the game itself, and should prove more durable. 

The names here, are those of the characters in the game. We have no idea, if one of these is a famous person, a hidden Stephen King as a renown closet poet. Or a hidden Anne Rice. Their gory tradition is all over this game! But it does show one thing. That inspiration comes in many forms, in many ways, and although I would love to have this added to that game, and the players given experience for working on it, the simple fact of the matter is, that much of this will be left behind and forgotten, if not presented somewhere ... I was lucky that I had printed a page on a series of poems, for it has been removed already. Where much of it resides these days, is not a location that knows the difference between the poetry and another web site in the net ... and other internet sites that have dedicated themselves to the "Bard" have not quite embraced the artistic side of these things. I feel that when these things happen, they must be embraced, as this is a very personal and deep side of ourselves that should not be taken lightly, like most of us take the rest of the day in our daily lives, or how people take this game, for that matter.

Without further ado, and all of these Bards have OK'd the presentation of this work, there is only one thing left to do with this. And it is to present it at the "Theater of the Tranquil" a place in the game that is deserted, and basically abandoned by its designers, like so many other places in the game. I have a special place for "theater" in my heart, and I would like to do something about it one day. I have given up the stage from my directing days. My vision is too personal and I can not match it up with others -- so I write, and live a dream -- that one day, I can help these people enrich their lives, with something that is much grander than their own gaming experience. They will not remember the Gnoll on the hill they killed, or the Orc on the camp they killed, but they will remember these words, and find that a special spot has been born in their heart, that Verant, or Sony could never imagine, or that their programmers ever thought of. I wish I could get them to help us produce these things in the theater ... but we can do one thing, that "Bards" know so well and dream of ... write yet another song!

June 2000

PS: A special note/blessing and heart should be sent to Chryshandilynn/Mohanna, without whose help the "Guild" that is called "The Stryngs of Ayre" would not have been created. This effort triggered much of what you are about to read here. While that Guild's ability to stay alive is yet to be determined, the results of its dream, are posted here in this issue of the Ygdrasil. With much love and care. If only we can get others to appreciate how madness can create such wonderful words ... such wonderful expressions ... it just never ends.

PS2: Even though I disagree with many of their philosophies in the game, all in all it is a great thing. For that, I would like to thank Verant, John, Brad, Geoff and Gordon.

PS3: Xanthus at Everlore should also be thanked for having in place the avenues which have helped a lot of this to come alive.

Pedro Sena/Moshkiae Soulmender

Moshkiae.jpg (111381 bytes)
Moshkiae Soulmender

And often I wonder, if song and play
go together, in a game of much fray
in the arena of a life of a new Bard
often alone, with song, sad and hard
come we to this world of Norrath
to share our tale of play and woe
with many others, amidst lore and foe
in far out lands like Lake Rathe
and one day we will all meet and share
a nice feeling of friendship -- beware
all you war mongers and guilds of war
with tales of guts, blood and gore
and little living to make up a life
full of desire, no love, all but strife
of harmony, song, beauty and play
on words, poetry, theater and heart
that shows soul full of breath and say
as only one of us Bards with words part
in wonderful streams,
of beauty
of color
of feeling
of song
true song
so rare in this game.

Let us shine,
let us shine
and share our wine
for it is the true heart
and our breath and soul.

Feoren.jpg (107232 bytes)

The song of Feoren

A rogue is near, put your hands in your pockets!
Keep on your rings, fasten your lockets!
But when his opponent's back he sees,
There is not a need for him to flee.
For because of what he will deal,
Only death will his opponent feel!
A user of his hands and feet,

A monk's fists, your face is sure to meet!
And if he dies before your eyes . . .
Then he's probably just resting!

A druid is a lover of trees,
Of wolves and bears and even bees.
But a holder of great magical power,
That is demanded about every half-hour!

An enchanter can do many things,
He can craft a great many rings.
He can even appear to be growing wings,
But alas! He never sings!

Now a bard, however, he does sing.
His voice, like a bell, can ring.
He can wear that really nifty blue helm,
And sing a song to the entire realm.

A ranger can sense an Orc astray
Ere she is even a mile away!
And she can shoot an arrow that way,
Which will hit the Orc, right where he lay!

A wizard can deal a mighty blow
That will make her opponent's blood flow.
But if she ever runs out of mana,
Then she had better go!

A magician, he can summon
Anything from swords to plummin'.
But if his pet should ever get withered,
Then he will join the mana-less wizard!

A shadowknight, in the dark,
Can still see to the mark.
He'll tear your body and devour your soul,
For this is the shadowknight's role.

A necromancer gets an undead fellow
Who'll bite you if you say, "Hello!"
When you die, the necro will sigh,
For you chipped the fellow's tooth.

 A warrior, when he is attacked,
Will just regain some health he lacked.
Until, of course, he is actually whacked,
Then he will wish for some spells!

A shaman can go fast
And heal, and SoW, and blast.
And when he runs out of mana,
He can still stand fast.

Paladins can heal and fight,
They can overcome the night.
They do not ever get a fright,
Unless their friend is not alright.


Who the hell is Feoren?

Feoren am I, of the Lanys T'Vyl.
I run under bridge, and over hill.
I know what I do and I do what I will,
And am always careful what I kill.



Kakrek is his name,
He thinks bards have fame!
For nay, they do not suck
Save the life out of their foes,
And to Kakrek I say, Good luck!
For he is one that knows.

He knows that bards are great and fair,
He knows they remove what was despair
He knows they fill the very air
With songs so sweet to the ear.

Kakrek, friend of bards,
Though not one yourself,
You are very wise.
For bards are more than buffs and stuff,
They are creators and singers of songs,
Something of which I never get enough


When a bard is down,
He needs not to frown
Think of a song, life's flavor
Think of a song, do yourself a favor!

Think of another song,
As I have just done!
Think of another song,
Only then have you won!

Make the air no longer bare
Fill it with a music
Make it sweet to the ears
Then, the air is no longer bare.



The chrushbone orcs, tall and proud,
Will cut off your head, and cry aloud,
"Us orcs, we shall never loose!
For you elves, something brews!"
Their emperor sits upon his throne,
While his legions' weapons hone.
He lifts his hand and starts to grin,
At his faithful servant, Ambassador D'Vinn.

"To war!" he shouts, "To war!"
"Elves will live no more! Dwarven blood will pour! Let them live no more; on our spears their gore!"
The orcish legions march away,
Preparing for their great slay.
D'Vinn raises his deadly dirk,
With a darkened, evil smirk.
"To war!" he shouts, "To war!"
"Elves will live no more!"

To every good heart that was near,
There swelled an unforgiving fear.
If they were seen by the skins green,
They were reduced to cowards, mere.
"To Kelethin!" was the ominous cry
Heard by many elves that nigh.
From the orcs, an evil laughter spilled;
With the stench of death, the air was filled.

But the orcs, they too often tarried,
Even with the hate that eve they carried.
Elves and dwarvs and man alike,
Were able to hold quite a pike.
It stood 'round the great tree city,
Almost the orcs, they did pity.
For when the greenskins came marching 'round,
Death is all that they then found.

The legion quickly broke astray,
But D'Vinn was able to slip away.
For he was dark but light of feet,
And was able to escape his defeat.
"Never!" he thought, "Never will we quit.
We will bite them 'till they are bit!
We will claw them untill they bleed,
For their death is my only greed!"



Ak'Anon is a great big city,
The gnomes inside are small and witty.
There are many a mechanical spire,
And towers that are on fire.
The gnomes love to love their spells,
And in the mines, who knows what dwells?



Kaladim is in the ground,
With miners where the gems are found.
The dwarves are posed for war,
Against the goblins at their door.
The great king Kazon, he rules there,
Of the dwarves, he is most fair




Cabilis was born anew,
Out of a city once ruined and lost.
The Iksar race quickly grew,
And will defend the city at any cost.

If an Iksar is slain, few will morn,
For all other races they do hate.
Out of darkness, another is born,
Already knowing of its fate.

The elven princess, they do hold,
In their dungeons, deep and cold.
The king's anger is aflame,
And many warriors already came.

Death awaits outside its door,
But still, it breeds more and more.
No matter how much they do not know,
Nor how much Iksar blood will flow,
Even if it is dealt a mighty blow,
Cabilis will not cease to grow.


"We are those"

We live! You live not!
All of your battles fought!
All of your trinkets bought,
All of your knowledge sought!
All of your memories cought,
All of your armor wrought.
It was all for nought,
For we live! You live not!

We are those who cannot be,
What we know you cannot see.
We are those that did not die,
When death itself came floating by.
We are those you find in dreams,
We are the chill in chilling screams.
We are what fills you with fear,
Even when there is nothing near.
If you see us, you will cry,
If you touch us, you will die.
If you know us, you will just
Fade to black and turn to dust.

We are those who once were.
In your memories, we're just a blur.
What we know you used to know,
But here comes time, and there you go!
We are those who once were,
But we are no longer.
We thrive on that which did occur,
Our history makes us stronger.
While we lived, we were widly known,
But now we've left and gone away.
Know we have a forgotten throne,
And in the past we will forever stay.
Endless halls of darkness,
Bottemless wells of death,
History we harness,
With worn and tired breath.

We are those who are damned to live,
In misery and in hate.
Pain we recieve and pain we give,
And torture, we create.
We are mishapen and deformed,
As are the dwellings that we form.
An eyesore they are, a heartsore we are,
And are feared by creatures near and far.
We were given death, but did not die,
For we gave it swiftly back.
We move among the dark of nigh,
And feeling, we do lack.
But our bodies, they can yet be lost,
For mortal we are still,
But not by mere heat nor frost,
Do our bodies burn and chill.

We live! You live not!
Let your bodies rot!
And now your souls are caught,
And now your skin grows hot!
And now you're stabbed and shot,
Your minds reduced to naught!
You die among the lot,
For we live! You live not!

Atri DrumRunner



A Ranger he can see in the dark
and in your butt an arrow he can park
But if you help him with his quest
to get the map from the ghoul pest
Then undying friendship you will have found
in any place be it water, air, or ground
for in the map there is lore in
to receive the fabled short sword of morin



An enchanter is a wonderful thing
He can make a necklace, bracelet or ring
But sneaking in Neriak city
where the dark ones have so little pity
and purchasing the enchant metal spells
can be for them the ring of death's bells
For only in the darkest place
are found these spells not commonplace



A druid is nature's true child
They love to run alone and wild
With their spells they guard the land
over hill and dale and lonely sand
Wolf in spirit as well as form
They hunt the plains in sun or storm
And at the druid circle they meet
to return to home lost souls they greet



There once was a Bard from Nantucket
Whose helmet resembled a bucket
He said with a chagrin
"It covers my chin"
And then picked up his Lute, and did pluck it.

There once was a Bard from Qeynos
whose singing was particularly heinous
While singing in Highpass
he shattered a glass
and since then his name has been famous.



Froon and Choon

Froon and Choon are large of eye
and larger still are their behinds
They stomp and shout at little men
their shoes have tread of different kinds
Homer Simpson they resemble
but only half as smart as he
A bard can charm them into fighting
and defeat them easily
When one is vanquished, do not remain
run instead if able
Strong is he though bird of brain
kiting ends the fable


Griffene Kiting Blues

I got the... griffene kiting blues
They never drop the charm I can use
I got the... griffene kiting blues
Took so long I wore holes in my shoes
I got the... griffene kiting blues

I got the... griffene kiting blues
Don't let grimfeather turn you to glue
I got the... griffene kiting blues
When I need her where is my muse?
I got the... griffene kiting blues

I got the... griffene kiting blues
I can kite them so I never lose
I got the... griffen kiting blues
There are don'ts and there are due's
To the...griffene kiting blues

Everyone sing it!



Erudin sits upon a grand plateau
Shining city of learned men
Strive do they with seeds they sow
and scribe solemn words with ink and pen
No matter they are high and wise
Within their ranks did fester evil
And within their walls did shadows rise
and forth was born the city of Paineel
War with magics great and terrible
between once brothers bold
and so within this saddened parable
Was made the Hole in deaths dark mold




Heat and smoke fill the air
and goblins roam in passageways
Only down goes the stair
to lonely heat and cinder bays
No bard can run from danger there
for underground some songs are stayed
and mystics see the forms so fair
no matter how well is Shari's played
Know your doom within this lair
for heat and fire here are made

Solusek where goblins bide
Solusek with stinking hide
Solusek where bravery fails
Solusek hear the wails



Wisp Isle

Innocently they float
these little points of light
holding treasure that I want
it is for that I pitch my might
I attack them with magic
and with it smite
poor lonely wisps
they die within my sight
No faction is harmed by killing
these creatures oh so bright
but my concience troubles me
with every one I fight
for greed can make a man
betray that which is right
and cause his soul to turn
to darkness, away from light




Here we are in Freeport
A city with much to offer
Trade is the rule of the day
Come here to fill your coffer
Many a ship will sail from here
and many roads are ended
be careful of the city guards
they are easily offended
Oh but smell the salty air
look not upon the barren land
all good things will come through here
for those with a patient hand
Bards are guilded here you know
They play their tunes so merry
and if you ask them sweetly now
they may be for you a ferry
To distant lands where they run
faster than the druid
Watch their movements now
You see they are so fluid
But away from Freeport is
where my path doth follow
but do not heed these words
for their threat is hollow
How can I truly leave?
It really gets my goat
For run as fast as I can
I always miss the boat!



Cold stone, cystal clear gloom
known is fate's plan on these grounds
death awaits us all in blue and white
screams and wails are common sounds

brave souls paled, grave souls failed
where even gypsies can turn with the night

will sapper, deathly usher, leering gargoyle
so many names for the face of pain
hate to spill over us all
disdain they cannot feign

Slashing, bashing, crashing
hell here will reign
Smashing, flashing, clashing
here comes a train

run where you will
escape cannot be found
armies of devils live there
and here is your spirit bound

Tallais SirenSong

Healing wounds with a wave of their hand,
Clerics are feared by the Undead of the land.
Spreading the Word, the Priests of the Gods,
With their buffs you can overcome any odds.


The Darkest City upon the Land,
Where Twisted Elves forge evil plans.
A Forest of Shadows guards its walls,
Neriak, home of the Teir'dals.

Innoruk's desires are its laws.
The Lord of Hate rules with an iron claw.

Surloch.jpg (65342 bytes)
Surloch De'Jongleur

Us Bards we should all stick together,
for who else on Norrath does it better.
With a verse we'll make you fight faster,
and with crack we're the love of the caster.

We've songs we can sing,
so the fight you will win
and a lull we can strum,
to make your foes numb

while all along we're switching the songs
bashing the keys, hoping we're not wrong
all so those few, our friends - yes and you
can at the end of the day, safely rest and say...



(After a series of posts about one of the game's creators)

Brad gives Bards a licking,
but we keep on singin'
no Nerf can take us away.

When one day we're fixed,
we'll show him some tricks
that we learnt to keep Nerfs at bay.

Life in adversity
has been our university
so when comes graduation day....

All us Bards are bad
so beware of us Brad
when you see us coming your way




Nagafen deep within his lair,
was feeling a strange and bleak despair.
his scales were fading, his eyes grew dim,
not even his giants could keep him trim.

Shaking out a dusty cloak of Flames,
he wondered if he was to blame.
He waved around a golden kosh,
all in all feeling at a loss.

The reason for his sorry state,
I, Surloch will to you relate.
You see over the years he's come to love,
be it for breakfast, dinner or lunch
all those adventures at his door,
and none have come for many days or more.

A new land has recently been found,
and to it all adventurers bound.
Thanks to Kunark poor old Naggy,
is all alone and he's unhappy.

So come on all adventurers brave hearted,
Go back to where it all started.
If not for yourself then do it for him,
the lonely Dragon Nagafen.


Qeynos lies beside the sea,
a bastion for humanity.
Noble of purpose and with clear goal
it strives to hold back the hordes of gnolls.
Yet some in Qeynos, though they be few,
deal with gnolls for the stout they brew.
With evil intent they take great pains
to hide evidence of their dangerous games.
Yet adventurers do stand a chance
if they wish to brave that stance,
of purging fair Qeynos of its plague
and returning it to a golden age.


Malicia Marrnote


No fear of death to break him
No soul to know his lack
No conscience to shake him
Nor shame his heart to wrack
No code nor law to rule him
No tie of love to bind
But Hate! Despair! And death-in-life
the workings of his mind.
And the grave which all will come to
Is to him no bar nor end
For the reaper, foe to you and I
Is to necromancer friend.
Lost and lost! immortal souls
He twists to his desires
The lives he claims, consign those names
To the horror of torment's fires.
And at last, we see his visage -
Is it twisted? Skeletal? Vile?
No! Death and the grave forsake him still,
And his face is an evil smile.



He stands, a guard at Hellmouth
Black-clad and blacker still
Within he has no living heart
But a void your death may fill.
Look not at his blazing eyes.
Beware! Gaze not too deep.
Turn back, for there 'tis evil lies
And horror, wound in in sleep.
Wake not the sword of stolen souls,
Stir not the blood within,
For in that first mistaken step
Doth your way to hell begin.
And should he wake, remember this
Fight well! For - win or fall -
His is the fatal vampire's kiss
To make your soul his thrall.


Malevolence, and bestial guile
A grimace for a goblin smile
Angry strength in wiry limb
Glaring eyes to pierce the dim
Wielding spell and wielding spear
Shriek to rend the hero’s ear
Dwell in dark, to loathe the light
Yet death adored, the lust to fight
Unwary prey who brave their lair
Find doom and death await them there
But valor sparked in ventured souls
Will earn their way through goblin holes
To treasures, weapons, precious gold,
And bright renown thus bardic-told.
So hone your blade, venturer fair
And brave you thus the Pickclaw lair
There to face the goblin horde
And reap in gold your rich reward.



The Black-Hearted

From earliest days and earliest fears
I remember the shouts in elven ears
of "Tis him! 'Tis D'Vinn! O take care!"
And to find myself victim to one vicious thrust
Of a weapon ensorcelled, and to the blood lust
Of him - black D'Vinn. Now I dare
To venture to Crushbone, back into the keep
Past the guardian legions, I silently creep
Climb D'Vinn's tower, into his lair;
Now with wicked delight the tables I turned
For in my long absence there's much I have learned;
And 'tis now D'Vinn who at last, must beware!
Now at my side his dirk I do carry...
But still, in the tower, I dare not tarry
For, though dead he lies on the floor up there -
Still in my ears echoes that cry ever new
That shout of warning - you've heard it too -
Of "D'Vinn! it's D'Vinn! O, Beware!"



The Thousand Skies

The road it runs before us
The mountains fall away
The sea rolls back, the clouds roll by
In the song of the new sun's day

And we sing it on, we sing it
Songs in our feet and eyes
Life in our lute-strings,
death in our shouts!
we follow the thousand skies.

The road is a ribbon of fire
Dark blades thirst for prey
Death may follow, but catch us not
While the song speeds us away

The path is peril by moonlight
The shadows close and cry
Yet wreathed by song and wound in light
We swiftly pass them by

The way is drowned in deepness
Black water holds us fast
But sing on! sing on, the ayre is air
The music will carry us past

The track is told in torment
Horrors and specters pursue
Yet song brings pain of its own to these
As we travel safely through

The camp is warm in starlight
Firelight, mead and friend
As the songs which took us across the world
Bring us home at last in the end

We follow, with the hearts full of music
We follow, with souls in our eyes
We follow, with bright-edged swords in hands
We follow the thousand skies
Norrath's thousand skies.



To a Bard's Beloved
(To the tune of folk-song "Six Ribbons")

If I were a warrior,
My strength all unbounded,
I'd be standing between ye
And the sword-wielding foe!
But bard I am, beloved,
Armed only with love-songs
So take you my music
With you as you go

If rogue I was, dear one,
Swift unseen assassin,
To steal your heart slyly,
Your attackers to slay!
But bard I am, troubadour,
Not yet matchless killer,
So take you my music
As you walk away.

Or were I a sorceror,
With magic of ages,
To drive off your enemies,
And enchant your heart!
But it is bard that I am,
No wielder of lightnings.
So take you my music
With you when we part.

A bard I am, only,
With songs to delight you,
Bring strength to your sword-arm
Music ever to guide.
Yes, bard I am, only,
And as bard I love you
So take you my music
And stay at my side.


The Bardic Debate

Let her join!
Why not?
We've an empty spot
And a bard can sorta heal...
And the speed song's cool
As a general rule
Even if she's no star with steel.
We've a caster still
And we've Orcs to kill
And a sixth who can tank in a pinch
But if the named should pop
Or a big train stop
Well her chances make me flinch!
If a cleric should show
Or a druid, you know,
We can always kick her out
The only thing worse
Is a rogue cutpurse
Of that there's just no doubt.
Still, a bard's ok
On a slow kinda day
But there's just too much disparity
Between well buffed tanks
and bards.. Hey! Thanks!
It's Cassandra's Chorus of Clarity!
Hey, this gal's not bad
I forgot she had
That song... and the Anthem too!
Well, I guess she can stay
For now, anyway... Hey!
Where ya goin? The song's not through!!!

(Bard stalks off disgusted with groupmate and present writer alike)



The Faerie Fire:

Starlight weave in rainbow silk
Wraps wing'ed ones of rosy hue
Tiny bells ring, skin like milk
They drift like paradise would do
But though the scene invoke desire
By the enchantment in their grace
And all the wonder of their race -
Touch not the Faerie Fire!

Floating airs, their music charms
Fleeting glance of hinted gold
Sharp and shining are their arms
And deadly too, as tales are told
And though your feet and eyes may tire
And magic ring of homes invite
To rest in cirle of the light
Trust not the Faerie Fire!

And now, as roads call me along
Farther still from my Faydark home
The chime of bells, that faerie song
Stays with me, though I onward roam
Dreaming sight of beauty higher,
As I did see within that round -
Perfection on the moss-clad ground!
Burns still: the Faerie Fire!

Oh Dem Bones

Skulls a-loll on whitened spines
Empty holes for eyes glow green
Deathly white their fleshless limbs
I can see their ribs between.
Arms unmuscled somehow heft
Rusted weapons; I shrink to hear
From mouths that have no lips nor tongues
Insane mirth. They have no fear.
For what can hurt them further now?
Death already is their crown
But still with hands that shrink to touch
I lift my sword to cut them down
Undead, evil - surely strong -
My sword cuts quick, and then I grin
For one stroke gives them back to death!
I loot the pile their bones lie in.
As I run on, it seems so strange
That what would raise them, arm them thus
Would give them back so little strength
As make them prey to ones like us!
And travelling on, I hear the cry
From forest, town, camp and track
The young ones calling, hoping for coin,
"Bone chips for sale, a plat a stack!"



Wyrm's Tail

I am coiled like diamond wire
atop my gleaming horde of gold
I am filled with furnace fire
I am she that in tales told
Dug my talons into darkness;
Brought in life where none had been;
Was first upon this trembling rock;
Veeshan I. Of all wyrms, queen.

I am coiled in smoke and vapors
I am bathed in ruddy glow
About me lie the bones of traitors
In my caverns far below
Invulnerable in armor scale
I guard thus my treasure-horde
Your puny weapons naught avail
'Gainst Nagafen, the dragon Lord.

Immured I in ice and fastness,
Frozen beauty, icy cruel:
With wing and talon all the vastness
Is kept firm beneath my rule
I feast on fools who challenge boldy,
And those who seek my death to earn.
The fire within burns still and coldly
In Vox, the lady of the Wyrm.


The oldest Foe

Sleeping low and dark they lie
Far beneath the ancient soil
City lit with sickly glow
Built with blood of slaves that toil
Vicious, lovely in their darkness
Skin thus stained with evil hue
Glint of hate in eyes that burn me
Built as swords, as swords they do.
Pain! And Hatred! Piercing glory!
To serve that glory blood they spill.
Rent and twisted, old in story,
But young in hate beneath their hill.
Their faces bright with wooing darkness
Kin in race but not in kinds
Teir in terror, hatred brewing
The Dark-elf dance of hate entwines.




Amid the lofty windwashed arches
Hues of summer paint the skies
Sunlight swims in leaf-tossed glades
And peace greets all our eyes
Amid those sunwarmed branches
Where the city's bridges sway
The wood-kin hone their spells and blades
To drive the orcs away.
For to follow the paths to eastwards
Is to step onto contested lands
For the Feir'dal fight to take back the glades
From the treacherous Crushbone hands.
Still, peace reigns most in the Faydark,
But not for the orcs, who in vain
Try to take green Kelethin, wood-kin home
And just end up dying in train!


Top O' the World!

Take the path oh, West from Freeport!
Travel scrub and travel sand
Creep carefully through dark Kithicor
And find ye the promised land!
Twixt orc and gnoll and pickclaw
Twisted deep in stony blocks
Is this hunting-ground but scarcely found
Where XP and loot really rocks!!!

Into Mistmoore...

Ice cold grip on hilt of blade
Ice cold fears at heart
Icy mist of the long-dead glade
Steals into your soul from the start
Pain-wracked shout of terror
Wrenching pang of despair
You doubt your eyes, but 'tis no error
The foul vision on death-foul air.
Fingers falter on lute-string
Eyes flicker shadow to shade
Spells to mind you try vainly to bring
As into the mist-murk you wade
And what waits for you there in Mistmoor?
What haunts these long-cursed estates?
Death-twisted demon, black at his core
For your heart in his fingers he waits!

Berrek.jpg (36730 bytes)
Berrek, the Redneck Bard


Upon the rocks the waves are hurled,
mighty ships in the harbour, with sails unfurled.
The cry of gulls float on the breeze,
hair in my eyes, by the gentle wind teased.
The seasons pass as does the tide,
by the boundless seas i abide.
The smell of the salt in my nose,
the sand and surf 'tween my toes.
Water with the look of glass,
voices of the sailors, crass.
Freedom calling to my heart,
waiting for the next adventure to start.
A lonely tree stands alone,
while through it the zephyrs moan.
Fishing from the end of the dock,
my adopted home, Butcherblock.

Across frosted plains i stride,
barbarians march with pride.
Lonesome ravens circle the slate grey sky,
from the lofty peaks echos their cry.
Forests of ice glint like crystals,
through them a chill wind wistles.
Buried under a blanket of shining white,
with a full moon gleaming in the frigid night.
Fires started with a spark,
norhtern lights shine like rainbows in the dark.
Only by the hardy is crossed,
frozen Everfrost.

Undulating seas of sand.
With skin leathery and tanned,
dervishes wander where they will.
Furnace heat, her wrath will kill.
Buried by the shifting dunes,
ancient cities lie in ruins.
Hot whisling winds caressing the cheek,
sands waiting to consume the weak.
For solitude and peace i go,
the great Desert of Nothern Ro.

An ancient stoneworked keep,
the roots within the land run deep,
with strong walls and graceful towers,
hidden by magi's mighty powers.
Through the glade and through the wood,
laughter and song echo, light and good.
A fortress of defender-saints,
to guard against Crushbone's evil taint.
Ivy walls and clear blue lakes,
to eyes a dazzling sight it makes.
Elven warrior and and elven maid,
living long ere freeport's foundatin was laid.
The grey host with countenance fair,
sea-green eyes and flaxen hair,
shining mail and glittering shield,
ancient courage and weapons wield.
Keepers of the secret art,
keen of mind and stout of heart.

'Neath the towering giants high,
gliding through moon's pale shafts,
lost in the magic
and songs of my people passing by.
on such a night
the evil is far from thought
the embracing dark
yields no malice
'round their rings
the fairies dance
brightly burn the torches high
elves in mial,
fierce and bright
as one i become with the night.
lightly fall my booted feet,
in my musings
long and deep
in my trance i wander far,
heedless of the quieting hour,
feeling safe in my young, wan power.
thanking Tunare, for such tranquil bliss,
craving Faydwer's nights like this.

Riella.jpg (147228 bytes)



The Faydark

Behind me lies my mother, her hair a leafy green.
Her skin the deep brown-grey of bark
The leaves glisten with a dew-drop sheen

her body, rolling hills and vales, unmarred by the scourge of Man.
her cloak of scintillating mist,
through her thickets deer and wolves ran.

Before me lies the far off-lands, whose mountains spike the sky.
I turn to my ancient home, and sadly wave good-bye



Those Darn'ded Goblin Whelps in Everfrost

"Ugly Creature" they proclaim, out upon the frosted plain.
"Near my Feet!" they try to bluster, though they have little strength to muster
"Methinks you," they prattle on, same words all from dusk to dawn
"Be good to eat!" they cry tonight, not seeing I am three times their height!



The Paladin

A Paladin's blade is wreathed In flame,
Her body wreathed in steel
Her mind and soul pure of blame
All wounds her hands can heal

Before her Evil rots away
And innocent lives are saved
Her presence, like the light of day
Away shadows are staved

Moshkiae Soulmender

It was hard,
on a beautiful day, long ago,
when I was a Bard,
in a foreign land.

There I sang,
there I wrote,
there I cried,
there I loved,
there I drank,
there I died ...
many times,
in the throes of a heart,
or two ...
let me play another song
cried my soul
strengthen my spirit
wonder off,
into a new land,
to find
a new love,
a new heart
one wonders if a new soul is possible,
the gods,
the gods,
sometimes we ask a lot,
other times we want nothing,
and then,
we play another song,
for you
or for our friends
hurt in battle
checking the news
to find that Hera
has unleashed her jealousy
yet again
and took our strengths away.

Woke up from my frenzy,
and had to fight,
yet another critter,
with my friends.

Ohh, Zeus, where are you
when we need you
a little help
so we can arise from the ashes
of younghood
into adulthood
in this seemingly endless,
and thankless

In no time,
this fiend was disposed,
but one of our friends,
Sad moment for a Bard,
as this could be me,
or my friend on the right,
or the one on the left,
I can only do one thing,
and that is to mount my Lute
and sing a song,
yet another song,
add a few words
with valor you fought
and with this strumming
I will add words, a thought,
to revive our days, running
through our daily follies
best sing a song
with no words, today,
and then write an eulogy
hoping to find you
yet again, at my side
Ohh yes, it is a game,
you have returned
to reclaim your belongings
wish we had that same chance
with our gods
and owners.

It is time to play
a different song
to enliven my friends
into yet another battle
yet another conflict
with ourselves
with our hearts
with the makers
so we can gain
the one precious reward
the words often don't mean much
to a couple of tigers, designers such
that their work is reduced to dream
of nothing but a killing, blood's stream

Please Wait, Loading ...


A Bard's Life is full of strife.
Just to advance and sing our songs
we must choose to tank or spank
that small drum, lute, pipe, brass or flute

We never have room for those good adventure treats
Cause we must carry bags and mandolines for all these peeps
We wander to and fro, never knowing where to go
No place is safe, No place is home,  Cause nothing matches where we

Monsters are sure to pick the Bard
Singing all those songs real hard
they are usually the first to die.
No one ever really asks why.

Our music is soothing to those in pain
But damn can we be totally insain
Spouting out our poetry here and there
and never caring who or WHAT is there

The Trolls, Ogres and Dark elves be ware
there is always a bard ever Near
to chase you to Tunare's glade
and show you just how music is made

Rallos Zek and Tunare throw their insults across the way
Everyone knows who will win this fray
Cause a Bard's singing just can't compare
To Orcs hollerin for more warfare

Just a word of advice,  to follow you on your way
Next time you see a naked bard, slowing in her way
Give her a drum and she'll take you on a run
to collect her fallen body and once again find all the fun.

An Informational Journey Into A Creative Echonet [931001]
(C) Copyright "I Write, Therefore, I Develop" By Paul Lauda

Come one, come all! Welcome to the newsgroup alt.centipede. Established just for writers, poets, artists, and anyone who is creative. A place for anyone to participate in, to share their poems, and learn from everything and everyone. A place to share *your* dreams, and philosophies. Even a chance to be published in a magazine. The original Centipede Network was created on May 16, 1993. Created because there were no other networks dedicated to such an audience, and with the help of Klaus Gerken, Centipede soon started to grow, and become active on many world-wide Bulletin Board Systems. We consider Centipede to be a Public Network; however, its a specialized network, dealing with any type of creative thinking. Therefore, it makes us something quite exotic, since most nets are very general and have various topics, not of interest to a writer--which is where the Centipede steps in! No more fuss. A writer can now access, without phasing out any more conferences, since the whole net pertains to the writer's interests. This means that Centipede has all the active topics that any creative user seeks. And if we don't, then one shall be created. Feel free to drop by and take a look at Newsgroup alt.centipede

The year 2000, has given the Ygdrasil a measure of acceptance that was much beyond the vision that we had when things first started. The NATIONAL LIBRARY OF CANADA, has requested that we send them a copy each month, and has also undertaken to maintain a complete archive of all the work we do. I have always clamored for a little attention, and I suppose that I have always wanted to leave a mark on a thing or two, so I could prove my worth to my own peers and family. Other than Klaus and a few friends in this group, my work seems not to mean much, and I have always cried about this ... can words mean so little, to so many ... that they get left behind?

But for once, I can say, that I am proud to have added a small inch of a contribution, although Klaus deserves all the credit for this. I wish I could come up with a couple more issues per year ... but fates have been hard for the past three years, specially my vision ... making this alone will force me into bed for a couple of hours ... but I can't help it.

Ygdrasil is committed to making literature available, and uses the Internet as the main distribution channel. On the Net you can find all of Ygdrasil including the magazines and collections. You can find Ygdrasil on the Internet at:

* WEB: http://users.synapse.net/~kgerken/
* FTP: ftp://ftp.synapse.net/~kgerken/
* USENET: releases announced in alt.centipede, alt.ygdrasil, rec.arts.poems, and alt.zines. Clicking on these four links should activate your News Reader, and these newsgroups should be available if your ISP provider has them in their listings. If not contact Pedro and let him know, your ISP provider's address so he can go after it. And other areas and services where applicable.
* EMAIL: Remove the spamming letters first, and email us to specify which version or method you would like, from the two versions available, an uncompressed 7-bit universal ASCII or an 8-bit MS_DOS line art-enhanced version. These issues can be sent in plain text, uuencoded, or as a MIME attachment. Some issues are available in the Internet Standard HTML as well. The email is : kgerken@synapse.net and tell us what version and method you'd like.

REMEMBERY: EPYLLION IN ANAMNESIS (1996), poems by Michael R. Collings
AFTER ALL, HE WAS AN ANGEL, a novel by Rita Stilli

DYNASTY (1968), Poems by Klaus J. Gerken
THE WIZARD EXPLODED SONGBOOK (1969), songs by Klaus J. Gerken
STREETS (1971), Poems by Klaus J. Gerken
BLOODLETTING (1972) poems by Klaus J. Gerken
ACTS (1972) a novel by Klaus J. Gerken
RITES (1974), a novel by Klaus J. Gerken
FULL BLACK Q (1975), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
ONE NEW FLASH OF LIGHT (1976), a play by Klaus J. Gerken
THE BLACKED-OUT MIRROR (1979), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
JOURNEY (1981), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
LADIES (1983), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
FRAGMENTS OF A BRIEF ENCOUNTER (1984), poems by Klaus J. Gerken
THE BREAKING OF DESIRE (1986), poems by Klaus J. Gerken
FURTHER SONGS (1986), songs by Klaus J. Gerken
POEMS OF DESTRUCTION (1988), poems by Klaus J. Gerken
THE AFFLICTED (1991), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
DIAMOND DOGS (1992), poems by Klaus J. Gerken
KILLING FIELD (1992), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
BARDO (1994-1995), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
FURTHER EVIDENCES (1995-1996) Poems by Klaus J. Gerken
CALIBAN'S DREAM (1996-1997), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken

SHACKLED TO THE STONE, by Albrecht Haushofer - translated by JR Wesdorp
MZ-DMZ (1988), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
DARK SIDE (1991), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
STEEL REIGNS & STILL RAINS (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
BLATANT VANITY (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
ALIENATION OF AFFECTION (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
LIVING LIFE AT FACE VALUE (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
HATRED BLURRED (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
CHOKING ON THE ASHES OF A RUNAWAY (1993), ramblings by I. Koshevoy
BORROWED FEELINGS BUYING TIME (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
HARD ACT TO SWALLOW (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
HALL OF MIRRORS (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
ARTIFICIAL BUOYANCY (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy

THE POETRY OF PEDRO SENA, poems by Pedro Sena

POEMS (1970), poems by Franz Zorn

All books are on disk and cost $5.00 each. Checks should be made out to the respective authors and orders will be forwarded by Ygdrasil Press. YGDRASIL MAGAZINE may also be ordered from the same address: $5.00 an issue to cover disk and mailing costs, also specify computer type (IBM or Mac), as well as disk size and density. Allow 2 weeks for delivery. Note that YGDRASIL MAGAZINE is free when downloaded from Ygdrasil's World-Wide Web site at http://users.synapse.net/~kgerken.

All poems copyrighted by their respective authors. Any reproduction of these poems, without the express written permission of the authors, is prohibited. All paintings and visual art copyrighted by the respective artists. Any reproduction of these works, without the express written permission of the artists, is prohibited. YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts - Copyright (c) 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996 and 1997 by Klaus J. Gerken. The official version of this magazine is available on Ygdrasil's World-Wide Web site http://users.synapse.net/~kgerken. No other version shall be deemed "authorized" unless downloaded from there. Distribution is allowed and encouraged as long as the issue is unchanged. All checks should be made out to: YGDRASIL PRESS

* Klaus Gerken, Chief Editor - for general messages and ASCII text submissions. Use Klaus' address for commentary on Ygdrasil and its contents. the address is:  kgerken@synapse.net

* Pedro Sena, Production Editor - for submissions of anything that's not plain ASCII text (ie. archives, GIFs, word processed files, etc) in any standard DOS, Mac or Unix format, commentary on Ygdrasil's format, distribution, usability and access. Please remove the spamming letters to email: shamen@pacifier.com

Please note that photographs will not be returned unless return postage and a S.A.S.E. are provided. But we'd love to hear from you anyway!

We can also accept submissions through the newsgroup alt.centipede, Getting it through email is easier, and the newsgroup is a better way for us all to meet and yak it up all the time.

Or mailed with a self addressed stamped envelope, to: