Searching for Truth - A Poem

Wispy winds carry me along

To my shadowed hiding place

Where I write this tender song

Every night of all the days.

I go there in the evenings,

I stay there till the morn;

I pen my songs and leave for dawn

Where waits my life forlorn.

An answer floated by me

Once on a summer day

While I perched up in an oak tree

The answer slipped away.

I go there for the answers,

I stay there till the morn;

I pen my songs but nothing comes,

To light my life forlorn.

-JW

Cat Monologue 1 - In the Way of Things...

In the way of things, I guess I cannot complain for what happened. It was only a matter of time until Stupidface managed to get past the fence and crash my writing capabilities. But honestly, can't a dog just lie down and go to sleep? Now I have to write on this infuriating device they call a "computer" instead of my ergonomic typewriter. I was in the middle of my greatest masterpiece, my manifesto, when that idiotic pug smashed into my office and ripped everything to shreds! Ooh, what's this? A delete button! I never had one of those on my typewriter...

Anyway, I've had to start my extremely epic masterpiece all over again, and no longer do I have a hard copy continually on hand...at least until I can figure out this "printer." I mean, honestly! Using two devices to do what the typewriter by itself can accomplish? That sounds like a waste of resources to me.

Announcement: Concerning the Inspector Wolfe Tales

Friends! Readers! Bloggermen! Lend me your ears;

I come to bury Wolfe, not to praise him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is often interred with their bones;

Let it be so with Wolfe.

-Adapted from Mark Antony's speech, Julius Caesar, by William Shakespeare

It is true, readers. I am discontinuing the Inspector Wolfe Tales. I shall be supplementing my blog instead with poetry and writing. Inspector Wolfe will live on, but I will not be posting any more of his lore.

The reasoning behind this decision is simple: since the Inspector Wolfe Tales was so long, it was hard for new readers to be incoporated into the blog, when all they saw was "Part 64,000,000" on the very top post. So, I shall discontinue it. I will post stories, poetry, and thoughts of various types on here, and try to be more consistent in my posting, but the Wolfe will be no more, except in the tab above, where I will fill in all of his saga that has been posted for anyone who wants to read it. But there will be no new installments, no clues, no leads, no suspects, no cucumbers, no sporks or spork-hats.

Here lies our friend, the Inspector

James Hamilton Wolfe

(2012-2013)

May he ever rest in peace

The Fall of Marduk Thunderfist

ATTENTION YE READERS!

This is a poem I wrote a long time ago. I have a lot of nonsense words, interpret those as you will. Thus I am classifying it as nonsense poetry. It is to be read in an Irish or Scottish accent for best results.

The Fall of Marduk Thunderfist

By JW Ball

In Frockentime my dear

They slordeled our flocks of rode

They reigned in torible sneer

And the moniring banks had flowed.

Vendar Frockenschlammer

That iron fist of woe

Didst Marduk of amour

In battle fight and so

The florting cries aloud,

"My love, hast thou been strowned?"

But yet in shatter found,

The body of a king.

As Marduk Thunderfist

In torible torror stood,

From whence, yea, from berist!

That flongen traitor would

End good Marduk's short life.

Cry, "Banter and abroad,

Our bloodish fields didst nod,"

For Marduk swornen fell.

Dead he bled on the bulgy green,

The battle brought him dead,

His body still unseen,

Nor yet his scarlet head.

And forthwith the tumneys

Crowed, "Crockle and a fell,"

Marduk was in the dell,

And smitten lay he there.

The Prossian armies won;

The Flangish tide was beat,

And the battle, it was done.

A shepherd's sheep did bleat,

And so Marduk was found:

"Thou didst with ardor fight;

Carry him home tonight."

And the cock didst woery gow-bray.

In Frockentime my dear

They slordeled our flocks of rode

They reigned in torible sneer

O'er Marduk's old abode.

The President - A Short Story

The sweaty rain fell upon the earth in hordes upon hordes, like a volley of liquid spears thrown down at the armies of the world. The whipping wind stirred it into spirals as it fell, creating a tearing vicious storm in the hands of the darkness. The bleeding sky tore open in a brilliant flash of forked light. A crack tumbled forward, carried on the wings of the wind, as if a veil had been torn.

In the light the President thought he could see faces, ghostly shapes in the darkness beyond the weeping window. Their eyes, pale and weak, shone with a determined light that was at the same time brave and dwindling.

He could always see them on rainy nights. He remembered these faces well. He remembered the motorcade, the darkness, the slashing storm that bit into the cheeks of hearty men much braver than he. They had protected him. He had not protected them.

He remembered with grave detail the feel of the fountain pen in his hand, the peculiar way it slightly slipped every single time, every single time he inscribed the “u” into the grainy papers at 2:00 a.m. At 2:00 a.m. his signature had changed forever. Even today the pen, the same pen, slipped.

“There’s no such thing as solace,” muttered the President. “No such thing.” He turned his head down and stared at the carpet. All he could hear in the rumbling of the thunder was the firing of the guns. All he felt was the press of the seat into his shoulder as he was flung down away from the window. The lightning was a flashing muzzle. Seven men gave life and limb. Seven men to whom he was more indebted than to anyone, and whom he could never repay. Seven men, seven years ago. Now it was his last night in the Oval Office. He turned away from the window.