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About This Author
A changeling spirit,
constantly evolving,
revolving around an inner core,
spinning forth legend and lore,
stories and lives
as I come to grips
with who and what I am,
have been and may be.
I am a phoenix:
rising ever above and beyond!
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Construct Cup V 2.0 #819610 added June 13, 2014 at 1:37pm
Restrictions: None
Camelotian Legacy
Prompt for: June 13, 2014
Subject or Theme: Royalty
Word(s) to Include: vague, fidelity
Forbidden Word(s): Arthur, bridge, castle, crown, damsel, dragon, duchess, duke, Harry, honor, horse, Kate, king, kingdom, knight, lady, lord, majesty, moat, musketeer, queen, prince, princess, realm, royal, sword, throne, tiara, tower, William (or Will)
Additional Parameters: Minimum 24 lines of free verse (no forms). Remember, do not use forbidden words ANYWHERE, including title.
Camelotian Legacy
When others played white hat/black hat
cops and robbers games as children
I opted for the heroes of centuries gone by
choosing, instead, to emulate
the hooded robin
or Excalibur wielding blue-blood
defending the keep.
There was a sparkle ingrained
in the old stories that I could not resist.
That's where X marked the spot for me.
Crenelated Camelot where one named Wart
could rise to the top from lowly squire
to create round-table chivalric justice:
my version of white hats winning the day.
Days of breeches with bow slung across my back,
when my arrows found their mark:
might for right and justice for all.
Summer weeks high in my maple tree fort,
monarch of all I surveyed
even if it was just darning needles and butterflys.
My grandmother, Annie
(having had intimate friendship
with those of upper lineage)
spread picnics on the lawn
while serving high teas
with fingers crooked,
scones and marmalade moments.
She would teach me croquet,
why sometimes setting a table involved four forks
and that it was a manner of behavior,
of eloquence, of elegant thought –
a state of mind,
that let a cat peer up and lick the best of creams.
Then I would run off to battle
mythical beasts with a wooden stick
slashing at the fires,
save the maiden and the day.
Summers of magic that I never grew too old
to practice, to enjoy, to write,
though, at times,
there were vague rumblings
I should act my age.
My grandmother would brush the hay
from her long, bodice-ed silk and brocade gown,
wink at me
and then we would finish painting our shields.
The motto painstakingly painted on mine was
Fide et fortitude, quod tu te credeor.
(By fidelity and fortitude,
you are what you believe yourself to be.)
It now is both my motto and my shield.
I tilt at windmills and defend the down-trodden.
My Camelot days grew beyond 'one brief shining moment'
to encompass far, far more.
Camelot can never end.
It has no beginning; therefore,
by edict,
it cannot end; only change.
We are ever "Less than a drop
in the great blue motion of the sunlit sea.
But, it seems that some of the drops sparkle,
some of them do sparkle."*
*The closing words of the musical, "Camelot"
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