Tonight’s poem is this year’s official entry where I speak to the poet in my head and say, “I’ve got nothin’. Go write it without me.” This is what happens when I let these things write themselves.

Poem Write Thyself

The elder Gods, the ancient ones,

The ones we would deny.

The elder Laws, the ancient ones,

The ones we would defy.

We who now walk where legends strode,

With our diminished stride.

Pretend we are the pinnacle,

Yet know the truth inside.

The elder Gods, the ancient ones,

Forgotten not unmade.

Technology and med’cine now,

The ones we call for aid.

The elder laws, the ancient ones,

We flaunt and wonder why.

We have no blessings, find no peace,

And bitter tears we cry.

The rules were so clear back then,

Those were much simpler days.

The elder laws, the elder Gods,

All understood their ways.

We tell ourselves that times have changed,

That’s our excuse for all.

But when our need is at it’s worst,

It’s them we seek to call.

We call them by a different name,

Than what they used to know.

But they still recognize the tone,

Though we have wronged them so.

So now and then, our broken prayers,

An ancient God will find.

And they may grant our desperate wish,

But not ’cause they are kind.

There is a price that we must pay,

If their aid we would seek.

The ancient laws are very clear,

Their terms often quite bleak,

The elder Gods obey the laws,

Which most men have forgot.

Their aid is earned or bargained for,

But never can be bought.

So when our science and our skill,

Fall short of greatest need.

We may invoke the elder Gods,

The law says if we bleed.

For it is long since sacrifice,

Was offered for their fame.

And blood will buy forgiveness for,

Forgetting any name.

If you would seek the aid of them,

Beware the price you pay.

For elder Gods and elder laws,

Take blood the elder way.

Cheers, Winston