Dark Sentiments Season 8 — Day 20: Sebastian’s Voodoo
Posted By Randy on October 20, 2017
“The warrior’s tale is no happy thing. It is bitter as bile and dark as death. But it is also a grand and glorious thing. For even in its full naked truth, it is the story of perseverance in the face of every agony and betrayal. It is the tale of how we live and why we die.” ~ The Warrior’s Tale
Those words come from one of two exquisite articles suggested to me two years ago by way of a comment left by the ever thoughtful and Esteemed Jay Heathman (of whom I’ve previously spoken) on my piece titled The Stranger at the Door. I offer them to you to set the mood for tonight’s Dark Sentiment.
Sebastian’s Voodoo won the National Film Board of Canada’s 2009 Online Film Competition, and in one tidy little package tells the tale of Sacrifice.
Your dram won’t be wasted, Goode Reader, if paired with this dark morsel from the mind of Joaquin Baldwin.
To say that I am honored to be held in esteem by a warrior whom I so respect, is an understatement. Though I have been in less than the best of health for a couple of weeks, I am so touched by this remembrance and moved by this heart rending video that I wish to offer a poor effort that I wrote some years ago after a soul shaking event which best remains undisclosed. But it is offered with a full heart, to a true friend.
Old warrior’s lament
Exercise in haiku. Non-autobiographical.
My broken swords rust,
Banners lay sodden on earth
All is left behind.
Tall pines kissed by breeze
Purge from my mind and spirit
the scent of old blood
I kneel in cold streams
But only the tears of God
may wash my hands clean.
Because I wantonly flubbed the spacing in the above, when I should have placed spacing lines betwixt the stanzas, allow me to try to at least make amends with this, dedicated to all who have fought the good fight, yet wondered as the darkness fell,if the prize gained was worth the price paid.
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Ragnarok c. 2011 julian
Dreams of Valhalla and
Nightmares of Ragnarök ~
Screams of “Odin” and a hundred names
of other pagan gods rise in the
carrion air;
red mists and purple haze and yellow fog of death
crush Hope from your soul and leech
Courage from your heart
Replace all light with black despair…
false comrades fleeing madly past
leave you drowning in the trench
of death.
Horror haunts your mind and
weariness your limbs
no answering god, no wind of fortune, turns now to your aid.
Sodden earth anchors your feet, clay made
sacred and profane by
brains and blood and entrails spilt
like the spittle of Judas
on his hanging rope.
So now, alone, as death draws near,
there’s not one soul who vowed his sword
not one true voice of all you’d called
to stand on your St. Crispin’s Day –
The crimson skies are fading fast and only foes remain
close by.
As sight grows dark and strength bleeds out –
you laugh and lift once more your blade,
shed one last drop of foe’s red spray
Embrace cold death and the end of all
And know that for this you were born –
For black betrayal, death and Hell
your soul was cast into this world
a grim clay joke for the cold abyss
a nameless corpse beneath the feet
of those who mocked all holiness
who fought to honor their Moon God;
and those who soon will drink their mead
and laugh and love in their own Halls.
While you lie still at Ragnarök,
ravens sing thanks for your meat.
Huzzah, huzzah