Dragonrod

Painting by Boris Vallejo

Dragonrod

On soft nights I just nuzzle Erin
to the lovely Celtic accompaniment
of bodhran, pipes, flute, and whistle,

but on the hard nights I always become
Lugh, who was the Irish God of War,
as well as a wright, smith, champion
swordsmen, king, harpist, historian,
and poet,

atop my tall white war steed,
my great hound Fallinis at my side,
hearing my battle name Longhand
being chanted above the hellish din;

finding myself always then in silence,
always at the Second Battle of Tuirreadh,
out in front of my loyal troops, facing
the sorcerer, my grandfather Balor--
he of the evil-eye, that which when opened
kills all it looks upon, me like David,
carrying only a sling-rod, but each time
on that dream day as Balor lifts
the pigskin patch over his enchantment,
I loose my tathlum, shooting it true,
striking that poisonous orb corneal center,
driving it maliciously back into his brain,
bringing him down with a loud thud;

just as his murderous troops begin their screaming surge,
and I am handed Areadbhair, my personal lightning,
the greatest of mythical spears, the most blood-thirsty
of weapons, pulled from its poppyseed pail, struggling
against its thongs, it begins to roar, belching fireballs
from its volatile tip,

as I rush toward the enemy ranks, burning through
their shields, helmets, and viscera
like a hot dagger through lard, killing everything
and everyone for an hour, the spear never tiring
of the meticulous slaying,

until I stand on a steaming pile of corpses
and freshly-hacked body parts, quickly sheathing
the poppyseed-soaked scabbord
over the bloody maw twitching
at the end of my tired arms,

always awakened before the celebration,
still only a dream champion, who
must face yet another dun day
in a world of grey shadows.


Glenn Buttkus

March 2012

Listed as #19 over at dVerse Poets-Poetics

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