~Poems of Mischevael.

[Mischevael]

Redwall, Redwall bear no delusion.
There should be no exclusion, to my words lest the newly found position.
That has him, in his chasm till he come to full disillusion.
Teach a hard lesson in his callow youth the results bound to his decision:

Mischevael's principle of that thing.
That you wouldn't, that you do.
That you pursue, that you would and are caught.
That you think is better, is your fetter that does so woo you.
That you desire is what you will but would that you not.
That you crave.
Is that which drave, your will to bend despite.
That will end, my friend in an early grave.
Or at least send you screaming into the night.
That in the mind.
That is so well designed, that the will is so captivated.
That breaking, would be a great undertaking that you'd find.
That you've been checkmated.
That you would not do.
That you plot to, yet you contemplate on how to sever.
Yet that you fail, and the guilt to assail has long sought you.
And you lean this way forever.
That you think you have no control, beware.
Lest that which you dare, will not take long.
Until that is compromised, and rationalized unto idealized despair.
Reasoning that it does you no wrong.
That darling thing you must protect.
Not knowing that life will be shipwrecked, by your fun.
Or that the cause, of violated laws will bear the effect.
Till reality sets upon you and you see what you've done.

[Mischevael]

Redwall, Redwall I am the path from habit to character the chasm to span.
If you ran, into me you'd have to break my binding spell.
By having Nature assisted in her efforts, don't tell me truth hurts little man.
Because it hurts like hell:

Mischevael and the path to recovery.
Says the mouse, of bay color:
"Would you discover, your own plight.
Will you give more, only to live for:
Waking dreams, and screams into the night.
I am that, at which they tilt.
I am guilt, from their discovery.
I am their challenge, and yet its revenge.
I am their load, and the road to recovery.
As everything is cast, into a cocked hat.
I am that, which creates it.
Ascertain the cause, of violated natural laws.
And quell, what you can tell exasperates it.
You know, it won't kill you.
So will you, try and see?
They must not forsake it, and in order to make it:
Do not be shy, and you must get by me.
I am the rebelling against nature.
Till it shall mature, into degradation.
She is to be assisted, but is resisted.
And man is hurled, into a world of conflagration.
I am the wisdom, of man.
That can, have you its slave.
To become self repeating, and self defeating.
Till nature's dissenter, shall enter the grave."

Redwall, Redwall the years are before you.
The more you, enjoy what needs be the better the laughter.
Lest a void whose expanse, will perchance consume to the very core in lieu.
And this be your epitaph forever:

Mischevael and the life wasted.
I am the gateway to the realm of unreality.
I am when it changes your personality.
I am the bending knees, in the confusion knowing not wherefrom.
I am when it shall overwhelm, in the realm of the dancing palm trees.
Beckoning the vortex come.
I am character sold in lieu.
When you allow them to mold you.
I am the black hole, inside your mind.
I am the alter of the dark star, of the faltering black soul.
The heart of stone fate has designed.
I am all what your spirit did.
In one who is too free spirited.
How far can you go, before the silver cord shall loose?
When all that you achieved, has you grieved for you did not know.
Your life was a wild goose.
I am when your depression tries this.
In your midlife crisis.
Seeing you didn't take the path, to walk in it.
Take care, lest life is turned into idealized despair full of wrath.
As the pieces don't seem to fit.
Gazing long into the abyss without a clue.
I am when the abyss gazes into you.
You thought you did all you can, but in retrospect you just can't tell.
Failing in your efforts, don't tell me truth hurts little man.
Because it hurts like hell.

Redwall, Redwall.
Take care lest you fall, you think you have but time is much shorter.
To do as you please, in the realm of the dancing palm trees beckoning the vortex call.
If you should fail to put things in order.
For you may have lofty goals.
Which not many souls, have attained.
In lieu, of undergoing the true undertaking their life is now full of holes.
For the real things of life were never ascertained:

Mischevael's principle of the best of times.
Those who feel they need to be the best.
Do not know inner peace instead wrest.
Pride and ambition, will be them.
They can't see the hindrance, of intemperance and selfish position.
They don't know how to properly carpe diem.
They do not let growth come naturally.
They may grow but not fully.
They rush through life, pushing all out of the way.
Full of take and little give, inviting the negative and strife.
Leaving the presumptuous positive to have sway.
It is good to grow.
But I'll have you know.
If you don't take your time, or know when to stop.
To form relations things that matter, the real situations as you climb.
It will be lonely at the top.
There's not much time left in this world.
Only now matters in the life we're hurled.
Let it be fresh in the mind, seize the moment.
Lest when life around you, has wound down to an end you find.
It has passed you by with no atonement.
They turn the present into sorrow.
Having their heads into the morrow.
They will succumb, to the cost.
When with all they could, if any good should come.
They'll think that moment lost.

Redwall, Redwall will you listen to reason?
This, my contribution to the season, as you're guilty of time.
Waste away the moment, only to foment treason.
As I drink my seasonal wine:

Mischevael and the Autumn of Life.
Make a pot of tea.
To get caught in the very season.
Reminisce, but not miss as time is brought from the lee.
For sentimental reason.
Making use of being alone.
Sit and listen to the wind moan through the window's leeway.
As one believes, he is as the leaves as he is prone.
To succumb to the wind and blow away.
I am when one is unaware.
That his share of time is close to forfeit.
For he does not realize, he has compromised it unto despair.
When he does not make better use of it.
Like the leaves you could be at your best.
But they only contest for your wasting of time afore.
Then enter, the winter when they're laid to rest.
And remembered no more.
Let your beauty be displayed.
As Mother Nature is arrayed in a colorful birth.
Have selfless love caress, to leave a loving impress of a lasting shade.
Before you go down into the earth.
I am fate and the lonely.
I am the melancholy the end of destiny.
The one thing you can give, is how you live your life only.
And to get the best of me.

Redwall, Redwall you follow the seasons as the wind blows.
As time is in the throes, of days of future past when it shall dawn.
Letting the moment have sway, as your Labor day comes and goes.
Will the memories be consolation when the thrill is forever gone:

Mischevael's theory of farewell.
This is ludicrous.
To kiss, each other good-bye.
Lengthy farewells, forbid happy trails so to ever miss.
To see each other again may not be true but it's a good lie.
Our time together was like Wonderland.
We must understand, we may never have another chance.
So to turn our hopes, into ropes of sand.
Lest fate permits perchance.
We are as the leaves of autumn at a new phase to enter.
As the winter blight, is at the door.
A new day shall dawn, when they're all gone covered ever so gentler.
By the snow to be remembered no more.
There shall be time to mourn.
And be forlorn, as the lonely winter nights shall bring.
Where the future, holds wounds with the suture torn.
Till comes the spring.
Where old memories forgotten.
With the experience taught within, has new grounds a laying.
It is true, we shall fade as new life is begotten.
Born of the leaves decaying.
But now let's not have it foment.
Tears with no atonement, so to never forgive the morrow.
Oh would, that we could sustain this moment.
Yet parting is such sweet sorrow.

[Mischevael]

Redwall, oh Redwall, I see you stand again.
I hope you can understand me then, with better allure.
Only with the help of time, will the lonely hope to find.
Themselves to be forgotten no more:

Down the proverbial rabbit hole.
When your own world shall fool you.
When others lull you, into what they think should pass.
Needs and wants in your face, a classic case of push me pull you.
When either way you're thrown through the looking glass.
When time seems to well avenge things.
When the springs, loose in the clock decree.
The insurrection of mind does foment, then the moment brings.
Beware the Jabberwocky.
You gaze long into the abyss.
As things ludicrous, seem the status quo as never before.
Despair in confusion, as you bear the illusion lost amid all this.
As it gazes in you as if to be remembered no more.
All you've done was lend a hand.
Yet there's no one to understand, to grasp what you've clearly shown.
Turning hopes, into ropes of sand.
Leaving you to face your demons alone.
Your will though strong is locked in a tower.
When the power, over you is effectual.
When facing it your opposing will, in closing will cower.
When the cry for help is subtextual.
Follow the rabbit he'll show you many things yet.
But there's no telling how deep it'll get, as you enter within his hole.
Through the catacomb, where all once known now lie in oubliettes.
To take back what the dissenter stole.

Redwall, my Redwall a place of solace.
Where even all this, is only a stitch in the making.
Let us not desert you ever again, to leave you an empty lot, barren.
With all you have wrought within, to be forgotten amid time's undertaking:

Mischevael and the tale of time.
I am the rundown, weather-beaten ramshackle.
That was tackled, by years of neglect altogether.
Oh the stories, and memories as a glorious tabernacle.
Now forgotten forever.
I am the field.
Where they decided to build it, with a beautiful garden.
Once every flower, now thorns and thistles tower to its yield.
Never to bring forth its ardent beauty again.
I am the remnants of the scarecrow.
Once happy to know, he is set guard over beauty.
Once chased love away, now they're here to play to show.
He'll never again perform his cherished duty.
I am its lonely road.
The only road, bordered by a rustic, wooden fence.
Lined with trees, with leaves in the breeze in lonely ode.
That hasn't been walked upon since.
I am the stones in the babbling brook.
That overlooks, the winding path.
With the leaves in its flow, carried away in the slow time it took.
Now dried up in the midst of time's wrath.
I am the woods that hide this time honored treasure.
Witness to the pleasure, the setting has taken.
And gratitude, for the solitude given without measure.
Now forever forsaken.

[Mischevael]

Redwall, oh Redwall.
Deadwood, Redwood, hollowed firm or fall.
How does one weigh attributes and mistakes?
Is the mouse to stand as said judge of all?
To retaliate with retributes.
Or understand the individual, hare, hedgehog, otter and those in the middle.
Knowing his ascertaining of patience and learning is all that it takes:

Mischevael's theory on perfection.
What is perfect?
Is there not one thing to be picked?
I say nothing, ranks a ten.
But I tell you what is, in this quizzing thing.
Sit back and listen.
Everyone is in a stage.
Of growth, a sort of phase.
In their own sphere they are, except they are imperfect.
Study the corn, in every form of development shown here.
And see how imperfect perfection doesn't conflict.
You have the seed.
Having every perfect composite in need.
Of proper soil, water, and sunlight.
Perfect in its sphere, if anything should queer it shall spoil.
And not spring forth right.
Then you have the stalk.
Now it can walk the walk.
But the ear, is not yet.
Now, do you see how its sphere.
Is perfect but not fully set?
Then the blade.
Perfectly made.
But the ears, are not full.
Some produce a few, and in due time he nears.
The same goal as those with a lot full.
So if you are to judge, judge accordingly.
In the developmental stage proportionately.
In all fairness looming, if you know not whence.
Of the stage they come, don't succumb to careless assuming.
Remember, silence is eloquence.

[MeadowR]

I read through your first post thinking it was newly posted and saw at the end it was from 2014. I'm not too sure how to comment well on poems, but certainly from the first post and the last post which I have read, you have an intriguing style and I like that you keep linking them to Redwall/ers.

[Mischevael]

Redwallers of Redwall.
Do the best that you can, do the best that you are able.
Knowing the form and none of the substance, I cannot more strictly warn.
Get up when you fall, so the rest can prove your label showing you'll go the distance.
Remember those in the way.
Give respect to where you are, respect those who invite you into their space.
Let your peace so bring a sweet allure, an impress never ceasing.
Let a portion of yourself stay, to ever reflect as a member of the place as if to be forgotten no more:

Johann's fourth lesson in self.
Always do your best.
And the rest, will fall into place.
It should be all you plan to, what more can you?
Self competes with one, when it's done you'll have this to embrace:
Those who run, run all.
If you should fall, just get back up again.
Life's like boxing: you will get hit, either get up or forfeit.
It's alright to make, a mistake now and then.
Your best will change from moment to moment.
Do not let it foment, self rage at non-achievement.
Let not what part is disappointed, become disjointed.
Swallowing pride, or wallowing in self pity pick your bereavement.
Under any circumstance, do the best you can.
You are not Superman, have reasonable standards set.
And you'll avoid self judgment, and self begrudgement.
And constrain the use, of self abuse and regret.
Make sure it can be enjoyed.
Lest life be devoid, of what really matters.
And any loss will be too great to bear, as you take too much care.
And pride has no defense, as countenance shatters.
Those who feel they need to be the best.
Are caressed, in selfish ambition, ego, and futility.
Those thus hurled, are in competition with the world.
They are unstable, and unable to know tranquility.

Redwall oh Redwall fight, retreat, lose or win.
The infirmary for those who have fallen, to mend the bleeding wound.
Yet the future, has a wound no suture has yet bound.
For one's wounds that go deeper and are not as easily found.
When sanity cannot see past the portals of the tomb:

A correspondence from Sky Island.
"A broken phonograph?
Or having your thoughts laugh at you all day.
A taunting outcast, or haunting past?
A need to let go, or a permitted stowaway?
An argument misconstrued?
With the terms queued or a soliloquized lesson to learn.
Destabilization or conversation.
Just in and out of due season, or the winds of reason blown astern?
Should've done something differently?
Or subsequently keep to what conscience has forbidden.
Hearing voices, or regretting past choices.
Defenses built, or guilt-ridden?
When he, she, it, they come knocking down your door.
Will the moment be remembered no more, in lasting turbulence?
A serious blow or status quo.
Mother Nature's persuasion, home invasion or mind disturbance?
Raise your glass to mental health.
With demented stealth as each hour steals its chime.
You feel your progress, but still no egress.
Cerebrally detoxifying, or clocks defying time?
If you keep on going.
Not knowing the dangers to tell.
Then you've lost reality, with your curiosity.
And as your satisfaction satiates, opens wide the gates of hell."
Sky Island.

Redwall, Redwall stand firm and hold fast.
We've nothing to fear for the future except that we forget the past, and how we all got where we are.
We must learn from our experience, lest betray our conscience.
Destructive to discipline, obstructive to growth and thus proceed no more than we have gone thus far:

Dr. Hoodoo.
I am the host and physician.
With permission, I'll take you on a tour.
Of Sky Island, the mind's eye to send sanity into collision.
With the antagonist of reality where it is forgotten no more.
I am your conscience.
The sustenance you steal, the attention I vie for and is due me.
You play so well, but I can tell you've lied to everyone since.
But you can't lie to me.
The waking of lusts gone dormant.
Like a hanging ornament, reminds you of all its pleasure.
Intelligence, to decadence when the powers are all the more spent.
When your debt is now greater than your treasure.
Where the light of the basic cure is farthest.
It is always darkest, before the dawn.
Yet time held in suspension, to the crime of self starkness.
The thrill you so longed for now forever gone.
Not wanting your failures known.
You play what they want shown, having them do all the work.
So you keep hidden, what is forbidden even from yourself alone.
You play your responsibilities only to incidentally shirk.
The garden of the past where broken dreams dwell.
You see flowers by petals that fell, but thorns are what you find.
Where these ghosts, and all the hosts of hell.
Come play inside your mind.

[Mischevael]

~I remember in several of the books either read or listened to that a lot of their journeys began with a finding of some writing that read in like fashion of poetry. They had an introduction then the subsequent body that led them on their adventures. I in my own way have picked up on said use/method. They are works done for myself but to be presented for the enjoyment of anyone who would listen. Inspiration to thought to words to interpretation to enjoyment. From lessons to literary leisure, poetry when tied to the ambience gives a splash of color and fragrance to savor the use of the moment.
*************~Mischevael.

[Mischevael]

Redwall for all who travel the byway.
Stand straight, firm, and tall, for those downtrodden and new.
Brighten the soul, make them feel whole and welcome each day.
Yet there may be times when some make others blue:

Selv's theory of wet paint.
Wet paint people can't help but touch.
Their words are a reflection of their own insecurity.
Let the truth be your own protection in perpetuity.
Only let it be your shield not crutch.
Do not yield to their consumption.
Ofttimes your stolid or shy reluctance makes for a provocation.
The more closed you think to be.
The more an open link everyone will see.
Giving them all they need for their satiation.
Will there be any living, with others' sealed assumption.
As the days do not last.
So there may be breaking points.
Taking tolls with everything that disappoints.
Only hold fast.
Even gold must be drossed through the fiery bowels.
Let them have their flare.
He who lives in a tent.
Realizes all soon blows over gives in and shall relent.
As a tree may bend, but does not break so you should face and bear.
No matter how the wind howls.
It's about how you are found.
They see aught in you that they reason is wrong.
In or out of due season it is how you react to their song.
Keep principle and integrity, don't relent stand your ground.
Show them that you've already caught a star.
Remember, you are not to blame
They're ready to judge what they can not stand or tolerate.
Drudging amicable cessation proceeding to character assassinate.
Band together to draw you like gypsy moths to a flame.
So if you're to be damned be damned for who you really are.

Redwall, Redwall a warroir mounted within your halls.
Though one may seem one way, keep assumptions at bay.
Though a fox and mouse do not play.
Keep in mind, that those designed to become prey.
Should not be of those within your walls:

Sky Island's friendly warning.
Keep your friends close.
With a dose, of caution and affection.
Guard down with hug or handshake.
Hard bound with firm connection.
Lest find yourself in a quicksand mistake.
A natural, spurious, artificial, furious, or dire selection.
Faith in the stability.
The ability to see that all will be well.
Yet the truth you might find you've bid.
Having bet on what cannot sell.
Walking in the midst blinded.
Consolation prize, situation realized, or just the pangs of hell.
Keep your enemies closer.
Carefully you chose her, lest she undermine you.
Respect her until she is out of the way.
For she will either break or define you.
Either follow or change the rules of the game to play.
A special relation, hesitation, or remain bitter as quinine in lieu.
The enemy of your enemy is never a friend.
Only a means to an end, presumably bought.
The presumption is shaky at best.
Till the consumption has you caught.
Having conscience betrayed only pretentiously at rest.
All for themselves, can't swim in that he delves or deception fraught.
Situation seems complicated.
Predicated upon pros, cons, and what the players' savor.
Driven into one another's arms.
Given into the temptation of his laver.
Blind to red flags deaf to all alarms.
The mission of Dr. Hoodoo, or the physician's voodoo he gave her.

[Captain Tammo]

So many poems wow! 

Can I ask, what's your inspiration? Or I guess a question better suited for a poet like yourself, how did you find your muse?

[Mischevael]

~In a word: time. I've written over 750. The first ones though perfect in the their sphere and stage of development, left plenty to desire upon. As time went by they improved gradually and their expressions were made clearer and more toned. New patterns and rhythms emerged as new points and meanings presented themselves. As one grows in one particular, more facets of how it is expressed appear. If one neglects these stages of growth, the particular wanes and dies away. Nothing is where you finally say, 'I have arrived,' you are either growing or dieing. The mind is like a muscle, if it is not exercised it turns to flab. However, there must be a balance. As you grow in one, others must have the same attention, lest they too wither and die. All it takes is a set determination, a willingness to go forward, a marrying all of this with an action, and time to learn, grow, and expand.
*************~Mischevael.

[Mischevael]

Redwall, Redwall endeavor to take care.
Lest you lay for yourself a decisive snare, for the cares of this age.
The thirst for more, to be worse off than before.
Oblivious until the sound of the locking cage:

Selv's warning to shun its very beginnings.
If you come to a turning point tested.
Take care lest you are bested, and have that you desire.
The heart of stone, with many yet alone.
Driven to be slave unto ambition and lust's fire.
Your failure to turn away.
Has the lesson to learn another day, come again more fierce.
The lack of principle, that would make wise the simple.
Makes for no less a coward if one took a blade to the heart to pierce.
Because he fought not.
His sole lot, will be his damning worth.
Greater crimes stain cannot remove, as he his might try to prove.
Only to demonstrate the necessity to be blotted from the earth.
The measure of faith given to man.
Suffices enough that he can, overcome an overwhelming tide.
If he turns his foot from the path, he will witness the wrath.
Of the violation having succumbed to the carnal man whenever he vied.
Because you traded integrity, principle, and character for pleasure.
Your measure, is subservience to your devises as cowards cannot quell.
Failing in your efforts, do not tell me truth hurts.
Because it burns searing hot the fires of hell.
With habits of like fashion.
The fulfillment of selfish passion, will be his crutch.
Illusions he will bear, rationalized unto idealized despair.
A man who falls by a little will also fall by much.

[Mischevael]

Redwall, Redwall you think to enjoy it all.
You turn your home into your city, a place of comfort, and security, a convenience isolated.
A run of the mill, unto repitition, until the thrill of it all is under complete submission.
To become a lesson you'll learn, as you see your coveted world.
Hurled into the hell it created.
Such a pity.

Seeing the world through a grain of sand or its revolution through a window pane damned.

At the first weeks of vernal.
Where hopes spring eternal and the dismal days are gone.
Brilliant greens and brighter rays, fill the void of nakedness and greys.
Finding joy in sunsets, in hues of pinks, purples and scarlets at dusk and at dawn.
With the sun rising high.
And a mercuric sigh, brings a much needed race for change.
To a favored vacationing place, or solitude in a quiet space.
To return rejuvenated, and to renew an underrated home once estranged.
The gathering clouds and a heavier wind.
Soon a relief they to send, and to warn of quenching the thirsting rose.
For without the days of thunderous forlorn, there would be no petals only thorns.
To the entering of the fall, heralded by the centering of the shadows.
The colors change with temperature and time.
Squirrels climb, as shadows rise from the rustling trees not to be stirred long.
With bluer skies, clouds more discernable to the eyes.
The shortening of daylight, to be followed by the night bird's song.
When the fresh cold air without and the warm heat within have kissed.
And the year reminisced, the days to remember are recalled unto satiation.
Around the fireplace with each crackling ember, to friends or family members.
So the cold blasts of wintry hours, pass sweetly by the powers of the imagination.
Home is where the heart is.
Where one imparts his dose, of various treasures thus housed.
To be kept close, to satiate the desires even the subtle and gross.
A want for a cost, to soon think that moment lost -the cycle espoused.
Sweet is the home only.
As a lonely solitary yearn, from which it is to be arisen.
When you leave and return, lest hard be the lesson to learn.
As reality sets upon the mind, and find it be your prison.

[Nadaz, voice of the host]

Wow your poems are amazing!

[The Skarzs]

Wow, you must spend some serious thought and time on these!

[Mischevael]

Redwall, oh Redwall, the first will be met with the last.
Only let not your present be subject to your past, lest miss moments to seize.
There could be little hope of atonement, when such a moment is lost.
Keep to your knowledge of right, do not compromise principle, let correction bring the change.
It is simple, as a chapter is closed, the present is exposed in light of your future opportunities.
Live not for today as though no tomorrow, lest that day arranged in sorrow.
*******Brings forth that past with regret, at a fretful cost.*******

To divorce the bitter from the sweet.
Will be met only with bitter defeat, in defiance of the tapestry life composes.
To tatter or fray the twine, will but mar her design.
For yesterday warns, that without the thorns, how will you know what the rose is?

"You cannot smell the buttercup, without getting pollen up your nose."

As you cannot divest living and toil, comfort and pleasure from peril and pain; we are to make of history, our experience; without having our experience repeat history. Let the thorns alone, for they will only wound you. Gather the pinks and the roses.

"Loss and possession, death and life are one,
There falls no shadow where there shines no sun."
-Hilaire Belloc.

Selv's principle encouragement.
Within the tree of generations.
Cycles of continuation, and remembrance.
We've naught to fear of the future, except the wound of forgotten past without suture.
Embrace your fault, it is the very salt of your experience.
As chapters close.
Through the throes, of the wintry chill.
With the shortening of days, and the veiling of warmer rays.
We are encouraged to cope, our future is hope as we keep quiet and still.
The seasons pass with their own stories.
The spring with its own glories, to weeds and insect swarms.
To the summer trees' green canvas pave, to enduring its heat wave.
The cool autumn beauty, heralding a duty as signs of winter form.
With the cold blasts of winter nights.
Come clearer lights, even amid gloomy skies.
Though empty and quietly the rustling winds gave, the stillness of the grave.
Cardinals perch in lively red, their songs relieve the dread with peaceful sighs.
Tomorrow is the turning of the page.
Setting a new stage, for your chapter.
New leaves to bring, a more cheerful spring.
For it was the substance, of that hope, evidence we learned to capture.
Place the old upon the shelf.
To have yourself, ready for each day as a precious gift.
Keep time in his order, the present has no room for another to quarter.
Lest memory lane, is remembered in vain as the present is but the past adrift.
To feel the loss of family or friend.
Is to share the loss of petals as the rose weeps for the end, only to wait another day.
When all is forgotten, and new buds begotten.
The petals remembered no more as life is forgiven, when the wind has driven them away.