The Parable of the Rider and the Father
The Parable of the Jester and the King
What the Squire Heard
The Parable of the Knight and the Ogre
The Parable of the Rider and the Father
I saw a man on horseback
riding across the red plains.
In his hand he bore a sword.
On his arm he bore a shield.
On his back he bore a flag.
This, I thought, was valor incarnate.
In his path there stood a man.
On his back he bore a child.
On his legs he bore rags.
This, I thought, was a man doomed.
The knight shouted a challenge-
bold and true it rang.
"Your village must send forth a challenger,
lest the old ways be forgot,
lest the laws be trampled.
He must battle me here,
for the tribute you will give our king."
The poor man spoke-
soft and true his voice moved through the world like a dove.
"I am he.
I am what the village has to give."
The rider spoke again-
incredulous-
bold and true.
"You cannot fight me with a child upon your back!
You cannot fight me with rags upon your body!
Where is my true test? Where is the challenger?"
The poor man spoke-
bold and soft at once.
"I am he.
I cannot fight, but still I come.
We cannot afford another.
The rains did not come,
we cannot feed a horse.
The mine is done,
we cannot forge arms.
Our men are sick and our women are weary.
Our spirit is broken.
So here I am.
I am the challenger.
I am the offering."
"No."
The knight spoke, soft and true.
"Your spirit
is not broken,
and I would not fight you if it were.
My king shall know of your plight.
We do not treat our lands thus.
We do not starve our people thus.
I fear, mighty challenger,
that you have defeated me today,
and so my king owes your people a tribute."
And the knight rode back across the plains.
This, I knew, was compassion incarnate.
As the sun set, the yellow light flooded the plains.
The Parable of the Jester and the King
The jester brought forth a crown for the king,
made from yellow tin and blue eggshells.
"You bring me a joke!" roared the King,
his face red, his scepter swung forth,
and the false crown few through the clear blue sky.
"But Lord, you ask for them daily!"
The jester laughed and smiled,
red on his hat, blue on his belt.
"You cannot have it both ways!"
"I shall have it how I like,
little man,
especially before my guests!"
His cape swirled crimson as he stood.
His face burned crimson as he howled.
The jester bowed his head in humility while the king's swelled with pride.
What the Squire Heard
I spoke with the king.
What did he say?
Much and little. He was wroth.
For what reason?
I brought him no tribute.
Why?
The farmland was bare.
And did he send help?
No.
No?
No.
How could he not?
The coffers are bare.
But he builds a new mansion on the lake.
I know.
What will you do?
Choose.
Between?
Honor and compassion
If you choose honor?
I may change the king while the farmlands burn.
And compassion?
I may help the lands, though I be exiled.
I do not envy your choice.
The Parable of the Knight and the Ogre
The Tale
As I went across the world
I met a man with golden curls.
He sat on stump with staff in hand
And asked me kind if I would stand
To hear his story, kind and good.
He said lands where wind does blow,
There is a cave where none will go.
An ogre, crimson, strong and dire,
Dwells in there and rules the mire,
And dreams to one day rule the wood.
From far and wide came knights and men
To slay the monster in his den.
No sooner would they cross the land
Than he would slay them, wear their hand
Around his neck.
The man had he no skill at arms,
And so he left to ply his charms:
To find the skill that he did lack
He left with scarcely time to pack
And thus his trek.
The man he now implored to me,
That I should forthwith come with he,
To beard the monster in its cave,
To show that I was true and brave,
To save his kinsfolk bitter fates.
And so I stand now breathing hard
On blasted heather, black and charred.
With sword in hand and shield on back,
To see if courage I, too, lack:
Before me now, the ogre waits.
The Fight
A sword, raised.
A hammer, hefted.
Steel flashes.
Wood falls.
Man and beast bellow.
The earth drinks red.
Golden light falls through clouds.
The wind changes.
The monster flees.
The man falls.
Hands drag him.
Hands hold him.
Hands protect him.
Courage and cowardice both feed today.
The Reward
My squire has returned to me
At the closing of the day.
He says the townsfolk saw my fight
And drove the beast away.
I smile to hear the tale of strength,
Although I wince and groan:
Never have I been so proud
Of victory not my own.
