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GRYPHON: EYE OF THE STORM
Swift and mighty, the gryphon leaps into the air, her wings beating like feathery drums to an Olympian magnitude! She rises, her grandeur meeting the sky as a superb and cloudless queen, questing after exciting adventures. In dreamy flight, she imagines her majestic opinicus, winged king of the mountain skies, lover of the regal queen. Sudden violence interrupts her bemused imaginings in the form of a giant windstorm. Tornado falls upon her! Gryphon cries, her madness dragging her down, spiraling, screeching her way into the vortex of wind, faster, and faster, wings beating at the whirlpool rage, growling, howling, scowling into the surge, a gryphon’s grimace indeed strange to behold. Slowly, slowly, the wind surrenders her, descending, ending as swirling eddies in the air, dancing down toward the still point, calmer and calmer, until the winds of war deposit Gryphon into the womb of peace, that she might birth the central silence; and in this place, she inherits the serene, golden moment that is found within the eye of the storm. |
The Lament of Wingless Kings and Queens
“O, my wingless Keythong King.
What is this sad song you sing?”
The hippogryph asks. “Why do you cry,
when you point your beak toward the sky?”
“I weep for the lost love
of my gryphon queen dove,”
he wistfully replies,
his beak pointed gently toward the skies.
“All that I hope for is soon undone
when I lose her love to the opinicus son!
The great Winged King will win my dove,
and forever be the keeper of the gryphon’s love.”
“Opinicus is The Keeper,
while Keythong is The Weeper,
bowing, kowtowing, and howling
to the moon of our inner prowling.”
“What of your wingless kryphon queen?”
The hippogryph asks. “Why to her do you not keen?
She, not the gryphon, is your truest friend.
If you looked to her, would your howling end?”
“Alas, the kryphon cannot procreate!
And neither can I be a suitable mate.
We, the old grounded, can never be bred;
thus the dreams of our seeds are already dead.”
The wingless kryphon soon joins his song,
and to her winged king she begs to belong:
“Please, Opinicus, as you love your gryphon,
think of me, the un-bonded kryphon.”
“I will be true to thee forever
if you agree to forget me never.
Opinicus King, please hear my cry,
when I point my beak toward your sky!”
“Enough!” They hear the sound of a hippogryph’s screeching.
“I am not one who is prone to preaching!
Nonetheless, you will utter a happier sound
if you point your beaks toward the ground.”
“Accept the fact that you have no wings
and you may find less need of such things.
Forget the winged beings! Cease your sorrowful cries.
Please, Wingless Ones! Look no more to the skies.”
“O, Hippogryph!” the kryphon boldly replies.
“We know you grow weary of our tiresome cries.
But our love, you see, has already been spent
after many suns of unending lament.”
“We care not so much for our lack of wings
as the sound of our love to eternity rings.
We are the wingless, robbed of our chicks
by the vicious gryphon’s sterilizing tricks.”
“O, Hippogryph!” the keythong adds on the sly.
“You have wings, so that you may take to the sky.
You know very well you can mate with a horse
and create offspring with him, as well, and of course.
“Please, Winged One, teach the wingless no more.
You must know your lecture won’t even our score.
We already know of our love for each other,
and together we journey, as sister and brother.”
“O, my wingless Keythong King.
What is this sad song you sing?”
The hippogryph asks. “Why do you cry,
when you point your beak toward the sky?”
“I weep for the lost love
of my gryphon queen dove,”
he wistfully replies,
his beak pointed gently toward the skies.
“All that I hope for is soon undone
when I lose her love to the opinicus son!
The great Winged King will win my dove,
and forever be the keeper of the gryphon’s love.”
“Opinicus is The Keeper,
while Keythong is The Weeper,
bowing, kowtowing, and howling
to the moon of our inner prowling.”
“What of your wingless kryphon queen?”
The hippogryph asks. “Why to her do you not keen?
She, not the gryphon, is your truest friend.
If you looked to her, would your howling end?”
“Alas, the kryphon cannot procreate!
And neither can I be a suitable mate.
We, the old grounded, can never be bred;
thus the dreams of our seeds are already dead.”
The wingless kryphon soon joins his song,
and to her winged king she begs to belong:
“Please, Opinicus, as you love your gryphon,
think of me, the un-bonded kryphon.”
“I will be true to thee forever
if you agree to forget me never.
Opinicus King, please hear my cry,
when I point my beak toward your sky!”
“Enough!” They hear the sound of a hippogryph’s screeching.
“I am not one who is prone to preaching!
Nonetheless, you will utter a happier sound
if you point your beaks toward the ground.”
“Accept the fact that you have no wings
and you may find less need of such things.
Forget the winged beings! Cease your sorrowful cries.
Please, Wingless Ones! Look no more to the skies.”
“O, Hippogryph!” the kryphon boldly replies.
“We know you grow weary of our tiresome cries.
But our love, you see, has already been spent
after many suns of unending lament.”
“We care not so much for our lack of wings
as the sound of our love to eternity rings.
We are the wingless, robbed of our chicks
by the vicious gryphon’s sterilizing tricks.”
“O, Hippogryph!” the keythong adds on the sly.
“You have wings, so that you may take to the sky.
You know very well you can mate with a horse
and create offspring with him, as well, and of course.
“Please, Winged One, teach the wingless no more.
You must know your lecture won’t even our score.
We already know of our love for each other,
and together we journey, as sister and brother.”
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