I have a friend who is a published poet in Norway.

I showed her my work and she said I cannot claim to write sonnets.

I do not follow the established rules for sonnets laid down 400 years ago.

It's a new century and I'm taking sonnets into the Space Age I said.

Nuh-uh was her reaction.

OK.

No more sonnets.

I write fourteen line poems in iambic heptameter called Sonnitz! TM

Join me!

For a small fee.

The capitol quieter, the mob restrain’d, they turn’d once

More to planning the embassy to Bror. Ambassador

Need’d, they select’d Amit, a noble from the old

Forest of Hapalan. Competent but best known for hunts,

They hop’d he’d appeal to Moneos. Then away for Bror

They proceed’d, laden with gifts of silk, oak, beer, wine, and gold,

For such were most greatly lov’d by dwarves. They march’d in winter,

For regardless of season, most bitter cold would they meet.

Higher rose their road, steeper their trail, into the alpine

Land above the treeline, without vine or grape or vintner,

Sore were their backs, sore were their legs, sore were their eyes, of feet

The less said the better. Ysolde soaked them in hot salt’d wine.

Without her ministrations they’d still be on the white slopes.

Til at last they reach’d the entrance and could descend on ropes.

Scum! Said Abner from beside the Throne. Guess what would Mother

Say we had done. They stood together on jade Temple stair

And look’d on at the mess of the city below. Fires were

Burning on heaps of trash, and drunken mobs chas’d one another.

O Jamal, said Ysolde, this is our home. Tears shone on her

Cheeks, but she did not wail. She said, What must be done, fellows

To restore peace to the Emperor’s capital? And none

There thought it odd that Ysolde would ask as a full equal.

Hire half to arrest the other half, said Bob. His mellow

Wit was met with a deep silence, since almost everyone

Thought it was the best idea since receiving the eagle.

So that is in fact what they did, though it was very hard,

Bob’s bad joke became the start of the Imperial Guard.

Abner agreed, and Geoff ordain’d, and so to Bror was

Their embassy planned, and supplies gather’d in giant piles,

And strong porters hir’d on from among streams of applicants

For popular was the Empire in Argora. Abuzz

Were the crowds to serve the new dynasty in lavish style

With eager honest labor for the Imperial chance

Of glory with honor, something rarely then seen in days

Of petty kingdoms with fickle disputes and little wars.

So the common people were glad the Empire was restor’d.

And long lines of soldiers of fortune did roam the maze

Of Argora’s streets, drunk, and roistering with drunken whores,

All loudly pleading, Pardon us, Pardon us, August Lord!

For many understood this priestly king easily freer

To forgive a mercer his foul buccaneering career.

Jonachem spoke first, as was his wont, Start abroad in Bror

The dwarven kingdoms are in turmoil there, and the oil of

Imperial peacemaking should be spilt rather than blood.

Mostly physical are the chief obstacles, for the roar

Of avalanche is often heard in the passes there. For love

Of Maliva they ought embrace the Empire, which is good;

For fewer things are more stubborn than a royal dwarf.

I hope you do not mind a subterranean journey.

As a hindrance, they are as far as I know of, land-lock’d,

For Bror has no outlet to the seas, no port or deep wharf

They may be nigh indifferent to the divine tourney

That has gripp’d our Ombras coasts and our global commerce rock’d

Durkghu’s menace may not be felt keenly in the dark deep

Where Moneos king of Bror lays his crown’d head down to sleep.

The rain was a reminder of Durkghu’s submarine threat

So while the city celebrated in Imperial style

The confederates gather’d anew in Geoff’s palace

An ornate relic of past union and peace. They all met

In the throne room of checkerboard flag and lapis wall tile

Geoff on the throne, Abner at his side, a gold chalice

Of sweet wine in his hand, and poor Jonachem at his feet

A symbolism that did not escape the cleric’s notice

But he let it pass, being early days. Geoff spoke loud

And the others were still, to hear their new Emperor greet

And thank them, and ask their response to the divine menace

For Geoff was a modern monarch, and his court allow’d

Solicit’d advice sincerely given to the Throne

Although Geoff disdain’d secret free advice for him alone.

Cecil the Paladin spent some weeks’ time rallying the lords

Of Armatta, which to him was a sport and fun, rather

Than serious hard work. So while Jamal dallied, and Bob

Fought garou, and Edmund mop’d, and Saul hik’d, Cecil with his words

Exhorted vehemently in Maliva’s name with blather

So that most believ’d the Empire must come, and a small mob

Of agreeable lairds follow’d Cecil about Armatta.

Towards Argora’s holy Temple they made procession.

So that at high full moon in cold winter they did arrive.

No Romanov, no Bourbon, no Hapsburg or Mahratta

Had greater pomp and circumstance. Edmund’s intercession

For Geoff’s coronation did meet with acclaim and thrive.

So it was that Jonachem in winter, amid cloudburst,

Did from jade stair proclaim the Empire of Geoff the First.

Now a miracle was wrought, or so it seem’d. For in their

House the will of their Matriarch was as constant as the

Burning heat of noonday sun. But in this moment the disc

Set, as even Apuchi must. Angela bent head there

And bless’d Edmund, the coming and going of him, and she

Even bless’d the Empire and his Imperial risk.

And the mood in the room lighten’d, and there was no question

That Geoff’s intercession had guid’d what had just transpir’d.

And there was a satisfaction within the company.

But then Angela rose and complain’d of indigestion

Unable to tolerate food and divinely inspir’d

Rebuke. She sat in her room staring at nothing to see.

So it was alone at dawn of the next day that Edmund rode

And left forever Taraf, the elegant, his former abode.

It was Geoff who spoke next, with his booming tenor voice

Train’d for the pulpit of the Temple itself by Angela

In earlier days when it seem’d Geoff might be High Priest.

Now he spoke, and though address’d straight ahead, his subject choice

Was aim’d at his Mother. In the silence the cupola

Above rang with his cry, Maliva be praised! I at least

Proclaim our gratitude to our great god. If Jonachem

Has foreseen the need, then so it must be. One does not doubt

The pontifex’s powers. And the full power of this House,

Its wealth, its favors, and yes its sons, must to the problem

Be applied. Taraf has fifteen generations prospered without

Faltering. Let it continue to shine, let us not douse

The hot flame of our most luxuriant prosperity

With the asphyxiating miasma of blasphemy.

Then Edmund grew flush’d and within him swell’d great emotion

And he made answer back, Is Taraf then greater than God?

For the Empire was Maliva’s original kingdom

And who are we, mother, to dispute the god’s own vision?

At this Angela just star’d, biting her tongue, for odd

Truth was that she did esteem Taraf over Maliva. Income

Power, and pride work’d on her thus. But she dar’d not so speak

Aloud the words. For in those times to blaspheme was to draw

Great malevolent power down upon him who had err’d

To so disrespect a greater power with bluff and weak

Words. So in blasphemous silence Angela sat. He saw

It was so. A religious fervor rose, and he dar’d

To rebuke mother Angela with memory of oath

Consecrating him a paladin, which had bound them both.