Conan Goes a-Maying / by Brian Kunde

Conan Goes a-Maying
by Brian Kunde

Scowling, he parts the reeds;
the crimson-daubed tree spies
whereon the orb-shaped bane
looms, tentacles dangling.

Each a small child has caught;
it draws them in, entranced—
round in fatal orbit
the tethered victims wind.

The ribbons weave them close,
spiraling toward danger—
in song small throats cry out,
but there is no escape.

Even Conan senses
the siren tune’s allure,
the lotus field’s pull,
the teasing-sweet perfume.

Come join the dance, it sings;
hard winter’s lessons leave;
drift now, and drown, and dream,
and merry live and die.

Growling, he shakes his head;
tenses, grips his sword-hilt,
and panther-lithe, he springs,
brandishing his fell blade.

Lighting amid the throng,
he lops the bright-hued pole;
threads go slack, a-flutter;
baneful orb is toppled.

Freed, its victims scatter,
in sheer relief screaming
as Conan lifts his sword,
thundering his triumph.

* * * * *

Conan Goes a-Maying

from Inversions and Variations : Various Verses, 1st ed., Dec. 2023.

1st web edition posted 8/29/2026.