The Wizard

Cut from a different pattern

The angles sent him forth

Timely did he arrive from?

A timeless and eventful birth.


A leader and king too small

His army not willing or ready

At times as it were in his life

Things were not always steady


His pen to the rescue

And colours to the repair

Mentors of his own image

Never cast into despair


Likely not to the only one

His trials did not all feel

It is only from this misery

That some know to be real


The books of the wizard

Too strong for the common eye

They gaze into the future

When we all shall realize


The wizard was too early

But not to late for the page

His hand was very steady

The colours made in rage


His heart is now steady

The love is in his hand

To create little creatures

In books' pages they stand


The wizard is in our heart

He stands true to the pen

Marches across our minds

A wizard until the end!

STEFFAN
Probably the one kid the most like me in several ways. He was tough, aggressive, domineering, forceful AND CREATIVE! He was not like me in other ways. While I was able to roam the world, vent my energies on esoteric things, he was not. Things were complicated, life was shelled in and of the many doors there were to open, and there was not one with his key.

Enough Said. In his heart he was a wizard. A wizard? Yes, he in another life and time would have been a challenge to anybody. A gift? A curse? Steffan had so much of each and he survived as well as everybody around him.

From a very young age he was a mirror of my wily ways. He was blonde as I and blue eyed as I, his face cut like mine. Yet he was sandwiched in the middle of a pack. We cannot say enough about the effect of being no 3 of boys and 4 of children. They are both magic numbers things that wizards are made of.

His hair is an absolute beauty, golden brown curly like a lion's main. His face is strong and determined. His stature is that of a king, yet he is a wizard. Steffan was caught between two worlds and was lucky enough to stay with us in ours. His knowledge of deep subtleties was beyond most people’s capabilities but close to all of us Richardson children. We could understand his wizard wit and apocalyptic jargon.

The wizard breached into our world with his pen. He carved lines upon lines into the page of wizard books the sum of which created images of deep thoughts and complicated meanings. To look too hard and long would certainly cause stress for the careless mind. We knew to watch and understand that these were strong impressions from another place and time of which only he could fully comprehend.

Steffan is a cartoonist by destiny. A wizard cartoonist. He chooses what to make and when to make it.

He bestows a book upon you if you are lucky. I have a book. It is my name. Although my book has pages from my other brothers and sister. He did it on purpose I presume, as it made me happy to have something from my brothers and sister in my book. I know he has made books for others, although it may be a secret as we somewhat understand that the books are not to be talked about too much.

It very well may be that in umteen years upon ten times another somebody like another wizard will analyze one of these books which may be found in a strange place. They will certainly make stories and blow up in huge proportions the icons in pages of pages of wizardly pen colorations that we are so fortunate to own in this time.

The following is a poem about my brother Steffan.