Post by Istawen Aeros on Jan 11, 2004 17:26:51 GMT -5
Here is one that I wrote on the spur of the moment for an RPG on the Downs. It's not very good but it was writeen on the spur of the moment:
Green were the trees under the entrancing sunlight’s beam, Merrily laughed the jolly waters with gilded sliver gleam, Here my lover waited under the woodlands bower, Her hair was soft and golden like the Mallorn flower
Her eyes were as blue as the glorious firmament above, Sweetly our touching lips spoke of our young love. Yet now, she sleeps, shackled by the cold hand of Death -- Alas, I did not hear her murmured dying breath! --
Pale, her slender form an ivory stature hidden in the ground. ‘Twas I who left her to slay the orcs that in this land abound. And as she waited for me, she languished in her wretched misery, Whilst I frolicked with the crimson flow by the blood-stained sea.
Did I hear her silent cry, heed the beckon of the tears that pled for me As she prayed for the Valar’s blessing upon her bended knee? Nay! Others were my comrades -- she in my thoughts ever present, The sword drank the blood of spawn, yet her memory made all things pleasant.
Slowly she faded, as she pined for me, and then she died for me, Accompanied to the brink of the grave by her misery.
Post by Istawen Aeros on Jan 15, 2004 17:12:38 GMT -5
Why, thank you. After great thinking and pondering, I have decided to show you my Halloween poem ten months in advance:
The rain is falling hard, the night is turning cold, All is ghostly still, in the darkness the tenses thrill. Out come the little children: oh the foolish bold As they seek for treats as a pirate hoards his gold.
I behold the frowning, starless night, A phantom rustle in the silence, a white shadow at the fence. A silent cackle in the night cows the little children in their fright, And wavering apparitions shun the jack o’ lantern’s light.
A winter’s frost comes upon me with icy breath: Nay, ‘tis fear: it crawls upon my spine with awful leer. As it leads me to the grave yard where men sleep in death. Forests of stone, city of the bleak, mutters of whispered breath.
A hapless ghost there is with pallid milky hue, Vampires suck the blood -- a witch bemoans the flood As she huddles over the cauldron of her stew. Amongst the ghoulish crowd is Jack and Casper too.
Then the spiders dance a tune upon a twisted fife -- Webs they spun and o’er the dead were flung. The hag’s old wart trembled - oh, the tragedies of bewitched life! As she rasped of Snow White and the end of dream’s life.
The ghosts nurse their long forgotten spleen, Yet it all drifts away, no more to play As the children watch them fade upon the green, Realizing ’tis the superstition of Halloween.