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in a flow of rain-quick thoughts
onto the waiting openness of the paper.
in a flow of song-smooth flutter
into the waiting beaks of the Weewoos.
in a flow of buoyant hope
onto the waiting editor's desk.
in a flow of flying exuberance
onto the waiting doorsteps of Neohomes.
in a flow of heart-touched sorrow
onto the weeping phrases of a story.
in a flow of helpless mirth
onto the well-drawn panels of a comic.
in a flow of hourglass sand
into the winding attics of the past...
And authors rise,
And Weewoos rise,
The four hundred precious times,
The four hundred dimensions of thought,
The flows that have brought about
The four hundredth Neopian Times.
The Crowning of the Champions
The champions are crowned
The winners of the Cup.
In pirate colours, world-renowned,
An honour known to few.
For who could stem the rising pirate tide?
The seas of deepest depths failed to drown.
What of their might small size belied?
None could dent the sword of sheer resolve.
For who could stop Soley, lightning fast?
The hopes of others "Dasher" dashed.
Or beat Garven, who showed no rust?
The Bori's hands stopped all that came.
Nitri and Zayle, a formidable pairing,
Bulletproof and quick as bullets.
Ealyn Hawkshanks left defences despairing;
At the quick Quiggle they quivered.
The Altador Cup is the pirates',
Through tenacity they have won.
With skill that was greatly first-rate,
The golden trophy, bestowed upon.
Rise of the Cragstone Tuskaninny
Thick fur as dark as night,
A warm coat for the cold.
With tusks and claws bright
In the glint of winter sun,
This Tuskaninny is quite a sight!
He watches from the rocks
Through glaring, beady eyes.
From there he seemingly mocks
Those puny amateur rangers
And each arrow they nock.
The Cragstone Tuskaninny
Roars his frigid challenge;
Though he is seen by many,
Few would dare face him --
A creature truly uncanny!
Dare to enter his cave?
Up for the challenge?
But there are those brave
Enough to take him on.
Terror Mountain they'll save!
Before adventurers three,
Cragstone Tuskaninny stands.
Oh no, they won't flee,
You can be sure of that.
An epic battle we shall see!
Is It Right?
When you are looking at evil,
Ask yourself -- are you sure they're wrong?
You must believe in yourself,
If you're ever going to be strong.
What makes the Snowager a villain,
When we are the ones who steal from him?
Haven't you ever asked yourself,
Or ever dared to question --
Is it right?
To assume they're evil, when we don't
know enough about them.
Is it right?
Can't we offer some redemption,
Or do anything to figure out the truth?
Would you let Darigan fall,
Immune to his screams?
Or say the Shadow Usul
has no dreams?
Would you say that a dark faerie is
Evil 'til the end;
Or say the Zafara Double Agent
could never make a friend?
Is it right?
Senator Palpus's Battle of the Buffet
Senator Palpus was once a great fighter;
Now all he fights is his belt getting tighter.
He once was a general in the Lost Desert,
But now he just plans how to get the most dessert.
Instead of arranging his squads for a skirmish,
He arranges his plate to be near the serving dish.
No more does he mull over regiments and troops;
Instead, he thinks only of pastries and soups.
He approaches the table as if it were war --
The dishes his companies, the utensils his corps.
He dines with the focus of one in battle.
The crystal all tinkles, the china all rattles
When Palpus approaches, so heavy his strides.
His body's so weighty, his waist is so wide.
He sits himself down and his seat starts to buckle,
But he, undeterred, just lets out a chuckle.
He starts the first course with gusto and panache:
A dish of fresh fruit and sauteed summer squash.
The next dish arrives: roast duck with mutton.
But even this challenge cannot stop this glutton.
He bravely dives in, throwing fear to the winds,
Now he's starting to tire as the second course ends.
Yet onward he forges, no time for a rest.
He eats with the focus of one who's obsessed.
He munches his way through a platter of pork,
Then gobbles a turkey with his knife and his fork.
He soldiers through courses three, four, and five,
And gets a second wind; now he's hitting his stride.
Almost two hours later, the dinner is ending.
Only one dish is left: the dessert still is pending.
But Palpus, alas, has collapsed with exhaust.
The skirmish is over; the battle is lost.
Total Poetry Pages : 1971
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