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YURBLE DAY SPECIAL
The Ghost Yurble
Silent do the footfalls pulse,
Where seldom falls the light.
Something strange is walking here,
Through deepest, blackest night.
Whisper do the eerie wisps
From coat do tendrils spin.
Creature from the dark doth form,
Face twists to haunting grin.
Spectre through the night doth roam,
Time all do fear the most.
No phantom could instil more fear
Than shape of Yurble ghost.
Silent paws above the ground
Do tread, he drifts on air.
Start to turn to seek the noise,
You'll find no-one is there.
Tomes and chapters do abound
To claim this ghost is real.
He who walks through onyx realm,
Who shadow doth conceal.
Slowly does the form take shape,
A shadow through the haze.
No brighter horror could there be,
Than glimpse of crimson gaze.
The Yurble Janitor
Far in the land of Altador,
where stately kings and queens once reigned,
the Hall of Heroes stands before
the gilded walls sprawled on the plain.
And in a perfect tight-knit ring,
twelve legends stand in stone splendour:
Sasha, who used to dance and sing,
and Fauna, the gatherer,
The swords, the shields, the tambourines!
the august features etched on each
majestic king and blushing queen,
the statues rendered short of speech.
And yet, look here, who goes just there?
squat of stature, red of hair,
a gnarly frown sits on his face,
the rancour ill-fitting in this place.
Instead of sword he wields a mop,
a bucket sloshing blue beside.
he brandishes a tousled crop
and nails coal black and set wide.
He spends his time cleaning the Hall,
slopping grey water down the floors,
running thumbs down dusty walls,
and oiling up the rusty doors.
Day or night he mops and cleans,
grumbling lowly to his pail,
polishing the kings and queens,
down to every last detail.
And visitors they gape in awe
at the gleaming armour in the ring,
and every figure without flaw
erect, grandiose, and glistening.
Yet the silent hero toils alone,
by day, by night, he mops and cleans
in the Hall of Heroes, without a throne --
the Yurble Janitor, hero unseen.
After the Rain (to a Faerie Yurble)
And the river sang
In its mossy bed,
And she winged above --
Quiet violet and tranquil mauve,
The colours of peace itself,
With sweeps of turquoise deep
As worn seaglass.
And in the shade of the trees,
Where flecks of sun kiss moss and leaf,
Her transparent, rain-wet wings
Are a jumble of iridescence;
Prisms after rainstorms,
Colours without names --
And the beautiful golden days
Of summer drop by
As gently as petals,
And she drifts, a mere cup of acceptance --
Winging lightly, and winging now,
And reaching to touch the sun.
One purple Yurble, Vere Polnicek,
Takes her position at defence.
She's tough and quick, a solid wall,
A star defender in Yooyuball.
From Moltara, land of gears and steam,
Comes this fresh, this upstart team,
Trained and ready, suited up,
Competing for the Altador Cup.
And there waits Polnicek, playing deep,
Defending Mor Gollog, Moltara's goalkeep,
Tensed to jump and block and dive,
Her muscles are coiled, her senses alive.
A shot comes whizzing from the line,
A faerie Yooyu flying high,
Polnicek catches it in midair;
A goal is blocked, a point is spared.
Seeing no teammate to pass it to,
Polnicek herself takes the Yooyu,
Advancing it across the field.
She finds her angle, applies her heel.
Into the net, a goal is scored,
A rare feat for this defender,
The team celebrates before the restart
With Moltaran fires burning in their hearts.
The Tax Beast
Watch over your shoulder,
Keep your Neopoints in view,
For you never know what'll happen
When the Tax Beast comes for you.
He'll snatch away your money,
This Yurble filled with greed.
A percentage of your earnings
Is what he wants and needs.
If you're very lucky,
He'll take his share and go.
Ten percent of your Neopoints
Isn't quite so bad, you know...
But catch him in a foul mood,
You better duck and hide.
His fur turns red and he'll deduct
A hefty twenty-five!
He can take enormous sums
But as he walks away,
He might leave you a trophy
To remind you of his stay.
So pay your bills and things like rent;
They can't be overdue,
Or else your purse will sure be pinched
When the Tax Beast comes for you.
Within the Hall of Heroes
The light filters in from the roof, no longer
In darkness, dim--
Shielding his eyes, flailing his arms
The Yurble Janitor snorts in disgust.
'Useless plotters,' he thinks.
'One day they'll be all gone.
When they are, I'll quit my job,
Head to the famous lands
Of lush green and sandy beach,
Blustering wind, or parching heat,
Whether crazy islanders or pirate's cove,
They'll be the lands I'll learn to know.
'I'll sail the seas, swing through trees,
Uncover mysteries of the Krawk,
Then, I'll become a billionaire,
No longer just a janitor with a mop!
I'll visit the city, dining in finesse,
Kick up my feet, I'll deserve a rest,
Watch the new Janitor with respect --
Then laugh. Whatever did I ever earn or get?
'Oh, just think --
I'll be out of here one day...
'And when Altadorians see me gone
They'll be shocked, dismayed.
I've got points for tickets,
Yes, I'll pay --
Anything to get away from here some day!
This dreadfully cursed place.'
With a crash, the Janitor jumps,
His bucket of water overturned, dumped.
Grumbling, brandishing his mop,
The Yurble swipes up filthy water,
The Yurble Raider
Come round, children, I'll tell you a tale,
About a Yurble in the war of Meridell,
With fur shining red and feet as quick as could be,
The Yurble Raider will forever be a part of history!
He would raid from both Meridell and Kass,
Steal supplies and get out faster than fast,
He would raid towns, homes, anything he pleased,
And he did it so fast, as he left,
His victims only felt a soft breeze.
The night he fought Kass was the story most recall,
About this not-quite hero of Meridell,
Though he seemed outmatched by the strong lord,
He was able to best him without weapon:
No spear, lance, or sword!
That night was one of the most famous of the war,
Word spread across the land, became Neopian lore,
Others wondered who mysterious Yurble could be...
Well, if you want the truth, children, 'twas me!
Painful Hidden Truth
The faerie Yurble folds her wings.
She doesn't utter anything,
Just stares a moment at the ground
And listens to the silent sound
Of hesitation from the guy
Who's taking too long to reply.
The faerie Yurble's lashes, low,
Don't let her moistened hazels show,
As stiffened ears await the words
That, in my head, are vague and blurred.
I try to think of what to say,
But she distracts my thoughts away.
I hate to see her wait like this,
With rag-doll arms and unclenched fists --
The picture of a dare-to-hope,
She loops my heart with tender rope
And pulls me toward volcano's rim
And dares me now to push her in.
Emotions, molten, stew below,
But there is much she doesn't know.
The faerie Yurble, part-time friend,
Sees not what she can't comprehend.
Yet how am I to tell the truth
When here she is, still in her youth?
So much has passed since days of old
When everything to her I told.
Experience has nudged me far
From hometown roots, from where we are.
Oh, fool am I to have returned
To place that I have long since spurned.
The faerie Yurble shyly waits
As fingers of the heartless fates
Twist knots inside my throat and chest --
I know that I have failed the test.
I look into her hazel eyes
And fall back on my web of lies.
A Yurble's Daydream
The remnant rays of daylight
filter through a hallowed haze,
and settle on a figure
lost in reverential gaze.
Stout of frame, bright orange fur,
and idle mop in hand,
A Yurble goes unnoticed
In this Hall of Heroes grand.
Dreams he not of fighting in
the Darkest Faerie's war,
nor deciphering distant stars,
like Altadorians before.
He seeks not glorious wealth,
nor marble likeness in this hall,
his heart only desires
to compete in Yooyuball.
To feel his muscles tighten,
and the blood course through his veins,
as expertly he guides the ball,
to left, then right, he feigns.
The opposition fiercely
musters all remaining force,
but none can catch this Yurble quick,
nor change his Yooyu's course.
For the moment he is god-like,
winged feet ne'er touch the ground.
Freedom unattainable is
In glorious rapture found.
Destiny is calling,
if only he could play his part,
longs the humble Yurble janitor,
with a Yooyuball-shaped heart.
Biscuit Yurble Plushie
Bakery is hard at work,
For Yurble Day arrives once more.
Neopians come happily in,
Through non-stop swinging door.
Ovens open, muffins baked,
Aroma drifting, sweet.
Pets lined outside the little shop,
Each eager for a treat.
(No one notices as I squeeze in,
I clutch a plushie, grin.)
As pies are bought and cupcakes licked,
As shoppers saunter off...
I place my plushie on a tray,
With an innocent false cough.
"Yurble biscuits," tray's label says,
And aptly written, too --
For my plushie is a Yurble,
A biscuit Yurble, brown of hue.
(I quickly scuttle far away,
Behind a cake display.)
"The plushie sure is convincing,"
I muse as I await.
With perfect colours, biscuit tan,
And chocolate chips eight.
Soon enough, a Grarrl goes o'er
To see the biscuits tray.
At the front sits disguised toy,
"I'll take it," he does say.
(Full of mischief, that is me,
I now watch on with glee.)
"Yum," the hungry Grarrl says,
And holds the plushie brown.
Immediately, eager look
Turns into puzzled frown.
This plushie does not taste as nice
As its looks may say.
Let's just call this... April Fool's?
(A tad late, but hey.)
The Yurble Foreman's Rant
Don't get no respect.
They dirty up the place,
And I'm stuck here cleaning
This messy disgrace.
The statues sparkle,
The floors gleam,
And the windows are spotless
So in the sun can steam.
You visit this great land of Altador,
Situated atop the sea's shore,
Full of ancient buildings and lore,
Yet I stand in the corner you ignore!
It doesn't clean itself, this decor,
Of which I work so hard for,
Never before, has this
Seemed such a chore!
No gratitude at this
Next time you wander through
To view this spectacular hall,
With that dirt on your shoe and no clue,
Take a moment to recall,
The one who keeps this place perfect!
Don't get no respect.
He's a deep, dark, mysterious grey
like a chunk of roughly hewn stone,
clad in rugged finery.
Everything of his seems rough;
no soft edges to his fur,
no melodic lilt to his speech.
No, the pirate Yurble
is uneven, cold granite;
as tough as rocks of the sea,
worn only by water and wind
and stormy, salty tides.
He is silent, often, a grey silence
that is as ominous as silence
can possibly be --
but when he does speak,
you think you can hear the oceans
and the tales of those who sailed
and sank and found and lost
You hear the call of the waves
in that roughened voice,
the lure of treasure beyond dreams,
of taming the wretched seas
and living to tell the tale.
You hear what young Neopians
have always yearned for
in that old Yurble's voice:
the promise of their very own
The Yurble Raider
During a time of great unrest,
between the good and the bad,
amidst all the violent chaos,
there was this one sneaky lad.
Silently and stealthily,
his movements remain undetected,
as he shifts from town to town,
leaving villages poor and neglected.
Rumours spread everywhere
of this furtive raider.
"No one's safe," they say,
"Especially not the merchant traders."
Nothing will stop him,
not even the great Lord Kass,
for with a kick and a punch,
Kass broke like shattered glass.
Oh, how the days have passed,
now he resides in peace,
telling the good ol' stories,
to his son's nephew and niece.
Lament of a Yurble
Small wonder I'm as angry as they say,
When chased by all these pets; my breaktime's due.
These puzzle-solvers will not go away!
I sought some peace in empty sands, but they
Dropped shelves, filled halls with scarabs (blue).
Small wonder I'm as angry as they say.
Altador offered me a servant's pay
For mopping floors; the job's low-profile, true.
But puzzle-solvers will not go away.
In search of stars, they tracked mud, that same day,
Onto my sparkling marble, clean and new.
Small wonder I'm as angry as they say.
Even in Virtupets' restricted bay
They haunt and hound my robot brethren, too.
These puzzle-solvers will not go away.
I think I'll take a nice long holiday,
Locked in my cupboard, with no room for two.
Then "He's calmed down!" will be what they say.
When will these puzzle-solvers go away?
Orange Yurble Gnome
Standing knee-high in tall green grass
In front of many a home,
Flower in hand and a wide painted smile
Is an Orange Yurble Gnome.
His hair's pulled back by a flower pink
And a beard hangs from his chin.
He greets all visitors to the house
With an equally cheerful grin.
He'll happily guard your flowerbeds
Or stand by the path to your door.
A single gnome brings cheer to the yard
And a whole set of gnomes would bring more!
Because I've found (and I'm sure you'll agree)
That a house is not a home
Until you've gone and decked the lawn
With an Orange Yurble Gnome.
Total Poetry Pages : 1962
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