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Roaming over hill and dale,
Roving through the wild forests,
Following rivers along their courses,
She's traversed them all.
Wand'ring with a delicate air,
She strums her lyre and plucks her harp,
Creating a melody gentle, not sharp.
Children follow in her wake.
Alone this musician travels,
Needing nobody's company,
She's a meand'ring solitary,
On her own, she goes.
Dancing gracefully across desert sands,
Stepping merrily through woodland lees,
The mysterious Ixi, detached and free,
Nobody holds her bound.
Never stopping, forward she strides
Into the wilderness unknown,
Facing the world, all on her own,
She never stays in one place for long,
For she is a wand'ring bard.
The Shorthorn Manor
She runs among the dying herbs,
away the sound of shrieking birds.
Above her ears great trees loom,
to hide the long forgotten moon.
Through the path that is so still:
followed by a howling shrill.
Hoofbeats pound against the road,
and the many pebbles it bestowed,
render those who dare to trot,
sent away to death and rot.
With a shriek the chaser falls,
as the manor finally calls.
The doors open with a creak;
the child's steps are what they seek.
Before her stands the lady tall,
her shadowed hooves against the wall.
"Do not fear," she tells her now,
a drop of sweat against her brow.
"From the orchard comes the gale
of a monster's howling wail.
A grizzled shape beside the fire,
mimics that of which is dire.
The seething glare atop the tower,
scowls at the sun's first hour.
Within the wood My child cries,
from where the Shorthorn Manor lies."
On the Breeze
Of fire we've heard, of water too,
Of Earth, and Air, and Lightness true,
These faeries show the land their face,
A modest streak, of course, no trace,
But what of faeries shy and small,
No hint of such creatures at all.
They hide in woodland, water, sky,
At only several thumb-prints high,
Full of fun and smiles and laughter,
Whistling through the rooves and rafters,
But pity all who search so keen,
For these small faeries can't be seen.
So how can I prove that they exist?
Next time when the world's clear of mist,
Listen carefully to the breeze,
You'll hear a song like hushing seas,
A tinkling laughter will be shared,
And you'll know the wind faeries are there.
Of creepers and crawlers
All bright lurid green
Of nasty warped forms with slick slimy sheen
Malevolent heads of tangy ice cream
And repellant snowmen with devilish gleam
Of knotted jade socks with twin red eyes
Of speckled cherry yogurt with shaved ice
And brown dimpled dessert named 'Surprise'
He has rulers named after him, all drippy with goo
And twisty pasta a sickly grey hue
Olive-green skin on book of 'stories'
And soups, burgers... But the question is -
No matter how tasty the namesake's green broth
Who's the great one under this advertising froth -
Who in the world IS Dr. Frank Sloth?
The Ring Master
He stands in the center of the ghostly parade,
His trunk he holds high in the air,
And all of the ghosts that answer his call,
To frighten and scare you prepare.
The Ring Master is the spookiest host,
You'll ever hope to meet,
An Elephante of ghostly size,
And eyes the color of meat.
His skin is like a translucent silk,
As light as a feather hide,
And it is so insubstantial,
You can see all that's inside!
He conducts that circus around him,
With every wave of his nose,
And a swish of his tail from side to side,
Causes each ghost to strike a pose.
With ears furled wide and wings stretched far,
The Ring Master calls a crescendo!
And everything whirls into a frenzy,
Then all of a sudden grows slow.
"Thank you, Neopians great and small,"
Trumpets the Ring Master low,
"I hope you'll come again and see,
Our ghostly little show."
Total Poetry Pages : 1828
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