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The Money Tree
An elderly plant stands idle in the square,
Overgrown branches cast shadows on the ground
While little haunts fly through the leaves.
Not a single item is to be found.
Donations come by the many,
Helping those in need,
While ghosts flutter around
Attempting to prevent any greed.
The needy gather in a circle,
Hands held out in shame,
Though the Tree holds no anger --
He calls them each by name.
With smiles on their faces they leave,
Some food and gold tucked close.
Remarkable kindness is shown by him;
Even medicine is given by the dose.
What glory the Tree is given,
For he shares with all who come.
All he asks is for you to give
When your shallow time is done.
He looked to the sky with a wistful eye,
And wished, for the millionth time,
That he could soar among the sky like
All the others and chime.
But his feathers were ones of steely grey,
A dull pelt, so forlorn,
He felt ashamed to open up his wings,
Longed for colours to adorn.
Until one day he got the pity of
A faerie warm and kind,
Who blessed his boring feathers with
A rainbow pelt that shined.
It was red and yellow and green and brown,
And scarlet and peach and ochre and black,
And ruby and olive and violet and fawn,
And lilac and gold and chocolate and mauve,
And cream and crimson and silver and rose,
And azure and lemon and russet and grey,
And purple and white and pink and orange,
And he took to the sky with a gleaming eye,
The first of a million times,
And so was the birth of the rainbow Pteri,
The first of his wondrous kind.
Journey to the Lost Isle
Mad Tongue Murphy's journal
Bore tales, truth, and lies.
Several brave explorers took plight on his myths,
But little did they know it could end in their demise.
Professor Hugo Fairweather --
He's quite the explorer --
Took the first step forward
To organise an expedition...
That was so obviously flawed.
Lilian Fairweather, a beautiful maiden,
Wise and full of logic,
She could capture any adventurer's heart
While on their exploring project.
Roxton A. Colchester III,
An odd name, but with his personality, it fit.
He's an adventurer -- a good one at that;
He knows how to act when in trouble, he has wit!
Scrap, a young stowaway,
Offered to lend his help to the crew.
Anything from swabbing decks
to helping make food -- anything would do.
Captain Rourke, proud owner of SS Primella...
Imagine his grief when it became shipwrecked
Upon a land explorers had never set foot on.
Washed up on the shore, on the island they trekked.
Many days later,
Through toil and trouble...
They came across horrendous monsters.
With Neopians they fought,
But the monsters began to double!
Reviving elixirs were a necessity,
Slashing their swords here and there.
Working together, they defeated the enemies;
They laid on the ground everywhere.
Fixing the boat was quite a task,
Captain Rourke and Scrap worked flat out!
Piecing together the bits of Primella,
but they completed her, without a doubt!
Their departure seemed to go without a hitch,
sailing off, sun setting on the horizon.
But will the ending really be so simple?
Stay tuned, we'll hopefully find out soon, then....
The Quarry Workers
Our gaze falls on old Altador,
The ancient quarry shown.
Workers toil in the sun,
Among the tons of stone.
No better workers do exist
Than the fellows you'll find here.
Between the massive granite walls,
The JubJubs move with cheer.
The boulders seem to somehow move,
And stack up one by one.
But JubJubs cannot carry them,
So how does this get done?
The rocks are stacked high all around,
In towers, each one stands.
How do they ever pile up?
For JubJubs have no hands.
And yet they seem so occupied,
And scurry to and fro.
Though how they built the quarry here
Is something none shall know.
Shining eyes do glance around,
If one should wander near.
Indignant is the squeaky tone,
"No strangers can come here!"
I bid you, friend, stay far from here,
Or in the shadows lurk.
The mystery is questioned still,
How do these JubJubs work?
And so they keep the secret safe,
And work the whole day long.
The sounds from the quarry echo here,
And sound doth linger on.
The Day Krawk Island Disappeared
A story you've never heard,
A story you'll never believe,
One that will fill you with fear,
Come on, hear it from me.
Not a cloud in the sky,
Not a storm in the seas,
No signs of any trouble,
That should have been the first clue.
Then Krawk Island went berserk,
Nobody could say the word 'ice,'
Dubloons turned to flower petals,
Nobody thought it was nice.
A little black Crokabek flew by,
Telling the pirates where the treasure was;
Everything tasted like maple syrup,
Even the dishes at The Golden Dubloon.
Without warning, Krawk Island disappeared,
Off the charts and off the land,
Pirates sailing to it saw a thick mist,
And got lost in it and came right back.
Some said they heard an evil cackling,
And the very next day Krawk Island came back,
Though nobody could remember anything,
And nobody could say what had happened.
Some remember a terrible dream
Filled with wicked laughter,
Glowing black eyes and screams,
And that is how Krawk Island disappeared.
Total Poetry Pages : 1971
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