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Best Poems Written by Rebekah Thomas

Below are the all-time best Rebekah Thomas poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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The Fairy Ring

Lights shine in the wood,
the flicker in the wood,
the wood with the fairy ring.

''No tresspassing''

Bold black words
printed on a plastic sign
nailed to a tree,
a tree in a the wood,
the wood with the fairy ring.

The nails on the sign sit rimmed with rust,
the words begin to fade
but no one dares to wander in the woods,
for they've been warned by the woods,
the woods with the fairy ring.

The sign lies blank,
one nail is gone
but the message still remains
for on moonlite nights 
the sign drips with blood
its message crimson and clear

''Stay clear of our wood
so the lights may shine in our wood
let them flicker in our woods,
in our wood with our fairy ring.''

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Nymph Etiquette

Before you gather nuts off the ground
I caution you, look around!
You never know when a nymph may be nearby
and if it took their fancy,
they will squash you like a fly.
For those who commit such a crime,
in my opinion, deserve to be treated like grime.

So remember before you stuff your face
and make those nuts disappear without a trace,
it would be prudent to first ask the tree.
though, I would refuse, if it were me.
But then a nut tree has more nuts than sense
I'll wager it would most willingly consent.

Now as for a stream,
their nymphs are highly peculair-------much more than they seem.
In self-interest for go drinking water
for you never know when a nymph lurks waiting for just such a drinker to 
slaughter.
But most importantly, remember this! 
If you bathe in their pools, you do so at risk!
For many nymphs would spirit you away.
Then in their pool, you will eternally stay.

Just keep in mind that with water,
it is best to forget quenching your thirst.
With them matters are sure to come to their worst.
If you seek to ask a stream permission,
acceptance is always as bad as omission.

In the case of a flower
my kin live in perpetual terror of your power.
For when you pluck them off their stem,
things begin to look rather grim.
To be quite frank, the poor nymph is no more.
By picking their flower, you commit murder, and send them through deaths door.

So as with all things,
you MUST ask the bloom!
I recommend you say it thus politely

''Excuse me, but please may I bring about your doom?''

And I would advise you not to forget, 
that for every suicidal nymph you pick
I will most soundly beat your head with a stick.

From this day forth you must set your self this simple task:
for all you desire,
you must employ manners
and politely ask.
For a nymphs plant is his own
and all I ask is that you respect this
or risk broken bones.

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A Savage Sea

A Savage sea has summoned me
its white waves beckon and call
for those wild winds with their morbid tunes
have become one with the Loreli's song.

Embraced by the waves and the rising tide
I fight their caresses for naught

Nevermore,
Nevermore,
shall I see the shore.

The sea has summoned me.

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The Butterfly Tree

She frolics on an autumn day
running wild through a blood red glen
the leaves on her train leap up and dance
swirling around her as she sings
softly
to a bird in her hand:
she sings of the butterfly tree.

The bird leaps up
he spreads his wings—
he sours through the fall foliage,
up , up,
to the blue sky beyond
where he warbles upon breeze
lovingly
to the crimson sun:
he warbles of the butterfly tree.

The sun turns away 
to shine among the dark
he courts the quiet shade
chasing away the silver moon
who hides beneath a laughing brook
he flirts among the dappled light
as the world begins to whisper
loudly
to the silver shadow ‘neath the brook:
it whispers of the butterfly tree

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From Lonesome Shore

Enclosed within a shroud
of misery and hopes blown awry;
Silent and still I stand listening
to a selkies lonesome cry.

''While away your lifetime
wandering woebegone shores.
Midst the changing of the wind,
come to me, cling to me.
---Desert your vacant vessle of dreams fast vanishing.''

''Abandone life,
hear my song,
and join my dreary solitude.''

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The Spirits of the Wind

The Wind howls,
an anguished cry
a peircing scream.....
Whilst spirits huddle around the bed,
the spirits of the wind.
Mounted upon their firey steeds
they too,
howl, 
and cry,
and scream.

A weary sigh, 
a faint whisper,
a painfilled moan.....
and the spirits have claimed her for their own,
the spirits of the wind.
on their snorting stallions they fly away
leaving me shattered to
sigh, 
and whisper,
and moan.

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Apollo's Butterfly

The Sun was on a rippling brook,
while the leaves on the trees,
by the wind were shook.

On the mossy floor,
a fire danced.

On the breeze a golden butterfly pranced.

Underneath a laurel,
lay a silver bow.
Beside it sat Apollo,
with his kithara in tow.

The Butterfly flew in the fire,
while Apollo strummed upon his lyre.

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In the Dark

Whispers by a wandering brook
their speakers shrouded by mist
somewhere within the shadowed fog
they hide 
laughing
in time 
with the brook
luring me
so I’ll follow their call
and venture
far from the path
till I lose my way in the dark.

Songs sung by rustling golden leaves
screen their singers from view
behind autumn foliage 
they snicker
a sweet tinkling on the breeze
snaring me in their well made net
Till I see with growing 
sorrow
that the woodland path is gone: 
I’ve lost my way in the dark.


Silence in the silver moonbeams
illuminates their figures with light
around us sits the mist
caressing the golden leaves
obscuring
the world
from view.
A peal of bell like giggling
breaks into the dark.

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Duffy Dear

Why Duffy dear,
How do you do?

Would you please close the door?

And while your at it could you spare a minute
to explain your presence on the floor?

Hey to the devil!
Don’t mind my intrusion-----I’m no illusion------it doesn’t matter why I’m here!

Why Duffy dear,
what’s wrong with you?

Why do you cry so loud?

And might I wonder (as a friend to a friend) just why you look so cowed?

Hey to the Devil!
On me there’s no waitin----no I’m not Satan-----it doesn’t matter who I am!

Why Duffy dear,
do you fear for your life?

Why do you seem so scared?

And outta curiosity, why did you make that god damned boast, if for its fufillment you 
were so sadly prepared?

Hey to the Devil!
Lets dance round a fire-----you delightful little liar-------there’s no need to care 
where I’m from!

Details | Rebekah Thomas Poem

The Pied Pipers Calling

In less than a year,
or seventy hence
I will wander the road which you now take.

Now the path is wild and overgrown---and I cannot pass, but in time, for me, the pied 
piper will be piping,
as for you, he is piping now.

Beckoning with fall colors
and singing of children lost.