trio’s song -
hips sway, three bells ding-dong.
their red and gold sparkle in the night.
wonders from the North Pole, with elvish toes take flight.
no other trio holds a candle - such delight.
on stage, or door-to-door imperils.
gifts holiday barrels.
sweet Carols!
Poems settle softly on the 'Peace Race,'
But a cyclone wind whirls to birth mishap.
Each soul foresees truth at a dreamer's pace,
While blue Earth is ripe with thoughts to unwrap.
Hope clasps the trees, painting the Elven hues.
Freeing our pink hearts' lasting love that swells
When wise leaders embrace the moonlit views,
Invoking kind spirits, summoning Elves.
The moonlit council leans on bargaining.
Soft persuasion drifts gently to mainstream
Garden Sprites who charm the soul, nurturing,
With the Elves' theme of peace that reigns supreme.
Kind 'letters' soar above divisive schemes
As Peace becomes more than an Elven dream!
I’m wondering
how do we get up
and get dressed
find our way
out of this mess
is there a trap door
in the floor
or a secret passage
marked by elvish rhunes
that only appears
by the light of a full moon
or sun lighting the keyhole
at high noon
how do we escape
from this straight jacket
of insanity and hate
avoid our fate
wipe clean the slate
maybe through the sewer grate
there is a way to fix it
but should we even try
or just lay down
on the riverbank
and drink
some whisky and rye
laced with arsonic
or cyanide
we have the power
but most don’t know it
or they’re too afraid to use it
because they might
blow it
angry as hell
but too scared
to show it
we have the rock
in our hands
but hesitate
to throw it
because
we might hit our brother
or father or mother
or the next door neighbor
or ourselves
They say all good things
will come to an end
what if
the only good
thing to come
is the end
It’s true, the afternoon is young;
I’ll make a bet:
Before the sun has set,
Strawberries will have sprung
From underneath your tongue.
Delectable, yes, tres delish
You won’t forget:
Exceeded, not just met,
Beyond your wildest wish,
A creamy berry dish.
The finest, richest creams -
The forest elves
Again outdid themselves:
Confectionary dreams
From unicorns, it seems.
In fields of magic dust,
Wild-grown berries
Picked by woodland fairies:
A culinary must,
A name the elvish trust.
Sweet crystals, careful mined
Where dragons roar,
Demanding always more.
By serpent’s fire refined,
Then stolen from them blind.
Stirred over elvish flame,
The paddles turned
By giant ogres, learned
Before before the dark lord came
and sullied their great name.
Quick-flashed in icy streams,
Both fluff and stiff,
A jazzy berry riff,
With old world notes it teems,
A tastebud’s wettest dreams.
Alas, we must regroup!
Supply chain blues,
There is no time to lose:
Store-bought, pink berry goop -
Perhaps a double scoop?
—————
for the Ice Cream Poetry Contest
sponsored by Julia Ward
written 06/21/2022
lo, thy mirthels cascade heaven's sounds
tinkling, dancing, weightless o'er the cliff in bliss
glimmer more as they propel to ground
touch down lightly with a gentle kiss.
----------
what I was playing with in the Vogon Elvish and some of the idea of Fairly Dust. Yeah, my wife says I'm weird too...
Lo, ty mirthels cascahl ahvan soundrus
Tinkling, drancig, veyless othel clef en blish
Glimmish mare de propotel te groundus
Toosh da ligty mith ah gentish kish
They flow out of a pocket of sky,
a door in the air no one saw
until dark wings shower
our heads.
Their plumage a metallic sheen,
as if they were made in parts,
in some elvish workshop, their wings
hammered on an iron last.
No starling is a starling alone;
it is a thousand, any number
too fleet to count.
They land where they please.
See them strut like dinosaurs,
eyes as black as a total eclipse.
Owl, eagle, and hawk fear to draw near,
for look, the starling throng
has descended here.
They flow out of a pocket of sky,
a door in the air no one saw
until dark wings shower
over our heads.
Their plumage has a metallic sheen,
as if they were made in parts,
in some elvish workshop, their wings
hammered on last.
Wings that talk to other wings,
for no starling is a starling alone;
it is ten thousand starling clones
welded into flocks of feathers.
They descend where they please.
a road, a lawn, a parking lot,
they descend, and where they land
that is their land, their acre of lordship.
See them strut like dinosaurs,
eyes as black as an eclipse.
See them stab the light, push it away
until all that litters the ground
is prey.
Owl, eagle and hawk fear to
draw near, for the flock is here,
and it will leave when it wants to.
We avoid the pecking mob,
hurry by, look away,
as another swarm of avian androids
stakes its claim upon the earth.
THE POSTERITY OF RUDOLPH
‘Twas the night before Christmas and the reindeers played tricks.
The twinkling eyes of the posterity of Rudolph in a riotous mix.
There was the mooning of Santa Claus, his britches on the North Pole.
The elvish-boots tied together and stuffed with chalky bits of coal.
Children’s toys were strewn about the snow, having been blown
by giant straws and how those cookie crumbles must have flown.
Those uproarious Rudolph’s progenies doubled over with ice cold tears.
Meanwhile Santa’s in a snit, not at all jolly nor filled with holiday cheer.
Red noses, beeping and blaring, poking out, jumping, scaring
on this Winter-white night when the sled should be ready and raring
to leap to each home, slide down chimneys or their substitute holes
and put smiles on cherubic faces but for naughty reindeer out of control!
11/26/2018
The Night Before Poetry Contest/Joseph May
Winter covers all the earth
And blows both cold and strong.
But amid the group of four of us
It’s springtime all along.
Hand in hand we walked the roads
That wither we may tramp.
And in the night of deep starlight
Laid down our loads to camp.
Four elvish friends that hard and fast
To each adventure binds.
And find that we had always been
True friends throughout all time.
Together we’ve run sunlit hills
Of that called Wilderland,
And fought the dragons of the North
And all the foes of Man.
We knew one day the time would come,
As we stand to greet the dawn,
That I and every one of us
Must sing his lonely song.
Who knows if when we’ll meet again
As we go our separate ways;
And lo, here come the coaches now
To take us each away.
The smell of Springtime's in the air!
Flower spring up bright and fair!
Soft and moist the green grass grows,
And close nearby the river flows!
The sky above is bright and blue!
The ground is glittering with dew!
Now come and join us as we sing,
There's nothing like the joy of Spring!
Back in nineteen ninety-two
At the Piketown Library
I would haunt the upper stacks
And linger patiently
Soon the sun would set
I'd see her silhouette
This is how I came to know
Desire unmet
I'd watch her elvish fingers curl
'round the binding of some book
As she glided through the shelves
She'd dispatch a dev'lish look
Such a playful ruse
To intrigue and confuse
This is how I came to know
My library muse
Now the sun has set
We have never met
This is how I came to know
The sting of regret
September 10, 2017
If I had fallen in your divine love
I also could have known
that how twinkling stars
in the moonlit night
could strew their amazing illumination
in the whole universe
that how the moon in the milky night
could embellish its beaming smile
that how austerity of the galaxy of stars
could witness the happiness of macrocosm
that how melody of nature
could touch the heartbeats of its lovers
that how harmonic sound of birds
could create musical environment
in the dark and deep forests
that how rustles of the intoxicated winds
could break the silence of darkness
that how the voluptuous gestures of the sky
could stimulate erotic desires
of flora and fauna
that how the adorable smile
of elvish dark clouds
could shower colorful kisses
on the pink roses crazy in love
that how the sensual seduction of dew drops
could magnetize the glow of dawn
and that how the fresh air in the morning
could disrupt the penance of the spring
if I had fallen in your divine love
I could have felt
the eternal beauty of nature
I wish I could have drowned
In your divine enchantment
forever and ever and ever
(By Kishan Negi)
To promote my new Christmas short story!
now i've gone and done it,
I've written a story
You can come along and listen,
Just like jackanory
its down in the cellar
right under the vaults
with typos galore
that's one of my faults
its a rollicking tale
of a Christmassy bloke
of reindeer and elves
and north polian folk
its not for the squeamish
cos things are not well
up there above lapland
where the elvish do dwell
will Christmas be doomed
by Machiavellian ****
there's one way to find out
Come along to "Chrexit"!
Pixies riding butterflies
corral an Easter rabbit.
And over the centuries,
they have gotten good at it.
The fairies weave straw baskets
and fill them with colored eggs.
Yet fail to get the bunny
to stand on its two hind legs.
For that requires the finesse
of a young elvish Queen's touch.
Only after sprouting wings
will her powers grow that much.
She blends ground unicorn horn
with the nectar of flowers.
To give the Easter Bunny
special magical powers.
And with a kiss of her lips,
Mister Cottontail's transformed.
And stands up on his hind legs
as the ritual's performed.
Each Easter, colored eggs are
conspicuously hidden.
And reality's paused: then,
discreetly overridden.
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