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Alexandra Jan 5
It was a deep sadness and a deep love
that I let myself be taken,
from childhood and memories of light.
Not all that's gold that glitters,
I've read the Fellowship as a child,
walked the misty road in-between
with sisters of blood and of love.
Faeries we imagined, dragons we searched,
orcs we fought.
Our members were young and barefoot,
in a world only we could see.
Tolkien and the fae folk,
Witches, potions, and fairy rings.
Barefeet catching on the cattle trail
avoiding snakes and goblin feet.
Elves and wood nymphs guarding,
the cattle paddock, and those
sweet years, in the misty in-between.
Tom Salter Jun 2020
Old man Oxford, plump
and merry in shape
and glee, a professor
of all things written
and green, his friends,
wooden and tall,
endowed him a pipe
of oaken skin, gilded
in bark and mirth, and
with this gift, he
smoked their leaves
and painted tales
of wondrous things,
each puff and ember
smithed his words,
carrying his thoughts
up high, where they
ventured in the golden
glitter of the sky, and
onto pages, forever,
in our minds, so,
thank you kind Tollers,
for you are the treasure
at the start of this
adventure.
Scarlet McCall May 2020
She only wanted to walk freely,
or gallop through a valley
and feel the wind in her hair.
To camp by a stream and eat lembas
and wild roots.  Wander here and there
with Feanor’s sons, hunt wild boar, and drink
and laugh.
She would cast away the distaff.

But freedom for a woman can be a fragile thing,
beautiful and brief as a moth’s wing.
And a male without a mate is dangerous.
Eol, the Dark Elf, dwelt in shadow, in Nan Elmoth.
He saw Aredhel, alone and lost, and desired her, to betroth.

She had no choice
but to seek help at a stranger’s door.
And then she had choice no more.

Captivity breaks weaker hearts.
But Aredhel was Elven, and of Finwe’s line.
She bided time. She worked her womanly arts.
She raised a son, and loved him,
and told him stories of fair Gondolin.
When chance arrived, they broke free
and fled West, to the fair city.
Eol, enraged, pursued them,
and the words of Curufin stung him.
He would have killed his only son
for his defiance, but fate denied him
this pyrrhic victory.
Maeglin lived, and watched his father
die, as he stood by, free.

Maeglin—his father’s son—desired one
who loved him not. In reckless despair, he traveled too far,
and Morgoth preyed on his shame and desire.
It was not hard to turn Maeglin traitor and liar.
But no reward had Maeglin in this life--
never did he take fair Idril to wife.

Aredhel died to save her son, not knowing
he would be the one
to bring ruin on the Elven city.
Maeglin (his father’s son) had no kindness nor pity.  
He revealed the secret path
to Morgoth (his likeness in envy and in wrath).
And in the end, all fell: Gondolin, Nargothrond
and Doriath.
The tale of Aredhel, from the Silmarillion, told in verse. If you've never read the Silmarillion, it might seem a bit obscure
Tired
Tried to do things on my own
Guess it was not easy
So within a day or two
I suppose
Love will see us through
How are we to know
What God has in store for us?

It is obvious
Written
and
Spoken
Our token
Our values
Credentials
Over-ridden
to Oblivion
Which turns into Obsidian

Spoken Truth in tongues
and tonage of Urantia
So even though I fall through to Gehenna
I know
I believe
that You will always be there
Because Returning to God is to Live

Connection
Inspiration
Soul-charge

How do you  Charge your Soul
Some say 'Stay grounded,"
I say, "Soar Aloft!"

Who cares if it is with wings of Angel's or Vultures
Differentiation and separation weigh down.
Fly like You must!
Dedicated to my family, whom my Soul misses.
We may live on another land
We may live in another country
But know this
I will always Return
to the Land of the Livong!

Live Long and Prosper guys,
Love,
Annmarie
Nikos Kyriazis Oct 2018
And where you walk
and now you lay
None shall ever know

For her you lost
returned to yore
Where your kins awoke

And back you never
came i see
Wistful cry of Elfinesse

They say in south
you stroll alone
Playing magic musics still

A call to her
your sister sweet to
Dance again upon your flute
In Tolkien's book Beren and Luthien , Dairon was Luthien's brother, who got lost in the woods in his try to find his sister Luthien as she had left to search for Beren. So here is a poem i wrote for her brother
If you like Pina Coladas, getting caught in the rain,
the endless rain, the purple rain...
If you like Special Brew, well, no-one actually likes Special Brew,
but if there's times you'll do anything to misconstrue pain.

If you like Pina Coladas sharing a bath,
if your heart's been smithereened but you still like a laugh,
if sometimes you feel like you're still 16
and no-one wants to dance, then I'm the love

who's bit bananas, bit vanilla, prudish heart true,
I'm the lover it'd hurt to hurt you.
My exes said they loved me, but they all had X-ies.
Sensitive guys just ain't ****.

If you like making love at midnight in the dunes at Walberswick,
if you think you'll never meet anyone interesting on the internet,
if you've put 'non-smoker' but when you get let down you seek
cigarettes, then reply on OKCupid and we'll quit regrets.

If you think short guys ain't worth ****,
but you must admit you're a manlet magnet,
well, I walked the eggshell vale from l'homlette to Hamlet,
the razor's edge of the quietus a bare bodkin makes

to meet a sensimilla Ophelia too ******
on sadness to be near the lake this late.
I'll throw the rubber ring of love like a bouquet, catch it!
It's yours.
But sensitive guys just ain't **** no more.

I'll throw that life-preserver of love tho' I throw like a girl,
and Pina Coladas leave me cold like the rain.
But reply on OKCupid and for the 1st time in les temps perdu,
let's feel like French teens frenchying by banks of the Seine

(if you 'll settle for  picnic by the Broads, Norfolk don't have a cape).
Don't make me feel like Gimli from Tolkien, who his battleaxe
contemplates
for chap of below average height's bare bodkin escape, ay?
Like sensitive guys just ain't **** these days.
Lawrence Hall Mar 2017
Re-Reading Tolkien for Lent

Across the page, across the words, soft light
Soft morning light at play this quiet day
This stand-down day when duty does not call
Not call, and life is for a few hours free

Ink on a page, now forming into songs
Songs that were old when this green world was new
And fields of flowers were as fields of stars
Fields of Creation and eternal Hope

O happy fields forever, here, right here
Across the page, across the words, soft light
A friend of mine asks,
“Why do you only ever write about romance lately?”

Well, the answer is quite simple, really. It is because I have tasted it.

I tasted it when my eyes first drank the light from his grace when he stood tall above me
His saturnine windows called out to me behind flesh curtains whenever he spoke, ever asking me to join him in his ecstasy
He, from a distance, darted towards me and pressed our sides together—letting myself melt in the velveteen touch of fabric skin
There was a shower of momentary light that night but only his radiance did I bask in.

I tasted it in the heart of the stone city where usurpers of old stood on polished stone
The Bulwark’s adobe reach embraced our reverie as memories from sleep stories become reality
He, in the confines of that venerable fortress, made me vulnerable for I was secure in his arms
His fingers are in between my own like woven mithril unbreakable lest he broke its bond himself
It is in this kingdom of carven stone and handmade walls that he sang of ardor with a dragon’s petrifying gaze.

I tasted it in yuletide storms where men and women waged war with happiness and grief
When the armies of pain and suffering fell at our clasped hands and cheeks red from amorous verve you said you were to journey home
But you did not let go of my grasp
With me you remained and in your arms I stayed
As the bitter winds of bigoted mouths blew, as the fire from damnation is declared by self-righteous souls, we stood fast in the storm.

I tasted it when he said our love he could no longer endure
There we sat, on a tarnished vehicle, as the last of our love gave into rust
What is frightening to me peeked from his saturnine eyes and he closed his curtains shut for the downpour of despondency was to come
We flooded our façades and the rivers quaked our emotional integrity
He held my hand for one final chance before we ripped our wrappings forever apart and he kissed me tender
Our lips made love—like the first they ever met in weathered heat—for the last time.

I tasted it when I told him “Just do so, when your appetite roars to love me again,” and until now I am waiting.

So, why do I ever only write about romance lately?

Well, the reason is quite complicated, really. But–but it is because I’ve tasted it.
For my muse, Emer. I ever hoping you'll find your way back to me.

Read more of my works on Tumblr: www.brixartanart.tumblr.com
Sienna Luna Jan 2017
and isn't strange

that i'm sitting in my car

in a parking garage

thinking of you and missing

your stupid plumb apple face

or maybe it's carved from soap

or shaved glass

fragmented by pieces

collected in bindles

followed by bundles

of the joy i used to have

of the sleep i used to get

of the energy i used to take

and isn't it strange how

i have no desire to have you

all to myself for you are

an automous being that

breathes and thinks and acts

wholy different than me

but i can't help but miss you

and your kiwi colored eyes

with the seeds cut out

dipped in a ring of gold

and like smegal i yearn to

hold that precious ring of gold

in my shriveled hands

even though i know

it'll corrupt me

but i'm drawn to mordor

all the same



that's what it's like

missing you



wanting to go there

even when I shouldn't



and isn't it strange

that my world is shifting

complicit and complicated

a deficit of the senses

a pull from the void

a shake of the head

with such filigree i am sated

but blinded by such yearning

to touch your hot skin

feel it rest

against mine



again but



maybe i'm too addicted to sparks
Steve Page Jul 2016
There're swords,
lots of them,
and long-bows,
with fresh, eager arrows
jostle with notched expert axes;

legendary hair frame braided beards
flowing into refilled tankards
drowning curses through broken teeth
gnawing at poor personal hygiene
across the stench of the public tavern
as granite-stares challenge
bone-shattering laughter.
-
All as anticipated -
there's Orcs about
and the prescribed heroes assemble.
-
-
Slow rolling leaden mist cloaks howling creatures at dawn
from deep within the forest,
then disabling rain falls at dusk
and steel clashes with steel in the storm…
-
All these exploits ferment short of full strength
and stretch onto a wide Winter screen
before facing the final critical battle
for a 12A Christmas.
Inspired by Peter Jackson
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