"End with somewhere far away, deep in a hobbit hole"
Keely Hartman 

So here you are.

Mingled in with all my other far-fetched dreams of
Writing and
Mystifying and
Laughing much too loud.

You have always presented yourself to me just out of reach
Slinking out sight behind the crumbling brick walls of my future
And there you are again, when the rusty dust makes it hard to breathe.

Could you ever forgive me for this poem?
My words fall all wrong, don't they?
What do you expect though, love
When you've made yourself so indescribable to me?
How could I ever explain the perfection in your longing glances across untouchable boundaries?
With what words am I allowed to describe the wind rising against the night and out white bed?
Is there even an alphabet emotionally expressive enough to depict your love in it's deepest, most intimate form?

God only knows I've gained inspiration from you but,
words come so ignorant to our simple complexity.

It's taken me forever to write this but, I'm beginning to piece it all together.
Maybe it's the way my heart fills when you reach for me in the morning or
Wait for me in the halls or
Look at me through eyes I can never really see.

I'll wait for you, though. Even when your dreams drift far from mine.
We can always meet again at the
Yellow House or
the Green Room or
the White Bed:
The places where I fell in love.

The places where you stole my heart.

I can only hope that my dreams of writing and
Mystifying and
Laughing much, much too loud
End with somewhere far away, deep in a hobbit hole

With you.

"dotted with hobbit holes,"

A girl walked out of class,
   and kept walking.
She came to the end of the asphalt,
To the downtown of her rusty city,
To a warm brown coffee shop,
   and kept walking.

Back in the cold, she walked onward.

She passed mouldy, rolling hills
dotted with hobbit holes,
   and kept walking.
She passed gurgling swamps where
jewel-scaled dragons lay decaying,
   and kept walking.
She passed blowing golden plains,
small vermin nibbling at the wheat,
   and kept walking.
She passed freshly-cut mountains
and well-worn valleys,
and warmed herself
at the mouth of a volcano.

She walked for so long without
crossing paths with another,
that when she came to the starry
edge of the world,
she threw herself off.

"your big feet, awkward and knobby like hobbit toes"

The smell of your leather belt was comforting--
rich and almost plastic-y, smooth with round notches ingrained
how many times have I fallen asleep on your stomach
lulled by bubbles and pops quarreling beneath the surface
your voice rolling through your legs, thick waves, I'm
hearing you through layers of mud and my ceiling watching
your big feet, awkward and knobby like hobbit toes
I'm trying to picture this in my mind so it stays, just
the other day I felt your hands for minutes on end to be sure
I knew the texture of your hair as well, soft in the back, abrupt before
your neck, the smell of you too
Pleasingly dank as if your dresser was wet, soaked in laundry soap and Yves Saint Laurent
soft against my lips as if I could roll them back and forth under your ear
pretending I'm only breathing but I'm teasing
and crying, you're leaving for
new mexico

(c) Brooke Otto
"“The Hobbit”"
John F McCullagh 

J.K. Rowling is the latest
to call herself a bloke.
Three Bronte sisters
Made up male names
So they could write,
Not vote.
George Elliot
Was the nom de plume
of a British lady fair.
In Victorian times
It was de riguer
For a girl to feign
a pair.
Distaff scribes
Are not alone
In borrowing a name
Sam Clemens took
As “nom De Guerre”
The river cry
“Mark Twain”
And Stephen King
Who writes so fast
That he’s in overdrive
Adopted Richard
Bachmann as a name
And used it
for some time.
George Orwell
Once was Erich Blair
Lewis Carroll
was Charles Dodson.
“The Hobbit”
Was my nom de plume
But now
I haven’t got one.

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