"hagrid" poems
A loud knock,
was what I heard.
At this hour of the night,
who might that be,
I wordered.
Begrudgingly,
I opened the door,
only to meet a giant,
and all so hairy man,
(not in a **** way though).
Hey young lady,
I'm Rubeus Hagrid,
here to pick you up.
You are not a muggle,
you do not belong here.
There is a school for you,
Hogwarts is its name,
school of witchcraft,
and wizardry,
(not a regular school per say).
We better hurry up child,
or the train will leave us.
It awaits at Platform 9¾,
and if we are not on time,
Dumbledore will have my head.
If we are late,
you will miss the sorting hat,
which makes me wonder,
are you a Slytherin,
or a Gryffindor.
Anyway hurry up,
so go on and pack.
I would give you my wand,
but you do not know how to use it.
Do not look confused my child,
instead be happy.
being a muggle is no fun,
you will realise soon.
So hurry up lets go,
( I already hear snape grumbling).
$angila$
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 9:19 AM UTC
A new day, sunny weather,
stressed out, just like any other,
but at least I can watch Harry Potter
and I am watching it on my own, because I was left alone.
Can't reach anyone at the phone, it's because I am alone.
I am sitting here, drinking my beer,
though that I don't really like it, am drowning my fear.
This might be a little weird, but I wish I had a man with a real beard, just like Hagrid.
I feel bored and yet amused, while I create this masterpiece, confused.
I am done with the movie and now have nothing to watch.
Done with my beer, ready for the scotch.
Slowly getting drunk, emptying the glas.
I think it was one too much, am gonna pass.
While I am busy pitying myself, I didn't notice the call.
Checking my phone, there's a message on it but it says nothing good at all.
'Hey You, I've been trying to reach you for hours now, but I guess you're busy with self-pitying yourself again and to be honest, I am tired of this, this is my final goodbye'
Jun 2, 2018
Jun 2, 2018 at 7:27 AM UTC
OK; I will:
I will drone on and on about this and that
and you won't get a word in edgewise.
Droning is fun! You don't have to
check your mouth
or worry about vocabulary;
you just need to keep talking!
You can talk about sheep,
you can talk about skin lotion.
Did you know that lanolin
comes from sheep shear?
But no one yet has figured
a good use for hairballs—go figure!
I mean, the Scottish figured out
what to do with sheep's intestines;
I mean, the Scotts figured, yes,
I'm talking haggis!
But then again,
the Moonlanding was staged.
It's true!
Evidence of soundstages
for that prank can still be found
in Area 53.
But back to Hagrid —
in the Deathly Hollows
he seemed 3 cm smaller
than he did in the first HP movie,
and I'm not talking about Hewlett-Packard.
Can you imagine Carly Fiorina
as president?
I sure can't!
Did you know that you can survive
deep in the redwood forest
by licking the slime of banana slugs
for needed protein
and protect yourself from hypothermia
by plucking hundreds of fiddlehead ferns
and delving deep inside them…
hey, I think my drone batteries jus
Jun 20, 2017
Jun 20, 2017 at 10:37 PM UTC
I love you
Like you love Harry Potter
Like Luna loves puddings
Like Dobby loves socks
Like Harry loves his parents
Like Hermione loves books
Like Ron loves food
Like Dumbledore loves Hogwarts
Like Hagrid loves his creatures
Like Fred & George love pranks
Like J.K. Rowling loves writing
Feb 26, 2020
Feb 26, 2020 at 1:44 AM UTC
Twenty two years ago
December twenty second,
two thousand eighteen
"star student" born
this papa (and most
likely thee birth mother)
initially felt ecstatic,
dramatic (yes frenetic),
and careworn
as freshly minted parents,
but gifted with a daughter,
whose existence far
more precious
than any Earthborn
rare widgets, gewgaws,
gems, et cetera, despite
evoking unsolicited,
unpleasant, and
unmanageable forlorn
communication "dirt poor"
living (at least ten years
of wretchedness at 1148
Greentree Lane) unable
to toot our horn,
cuz unbearable, undesirable,
unforgettable, et cetera,
and manifold challenged,
when beloved Shana
Punim evinced inborn
developmental delay,
(which severe electric
cool aid acid test
patience of this father),
much more difficult
than playing krummhorn,
now after tendering the trials
and tribulations, an
amalgamation of
poignant affects,
whereat your
permanent presence...
(must never NOT precede mine),
cuz..., I would definitely mourn,
your absence, thus felt the timely
opportunity to dash off
a birthday poem to you
in tandem with sharing,
(while comfortably numb
and figuratively licking war
torn psychological wombs) - torn
and ripped, queued,
peppered natty psyche
pockmarked with scorn
from self, (and those lives,
this dada immediately
impacted) particularly
your person roar'n
with cumulative anger toward
this insightful fellow,
(who claims to know
what thee feel toward me),
especially when ****
hours of valuable
time, now caught
(say, eh...approximately, fraught
upon the half life of rare Earth
element Eden), not
just strictly naught
heard thru the grapevine,
but forcing Math (hew)
analysis, via meditation, poetry
writing therapy, et cetera.
- - - - - - - - -
Hence...I apologize,
asper unasked for pain wrought
thee, sans being unemployed,
demeaning "mother Abby,"
bumbling, horrid house
keeper (Hagrid himself,
would turn down invitation),
plus Facebook fiasco,
imbroglio, and loco
motive - complicit in behavior
- - - - - - - - -
comparable to *********
yet please let me conclude
by admitting total lack
of wherewithal.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR DAUGHTER!
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 8:21 PM UTC
Looking into the *** of literature
Eratosthenes, and getting some midnight wrong
Broken poems, killjoy, I'm in a mellow dram with my bearhugs
In the chugging lurid frescoes of the mind of a gregarious soul with lion's eyes and a wolf's soul, the warmth lit the Savannah
Seems like cold ice, thawed in the nasty weather, left with positivity
Emerson's rude bridge, on the point, on the road, *** or a livid ultimate cunning guy being the ****** kicking the dirt with the incomplete poetic lines, where souls find lost dreams on the end of passion steps, lost Conrad
Do they murmur as a poem which is one, unbeing and being
The poem reminds of a haiku
She once told you
Tea was taken black
Sweet and right, is white on the top
A soul in the heart of darkness find an accident in the heart of weakness of others, my lungs are paper trite on the road around this town
Bless the soul, it knows peace after we're long gone on the dry dirt, kicking up the darkness in dreaming of you
Fear in a handful of stardust in an ashen raging madman
If you could those poets in that lost poem
If you could read between the lines and keep the metaphors alive
Dying and slipping, sliding away away
Concordant lives of the passion of the Christmas, he lives with his Hagrid-like father
Strolling the empty nights, with the Christ in the amazing hodger, roger in the soul love, and they share the same books
That's why they share different characters, and lines
Aug 22, 2019
Aug 22, 2019 at 6:49 PM UTC