"oberon" poems
The maiden so fair
In all her grace
The gold leaf in her hair
And snow pedaled face
Night and day we sing
In elegant song
A rhyme to our queen
And look Oberon!!!!!
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 11:34 PM UTC
The child alone a poet is:
Spring and Fairyland are his.
Truth and Reason show but dim,
And all’s poetry with him.
Rhyme and music flow in plenty
For the lad of one-and-twenty,
But Spring for him is no more now
Than daisies to a munching cow;
Just a cheery pleasant season,
Daisy buds to live at ease on.
He’s forgotten how he smiled
And shrieked at snowdrops when a child,
Or wept one evening secretly
For April’s glorious misery.
Wisdom made him old and wary
Banishing the Lords of Faery.
Wisdom made a breach and battered
Babylon to bits: she scattered
To the hedges and ditches
All our nursery gnomes and witches.
Lob and Puck, poor frantic elves,
Drag their treasures from the shelves.
Jack the Giant-killer’s gone,
Mother Goose and Oberon,
Bluebeard and King Solomon.
Robin, and Red Riding Hood
Take together to the wood,
And Sir Galahad lies hid
In a cave with Captain Kidd.
None of all the magic hosts,
None remain but a few ghosts
Of timorous heart, to linger on
Weeping for lost Babylon.
4.8k
The Mockery of Fairyland
In silence watching, as fellow, fallow fairies dance,
Sylphs float above while gnomes furrow,
Donating water brothers.
Undine.
Spiritual creatures, unseen.
Creation of nature from nature.
Mankind evading.
Those fairies will still catch your eye,
In form of genus butterfly.
God forbid you meet them.
Stumble on their fairy rings.
You should never ever tell a fairy your name.
For in fairyland you may remain.
For safety's sake.
While you're out walking in the woods.
Inside out, you must wear your shirt,
Wear a ring of of iron!
So you can breach the fairies curse.
For in seven year cycles.
Fairies must donate to hell.
A good soul,Tam Hin.
Because he tricked the fairy queen.
She had to set him free.
Ti's said.
As man folk mate.
Fairies do true procreate.
In a way akin to ours!
Hybrid fairies once existed.
They were such melancholy souls.
Far too sad to live in fairyland.
Too fairy like to live on earth!
Titania she still sits waiting patiently.
For her Oberon to arrive.
King and queen of fairyland, in literacy.
Supreme?
No Fallacy!
By ladylivvi1
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 4:56 AM UTC
"You're the Ariel to my Prospero"
He says grinning
with dagger pearl teeth
that could nibble my ear
or easily rip out my heart.
Ignorant of his mundanity
He does not know of those
who came before.
Names are relative.
"You're the Puck to my Oberon"
"You're the Tink to my Peter Pan"
Heard 'em all.
Plight of the Manic Pixie
Not Dream Girl.
Charming Sassy Childish
girl.
Sidekick Extraordinaire.
But lower than Robin to his Batman.
Messenger, Trickster, Mischief Maker.
Companion.
Adventurer.
with a temper ten times his size.
A power unnamed. Unused.
Never Enough.
Never enough
to Want to challenge her master.
ProsperoOberonPeter
I will drink the poison for you.
I will sink the ship.
I will find the ****** flower
and enchant the Fairy queen.
Follow orders, then twist them.
With some glittler and a devilish smile.
Crazy Tiny
girl.
Too pixie to hold on to
Catch me Boy!
Alreadycaughtnoneedtocatch.
Little ****** Manic Pixie
Yearning for a kiss
a touch
a word.
When you're a manic pixie
there's no trio
no male sidekick to choose
over
the hero.
But the hero gets the girl.
Manic Pixies live to serve.
Not dignified or wise enough for Royal Athena.
Not ruthless enough for the Dangerous Diana.
Without the darkness of the Morrigan.
Virginity isn't a choice.
It's part of the job description.
Could I be your ladybird?
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 11:46 AM UTC
Of all the kings
Bear him to mind
Eternal ruler of these
Riches, magic, and wine
Of fairies and song
Now praise Oberon
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 11:30 PM UTC
Doubt no more that Oberon—
Never doubt that Pan
Lived, and played a reed, and ran
After nymphs in a dark forest,
In the merry, credulous days,—
Lived, and led a fairy band
Over the indulgent land!
Ah, for in this dourest, sorest
Age man’s eye has looked upon,
Death to fauns and death to fays,
Still the dog-wood dares to raise—
Healthy tree, with trunk and root—
Ivory bowls that bear no fruit,
And the starlings and the jays—
Birds that cannot even sing—
Dare to come again in spring!
2k
There's more to this little brown bottle than the sunshine within,
and if you search across the hills of Kalamazoo
you'll find the meaning of gold.
Cheers to this:
the smell of barbecue and grass
and the taste of oranges drenched in ale
and sunlight.
As the fire crackles
and the flames move like the flags we claim,
I can hear each individual string
on a friend's guitar
as they tell a story of an everlasting summer.
When it's cold
the sun smiles and burns
as the sound of cannonballs piercing aqua blue waves
washes through your body
clad in pink
skin,
and fabrics
seen from many
and any
wandering eye.
As the hi-hat sizzles,
so too does your soul,
and that's why you can't help but
dance dance dance.
But just like any season,
this friendly brown bottle
is a moment in time.
Winter must come,
people must go,
but somewhere in the recipe for your favorite drink
are all of their names
glistening in gold.
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 5:54 PM UTC
It was only a tiny village then
Away from the thoroughfare,
Had existed since I don’t know when
With a grassy village square,
There were only seven ancient cars
In the narrow village streets,
And none of them travelled very far
For the shop stocked milk, and treats.
It hadn’t seen much of progress since
The days of old King John,
Who’d lost his jewels in The Wash, by Mintz
Near the town of Oberon,
The villagers there were set in ways
That caused nobody harm,
But when Lars came from Oberon
There was cause to feel alarm.
For Lars was the local planner for
The town of Oberon,
He’d dragged it kicking and screaming
Into the century just gone,
He’d widened streets, and cancelled Meets
In the old stone Mason’s Hall,
By bulldozing their building, leaving
Folk with a low stone wall.
He’d passed it all with an ordinance
That had given him total power,
The council caved to his arrogance,
All that he did was glower,
He put street lights on the corners, and
He acted like a prince,
And when he was done with Oberon
He set his sights on Mintz.
He drove on down to their village square
And he said it wouldn’t do,
He’d turn the square to a thoroughfare
So the cars could drive right through,
He didn’t care when the people there
Said ‘Leave our square alone!’
He said, ‘I’m passing an ordinance,
So you might as well go home.’
The local hall was agog that night
There’d never been such a crowd,
The villagers all were up in arms,
‘This fool shouldn’t be allowed!’
‘This calls for a special meeting,’ said
The spokesman, Rupert Bragg,
‘We’ll have to call on the village witch,
The widow, Nancy Stag!’
They all poured out of the village hall
And they went to see the witch,
Who was busily mixing potions in
A cauldron and a dish,
‘You’ll not be needing my magic,’ said
Old Nancy, with a smile,
‘If you all agree with my plan, you’ll see,
That Lars will run a mile.’
She asked the women to stay behind
While the men went on their way,
‘I mean the ones over seventy,
The rest can go or stay,’
They huddled up with the village witch
And applauded Nancy’s plan,
‘We’ll send him scuttling off from Mintz,
You’ll see, he’s only a man!’
When Lars came down in his private car
They met him in the square,
Holding banners and placards, but
That’s not what made him stare,
‘You’d better get back to Oberon
Or we’ll march there, for our rights,’
He turned, and hurriedly left the square,
They all were dressed in tights!’
David Lewis Paget
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 4:06 AM UTC
Stage lights burn out.
I am left agog.
Eyes drop
incredulously
as what I saw before me
was very restoring.
A story of humanity,
a Shakespearian epic,
a turbulent tempest
that hit me with
the fierceness of Hamlet.
As Othello’s hands
wrapped around
his beloved neck,
as Thibault killed Mercutio
As Ariel and Puck
played their trickster games,
as Prospero planned,
and Oberon dawned
his elvish Armor,
as Titania loved an ***
and saw false love pass;
As the thorny crown
of King Richard passed
then passed again
whilst he ruminated
nearly naked in a cell of
dirt and stone, alone,
halfway mad before
he made it there.
As Caesar bled
betrayed by Brutus
in the Ides of March,
I await more wonders
for Shakespeare
has so much more
I have yet to get to.
I am descended
from that poet’s heart.
who passed down his purchased arms
of false nobility
to become a man of property
not knowing his plays
would make him greater
than any noble man of his day.
After all the pleasure
I sit in awe and ponder,
what if he had the eyes to see
what faces us presently
would he wonder at the cleverness of us
or cower at the current level
of our stupidity?
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 9:25 AM UTC
**I am the pride in Oberon’s Love-lorn
Crown and the bleeding in Hamlet’s voice.**
Its the taste of iron in my wounded
throat that reminds me: I am not
a cow, dog, flower or forest.
That my humanity
Who has to die a little
just to know itself
will one day choke me
until the blue in my face
resembles the blue around
Your veteran eye
Or the blue around the Albatross’ sky
moments before she died
in spite of those who loved her
Who shed tears like silver coins
buying a shard of happiness
to use as a nail that **could
Crucify our grieving souls**, but
corpses still cast shadows
even after you lick your thumb
to silence the sun like a wick.
Jan 8, 2011
Jan 8, 2011 at 1:21 PM UTC
Beautiful dying,
Silent, Chill is crying.
Oranges, reds, yellow.
Fire above falls below.
Naked swaying whispering,
Spider’s fingers whistling.
When their white, bones rattled in breeze,
‘Fore at last, comes in the freeze.
Cold sprinkling down,
Cold blankets around.
Covers Chill so binding.
White and blinding
Sleep, Chill, it’s the end.
Darkness in the dead.
And now behold,
Autumn runs from Cold.
Heavy, deep,
Nearly endless sleep.
Cold’s solid slumber,
Renew the green wonder.
Poking up their heads,
From their icy beds.
Open colored eyes,
Extending luring lies.
Bees come in as,
Trees shake away Cold who has,
Retreated to his hiding place.
Now, Warm dances on new leaves with grace.
Breathing spirit and fresh life,
Banishing winter’s strife.
Fresh is never stale,
‘Cuz in comes Hot’s gale.
Humid, parching,
Hot is smothering.
Warm is withering,
Fire hearts a fluttering.
Sun toasts skin,
Cold’s fraternal twin.
Trees turn Oberon green,
But lack the Faire’s mean.
He melts a cool thought,
One of any you have brought.
Spring is dried of a tear,
He wakes at first dawn,
Exposed in the growing fawn.
But falling weaker every day,
Loosing strength in the morning gray.
Chill bites Hot’s back turned,
Leaves change, set to be burned.
She comes back around
*Time passes without a sound
The beauty of the life of men?
All will come, and die again. *
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
Oberon stands by;
summer is asleep.
Puck reclines, lethargic eyes,
wildflowers threaded
through his coarse, nether hair.
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 5:41 PM UTC
Chapter II
A wreath of passionate fire encircles a face of pure light,
A being, framed by strong shoulders and chest, with gentle hands.
Flames from within that flicker and dance
with a deep glow, spilling forth happiness from the soulful orbs
of his eyes that shine bright like the sun, in spite of the darkness of night.
Mischievous and joyful as a Midsummer Goodfellow.
And yet...
If not for the solid purpose in each step, easily he could be Oberon.
Two sides of a coin.
Fully alight, there is no stopping the energy that pours forth...
From his entire being.
All around are consumed by his love.
All around are enveloped in his luminescence.
All around are enamored by his beautiful soul.
It is enchanting to watch.
……How do I know?
Because I died…and he brought me back..
He gave me new life and now…
My heart beats in rhythm with his.
A shared heart-song.
We are one. An unbreakable embrace.
There was a time....Once..when I danced alone…
Then he found me. And now I am home.
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 8:58 PM UTC
“I want to be the Jim to your Pam,” he says.
And it makes you want to smile.
the way nostalgia makes you want to smile, the way
you smile when you watch that Star Trek episode, you have
seen it a thousand times but man,
those Tribbles sure are Trouble.
So you take the stairs two at a time you
sit on that twin bed, you put your feet up,
your toes under the covers because this was almost home once;
this was safe silence of late nights without much conversation,
of finding you knew the same words to the same songs
of always having a toothbrush and a t-shirt in the car.
this was a band-aid and a bottle of Oberon
when you skinned your knee on that “shortcut” home from the bar.
and he laughs and he says “just make yourself comfortable.”
and despite all the years and the lies you almost
Do.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 6:33 PM UTC
When the last blood is spilled,
when the last champion falls,
when the last hero dies,
that is when Death calls.
This fight is not over,
our war will be won.
Our will is unmatched
until the last bard has sung.
Oberon has summoned us.
Our quest is absolute,
our destiny is decided,
and our fate, we cannot dispute.
Follow me Brothers, Sisters,
walk with me into the fire.
Our choices are to fail,
or see our enemies on a pyre.
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 6:51 PM UTC
One morning after interrogations
and permitted rest, a training day warning:
Objects look bigger than they appear.
Gunshot was fired again.
Along with flair and sentiments in fancy frames.
She was told to stand-up again
and He was told to run for his life as far as he can.
He was shot dead after a few feet.
She was let go only to allow trackers
to find the others.
Facing seducing blades and machines
in lines of neon relief, we bury in a hurry
forsaken selves.
She shakes cold under someone's embrace,
wonders about how staying together
may also be just another lie.
Sharpening blades tonight,
Oberon and the Moon covers a skeleton.
By sunrise, the towers are unmanned,
chasing and hide-and-seeks.
A survival meeting that never existed.
A radio singing while someone works and eats.
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 10:26 AM UTC
Unto a summer and all that seemed likely,
set open as a tome
that old friends discovered lightly.
One day, as many of them do,
did simmer and saunter
under the golden glimmer and heat
that haunted away the dew.
Slumber then and to you shall pass,
a little of brotherly offense
collapsing with the weight
of ten siblings crass.
What can I say to one such as thee,
but wish and wonder and ne’er throw away,
the exquisite plunder
of such a deepening display,
wrought whistling in a cinnamon forest
of raspberry inlays—
unbound, incorked and nuptially unmade.
A coat for the shoulders
to keep the cold at bay,
and a rather wistful, wicked malaise
glistening in the skull of those
that always threaten to run away.
Life is a gateway and nothing remains.
Aug 11, 2025
Aug 11, 2025 at 9:36 AM UTC
Inspired from la bella notte,
She shall be wed.
Look at her not,
Budding blossom.
Gardenia encounters her majesty
And wears herself upon her majesty’s crown.
Queen of royals where she belongs,
O’er the death of them all
Sing, Oberon, sing
Shallow eyes nay be prepared
Thy future shall quiver
In the deep eyes of the siren’s iron gaze.
Close thy naivety,
Shut the gates.
Another tomorrow awaits.
Do not look at the Queen.
Do not wait for fate.
The Queen of the Night approaches,
The Queen of the Night too late.
Gardenia, flower, return to the earth.
Remain, and be noble,
As her majesty’s rebirth.
Dec 31, 2017
Dec 31, 2017 at 11:34 PM UTC
Secretly, Titania, and Oberon
Had cast a magical spell
The guests were despatched
To a strange Dingly Dell
Their eyes changed colour
And they all grew wings
And flew around in circles
Doing all sorts of things
Some crashed into each other
Some crashed to the ground
Others flew into trees
Some sang silly sounds
Many got dizzy
And a couple were ill
And when they woke up next morning
They were perched upon my window sill
I beckoned them in
To tell me their tales
But none could remember
Because of the spells!
by Jemia
Mar 4, 2021
Mar 4, 2021 at 6:46 PM UTC
From dreams to sleep she drifts between,
Where visions dance of what has been,
In symbols marked by fates decree,
What strange things will she see?
Visions of old, or something new?
Connected thoughts of me and you?
Under light of lonely moon,
Bathed in pale and longing hue.
Or maybe wild chaotic fun?
Dancing with fairies to belief of none,
Perhaps there she’ll meet a king,
Both proud and twisted, a scheming thing.
And there they strike a bargain deal,
To a baser nature will he appeal,
To make a star of boring youth,
And place her next to lonely moon.
All to wish that she had not,
As lovely dreams are all but lost,
And in their place a nightmare state,
As startled sound jolts her to wake.
For hours there she longs and yearns,
For land of dreams to please return,
She thinks of him, the fairy king,
And casts aside the suffering,
Surely it was only dream,
You can’t make real a mythic thing,
Hours pass and she ventures back,
To the wonder of a dancing pack.
Around a throne of golden trim,
They make a play at behest of him,
They pause at her, but carry on.
For none dare cross great Oberon.
She takes a step and suddenly,
From behind a curtain she bounds and leaps.
“Great fairy king, ‘tis I you seek,
For a hand in marriage I offer thee.”
As if compelled she speaks the words,
With puzzled look as they are heard,
And walks onto the center stage,
As other actors seemed to fade.
All at once both there and gone,
Appears the great king Oberon,
To take her hand and lead away,
As per the deal that there was made.
An instant passed and there they were,
Amongst the stars above the earth,
And with a smile the king declared,
“Let no one say I am not fair.”
She cried in fear and looked around,
But from her lips there came no sound,
Too late she saw what she’d become,
A star opposed to glowing sun.
All to wish that she was not,
As lovely dreams had all been lost,
And in their place a nightmare state,
As startled sound jolts her to wake.
She looked up then towards the sky,
To catch a twinkling in her eye,
A lone star she’d never seen,
Had taken place where none had been.
For hours there she longed and yearned,
For land of dreams to please return,
She thought of him, the fairy king,
But cast aside her suffering,
Surely it was only dream?
You can’t make real a mythic thing!
Hours pass and she ventures back,
To the wonder of a dancing pack.
Feb 8, 2020
Feb 8, 2020 at 2:50 AM UTC