"ogres" poems
The Ogre does what ogres can,
Deeds quite impossible for Man,
But one prize is beyond his reach,
The Ogre cannot master Speech:
About a subjugated plain,
Among its desperate and slain,
The Ogre stalks with hands on hips,
While drivel gushes from his lips.
8.6k
My sympathy depleted
My friendships deleted
I have been defeated
By truths that hit so hard
I was decleated
By intense hatred deep-seeded
My history was repeated
I guess a three-armed mutant
Has no need for a right hand man
Until his leprosy riddled hands rot off
When he needs them the most
But his ***** limbs had been pretty useless for a while
Since he had lost feeling in them
He had to do a biopsy on his life
After the inaccurate results of the smear test
He took antibiotics to rid himself of the bacteria
But that didn't heal the nerve damage
He yearned for the rhetoric to be less inflammatory
So he took steroids
Transforming the ***** into an ogre
With no semblance of humanity
...Except for the people he devours
Their patience is delicious
He eats that first
Their pity is a delicacy
A rare treat
Their disgust tastes sour
But it's a feast
His cannibalism may seem callous
But the non-mutant lepers take Thalidomide
And get pregnant
Their kids come out defected
With an intense, deep-seeded hatred for three-armed mutants
And lepers and ogres look exactly the same
To those of another species
Jun 29, 2017
Jun 29, 2017 at 5:51 PM UTC
*We bask in light when morning comes, yet tremble in the night.
Halloween must be the cause to give us such a fright.
Ghosts and goblins haunt the streets where moans and chains abound.
Ghouls and vampires lurk in shadows, scared of holy ground.
Werewolves stalk unwary victims. Frankenstein is loose.
Ogres, trolls and spectral zombies hanging by a noose,
Gorgons with their "stoney" eyes and bats with leathery wings...
Mummies wrapped in yellowed cloth with rotting flesh that clings,
Pirates, gangsters, space invaders, just to name a few,
All in search of "Tricks or Treats"(or just a head...or two).
Beware the time when darkness comes. Be sure the door is locked.
But most of all .... to just be safe ... keep lots of candy stocked.*
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 10:41 AM UTC
Diminutive minutes fly by and imbue.
Ennobled, hungers the second hand.
Verbose and loud, its villainous ticking;
Oxen heavy, that kneading sound,
Under skull and depth of dreams.
Rescind the mad lives we vitiate;
Enchanted by hollow, fear of ghosts,
Dancing in a pitch waiting room.
Happenstance for insomniacs,
Ogres and dark shadows howling
Unapologetic at the light and moon.
Riot of the quiet, against daylight
Star: quarry in the void of night / time / dark.
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 11:54 AM UTC
A delicate crimson rose endures
The snow and winds of winter's grasp
And closes up and wilts a while
Until Summer sun it finds at last
In this world of unrighteousness
Where brutes and ogres' egos roam
And selfishness abounds like weeds
She exists in shattered form
With silent seething disilusion
And saddened, unrequited love
Maddened by the unjust acts
of those who advertized their “love”
A vain and self-indulgent god
Did sieze himself her mind and oath
Presiding as the demons do
In hidden acts pronounced as gross
Enduring the madness of matriarchs
And the hostility of tribal gang
Where smiles of familial welcoming
Turned into savage, jealous fangs
Yet though the bitterness seeps through
And anger permeates her skin
Sweet dignity she still retains
And devotion stll resides within
Her adornment incorruptible
Her spirit mild and resolute
Did not return evil for evil
But stood and conquered it with good
Happy is she who has endured
And in mild subjection did remain
Showing honour to a painful degree
To bring honour to Jehovah's name
And though she stumbled in despair
Yet withstood for righteous sake
Her loyalty, the beast could not sever
Nor divine concsience could he break
For like the rose at winter's end
That bears a striking sharpened thorn
Her petals still are soft and pure
And her soul with beauty still adorned
For the righteous one who sees all things
And whose love she yet retains
Will never for eternity forget
The love she showed for his great name
And should she reach out and beseech
And trust his salvation once again
She would know with certainty
He has never let go her hand
(For my precious daughter, Cheryl, who has been to hell and back)
May 3, 2020
May 3, 2020 at 1:19 PM UTC
Happily Ever After...
I could be the mermaid lost at sea,
I could be the Alice of your Wonderland,
Villans lined up with swords and spells,
We'd fight them all to the end.
Magic mirrors and haunted homes,
Singing trees and enchanted wands,
Ogres and dragons,
We'll visit them all.
Three wishes and glass slippers
Sisters and dwarfs,
I could be the rabbit of your hat,
I am Wendy if your my Peter.
Once Upon A Time...
Oct 25, 2009
Oct 25, 2009 at 10:29 AM UTC
_Munching, crunching on a bone,
The trolls of Langwood growl and moan.
Through feral mutterings and drivel,
They gulp and choke down last night's grizzle.
In their cave on rocky mountains high,
Their scaly skin cracks from air so dry.
Once human men poisoned by greed,
Transformed into ogres for their misdeeds.
They prayed on people of modest means,
Until our good sorceress intervened.
She protects our land and keeps us safe,
From warlords and bankers filled with hate.
Condemned to live long foul lives,
The trolls of Langwood miss their wives.
For they now resemble their truer selves,
Forever denied the beauty of men and elves._
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 2:09 PM UTC
He's sitting there, with that intense stare, forgetting about the world and daring to care. He's not prince charming, if anything he's Shrek, but the ogre stole my heart in the end. He's beautiful, I hope everyone can see, with his open brown eyes. He's a mess I must confess but what matters is inside.
When I fell in love with him, it wasn't a fairy tale. It was tears and laughter and lies and growth. Nothing kept me going except a solid maybe and an urging instinct to leap into his arms.
When I met him it was even worse, we were looking for benefits and nothing else. But instead we found each other and a possible forever. Who would have known a thief was in my midst? Who knew he could just be it? Not I. Even though before I was interested I felt comfortable and that our hearts just might share beats, I never imagined where he could take me.
Maybe years from now I will laugh at my young heart, but I pray I look back and smile and show our grandchildren this.
How daring am I in writing. I said that aloud in written form. I admitted it. Who have I become? Its crazy how crazy in love I am with him. He changed the romantically cynical and dead into a dreaming sap.
All because he was brave enough to steal my heart. He traversed Wonderland looking for a fabled girl named Grace, simply because I intrigued him, and found instead my heart. In a turn of events, he found it so precious that he decided to keep it. My heart turned an honest man into a thief, but I would have it no other way.
Well regardless, now I must speak straight to you, my ogre thief. I am madly mad over you and happy to be your partner in crime or your princess, whatever any given day suits us. I love you, and that's what matters to me.
So keep on looking off somewhere with that intense stare of concentration and determination, because that is the you I love most. Just you.
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 10:28 PM UTC
This is no love poem
No love, no art work, no poem
No music nor rhythm
But of images
Of farmers exultant
Though they break their backs,
Or their bones creak,
With every slash of their sickles,
The heavy strokes
Wounding light in the fiery heat of noon,
The gaunt-faced sons of earth,
Bringing home harvests of gold
To the people's granary,
Where no greedy landlords are in sight.
For centuries, the land robbers
Had squeezed their souls dry
In constant toil.
It may be that their time is up.
But this is no love poem
No love, no art work, no poem
But of history
Of workers milling around a lingering twilight.
Pounding their hammers with their might,
Ecstatic at the thought of freedom,
Yet battling still, long dreaded ills
Of feudal ******* barratry,
Imperialism
Storing up for the people’s cause,
Building a new commune in the new place
Freed from the landlord-minded President
From the imperialist ogres
Of IMF-World Bank and Uncle Sam,
The warmongers,
From oppression
And poverty and wretchedness
That, like a python, had wound
Around them to the end.
But this is no love poem
No love, no art work, no poem
No fictive tale but of radiant truth.
As throngs of men
And women march
Out of their homes
With new-found hope,
Gathering strength
As from a blasting storm,
Defiant now of lying saints or heroes
Or of murderer Presidents
Who speak with forked tongues,
As the throng march out into the streets
Flooding the cities,
Ready to offer their lives for freedom
To them would come such happiness,
Such love
No poem would express,
No art suffice to render.
This is no love poem
No piece of art, no song
Only a sense
Of how it is to tell of battles won,
Of folding in to feel the surge of triumph
Though brief perhaps,
Within this flashpoint moment
Of the people's war.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 6:24 AM UTC
yeah, read an old poem again and remember sitting across a dark sticky table, pitcher of beer to wash down the fear of losing control. the guys told jokes - called them "brain droppings", like intellectual pigeon **** puked on the window - but i was fighting not to get lost in the patterns of condensed water pooling from sides of the pitcher, laughing on cue because it seemed the right thing to do. i counted bright flashes, blue, a neon sign - froggy's bar open - for clarity, my fingers still melting into pencils at fine edges of the discussion. i carried a notebook to write in but nobody noticed. i thought i was a poet.
green sat there, slack jaw acid jockey, dead eyed silent fish out of water. educated somewhere. not here. it was hot. i think he'd had too much magic mushroom or that black sticky stuff we smoked in the bathroom that made me choke like a dying newborn, or maybe the pale colored microdot collage on paper rolls we all shared at a concert hall earlier. the humidity.
cool, man - i quietly pined for some brown-skinned chick away at college, home again but still not calling, so i wanted to forget my own name and split in some dime bag fog when the sugar slipped out over my lips; i spit, he didn't, i drank. green was hungry, brain-fucked, out of time, dreaming about some key lime trees in florida, ogres in fairmount's forests, the dealers from new york who wanted to **** us, then gut laughed at something funny he saw in his sneakers. we hefted him by armpits to the stairs and left him there; it was too hot to walk all the way up to the flat's front door. green **** himself; we left. green, by any other name, got lost like smooth longhairs on motorbikes, that girl, the pretend hit men from uptown, none of whom ever cared who i was, because i wasn't really anywhere. but i didn't realize green could fly. it was a secret he'd left on the pavement outside. i'd wished i could fly like green. but he died. i'm still here, bluffing i'm living.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 1:03 AM UTC
A kiss from a firefly can cure a cynic of their cynicism, make the nonbelievers believe, help the hopeless grasp the illusions of hope, and even reveal the marvelous maps of the mind; because a kiss from a firefly (and what a brilliant buss it is!) steers one into a sloshy slumber that smears the line between deepest desires and fanciful fairytales:
The feisty fairy fights nymphs, trolls, goblins, terrible ogres, nasty pirates, talking elephants, one gypsy (mainly because she stole some pixie dust in attempt to fly away to her next destination), and two silver cats, who could read her mind and she did not like that; but the plucky pixie never did steer clear from the twinkling glitter-bugs who held the key to Wonderland:
She drifted off into a slumber and she dreamt of owning all the knowledge that could possibly be held and she dreamt about flying on the back of a dragon and she dreamt about walking on water and tumbling down the rabbit hole and she dreamt of sincere sorcerers and mischievous mermaids and pink penguins who could speak perfect Portuguese and she dreamt about falling in love and being a child again and she dreamt that her father could walk her down the aisle.
Oh, the wonderful whimsical kiss of fireflies killing the beliefs of nonbelievers who dare not dream of dreams, it’s a slippery slope for those who can’t dilute delusions—a glorious path of the glowing!—leaving them to wake with hopeless hope.
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 3:20 AM UTC
He told his sister to feed the dogs,
His twin sister; Sophia Bogvoskya,
As he was to take out the herds
Of horses, sheep, donkeys and cows,
Out to the plains and hill land for grazing,
She never took a **** she locked herself,
Up in the ante chamber of the main house,
She took the mirror and began looking
At her beauty, Russian model beauty
She began picking her nails,
As the dogs were starving in the sheds
They whined but no succor came forth,
A fiat that coincided with arrival of ogres,
The great Western Ogres, the tongues wagging,
They had a plethora of eyes and mouths,
Noses and ears, limbs both hind and fore,
They ate all the young sheep,
They took away Putin’s young brothers
Crimea and Ukrainian, both were taken away,
By the ferocious NATO ogres they were taken
In a whelp and desperate kicking for freedom,
Dogs stood aloof as ogres thrashed Sophia
Into thin lacerations of red flesh,
They ate as they roared with laughter,
Then they went away with their loot,
Vladimir came back home, found nothing
No sister, no brothers no sheeplings,
Only two white sepulchers glared at him,
The graves of his mother and father;
The former cooks of Lenin Vladimir,
He mourned and mourned grievously,
Then he sang a dirge of his forefathers
From the herculean land of Bosnia,
And also Moscow, he dirged;
We were born in the wee of the night,
When the bear is whelping,
And we were suckled by the Tigre
When our mothers were taken slaves,
For no man or creature
Will ever make us victims
Nor subjects of fear,
He recovered from the moment
Trial some moment of loss and bereave,
Then he chose to go after the ogres
But with a strategum of no match,
He began arming himself first
Before he could set on,
His mobile armory full of deadly weapons;
A bunch of wasps, wild bees, black ants,
A thousand slings, spears and sickles,
Machetes, poisonous saps, and toxics,
Wild dogs, five hundred snakes and scorpions,
Bows and arrows as well as cudgels,
Clubs, stones and chains,
He also learned how to use the hands
In the most lethal manner,
Then he went for combat,
To rescue all that was taken,
Taken from him by the ogres….
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 8:38 AM UTC
his eyes held tales i never had known
of worlds and ideas, creatures and such
i hadn’t pondered since i had grown
why did getting older come in that rush?
after looking in his storied eye
i’ll never regret saying hi
the first time we talked
it felt so perfect, so easy, so simple
the road of friendship we together walked
there was i greeted with his happy dimple
after looking in his storied eye
i’ll never regret saying hi
with trust and trust we soon grew
his wise young mind greeted mine
he trusted me with what was hard to construe
a world filled with all that would common shine
after looking in his storied eye
i’ll never regret saying hi
fairies, giants, ogres, even glowing bright flowers
all found in his world awaited me
smiles greeted me in droves and showers
their excitement and mine gave the boy great glee
after looking in his storied eye
i'll never regret saying hi
he brought me there whenever i’d wish
and guided me towards his favorite things
during which conversations would to me switch
for he said my voice gave him wings
after looking in his storied eye
i’ll never regret saying hi
there i was, his only hope
and in a way he was mine
our tie was tough like rope
and our conversations aged like wine
after looking in his storied eye
i’ll never regret saying hi
it was my fault that darkened day
i let myself forget his worrying head
i let him away from me stray
now due to me, a friend is dead
i’m sure after looking in my boring eye
the dead magic man wished i’d never said hi
Sep 21, 2017
Sep 21, 2017 at 8:11 AM UTC
1.
*Her bleary red eyes
tired from carrying heavy load on her head-
all day long, while harsh sun was beating down,
still looks beautiful like a doe's, in the soft light of dusk;
with wonder they peer, at the glinting necklace,
extending down the night's blue black *******
Are they white diamonds or moon drops,
falling from the clear part of the sky
just now freed from the hold of clouds?
Like an eagle, sudden lightening swoops down,
exposing trees hiding in darkness,
reminding ogres, that come chasing her in nightmares.
But the flash embellishes the cloud, the shy moon takes cover;
the cloud in that moment, transforms to a sheer silvery dress-
for the moon to wear proudly, at any temple fair.
2.
The celestial dance of light and darkness
is stunning; makes her wonder aloud:
"Such beauty! I only need this to forget my pains"
with sweet power, it hits her, bringing to her mind,
the waves of pleasure erupted from her *****
that she felt once, just once, with her man.
She couldn't understand, how it happened, life still hides some secrets.
It was like a randy male goat, barging in to her home compound,
opening the closed gate swiftly, hitting softly with its head,
for a brief moment, she didn't know what happened, and how
the waves of pleasure, swept her off her feet, she floated, like a cloud,
in her sun scorched life, that never happened again.
3.
Existing as a cacophony as long as it is awake, the village,
is still, went to sleep, except moon and a few like her,
the chattering of women in the market had died down
dogs do not bark, the drunks aren't cursing dogs
or clashing with others who come their way.
Late at this hour, a lone night owl stirs,
his urgent hoots, resound making him more egregious.
She would go to sleep, if the owl stops,
then, to his snores she would turn a deaf ear as usual,
and let him slither like a snake,
in his part of the bed till morning breaks,
When--
it's again time for her to trek to the well too far,
to fetch water, before the women of next village,
come flocking with pots and pails.*
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 12:50 PM UTC
She gave me the Plankton
The lowest lifeform of her being.
Anointed with this discovery
I too gave in and shared with her a deep
and impenatrable solace within me.
Such truths arent always shown in sight
of others.
Nor are they whispered in ear shot,
But somehow
She burrowed right through them.
Empathy in a female form!
And not jaded and wrought with thoughts of imorality.
Day by Day she would come and take frlom me these
deviant caverns and restlless ideals sprung forth from
absence of maturity in child hood and loss of faith
as a growing man in the seamingly uncommon trait and
beauty each human claims the next has deep within.
The savage mastication of delerious greed
Usually self righteous. Sweetlt nipping at the arms of the impoverished.
the malady spreading further through while the ogres stomp their feet for attention
puffing up their chest like creatures and only for a moments pay they contract a virus
all to familiar in their learned ways.
her delicate hands grouping at the flesh id presented brushing away the small
inconsistences and as i vaguely remember now and to this day
she slipped a finger inside and in the membranes and masses an ease would fall over me.
the rush of expelling all that ales you within is a euphoria like no other.
Yet each time she would leave something behind.
Mar 15, 2012
Mar 15, 2012 at 5:28 PM UTC
He awakens, sighs, bones acreak at every move.
Reaches for the boilerplate, straps on his rapier
wit (but half of once it was), takes an aching
hold of his rusty lance, and mounts the ancient keyboard.
In clattering, staccato bursts, they gallop through
acres of verse: thatches of haiku and senryu,
prim English gardens of sonnet, manicured villanelles,
and mile after mile of untamed blank verse just like this.
All along the journey, he tilts at the ogres
in his mind, swiping in steady rhythm
at possesive pronouns replacing contractions,
your/you're...their/they're...its/it's...gah!
Set to charge full speed downhill from the
Valhallan heights of two courses of college English
at unedited mounds of unexamined thoughts,
he fetches up sharply; slows to a trot, looking uphill
at the hordes of English majors
eyeing him and his keyboard
with malice aforethought.
Jan 13, 2011
Jan 13, 2011 at 4:06 AM UTC
Blow me a kiss, doll
And I'll lead the way;
I'll show you where all those mermaid lay,
give you a carriage of pumpkins and magic
name what you want, and there you shall have it;
I'll go and bow down to the Elven Kings,
and watch you with pride as he gives you a ring;
We'll talk to the sprites and flee from the ghosts,
Meet pretty princesses (I love you most)
We'll watch unicorns as they gallop and prance,
And when we see stars we'll just get up and dance,
Make several wishes from genies aplenty,
So many nymphs, at least fifteen or twenty
Will take us to dragons that are blowing blue fire,
And knights with bright swords (of which I'll admire)
We'll run to the place where the phoenix all meet,
See them slack-jawed as they sparkle with heat,
And then when it's time to finally sleep,
Please close your eyes and then kiss me so sweet,
And when we wake up in lands of metal machines,
I know we're not where there's ogres and queens,
But you're still my princess, and trust me my dear,
Somehow your kisses are sweeter right here.
Jul 30, 2010
Jul 30, 2010 at 12:33 PM UTC
The King’s trove, the Queen’s affection.
Or rather, her affectations.
Pretention is the worst kind of beast,
snarling in the corner and snatching out with snipe claws.
It wipes my nose with its shirttail, then pronounces my snot
something of wonder it has created.
It causes such an itch in my throat, ensuing a
gag that threatens to choke the flare within me.
Trust it, and you will be following those signs that declare
Ogres! and
Certain Death!
not far ahead.
You will reach under its nautical waves and
Duped! Done for!
Now say ‘hello’ to your watery hollow.
You won’t find God here, or even
an ounce of hope to take flight.
All that will be left is a bitter taste on your tongue and the sound of
“Why, oh why…”
Jan 12, 2011
Jan 12, 2011 at 5:10 AM UTC
You stand within a wooded glade
The air is still and calm
Your hand rests on a mighty blade
A shield upon your arm
> GO NORTH
You stand beside a castle moat
The water, grim and dark
To cross you'll need to find a boat
Or build yourself an ark
> BUILD ARK
To build an ark would take a year
And lots of willing folk
(We wrote this whilst we drank some beer
That option was a joke)
> FIND BOAT
You really think you'll find a boat?
You're not the brightest spark
You're meant to think, you silly goat
(Or maybe build an ark?)
> GO NORTH
You walk towards the castle keep
And fall into the moat
Lucky for you, it's not too deep
Since armor doesn't float
> GO EAST
You're standing in an ogre camp
Three ogres are asleep
One looks like he's an ogre champ
(Perhaps you'd better creep?)
> **** OGRES
You draw your sword and take a stance
You howl a battle cry
The ogres wake and watch you dance
Then hit you and you die
GAME OVER
(L)oad saved game (N)ew game (Q)uit? >_
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 6:05 AM UTC
Tonight is the night, be it All Hallows' Eve
One filled with fright most refuse to believe,
For deep amongst the shadows, silently lurking,
'Tis a terrifying creature, his jagged teeth smirking.
Thou hast all heard of demons, and hast battled thine ghouls
Whilst this terrible beast watcheth with hunger and drools.
It's spittle, like acid, can burn through thine flesh
Making thee so much easier to digest.
No name shalt be found for a creature so foul
That gobbles up goblins, and ogres disembowels.
Dost thou think that thine lanterns shall frighten it hence?
Oh foolish man, it shall consume the light thence.
It standeth hunched over, twelve feet in height;
Stalking thou, watching thou, waiting for night.
It cometh from deep within the forest, as the moon wanes
His fur smelleth of death, his claws favouring pain.
He shan't be stopped ere his hunt is over
Yet he only hunts the thirty-first of October
Take ye heed, then, and hear the warning of the raven
For this beast is coming, and from him there is but one haven.
He preyeth upon the weakest, and the one full of fear
So stand fast, take courage and in another likeness appear
Put on a mask, as treacherous as can be
Conceal what layeth within, do not let him see
Or else you shall be taken, beaten and devoured
For this beast prefers to torture just to see thee cower.
So please, take heed to this warning and believe;
Thou art only safe if thee wearest a mask on All Hallows' Eve.
11/3/16
Nov 15, 2016
Nov 15, 2016 at 12:13 AM UTC
I open my mouth to speak to a crowd of unsimulated sheep, I was a king then, I am a king now, but I've never seen a bow, I conquer minds, unravel the individual sign write on it I am not hungry but I would love some common courtesy, seeing pass the facade of happy caring faces, we are all like ogres thick layers of self doubt, piecing together a broken fault, the best release may be inner peace, but our perfect creations become corrupted at the slightest tease, how am I to speak when no one reads, there are so many screens invading the scene, even now there is a glow upon your face, and the sheep are beckoning the insomniac to sleep, the choice is when, the decision cannot be corrected by easy pill supplements, conspiracies, floating in a pool of ignorance, calling out each others name as life lines, together our words may blanket the eyes, forming the disguise that reveals the truth hidden within I
Jan 2, 2017
Jan 2, 2017 at 12:58 AM UTC
Ogres once hid behind rocks in the garden
Guarding grass and blossoms
From those who'd defile them.
Evil done from innocent oaks
Wrapped tight in jute ropes,
Those shows for the children
Who stared wild, wide
At white sheets and men dancing
Some curing like hams, hanging from branches.
We thought saints from distance had stopped it -
Carnage in leaves after parades
****** of hate in the streets.
Old stories torched, sealed lips
Evidence lost or forgotten.
Devils unmasked and converted,
Now singing hymns in pews
At white churches on Sunday,
Burning Jesus in secret at night in the forest,
Just trees and stars to bear witness
Their worship of wizards and spiders,
Prancing through ashes like white knights astride
Their grand, imagined white horses.
Saints, grown bored of the chore they started,
Taught men new words to pretend
They'd never offend - at least not in public -
As smoke still corrupts lungs of the children,
Playing old games with new rules they've been given.
May 5, 2010
May 5, 2010 at 7:11 PM UTC
Ever After
Its past the time for fairy tales,
or wishes that come true.
Much too late for breadcrumb trails,
too broke to buy a clue.
The knight in shining armor
has put away his steed;
the princess, if someone would harm her,
will scream a useless plead.
The dragons have free reign to roar,
the ogres feed on dreams.
Trolls control the bridge once more.
Futiley the princess screams.
Seem “Happily Ever After”
and the stories we were told.
Became quite a disaster,
youthful dreams bought and sold.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 7:44 AM UTC
We bask in light when morning comes
yet tremble in the night.
Halloween must be the cause
to give us such a fright.
Ghosts and goblins haunt the streets
where moans and chains abound.
Gouls and vampires lurk in shadows
scared of holy ground.
Werewolves stalk unwary victims.
Frankenstein is loose.
Ogres, trolls and spectral zombies
hanging by a noose
Gorgons with their "stoney" eyes
and bats with leathery wings
Mummies wrapped in yellowed cloth
with rotting flesh that clings
Pirates, gangsters, space invaders
just to name a few
All in search of "Tricks or Treats"
(or just a head ... or two).
Beware the time when darkness comes.
Be sure the door is locked.
But most of all, to just be safe
keep lots of candy stocked.
Oct 30, 2019
Oct 30, 2019 at 7:41 AM UTC