"tolkien" poems
New Hiking Shoes for the Trail Ahead
The road goes ever on and on…
-J.R.R. Tolkien
While I was looking for something else I found
A pair of hiking shoes still in their box
From a year ago – in anticipation
Of a summer vacation that never was
And there was no holiday again this year
It was all coronavirus and hurricanes
I had forgotten those shoes, but here they are
All ready for some sunlit summer road
While I was looking for something else I found
A pair of hiking shoes, and a bit of hope
Sep 18, 2020
Sep 18, 2020 at 11:10 AM UTC
…These men are worth your tears:
You are not worth their merriment.
-Wilfred Owen, “Apologia Pro Poemate Meo”
When that loudmouth on the wireless machine
Alludes to Western Civilization
What does he mean? Paradise Lost? Probably not
Nor Saint Paul speaking on the Field of Mars
The Kalevala, Hagia Sophia
With its pendentives lifting up our prayers
Horatius fighting to defend his bridge
And Wilfred Owen dying bravely on his
Lord Tennyson and Idylls of the King
Chapultepec, Henry V, Becket
The paratroops at Arnhem, Saint Thomas More,
His King’s loyal servant, but God’s first
The Stray Dog poets of Saint Petersburg
The brave last stand of Roland at Roncesvalles
Lewis and Tolkien and glasses of beer
Montcalm and Wolfe on the Plains of Abraham
Hildegard von Bingen, Siegfried and the Rhine
Magna Carta, HMS Hood, the Thames
The Grove of Daphne, “The Old Rugged Cross”
Beatrix Potter and her little pet rabbit
El Cid, Anne Frank, John Keats, Saint Benedict
“I Have a Dream,” Dostoyevsky, and Greene
Viktor Frankl, Dag Hammarkskjold, and Proust
Good Chaucer’s naughty pilgrims telling tales
The Gettysburg Address, Willie and Joe
Stern Saint Augustine of North Africa
Wodehouse writing a jolly bit of fun
Saint Corbinian and Bavaria
The ancient glories of Byzantium
Pius XII contra the bombs and lies
The 602nd TD Battalion
Saint Joan, the Prado, and Robert Frost
And far, far more.
When that loudmouth on the wireless machine
Alludes to Western Civilization
What does he mean?
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 4:06 PM UTC
Among pelagian travelers,
Lost on their lewd conceited way
To Massachusetts, Michigan,
Miami or L.A.,
An airborne instrument I sit,
Predestined nightly to fulfill
Columbia-Giesen-Management's
Unfathomable will,
By whose election justified,
I bring my gospel of the Muse
To fundamentalists, to nuns,
to Gentiles and to Jews,
And daily, seven days a week,
Before a local sense has jelled,
From talking-site to talking-site
Am jet-or-prop-propelled.
Though warm my welcome everywhere,
I shift so frequently, so fast,
I cannot now say where I was
The evening before last,
Unless some singular event
Should intervene to save the place,
A truly asinine remark,
A soul-bewitching face,
Or blessed encounter, full of joy,
Unscheduled on the Giesen Plan,
With, here, an addict of Tolkien,
There, a Charles Williams fan.
Since Merit but a dunghill is,
I mount the rostrum unafraid:
Indeed, 'twere damnable to ask
If I am overpaid.
Spirit is willing to repeat
Without a qualm the same old talk,
But Flesh is homesick for our snug
Apartment in New York.
A sulky fifty-six, he finds
A change of mealtime utter hell,
Grown far too crotchety to like
A luxury hotel.
The Bible is a goodly book
I always can peruse with zest,
But really cannot say the same
For Hilton's Be My Guest.
Nor bear with equanimity
The radio in students' cars,
Muzak at breakfast, or--dear God!--
Girl-organists in bars.
Then, worst of all, the anxious thought,
Each time my plane begins to sink
And the No Smoking sign comes on:
What will there be to drink?
Is this ma milieu where I must
How grahamgreeneish! How infra dig!
****** from the bottle in my bag An analeptic swig?
Another morning comes: I see,
Dwindling below me on the plane,
The roofs of one more audience
I shall not see again.
God bless the lot of them, although
I don't remember which was which:
God bless the U.S.A., so large,
So friendly, and so rich.
4k
-something real. Something strong and sturdy, believable. I want to write words that are heavy with lightness and dark with their brightness, to draw on a page a life so unbelievably real, so inconceivably mine
in creation
I want to write
-not just love. Not a ***** with a couple of drink-mangled bugs. I want to write about that feeling of blood churning and the warmth of emotion not physical feeling, to put into words the unwordable joy of being in the presence of
not just anyone
Anyone. Like the not-platonic-non-romantic affection that Rudy would not fail to hint at, that so-wanted kiss that Liesel gave, it wasn't so much the action as the meaning behind it. Like that itch on Death's ear when Liesel he came near, not to take her yet, but to steal her story, to live through it. To feel the words dance in his void, non-niceness, the infinite meanings and the power of phonic combinations.
They allow even Death to live.
I want to write like Zusak, like Rowling, like me.
I want to write
-the philosophies. The thoughts and wishes and wonders of a minority. I want to write about those opinions of those whose voices are too small and their souls beautifully lit up but unseen, their ideologies so unmistakably right but also naive and innocent, to stage their feelings from transition to transition
their words to the wise
I want to write
-characters so flawed. Each with an inner splendor most radiant, but with their fields of starless black and heads that wander from this to that. I want to write lives and people so different, with not-so-good lives and not-so-normal features. People who, though lacking thereof, cliche the right things and believe
in the wrong
The wrong. Their thoughts and meanings about life and beyond, undesirable and judged but that is the human mentality, such as Hazel Grace felt about her casualties and Alaska Young wondered about the labyrinth's unending game. So standard at first, but then Gandalf came and Bilbo learned the differences between Hobbit and the untame. The reasons and purposes of life's grand living, through the eyes of those whose faces are shunned.
Hermione wasn't just a bibliosiac.
I want to write like Green, like Tolkien, like me.
Alas, the clock, a stained moon, it darkens, and the prejudice of people as well as the pride, unfortunately Austen couldn't lessen so much. Stereotypes triumphantly sit on the throne with their Mary-Sue maids catering from head to toe. I can't barge in, object to the crowning, because today I admit it: my writing is dying.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 1:39 PM UTC
Smaug the Dragon? A mere shrimp!
Fasticollaton, was really a wimp.
The Nasty one from Tolkien,
that ravaged Nargothrond?
Less scary than David Niven as James Bond.
The one that makes me turn to jelly,
was the little blonde one, name of Kelly!
Bruised my arm, broke my finger,
told me that my smelly feet linger.
Ate my chicken, said she didn't,
I thought the ****** thing was hidden!
Twelve years since I moved away,
from the scary friend who turned me grey.
Miss the little dragon so,
wherever she is, I hope she knows..
Jan 4, 2011
Jan 4, 2011 at 12:21 PM UTC
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.
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 4:01 PM UTC
There is a word
More powerful than any other...
Mythologised,
Romanticized,
Deified.
Men would fast for it,
Fight for it,
Live for it,
Die for it,
In hopes it could be passed
From one generation to the next.
Religions have been founded on it.
Countries went to war for it.
Way before Tolkien devised one ring to rule them all
There was a word,
Whispered and screamed.
The word was peace.
All I ask
Is don't tell me
Show me.
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 2:36 PM UTC
I read it all the way through
My cybernetic code is a mine set to implode until my heart bursts through to you and
Although I know I learn in reverse in
My mind with words never heard it's
Best to let it go boom
Like I have no clue what else to do for you, so it's zoom
Or whatever, but bet it's even much better than an anti-bloom so
Click-clack, I'll be back
Yeah back to the past and right on track be-
Cause "off" is not for you and me
But when given an opportunity amidst all the scrutiny
I found it shocking to see nada blocking the tune of our unity
Now automatically, baby it's nothing and that is why I'll truly be
A liquid metal
The one on another level
The one that'll never settle 'til our love isn't under pressure and
And with a punch to my chest it reforms for another us
But better
So let us re-wire me in dire need of
Of love's red letter ink from
The depths of my Red Sea
Oh and that's neither a low glow nor a slow growth
But a high blow
Reaping what we sow
Only absorbing their bow and arrow
So here I go
Now look at me and see how it shows as I grow
My deoxyribose flows like a Rambo on 'roids
Talking and toking a Tolkien prose a
Token story that goes to the hearts of those closed I adore
Because I call for you by your door al-
Though you always make it my shore so
Know that I'll be clothed naked like before
Restored down to the core
Words from my world girl and now
We'll encore the reform, it's
This liquid metal
The one on another level
The one that'll never settle 'til our love isn't under pressure and
And with a punch to my chest it reforms the rest for another us
But better
So let us re-wire me logically like chess pieces it's
Whatever sits in peace in love's red letter ink from
The depths of my Red Sea
The depths of the Red Sea
The deep Red Sea
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 8:53 PM UTC
Elvish is my name
The strain of an elf
Like an elvish mystic
A Tolkien fantasy
From the middle-earth
Lays the knavish
Of the dancing elves
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 9:02 PM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, what is worse than shame? HUMILIATION:\
rumors fly up in the high
in the above in my ears in my skies
get my squirms of death into the rays of the red dies
and the humiliate in the tides
shed the tears in silence I fear they collide
with looks of disgust and shame they rise upon my eyes
just like an equivalence of the delves of the deep
from them of a cut to dig drips and swallow grief
arise arose arosen awake awoke awoken
trap me unnoticed and leave me broken in the heart swollen
fed on lies unspoken surrounding in the field
am I a prisoner in hell or even better in Tolkien???
I craved and carved the woods into a shade of a pink that I need
till you put the greed and stole in brief with no feels
want me dead then demand I alive to up come
burning and whipping regrets of the twos with the fives
if I not to remember wrong
counting stars and fleeing out just all in an empty round about
------ravenfeels
Apr 13, 2021
Apr 13, 2021 at 4:00 PM UTC
here we go again
the feeling of not feeling
the music without melody
the poem without metre
it all swims in my head devoid of emotion
these stanzas, those paragraphs, those conversations, that knowledge
they swirl and they shimmer but where has the tone gone
those non-verbal shades just evaporate like water
dickens, tolkien, tolstoy, plath
mozart, sheeran, queen, presley
van gogh, hirst, dalí, ito
nothing but noise when your heart isn't in it
now down some pills
write it down
go to sleep
and repeat this tomorrow.
May 21, 2022
May 21, 2022 at 5:12 PM UTC
“Why did you do this for me?” He asked. “I don’t deserve it. I’ve never done anything for you.” “You have been my friend,” replied Charlotte. “That in itself is a tremendous thing.”
- E.B. White Charlotte's Web
Blooming violet, ghost
Of the blonde sun.
Beauty of contrast.
The sun shines brighter
But not perceived by many,
The violet no longer hides
And eclipses the star with
Its heart shaped petals
Mythic essence, desired
By queens... emperors.
Her hidden power.
The might of Greece
Kneels down to her grace.
The flower of spring Persephone
Has chosen. Athens symbol.
Flower to fool Apollo
Withheld greatness, how
modest she is to all.
The gift of Humility.
The faithful flower painted
Timidly by the Bible’s artists,
Is occasionally too reticent
To glance at her kind spirit
And behold my rescue
Healing Heartsease, blossoming
Even before melting snow.
The soul savior.
Violet’s tender touch of protection
Softly soothing my skin.
The salve of my machine.
Her words, the river dam.
But ephemeral is the scent.
Friendship essence, sweet
Magic wholly consuming me.
Tolkien of love.
How elegantly and delicately her
Colors dance and sing with the wind,
To engender the Victorian praxis
Binding us both with thoughts
Occupied by timeless bliss.
Elegant royal, spiritual
Guide of my fortune and good judgment.
Muse of twilight.
For she finds me in cold calamity
And warms my hand through the abyss.
Stargazing, I dream of hope, clarity and
To be born anew. She left her nectar.
Early morning emerges in delight.
Jan 14, 2021
Jan 14, 2021 at 8:28 AM UTC
The jester free styled about dealing grams under the tainted Charleston moonlight – Drug scene.
Whenever we discussed the existence of God, it always ended in a fight – The unseen.
The harlot was always type casted as the Rizzo, never the Sandy.
Who could forget those black leather pants, oh so tight – Street corner scene.
The king flirted with the innocent freshmen girls, unaware of the imminent restraining order.
He would joke about using the effervescent glow of his skin as their flashlight – Obscene.
The fair lady believed Tolkien was the closet humanity could ever get to godly perfection.
She was infamous for always tripping over the set, a common plight – Off scene.
The wizard dreamed one day to be the first black James Bond, code name Black Mamba.
One day he told me he liked women and men, except the whiney boys of white – Epicene.
You, the minstrel, sang the words to “Baby Got Back” in your high-pitched voice backstage.
You often told us “rawr” is dinosaur for I love you and everything will be alright – End scene.
I, the queen, tried to hide behind the black velvet curtain paralyzed by my stage fright.
But now, I just wish you hadn’t crashed your car into the tree that night – Unforeseen.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 2:12 AM UTC
Look closely at your dots and periods.
You'll see this...
. Bob Dylan .
. William Shakespeare .
. Maya Angelou . Emily Dickinson .
. Ralph Waldo Emerson . Robert Frost . Ai .
. Max Eastman . Thomas Hardy . William Blake .
. Edgar Allan Poe . Pablo Neruda . James Joyce . Ovid .
. Carl Sandberg . Anne Sexton . Taigu Ryokan . Sappho .
. Ogden Nash . Dorothy Parker . JD Salinger . Rumi .
. Dame Edith Sitwell . Mary Wollstonecraft Shelly .
. Anna Swir . Sara Teasdale . JRR Tolkien .
. Alfred Lord Tennyson . John Skelton .
. Dante Gabriel Rossetti .
. Dylan Thomas .
Soul Survivor
2014
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 7:45 AM UTC
How do I even begin proposin'
My love for you, just like the sea, that's blue
Every now and then, I'm reminiscin'
Darling dear, don't divulge, but do subdue
What hath she? Pondering thee, like a snail
If I do reckon gently, your sweet voice
To heaven, I would go, maybe by mail
Oh girl I don't know, do I have a choice?
Eyes, lips, hair. Those curves, baby, so luscious
The way you caress, that recedes all stress
Is, as Tolkien told, Gollum's "my precious."
Your style, the way you dress, sittin' with poise
If they say I'm indiscreet, just retreat -
You don't need to take any of the heat.
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
"Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens."
- J.R.R. Tolkien
The irony of it all is the loneliness of a star.
Not noticed in the nebula, she glances from afar.
At her neighbor’s neglect, even in nature of quasar.
The irony of it all is the silence of the owl.
A lot in the gloom it used to hoot and growl.
Prior to the onslaught of looks with a scowl.
The irony of it all is the frostiness of the blaze.
A fire that only freezes surrounds me in haze.
My friends, the flames, their stare a cold gaze.
The irony of it all is a bird that wants a cage.
Astounding is the absence of his own faith and sage.
To acquaint with his habitat, he is afraid to engage.
The irony of it all is a knight with no one to save.
To issue a kind aid, insignificant it is to crave.
So the importance of his ideal is dug into a grave.
The irony of it all is an unbreakable heart.
Tired of trying, it is an insatiable art.
That Heart’s betrayal splits the soul apart.
The irony of it all is the kissing of the hated.
Love was hostile, but the exes again dated.
And my heartbeat for her was hasped and gated.
The irony of all ironies, a phantom of tangibility.
Roaming amongst humans, champion of inutility.
Is the ghost of an emotion, the dust of heart’s fragility.
Jan 14, 2021
Jan 14, 2021 at 10:46 AM UTC
I want to be Hemingway at the bar
and Shakespeare in the bedroom.
I want to be Dante in the classroom
but Hunter S. Thompson on the weekends.
I want to be Tolkien in the library
and Fitzgerald in the night clubs.
I want to be Poe in the gutters
but Kafka in the alley ways.
I want to be Carroll in the closet
and Twain on the street corner.
I want you to see... us.
There.
In the background watching with a pen,
and thoughts born of words
aching to breathe.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 4:41 PM UTC
A troll is a large creature with smelly feet
That lives in a corner of Middle Earth
On the same plane of Yggdrasil as men
Some turned to stone in the sunlight
A troll is one of the creatures Tolkien wrote of
As being an angry and stupid creature that eats flesh
With the characteristics of the above
A troll is a wind up merchant
Who disturbs the equilibrium of unstable situations
They giggle when someone gets upset
And keep themselves hidden in dark places
Occasionally coming out to play
"Now you see me Now you don't"
They enjoy having others argue while they sit back and watch
With the characteristics of all the above
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 7:18 PM UTC
to the man donned in black
to the woman with no spine
and a broken back
you work in slumber
with eyes unopened
to life's beauty
you have only spoken
brief talks betwixt dreams
stiffened, when awoken
of thoughts that linger a ways away
in a land of virtue
reminiscent of tolkien
Mar 28, 2021
Mar 28, 2021 at 3:31 PM UTC
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
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 2:54 PM UTC
Does that book still burn on your shelf?
Or have you stuffed it under your bed,
its pages torn, still smelling of cigarette smoke
with a few coffee stains.
(Mine rests next to Tolkien).
Do you flip through it once in a while?
Noting the words you marked,
once full of meaning.
Are they empty now?
(I found empty words in my copy).
Do you take care to avoid
the covert letter under the jacket flap?
Or maybe read it, and wonder
(I regret writing it.)
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 10:26 AM UTC
What was Frodo thinking as he sunk under the burden of the one ring
I'm slipping into the twilight world of shadows sombre grey
No more a world of sunlight
Or of birdsong summer days
Legs weary, sore, I struggle 'neath the weight
But I still must struggle on
To reach the Morgul gate
In my small hands I hold the future of mankind
For them and for their freedom I now must be prepared to die
Why me? Why me? Why was I the chosen one?
But I must think not of the past
But of a new life not yet born
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 4:32 PM UTC