Not much of a story to tell

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away where the bane of man had come and gone a toad hopped upon a rock. A stork flapped hard his spread wings to come softly to a stall. Clouds parted high above the land and bright beams warmed all they touched. Oaks, maples, and beech trees strained to grow higher and higher and higher still. Worms squirmed as boars tore through dirt looking for a mud covered feast. Green stalks of reeds sway in a midsummer day wind, pushing past all in its path. Dolphins jumped and rams bumped. All was how it should be, and although nothing was around that acknowledged it at the moment, everything was content.

Ages earlier, holes were dug with metal spades into the earth which kept at bay the advancing 'enemy'. Lines of people shot, stabbed and bombed; all innocent save the innocent. Now theres nothing to show for ourselves. No memory. Some scraps of paper, maybe. A bone here, a stone there... what? To prove that we had commited ourselves to rule, not to reason? Good job humanity. Gold star.

Snow really stings.

It was a dark and stormy night, in a cold, soon-to-be-icy, corner of land. Barren but for snow and pine and occasional living quarters consisting of this snow and pine, this land was unwanted by all who knew of it. Exempting {not quite sure if that makes sense}, of course, its warm-hearted, friendly inhabitants.

One of these secluded lonely men living in this sectioned off spot of land, literally in the middle of nowhere, had woken ,with a jump, from his fur lined cot as a bolt of lightning and a crash of thunder shook the earth. After a quick flash around his tent, grey eyes focused on the bronze spear leaning against the hide of the enclosure. A shudder brought him to his feet and strapping on his sword, slipping into his furs and grasping the frigid spear readied him for what he was soon to experience. He threw across the cloth keeping the breeze out of his lean-to and braced for the cold. A great gust came as suddenly as one would sneeze and the mans mane of a beard filled with specks of snow glistening white from the moons gaze. A step through the threshold revealed to his eyes a world of hurt. His people had gone. He was alone.

One cold evening

A cold dark forest in the middle of the night seems a fright to one travelling alone.

Sure enough the old oaks creak and whine melding with the swish of 100 pines

proves enough to put a man into shivers and looking over his shoulder as a bush quivers.

A howl from afar sends chills down my spine now that the night has come too dark;
though the moon is bright, and it seems so fitting this night, a hear not a hark.

Fiddles stop humming and fires dim slowly as another great harvest moon is over.
Shoulder to shoulder, pushing past one another we make our ways to bed to rest a many weary head.

Under the covers I lay, quite still, I might say, awaiting the darkness that's always welcome.

Bright Days, Dark Nights

Tops of trees flap lightly in the breeze blown west,
Wet grass at my back, smoothly gleaming like a pane of glass,
All seems as nothing because the stars are so bright tonight.

As seen from my point of view that evening,
The damn things were like diamonds gleaming

Could I have had her with me then, I'm sure,
We'd right now be best of friends, sitting on a branch somewhere,
enjoying a sun set, conversing once again over the probability of our dare.

I lie there under the blanket of night not caring ,though,
About past misfortunes; changes made could only alter my soon to come show.

Barbeque Season

On comes the barbeque, quick as a gun shot.
The grill heated, scraped, and greased
Meats are thrown on; searing the lot.
Scents float round the yard and soon they'll be missed.
For here comes an angry old neighbor to spoil the pot.
No harm, he enjoys our stock (only too much),
The days are getting shorter, oh how I'll miss it such.


(I know it doesnt rhyme too well, and may be a little short but I like it and serves as a reminder to the truth of that last line. And hey, it's poetry...)

Anger management...

Repetition, repetition the scourge of literation.
One is alone working on-task,
Talking to you comes a man here to bask.
He sits beside you, to make clear his confrontation,
Saying again and again "Oh how nice it is, do you mind if I ask?"
The silliness of such a thing 'What are you, wearing a mask?'
On speaking his mind the purpose shows through,
He came to talk, not to you.

A SCARY THOUGHT

Our numbers seem to be decreasing along with the length of night. Maybe our luck will hold out! Last night twas a terrible thing. I believe sir had gotten into some of his gin stores and lie awake for a length. So long he stayed awake I fear we may have lost close to six of our kind. I do hope master heals quickly. We feel him hobbling along the wretched old floor (having not been swept since his dears passing) and naught but sincere grieving can be felt through him. Tonight he has flipped through me again ,only in passing though, for he enjoys my illustrations. Etchings of gold and miscreants on a deserted island cannot be hated by any man. Such intrigue I have over the crippled old man... I do believe with all certainty that I shall outlast even him. Surely he is drunk tonight because oily breath moistens my leaves. Again, pity flows through me as I am dropped from his clammy palm onto the dusty planks, cover first, thank the maker. In morn he replaces me once more beside his other favoured stories; I am in ranks with tales of detective work and murder along with a much favoured romance. I do believe I will out last him. Wonder...