fantasy

Abhoth

Folder: 
Poetry

Not native to this planet,

Related to Tsathoggua.

Never leaving its black caverns,

Being part of N'kai.

 

Obscene monsters form in the mass,

Crawling away from their parent.

Its tentacles grasping them back,

Returning them to the primal mass.

Moreover, some do escape

And live their own ways.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Mythos-poem.

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Fantasy Island

I went to Fantasy Island but my fantasy didn't come true.

I beat up Mister Roarke and I also tried to beat up Tattoo.

When Roarke refused to give me a refund, I went berserk.

I stomped him but when I tried to whip Tattoo, it didn't work.

He kicked my ass just like Mini-Me whooped Austin Powers.

I'm ashamed to say that that little person made me cower.

I have some valuable advice that I want to give to you.

If you go to Fantasy Island, don't try to fight Tattoo.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This poem is a parody of the TV show.

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The City of Glass

Chris Mumford

City of Glass pt.1

 

There is a city in the heart of Hiladhell,

Constructed solely of glass;

No wood or stick, or masons brick,

Nor decorations of brass;

 

Imposing structures bore crystal-esque design,

Ancient structures, affected not by time;

 

Transparent and free,

Is our fine ci-tee;

For we can see you,

And they all can me;

 

The suns reflection boasts a blinding white light,

Directed to the towns square;

A beautiful center with plentiful feasts,

And maidens both kind and fair;

 

And safe is this city, as safe as can be,

Free from all violence and robbery;

But what is the price - we shall soon see,

In the city of glass as safe as can be;

 

None shall pass with secret intention,

Through the city of glass;

None shall walk with hidden direction,

Even if silently they pass;

 

Through the ages travellers have told tales of terror,

Which have taken place in the city of glass;

Stories of hell - rising up,

Of evil emerging from the neighboring mountains pass;

 

But I can say, that the time I have spent here,

Has been different than that described in these tales;

Quite lovely and peaceful, all its people quite equal,

Down to the smallest details;

 

 

 

 

Its ruler is kind,

His right to rule, blessed by divines;

We call him our master,

For him, the morning sun shines;

 

From Master we gather,

All things that we need;

He frees us from the burdens,

Of our natural greed;

 

I need not be jealous of things my neighbor has,

Things are most fair here, in the City of Glass;

 

And were all quite happy here, in the City of Glass,

Just ask of any citizen, that you are likely pass;

 

For if you seek no troubles,

No troubles seek you;

For this city is a family,

Agitators wont do;

 

But there is man in the city of glass,

Who I’ll have you know skipped middays mass;

This is a message to any who may have seen him,

Come forward at-once or your fate to shall be-grim;

 

 

To be continued….

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Dream World

It's how low you go and how high you fly.

It's where the sun shine's grey.

But if you let it die. Just let your pain subside...

You begin to lift away...

. . .

In this dream world...

We make sense out of everything that's grey.

In this dream world...

I smile at all my friends...Which is everyone.

In this dream world...

I'm a rolling stone and the wind still blows.

In this dream world...

All I can say is: "I hope to see you someday!".

 

A passerby'er, maybe a liar, a thief.

Oh, you only steal what you need, love.

No rage on the road, no hate in your home.

You always have what you need

so just rest in peace...

 

I only have one reason

Just one reason.

It's love.

Love.

 

 

 

 

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Maiden Fae


 

In the dazzling shimmers from magical dust,

journey begins on silvery wings of light

Conjuring four winds to the palms of her hands,

in showering cascade - the maiden takes flight

 

Across the sky - trailing wisps like sheerest veil,

donned in kind, with sequins made from winter's shine

Past reaches of earth, into celestial night,

vision ascends by awing-wonder's design

 

With stars twinkling in eyes, and red lips of rose,

whims of fanciful fair so merrily strewn

A kiss to share upon fleeting whoosh of breath,

blown heartened glow as witnessed on cratered moon

 

Come dawn 'till shadows -- looming in late of eve,

flourishing meadows served by enchantment's air

From over the realm, filled with mystical dreams,

blossoms soon to follow with Fae's heedful care

 

Capturing rainbows, to brighten flower's hues,

greener shades for grasses, waving in the sun

on the will of a whisper -- summoned to touch,

thoughts of Eden transcends - and her work is done

 

In the dazzling shimmers,

the journey begins

Conjuring four winds,

the maiden brings her light

 

© C.E.Vance

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Just another handful of words, and nothing more.

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Dream Girl

I wonder what it would feel like,

with a lover's heart beating against mine,

the natural sweetness of the oils in her hair,

her hand, perhaps with one scar or another

and chipped nail paint--touching my cheek,

and her breath alive and endearing

with warm air, petite lungs breathing easily,

and maybe with a reflexive glance upward to me

flashing brilliantly beautiful

in a brief moment of thoughtlessness where the reality is

she's surrendered her very being

without intending to and without regret,

for she feels safe enough not to hold her heart

in her own hands, and I safe enough

to let her hold mine, and I tell her

that I've known no greater joy than to give her

everything I am.

 

It must be so much more beautiful

than wrapping my fingers around the hand of a fantasy,

which in my desperate grip crumples

like the paper on which I drafted

 

her every perfect detail.

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My Sweet Imagination

Outside of your apartment window

the leaves have fallen and it grows colder

still and I can't feel my fingers.

Inside you look so warm. A good candle is burning

steady and I imagine that cookies are in the oven.

I'd beg you once again to let me in, but I know

you've turned me away enough times

that I can be sure your heart doesn't secretly want

mine.

As the numbness creeps up my arms

and into the corners of my vision,

as my pulse slows and your face

glows in the light of your phone

in a delightful conversation you must be having,

I lift myself from my knees

and in the indentations left on the ground,

I leave behind the part of me

that wanted you

more than I wanted

 to live.  

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The wind howls red

 

 

 

Fingers frozen, jacket tight, the merlot leaves taking flight

Foot steps long ,quick in pace, better hurry home, you are not alone

The wind howls red, the chill runs deep, you should be in bed, to Grandmas keep

The bramble cottage comes in sight, everyones sleeping, there is no light

You skip closer, just a little more, oblivious to the danger lurking beyond the door.

 
C.Grainger

THE MAN IN THE MOON

When my son, Bryan was young a question he had...concerned the moon up above and made him sad.

 

He wanted me not to think him dull...but he loved the moon when it was full

 

And though for years his problem went unspoken...one day he asked, “Why does the moon get broken?

 

“I’ve seen it,” he said, “many times at night...and noticed something is not quite right.

 

The moon starts out so round and gay...but then it slowly fades away.

 

At times I’d like to get some tape...and put the moon back into shape.

 

When the moon is gone, Dad can you explain...what makes it come back full again?”

 

“Don’t worry son,” I said, “don’t feel perplexed...this I know, the moon’s not hexed.

 

Yes, once a month the moon is full...and the world enjoys it’s brilliant glow.

 

Then gradually it becomes less round..because the moon’s battery is running down.

 

The man in the moon doesn’t mope or pout...he waits patiently till the moon’s light goes out.

 

Then he retrieves from his pants pocket...a large new bulb for the moon’s light socket.

 

He screws it in and there you are...the moon again is a shining star.”

 

Oh what a different tale I could have spun...of the changing positions of the Earth, moon and sun

 

I could have told him that the moon he sees...changes relative to his geometries.

 

But I knew at his age the best translation...was one spiced up with imagination

 

For I knew he would be growing up soon...so I told him the story of the man in the moon.

 

Now whenI look up at the moon a thought occurs... I wonder which description he prefers.

 

 

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