Poetry!

I'm dying.

Therefore, I will post all the poetry I have.

The Butterfly Rondel, Which I Decided To Draw/Calligraph:

The Star Rondel:
The stars are tumbling through the sky
Like precious gemstones twinkling bright.
I catch them when they leave the heights
And let them go, and let them fly.

Dust whispers up, a silent sigh,
The stardust floating, brilliant light.
The stars are tumbling through the sky
Like precious gemstones twinkling bright.

Of stardust I am made, aren’t I?
The starlight takes me home tonight.
I raise my hand; my time is tight.
The night sky says there’s no good-bye.
The stars are tumbling through the sky.

The Werewolf Sestina:

The werewolf is killed with silver

and split open and skinned in the night.
The hunter looks up from the dark, afraid, alone,
and slings his rifle across his back with unease.
He takes the fur and wipes crimson blood
on the moss in the shadows.

The branches wave softly in the shadows.
The hunter leaves the corpse felled with silver.
Seeping slowly from the dark flesh is blood,
dripping silent from slack-open jaws in the night,
and though it is fresh, it lies alone.
No life dares approach without unease.


The hunter returns to village, gone is unease,
and spreads out the fur in the morning shadows.
He sets up his stall, waiting alone
for someone to buy fur gotten with silver -
The corpse lies forgotten in everlasting night -
the fur is stained with blood.

The market opens in light like blood,
and the hunter is once more visited by unease,
remembering what happened in the night.
No one comes, the sellers wait in shadows
that cover stalls and turn them silver.
The hunter waits and is alone.

A stranger walks in, finally, alone.
The hunter sees fingernails crusted with blood
and eyes like daggers, piercing silver.
Soft murmurs, heavy with unease,
hang in the dust. The hunter sits in shadows,
and the wolf turns, silent as night.

He reaches out, and the hunter sees night.
Stalking the werewolf in woods, alone,
the trigger clicks and he falls through shadows
of roots and tree branches and blood.
Others watch the bodies, frozen with unease.
The man touches fur shining suddenly silver.

In shadows he remembers payment in blood -
dark night he alone yanked from hunter,
leaving unease asunder - and hides from silver.

The Sonnet I Used in a Bit Of Writing and Then Took Out, Because I Didn't Like It:

When summer comes the world is baking hot

Advancing winter gives the world to ice
In spring bananas grow and make brains rot
And fall? The name itself can quite suffice.
But seasons pass and still do seasons go
And slowly is the road of time's flight paved
Now I would rather blindly choose my path
Than give myself to death - I'd not be saved
Come etch for me a story out of peace,
Come etch for me a story out of blood
And in the dark may some short stories cease
But many others from the dark will flood
This tale of peace and blood that in dark ends

Begins one - me without, but with my friends.

The Sonnet I Used For The Oncay Poetry Project:
Sometimes I lie awake in bed and think
Of hope and dreams that frolick here unseen
Of monsters, demons, ghosts that in dark slink
Of magic, treasure, strange things in between
Of happiness - from what is the stuff made?
On this, I’ve thought about a recipe:
From memories do two cups childhood raid,
And quickly whisk with wonder, teaspoons three;
A dash of satisfaction with things done,
A pinch of honor with two hope drops laced.
Child’s love, a bit, for smiles and all things fun,
Now mix them well and season to your taste
So follow these instructions, more or less,

For I think this is what brings happiness.

The Pickle Sonnet, Because That's The Only One Missing:
The sonnet is a poem that conquers all
And reverence I heap upon this form
With fourteen lines in rhyme and meter's thrall
The beauties of it rise above the norm
Yet this poem's subjects always seem so grim
About the dark and shadows, peace and love
My love for sonnets teeters on the rim
And crashes after falling from above
But hark! Complaining mine is at an end
For pickles in a sonnet sound just right
The marinated stuff a hand can lend
And help me when the grim and silly fight
Thus pickles salty are my only hope
Of them I write, and maybe I can cope.

The Pineapple Sonnet, Because I Feel Like Writing a Sonnet On The Spot:

There are some things that I will truly love

So long as I can breathe and this world stays

But some things aggravate like turtle doves

And lots of countries, people, chickens raze.

But somewhere in between lies yellow fruit:

A yellow fruit that salty is indeed:

This pineapple that should be put in boots

On which to step and think about thy deeds

But pineapples do taste like sug'ry sweets

And they have vitamins and manganese

And thankfully they do not taste like beets

Or stink like ancient, disregarded cheese.

These pineapples are, all considered, cool

So get in line and please, try not to drool.

Okay, that was utterly horrible.