Fantasy Poems

He rode through the woods on a big blue ox,
He had fists as hard as choppin' blocks,
Five hundred pounds and nine feet tall...that's Paul.

Talk about workin', when he swung his axe
You could hear it ring for a mile and a half.
Then he'd yell "Timber!" and down she'd fall...for Paul.

Talk about drinkin', that man's so mean
That he'd never drink nothin' but kerosene,
And a five-gallon can is a little bit small...for Paul.

Talk about tough, well he once had a fight
With a thunderstorm on a cold dark night.
I ain't sayin' who won,
But it don't storm at all...round here...thanks to Paul.

He was ninety years old when he said with a sigh,
"I think I'm gonna lay right down and die
'Cause sunshine and sorrow, I've seen it all...says Paul.

He says, "There ain't no man alive can kill me,
Ain't no woman 'round can thrill me,
And I think heaven just mught be a ball"...says Paul.

So he died...and we cried.

It took eighteen men just to bust the ground,
It took twenty-four more just to lower him down.
And we covered him up and we figured that was all...for Paul.

But late one night the trees started shakin',
The dogs started howlin' and the earth started quakin',
And out of the ground with a "Hi, y'all"...comes Paul!

He shook the dirt from off his clothes,
He scratched his butt and wiped his nose.
"Y'know, bein' dead wasn't no fun at all"...says Paul.

He says, "Up in heaven they got harps on their knees,
They got clouds and wings but they got no trees.
I don't think that's much of a heaven at all"...says Paul.

So he jumps on his ox with a fare-thee-well,
He says, "I'll find out if there's trees in hell."
And he rode away, and that was all...we ever seen...of Paul.

But the next time you hear a "Timber!" yell
That sounds like it's comin' from the pits of hell,
Then a weird and devilish ghostly wail
Like somebody's choppin' on the devil's tail,
Then a shout, a call, a crash, a fall--
That ain't no mortal man at all...that's Paul!

Once upon the ocean blue
came a story just for you
'bout the bloody buccaneers
who sailed the Main in yesteryears.

There was peg-leg Cap'n Flatt,
swashed his buckle -- tipped his hat,
hair and beard were all in curls.
He was loved by all the girls.
Then we have dear Bos'n Brown,
known as "Killer" in the town.
Brown was bald and small and lean,
and he was known for being mean.
The Cap'n's crew was boisterous,
"A pirate's life is fine with us!"
They took to fighting happily,
pillaging upon the sea.
"Yo ho, ho and a bloody sword,
we're going to steal the good King's horde.
We'll sack his crews -- sink his ships,
and drink his wine with salty lips!"

You should have heard the stories told,
chasing -- fighting -- chests of gold,
feats of boldness on the sea
where men are mighty -- men are free!
All of London town was cheering
at each tale that they were hearing,
in every pub -- the welcome mat
was always out for Cap'n Flatt.

Sailing day was quite a fete,
dancing -- parties -- in the street,
sails billowed -- out to sea
with Jolly Roger flying free.

And in the town, they breathed a sigh,
they knew they'd see him by-and-by
with tales of daring and new tunes
and piles and piles of gold doubloons.
So Cap'n Flatt put out to sea
to seek his fabled destiny,
a story lived -- as we shall see
in a way -- quite differently.

Then for months and weeks and days
they plied the tossing ocean ways,
"Red sky night -- sailor's light,
red sky morning -- sailor's warning!"

On a bright and lovely day
they dropped anchor in a bay
where lay a town much loved by men,
where all the sailors came to play.
Ships from England -- ships from France,
all King's sailors came to dance,
to lose their gold at games of cards
and pay to hear the songs of bards.
Brothels owned by Bos'n Brown
did brisk business in this town,
and Cap'n Flatt's own gambling clubs
raked in the gold -- as did his pubs.
You've heard of Blackbeard, so I'm told,
this is where he got his gold,
and Cap'n Hook, all the while,
played his dancing crocodile,
prancing in a pinafore
with gold in piles upon the floor.
Up above the town did fly
the Jolly Roger -- there -- on high,
to bring the sailors -- grand marquee
proclaiming "Here is pleasure's spree!"

Weeks and weeks -- transporting gold,
Cap'n Flatt filled up his hold
'til his ship was laden down
and set to sail for London town.

Going back -- they made up stories,
fabricated pirate glories,
songs to thrill both me and you
and not a word of them was true.
Spare me all those dirty looks,
just toss away your hist'ry books,
for every tale of bloody glory:
just a made-up "pirate" story.

But -- if you're good -- someday I'll tell
location where this island dwells,
still run by kin of Flatt and Brown,
a "genuine ole pirate town."

Do you know where fairies live?
To see just one, I'd gladly give
The moon and stars and galaxies
That sail above the summer breeze.
Kindly sir, pray do tell,
Do you know where fairies dwell?

Little friend, you look too far.
Can't you see they're where you are?
Tending flowers like busy bees,
Standing smaller than your knees?
You must see them just like I
When you bid your doubts goodbye.

Gentle sir, when I was small,
I climbed above your garden wall;
And there to my surprise and joy,
Stood a little winged boy.
He winked at me and flew away
Into the myth of yesterday.

But you were just a child then
Before you ripened into ten;
And as you grew up, you were taught
What is real and what is not.
But trust your heart; you can unlearn.
Believe in fairies and they'll return!

Troll sat alone on his seat of stone,
And munched and mumbled a bare old bone;
For many a year he had gnawed it near,
For meat was hard to come by.
Done by! Gum by!
In a cave in the hills he dwelt alone,
And meat was hard to come by.

Up came Tom with his big boots on.
Said he to Troll: "Pray, what is yon?
For it looks like the shin o' my nuncle Tim,
As should be a-lyin' in graveyard.
Caveyard! Paveyard!
This many a year has Tim been gone,
And I thought he were lyin' in graveyard."

"My lad," said Troll, "this bone I stole.
But what be bones that lie in a hole?
Thy nuncle was dead as a lump o' lead,
Afore I found his shinbone.
Tinbone! Thinbone!
He can spare a share for a poor old troll,
For he don't need his shinbone."

Said Tom: "I don't see why the likes o' thee
Without axin' leave should go makin' free
With the shank or the shin o' my father's kin;
So hand the old bone over!
Rover! Trover!
Though dead he be, it belongs to he;
So hand the old bone over!"

"For a couple o' pins," says Troll, and grins,
"I'll eat thee too, and gnaw thy shins.
A bit o' fresh meat will go down sweet!
I'll try my teeth on thee now.*
Hee now! See now!
I'm tired o' gnawing old bones and skins;
I've a mind to dine on thee now."

*[as read by Tolkien on the tape:]
Thee'll be a nice change from thine nuncle.
Sunkle! Drunkle!
I'm tired of gnawing old bones and skins;
Thee'll be a nice change from thine nuncle."

But just as he thought his dinner was caught,
He found his hands had hold of naught.
Before he could mind, Tom slipped behind
And gave him the boot to larn him.
Warn him! Darn him!
A bump o' the boot on the seat, Tom thought,
Would be the way to larn him.

But harder than stone is the flesh and bone
Of a troll that sits in the hills alone.
As well set your boot to the mountain's root,
For the seat of a troll don't feel it.
Peel it! Heal it!
Old Troll laughed, when he heard Tom groan,
And he knew his toes could feel it.

Tom's leg is game, since home he came,
And his bootless foot is lasting lame;
But Troll don't care, and he's still there
With the bone he boned from it's owner.
Doner! Boner!
Troll's old seat is still the same,
And the bone he boned from its owner!

The castle is a place where poets dwell,
Where each can cast their wondrous spell.
From the turrets high to the dungeons deep
From each portcullis to the central keep.

Its powerful walls keep foes at bay.
They keep us safe from day to day.
The knights are brave and fight with zeal.
In armored suits and swords of steel...

The poets live as all men should.
Side by side in brotherhood.
The magic of rhyme is all they seek
From modern tongue to ancient Greek.

The castle echoes with the sound of joy,
And haunting words from man and boy.
The maidens fair who live within
Pen words of love and carnal sin.

For each one here there is a place
To release the soul from its inner space.
With words of mirth and sorrow both.
And witches spells of evil oath.

The castle grows from day to day
And people come from far away.
But once inside these walls of grey,
They know that they are here to stay.

Their words are all that leave this place,
Their souls the castle shall embrace.
So in our quest for perfect poem
We call this place our sonnet's home.