The Great Hall of Poets – April 2014
The Leaves of Laurelindórenan
Once there were eight leaves of Lórien,
One drifted over the falls,
One was cast down by the way and yet found,
And one flew to Isengard’s walls,
Two were blown toward the darkening East
While three hasted Westward to war
Each year the leaves of Lothlórien fall
But seldom her leaves fall so far
For Fili and Kili
By Kili’s Runestone
Too young for so much fighting
For such needless death
Too young for so much sadness
To watch their father’s last breath
Too young to sacrifice
To watch their king fall
Too young to be alone
To lose it all
Why do the good die young?
Why such evil fates?
Why does gold and glory call
When death awaits?
Too young to scream like that
For their hearts to be rent
Too young to have to grow up
In that moment
When they saw
Too young to get up
To have to fight
Too young to do what they did
To never see the light
Too young to never come back
To watch each other die
Too young to hold each other
Too young to hold each other
A final goodbye and the last ship will sail,
The white gulls are calling an end to the tale.
No more will the Fair folk be seen on these shores
Slipping to fable, remembered no more.
Halflings and Naugrim will all pass away,
And the ship as it sails out of sight of the bay,
will turn to the west where Undying lands lie,
needing no hand to guide it, so straight will it fly.
An elf and a dwarf will be carried aboard
the last of their kind to depart from these shores.
And as history turns into legend and myth
Mankind will forget what it is that they miss.
I know the way to Mordor
I know the way back home
I know the way to Gondor
though my feet are swollen and sore.
I know the way to Lothlorien
I know the way to Rivendell
I can show you my friend if you’re willing
but be warned it’s quite a long spell.
I know the way to Weathertop
I know the way to Bree
but my journey doesn’t end in Mordor
my journey ends over sea.
The Courage of Hobbits!
From the shortest of walks to the longest of wars
From the humble Shire to the peak of the mountain
From the smallest of creatures to the strongest of Dwarves
From the thunder of Stone Giants to the silence of an arrow
From the bluest of days to the darkest of nights
From the most pitied of creatures to the wisest of elves
From the gliding of butterflies to the eagle’s flight
From the trot of ponies to the slither of a dragon
My love for The Hobbit is unexplained
Until you hear it out in plain
Bilbo Baggins of the Shire
Knew not to look at the dragons fire
For if he did
He would of hid
For it never ceases to amaze me
the courage of Hobbits!
by the gréy elf
I am alone. Emptiness surrounds me,
Food is a fading memory.
My belly holds a trapped beast.
It forages without rest,
Such is famine’s cruel joke:
I become less on nothing;
this devouring power becomes more.
Would that hunger could eat fear.
of sweetness and warmth and succulence.
My mouth is dry.
No one comes for me. Still no one.
I am nearly nothing,
a husk with curled and whittled limbs.
They cradle my stagnant body tenderly
as slowly, so slowly, it is digested
in the dank bowels of death.
The beast inside me thrives.
Before the dying breath,
instinct steals back to its crucible.
Crafted by the ages, it is imperishable.
Grip hard to life! it whispers. Bite! Hold!!
So I wait. And wait.
Alone with the desperate beast….
A wandering scent
delicately twists about me
in a lariat of vapor.
Nearby, a drawn, dispossessed sound
follows the passageway.
Speech echoing, calling —
My shriveled mouth painfully unsticks
to inhale this phantasm.
The scent tastes of fear. Not my own.
I savor it.
A cold and knowing burn flares within me
thrills lick along senses that dilate in response,
visceral byways spasm with lust,
nerves jump and tighten
like the plucked strings of a puppet.
In answer, a dull sound cracks the still air.
I feel my leg unfolding. It trembles.
I extend it cautiously to the cavern wall.
Then the other. Then the other ….
And instinct whispers, Shelob need wait no more.