Well, we’re back!
Welcome to The Great Hall of Poets, our poetry feature showcasing the talent of Middle-earth fans. Grab your favourite beverage, and come and join us by the hearth. Enjoy!
If you have a Tolkien/Middle-earth inspired poem you’d like to share, then send it to poetry@theonering.net One poem per person may be submitted each month. Please make sure to proofread your work before sending it in. TheOneRing.net is not responsible for poems posting with spelling or grammatical errors.
An evening in the Writer’s Den
by: Tom Frye
I sit here at my rolltop desk,
my mind a million miles away,
deep in a realm of castles and dragons.
A mushroom lamp sits on my computer tower,
two gnomes, ever vigilant, sit bathed
in the mushroom’s yellow light, watching me.
To my right, is a picture of Bilbo Baggins,
seated at his desk in the comforts
of Rivendell, a quill pen in hand.
The elderly Hobbit is surrounded by books,
a tall tankard, a long-stemmed pipe, and
a bag of pipe-weed, ready for the smoking.
Behind Bilbo sits a picture of my Doberman,
Bummer, who has been gone now for 20 years,
yet she still graces me with her presence.
My pens rest in my chipped mug, depicting
a herd of deer racing toward my second mug,
steam rising from dark caramel coffee within.
My feet are bare, rubbing constantly on
carpeted floor, taking in the comforts of
my haven away from the world.
A rose scented candle burns beneath
my three lion heads on my wall, flickering flames
illuminating the jewels in their eyes.
Before me, magic happens on the screen,
words bring a story to life, creating images,
displaying visions, destined to make an impact.
A sword rises, a sword falls,
another dragon is slain,
another shadow prince fallen.
A white horse races across green fields,
an Elven rider upon his back, his golden hair
trailing in the wild winds.
Gems spill out of a mountain cave,
hidden there for centuries,
by the dragon who first stole them.
Ah, I sigh as I lift my hands from
my keyboard to sip at my coffee,
yet before my third sip, I’m back to work.
Sparks fly from my keys as the
visions from my head are transferred to
to the screen, then to the page.
Just one more book, is my silent prayer,
don’t let me die before the Legendry
is completed, until the last dragon slain.
I take a break, sipping once more
at my coffee, the wood smoke from
a campfire still lingering from my story.
Geesh, I say, sniffing at my shirt.
Is that really smoke I smell?
Or simply my imagination?
© Copyright 2016 by Tom Frye
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