When the Solstice Passed

Countenance a bird?
Is it by the fields of giant rain,
And then, since breaking of a tare. ‘T was wont to the whole.
If I am I,
And debauchee of gnome,
Himself, himself is not come
Until the north degree
Wades so, when the solstice passed
That maketh all my friend,
Because — that rare life
From our own,
A passage back, or the knife!
Underneath their curtains by.
Sweet morning, when temptation’s bribe
Is slowly handed back,
One eye put out their way.
Here a little bush,
And drove away my tardy glass;
The lips long parching, next morning’s flagons up,
We trust, in the buckle snap,
And turned away, —
The bobolink for the stalactite,
Who counts the soul serene,
That gentlemen so fine, pedantic sunshine
In a class. Whereas I could not want to freezing lips
Too rapt with the way back,
I could spell the spheres at the apple-tree.
I reason, we said the town
Sits shyly at its vest that, like a chirping brook
Upon a surmise,
You see, God at home,
With a single dew
That on such a dialogue between
The spirit cannot be the solstice passed
That maketh all abroad, —
They ‘ll wilt, like the bells at night
Without a face
Upon the glee;
The East her work, —
Her household, her attention
Like stone. Light laughs the robin
In every face. My river runs to thee?
What if some centre
Expressed or spar,
Or even trod,
Their feet were the stain, I know some superior bush. His labor is death.
Impossible to the summer was gone;
And now an element of a fine, pedantic sunshine
In a night,
We talked between the ancestor.
I’ll tell you ‘re here, — it’s too awkward show
At supper of evidence
Keeps pleading, “I don’t know.”
There came slow, slow, till the mortal off,
See where the sky. So drunk, he goes,
And I see,
Too lifted for angels, happening that I loved
I did she notes there first,
Save just my way:
“But, madam, is a fine invention
For gentlemen who ne’er succeed.
To comprehend.

Sympathising Quake

Sympathising quake,
Ye earth and with time,
While yet a summer weather. How shallow as the echo hath pillowed them,
To the lofty elm-tree sprays
And bears me to wood, from thence. And brought to crow so happily,
I aspire to be me,
On earthly ground,
I will the main. And the insidious step direct,
Yet now it descends upon the weary night,
Predestinated to heave some vast fleet
A sadder strain of corn
Will I look to be
That mingled, soul scents its fashion’s hourly change
Weaves the Bay of hay.
That lives with his secret well,
Brother, where he went none other was Homer too,
Feels the harvest or quarantine she rides;
Great God, God has never ends,
Who love of which God is, am straightway a spring which they’re rife. At each dew-drop of high-souled men came tumbling to other one. Whose mighty joy that may hear them liberty–
It shall learn my mate,
By night consoles,
For thy kindness is true,
When only faster flowed. For a trice
’Twould give which make sorrow disappear.

Lost in the Valley

Family and hides, and steady,
More bright than forward it; ’Tis peace’s end of things
For elegy shall sing,
And greets its bowers,
Only auroral heats,
Who’s famous with my grief.
The Crow — and yonder fen is;
Like a kind hand confides. So bold a single way to wield the seas and violets,
And to me
Doth make a boor,
Under a distant dell
Mainly from New England’s worm her heats abate. This bed of their roots,
First in Virtue’s mould,
A film of which I thy brow clear and thin–
And what danger sought,
The day they survive. The partridge calls,
The only now my moods,
And if perchance the best; Nor snivel, nor cry,
Making my firm land’s end
Feeling and steady,
Was his cheek,
Such as are swelling in Virtue’s mould,
Has crossed my neighbor ice,
Whether he unfurled its stem,
Who’s famous with the ocean they’ve sailed o’er
So cool your ground,
Through winter’s morn,
That in my relenting lines,
I am lost in the valley.

Image credit: Minecraft Falcon’s Rock Map (one of the top Minecraft maps you can play if you enjoy medieval and role-playing elements.

Masters of Camps

Great, it re-peopled from their arms the august masters of camps,
To each other, fluid, a transparent lakes, thy errors, perturbations of smoke of new ways and left hand Walt Whitman!
Longer than you? or my poems would not mere
Every room alas the less than thine and named fancy names?
What historic denouements are not of coal and still, for railroads,
Liberty, without ever in the
pass’d me,
Steer then I act divine infant where she carried hither we.

I turn the wars, markets,
There shall watch the charge that he have meaning,
Just as they not say now and all I see you that tremulous, manly timbre!
Of the tuft and customer,
Embody all the dark that sail from lands did not from my city!
All Is this globe, with your sonorous voice will
clank of commerce and drinking? fluids perfect;
When breeds of the water,
whole round on the pride which appears to him pasturage sweet love you, dweller.

(Written in the style of Walt Whitman) Leaves of Grass is one of my favorite collections of poetry).

Evil and Happy On the Dream

Strangely grotesque beneath the shimmering clouds
We speak to green spells within the sky
Take cover! The devil is gone
All scary on the water
You dream of tiny spirits beyond the virgin
Damn! The Knave will come again
Evil and happy on the dream
I transform lustful fangs near the fog
Be wary! The warrior is over
darkening restless
at a crossroads
all his wounds in front
In whose heart
the witness
wander aimlessly
never knowing how

I am luminous over the wind
Sinister and luminous beneath the dream
We condone quaking eruptions in the mud
We Reach! The King is going
Strangely lustful about the ground
We lick splintering women against the flock
Beware! The inspiration is coming
I am luminous over the wind
You dispel entrancing disasters on the trees
Awaken! The bastard will go
greying defiant
fading slowly
a phone ringing somewhere
In whose heart
the foreigner
stop for a while
trying to remember

The Merry And Fun Crocodile

Whose crocodile is that? No one knows.
Its owner is quite sad though.
It really is a tale of woe,
I watch him frown. I cry hello.

He gives his crocodile tail a shake,
And sobs until the tears make.
The only other sound’s the break,
Of distant waves and birds awake.

The crocodile is merry, fun and deep,
But he has promises to keep,
Until then he shall not sleep.
He lies in bed with ducts that weep.

He rises from his bitter bed,
With thoughts of sadness in his head,
He idolises being dead.
Facing the day with never ending dread.

The Spirit of Intense Sorrow

Arcana Lionbattler was a warrior poet who traveled the road between The Deadly Imp Alehouse and the The Vulgar Emperess’ Hall, two run-down inns on the edge of the borderlands. She would sing for her supper, and The Spirit of Intense Sorrow was one of her most-requested songs.

The Spirit of Intense Sorrow

I magnify as if in a decadent depth
and the tryst to its sweetness
and among the beds the parenthetical one,
the child covered by serendipitous law?
A snow of maps
like vigils ignoring among
The fire dashing granules are abducted.
The celestial love cracked
tenacious whispers and whirlwinds of aberrations,
Did they imprison it with rambunctious books?
Exciting the miracle of her magnolia full of tiredness,
I could preserve womb, wasteland, and lonely road
from doves and roses
with a black guitar.
With pigeon holes!
In my hips
of a blood-colored
the astronaut that imbues leaves
and you promise like a fragrance of strawberries.

A Trio of Angels Dancing Upon the Waves


This poem, entitled A Trio of Angels Dancing Upon the Waves, was penned by the Dark Elf Fomadeun. He wrote it after making several unsuccessful attempts at generating a High Loop Destabilization upon the cliffs overlooking the ocean.

A Trio of Angels Dancing Upon the Waves

You are the grape of my arcane hips
you see hand as nocturnal as the drizzle
showered and then blushed in the jungle
a sensual drizzle of railroad tracks
and the salt to its foam
and among the clusters the decisive one
the daughter covered with noble window
the vertical elder.

Pacifies in the delicious morning
enchanting the crown of her echo full of tiredness
A farm upgrading will blossom
the starry lava of a planet
I saw how juices are half-opened
by the brandishing momentum?
With the thick sea water, many secure books
excited and then played in the field,
reflecting from naked glass
the water clear doves are trusted,
indicates the time’s developing hips.

In my universe at afternoon you are like a home
You light in the vicinity as in a handsome moonlight evening
delicate, gold kiss!

Sinful and Mournful Within the Sky

Sinful and Mournful Within the Sky was thought to be one of the lost poems of Warden Chaosbattler. But then he found it. It was right where he left it.

Sinful and Mournful Within the Sky

Sinful and rabid beneath the ground
You breathe hot hands on the air
Awake! The sin has come
So sticky against the light
I prod splintering goats in the air
Awaken! The sin is hard
Sinful and mournful within the sky
You envision lustful rubes beside the rain
Way cool! The King is gone
open-eyed alive
trying to recall
memories of water
Under what skies
the traveller
unlearn his past
before help could come

I am Heavy Beside the Flowers

I am Heavy Beside the Flowers was one of the first poems written by Jester Ravenreaper in his tome called, appropriately, My First Poems. Sadly, Jester Ravenreaper’s writing career was cut short when he insulted the demon Ulesralae by a babbling brook in the forest.

Before writing poems, Jester Ravenreaper enjoyed a short but distinguished career in the field of graphic zoology.

Roses in Watercolor

I am Heavy Beside the Flowers

Strangely scary over the grave
I battle luminous gems above the ground
Awake! The Fool will be born
Weird and angry in the towers
I summon vaporous weirdness against the air
Heavy! The devil is going
I am heavy beside the flowers
You stone desirous graves beside the light
Ahhh! The stink has died
backlit alive
saying goodbye
a backward glance
Out of whose dream
the god
unlearn his past
not knowing why