Category Archives: Poems

The Road goes ever on and onDown from the door where it began.Now far ahead the Road has gone,And I must follow, if I can. –       J.R.R. Tolkien I remember reading The Fellowship of the Ring on the school bus, arguing with my friend. I loved the songs and poems, but my classmate said they were awful and skipped right over all of them. Hey dol! Merry dol! Ring a dong dilly! He’s got a point that some of these are silly. Still, I’ve found there’s a […]

My father hunts witches   studies the occult   reads all about Salemdoesn’t let my little sister    dress up on Halloweenand always carries with him   a Coors silver bullet   a garlic glove   a wooden crossand a rare iron stake. My mother is a witch   I mean that quite literallyfor she rides a broom   cooks in a cauldron   has a rat nest in her hair   studies Mephistopheles   makes unholy Swiss cheese   prefers the Lions o’er the Saintsand hides her little spells   from my father in a dictionary. My sister can turn invisible   float across the room   bowls with a crystal ball   has an undead boyfriendcan mix a love […]

The hornet knocks its head against the hard glass, Flowers bright and friendly on the far frame, Still and sullen air, and screams, on this side. “Kill it! Kill it!” she cries (as against the curtain it caroms), Motioning to me to arm myself with a magazine. Waving the issue before me, I waver: Evolved from millions of pairings for this ending? “It will sting you!” she says, but I am already stung: Trembling, I press it against the pane with Time.

My players’ characters are visiting a village smithy, so I decided the local bard will sing this poem as they approach (then ask them for money!). Since our homebrew campaign world is set in Stone Age Eurasia, I changed the references to Christ and Sunday worship to more neutral items. My edited words are in italics. (With apologies to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.) The Village Blacksmith UNDER a spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of […]

History on his head He wore a black mountain kapa Black border, red blood center, white war braid Black for Kosovo Polje, swarming with Turks Red for Kosovo Polje, bleeding his fathers’ blood White for the wars and the strength of his cause A millenium halved in war A mountaineer in love with hate A warrior from Crna Gora Italians had swarmed over the border Had stolen the capitol of Cetinje Now he guides his men for the black mountain “A friend can cross the karst in 6 hours, a […]