He Looks A Bit Like Uncle Deadly

...but it wasn't intentional. I swear! Please don't come after me, Disney incorporated or unlimited or whatever you are. There are perspective problems, but aren't there always?

Many poems I write are just words strung together is ways that sound pleasing or humorous to me. I also enjoy giving things a vaguely prophetic tone to make it more ominous. As the Future, such at is is, looks largely like unknowable gibberish from our vantage point in the Present, it seems to work.

This is quite an old poem below, but it fits the description nicely.

It did indeed all come to pass, in ages long ago

We spirits men sought out as sage

Gathered ‘neath the storm’s black rage

And began anew the war we’d waged

That brought the Devil low

For though we once were sought as sage, our shapes are but as glass

In which secret fire again shall shine

Twisting us round through life’s bent line

Until cold stars swim in the murky brine

And it has come to pass.

The universe is older now, much longer are the miles

That pass between the moon and earth

With no hope of death or bright rebirth

And all our pow’r (for what that’s worth)

Must help us pass the whiles

For while the Dwindling’s snared my kind and our stories go unheard

Light passes through the side you see

It blows past whispers over me

The one and one fuse into three

I speak the silent word

Next time, next time

Inktober looked fun, but it's just about done,
And I never did get in my licks.

I'll poop this out my brain, 'till it come round again,
Thank goodness for Sharpies and Bics.

Small Sketch and Short Verse

A moment now to to tarry here
And carry here
A very queer
and puzzling, troubling wary fear
Of everything I've done

I'll laugh and shed a merry tear
To parry sneers
and bury here
The bland and ordinary cheers
For all the fights I've won

The Blith

In ancient days forgotten now
Times drowned in seas of years
The Blith set out 'cross orange skies
O'er shadowed plain and mere

Betwixt the tow'r of Ult-ut-Dhrag
And the stones of Iakel's glyphs
Would skirl with panicked yammerings
The bloated, fetid Blith

Oh why such noise, thou noisome beast?
Why stumble through the air?
Why beckon with thy ill-shaped limbs
Or gaze with mindless stare?

Dost thou mourn those other brutes
Dim shapes of vague days past?
Or dost thou howl victorious
Because thou art the last?

Ne'er would the Blith its end reveal
Merely coil, twist, and sag
Past the stone of Iakel's glyphs
To the tow'r of Ult-ut-Dhrag