Adventure Poetry Page

Updated January 22/2006

On this page, I will post some of my adventure poetry. Hope you like it.

Bob And The Doors Of Life

Bob was dreaming one wintry night

Of pizzas and personal mores,

When, suddenly, he came in sight

Of many strange, unfathomed doors.

He stood within the eerie hall,

Staring all around with the thought

Of doors along every wall

And hoping that they would be not.

As he stood there, waiting to see

If his environment would change,

He felt that he should turn and flee

Because this place was oh, so strange.

For a long time, he could not move,

For he was paralyzed by fear;

Then he knew that he must remove

Himself or stand forever here.

He took a step toward a door

Upon the nearby lefthand wall;

Though he knew not what was in store,

He went because a man stands tall,

No matter what strange circumstance

Or event may stand in his way.

Upon the weirdest whims of chance,

He must make his eternal play.

He oped the door and saw a sight

That shivered him, deep in his soul.

A woman had been set alight

And was burning 'gainst a Maypole.

The tow'ring flames lit up the sky

In eerie shades of orange and red;

Her fiery screams thus told him why

His heart was filled with fear and dread.

He slammed the door, shut out the scene,

And ran as fast as he could go

To escape that view, quite obscene,

That seared his mind with the fire's glow.

The next door suddenly appeared

Right there, it seemed, before his eyes,

Opened wide to a scene tres weird,

A body full aswarm with flies.

Across the hall, another door

Opened upon a scene of love

That brought to mind a time before:

God sent an angel from above

To be his loving, lovely wife

Within this world so filled with pain.

Then, one day, someone took her life;

A sudden impact with a train

Took the woman that he had known,

Trusted each and every day,

And shown him that the world was sown

With fear and hate along the way.

Onward he went, such fear within

That it was hard to face those things

That made life seem so sad and thin,

With glimpses of dark, flapping wings;

Ravens, crows and great buzzards fly

Over the fields of darkest hate.

These thoughts brought forth a quiet sigh:

Was this another twist of fate,

Meant to put him on bended knee

Or before life's great firing squad?

His thoughts were oh, so plain to see,

That this place was extremely odd;

And, thus, his heart began to doubt

That he could ever find a door

That would lead him to a way out,

From this dark place, forevermore.

As the next door he opened wide,

He saw a man within a room

Where naught was there, from side to side,

But paintings showing doom and gloom.

Distraught, he wandered to and fro,

Unaware of his surroundings;

As he sought for some place to go,

He felt again those darkling wings.

Feeling his heart rise in his throat,

He continued to the next door,

Certain that he was life's scapegoat,

Unsteady feet upon the floor,

Until he felt a resurgence

Of the strength that helped him survive

Through every experience

That those, around him, still alive,

Had brought him at every turn.

He sought within him that pure love

That, released, would begin to burn

With a subtle thrust from above.

And so he stepped upon the path

That led him to the final door,

Where played a scene of blood and wrath

That laid him flat upon the floor.

As the eerie scene then dissolved,

He could not find a word to say;

His situation was resolved:

He woke and saw the bright, new day.

Tiffani Pontchartrain

© April 3, 2005

The Quest

On one fine and brisk autumn day,

A man did visit Mr. Gray,

Yet was not sent upon his way.

This I know, is what he did say,

For I heard him tell Mr. Gray:

"There is a blight upon the land.

I need a strong and careful hand,

To rid us of a cruel band

Of thieves, that live and make their stand

In the keep of Grodka the Grand.

"First, you must cross the river deep,

Then climb the mountain, stern and steep,

Until you reach the fabled keep,

Where even angels fear to sleep

And the heavens forever weep.

"Now, you must go ere break of morn,

Before this land, completely torn,

Shall thus, forever, lie forlorn.

When of his life he has been shorn,

He will rue the day he was born."

And off he went, before the light

Of day had overcome the night,

As Mr. Gray prepared to fight

With Grodka the Grand for the right

To spare the land his evil might.

Mr. Gray walked o'er dale and hill,

Crossed the river against its will

And battled ever onward till

He stood atop the very sill

Of the keep, high up on the hill.

As string winds blew over the brow

Of the mountain, he made this vow:

"I will not let him stop me now

Until I've sown him 'neath the plow.

I swear this here, no matter how

He may attempt to make me fall

Before some long-forgotten wall,

I shall stand strong, both proud and tall;

I will, my lord, answer your call,

No matter what may now befall."

In he went, with breath suspended,

Into the keep; shadows blended

In spots where the darkness ended.

A mighty shadow distended,

Where none had ever contended

For the mastery of that place.

None had e'er before shown their face;

All had fled, in fear and disgrace.

The shadows he hoped to replace

With strong, proud hearts, so filled with grace,

That none would fear to enter there,

Whether the light be drear or fair.

And onward he trod, up a stair,

Until it seemed he walked on air;

He had not found the fiend's lair.

On he walked, through silence profound,

Where nary a soul could be found,

Yet smaller creatures did abound.

Within that place without a sound,

Sudden echoes now did rebound.

Then, as he crossed a parquet floor,

He spied a tall and stately door,

Where this was writ, like to a score:

"Give up all hope forevermore;

You stand upon an unknown shore."

And, as the door he opened wide,

He felt a presence by his side,

Which proved to be his lord and guide.

With their hearts hammering inside

Their breasts, the two brave men did stride

Into the room where evil dwelt.

Within the darkness, one man knelt

On a prayer stool covered with felt;

From the shadows, a lady svelte

Came forth and, in front of them, knelt.

She told a tale, both sad and long,

About a crown that did belong

To a man who, both kind and strong,

Had been forsaken by a wrong

That had taken so very long

To bring into the light of day.

The man that stood by Mr. Gray

Did watch, as a dim light did play

Upon the lady, fair and fey,

Kneeling before them, soft and gay.

Mr. Gray's lord spoke with a frown:

"I am that man of far renown

That, long ago, did lose his crown;

Know now, my name is Standish Brown,

And I must fight ere I go down

To reclaim that which I had lost,

E'en though it claims a mortal cost.

On life's seas, I've been tempest-tossed;

There, on my sword, you'll see embossed

The coat of arms that once was lost."

He stood before them, straight and true,

As a foul, easterly wind blew;

Where it came from, none of them knew.

"I vow, once more, to see this through,

To claim this land where eagles flew,

To bring justice to low and high,

Where people live, both far and nigh,

Beneath the bright, beautiful sky."

And, with a deep and lonely sigh,

He passed the lovely lady by

And stepped further into the room,

From whence a scent of fearful gloom

Did, thus, despoil the air with doom.

He, like a sad and sorrowed groom,

Swept away by life's evil broom,

Had not looked upon tomorrow,

Had always thought he could borrow,

Steeped in pain, brimming with sorrow,

Wished he could have one last 'morrow.

On the air, the scent of yarrow

Brought him back to clear, conscious thought;

He could not save, when he had naught

To give, but his blood, as he fought

For all those things which he had sought

Throughout his life. The 'ternal knot

Of love that, around him, twined

Could not easily be defined

By his restless, uneasy mind,

In a forlorn attempt to find

Justice for his folk; which, combined

With love and faith, might bring forth hope.

Walk not up that slippery slope

On which we stumble, grasp and grope,

In our feeble attempt to cope

With life's vast, unknowable scope.

With each step that he did advance,

He fell into life's former dance,

Where ev'rything was left to chance.

The loss of joy and sweet romance

Seemed a sorrowful circumstance

On which to base a life once dim.

Lo, to his mind, there came a hymn,

Brought by a strange and urgent whim,

That set him forth within the slim

Strip of light wav'ring before him,

Wherein he must accost his fate

And cast away all fear and hate.

Expectations could not abate

The direst need to contemplate

The prospect of imminent fate

Upon the great altar of Truth.

One more step forward where, forsooth,

His mind was cast back to his youth,

To a time when he was uncouth,

When he'd sought, far and wide, the truth

Of his own life, as it was then.

Onward he stepped, forward again,

Then moved around the spreading stain

Left by the corpse of old Lorraine,

Murdered by the cruel Owain,

Lord and master of this dark house.

The murdered woman did arouse

The strength of justice, which allows

No man to know its blind carouse,

Yet can bend the mightiest boughs

'Neath the cruel, darkening skies

Of a world where ev'ryone's lies

Are yet another trite disguise

Or a sad, lonely compromise

Between heav'n and the land of flies.

Forward he steps, onward he goes;

Where this journey ends, no one knows.

He follows the srange, eerie glows

Of incarnadine lava flows

That run together, dark and close,

Toward the final meeting-place,

Where Owain's dark, dismal disgrace

Would be required to turn and face

The wrath, the love, the deadly grace

Of one he could not e'er replace.

Finally, deep within the gloom,

Where rock walls on each side did loom,

Mr. Brown did confront his doom.

Owain stood, stiffer than a broom,

As a dim, ruddy light did bloom

And cause the room within to blush;

Within, the furnishings so lush

As to oppress and, therefore, crush

All hope, yet the song of a thrush

Did resist the arrogant brush

By alighting within a crack

Of bluest light, high at the back

Of the room. The deep, stagnant black

Of Owain's lair had one great lack:

It could not throw that clean light back

To the place from whence it had come.

Forward, forward, and with a hum,

Here, now, Mr. Brown's time had come;

The sword cleaved Owain like a drum,

Split him in two. The gentle thrum

Of birdsong could be heard all 'round.

On that glorious day, Mr. Brown

Did accept and take up his crown;

And it was said, up hill and down,

No better man could e'er be found.

Tiffani Pontchartrain

© April 11 - 20, 2005

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