poems3

The end of summer came with a crash,
and winter was colder,
colder and deeper,
than I ever expected
winter to be. In this winter,
I crossed the ice
over deep water. I could
clearly sense the bottomless dark
under my feet, and the thin layer
of brittle ice holding me up. Now,
as I reach the far shore
and spring approaches, I look back
over my shoulder, and I see
the ice on which I have so lately,
so confidently trod, shattering
behind me into the thinnest
of slivers, and the hungry water
swallowing them. And I take
a deep breath, turn my face
to the shore, and hope
I can climb the bank.
Many, many stained glass windows
shining on a sandstone floor
falling pools of rainbow color
sunlight through an oaken door
Shhhh! Step softly-
make no sound at all
The abbot's sleeping in his chair,
snoring softly in Great Hall

I am a Warrior.
Standing tall and true.
Never ceasing in my plight.
An emblem for all to come.
I am a Wanderer.
Roaming far and wide.
Freeing oppressed beasts
Where e'er I go.
I am a Hero.
Always to be remembered
As the one
Who freed Mossflower.
I am Strong.
Too strong to cry
In front of others
About the one I lost.
I am Everlasting.
To all who knew me,
I will last forever
For I remember them.

I wonder
I have the wonder in my soul
We warriors are beasts apart
Fate has maked us out
I shall always be a warrior.
For I will never fade.
Never drift away like sunset,
Never linger in the shade.
I shall always be a warrior.
Standing proud and strong.
Fighting battles, always winning,
Standing out among the throng.
I shall always be a warrior.
Always truthful, holding fast.
There will be another like me,
But they must wait till years have past.
I shall always be a warrior.
For no one can forget
The one that they call "Savior."
And I'm the best one yet.
Down to the dungeons, dark and dreer,
No light to guide us, just cold and fear.
Under the castle, a maze of old stone,
Corridors where no beast in years has known.
We defeated the vermin but the fortress will stay,
For into the shadows we can find no way.
Our party of brave beasts, though frightened still,
For this is where vermin took victims to kill.
For what were we searching, nobeast can tell.
We knew nought but rumours, but we knew them well.
T'was said beasts still lived in the darkness here,
Hiding from the vermin, shedding many a tear,
For the friends that they lost to the dark evil rats,
And their family who were killed one by one in the past.
Tis said that this fortress was once in a lake,
And before that, Tsarmina, who made brave badgers quake!
But nothing remains through misted realms of time,
And the place has now changed to beauty from crime.
We have cleaned the bedrooms, the cellars, Great Hall,
But nobeast dares to venture beneath, and fall
Into the dungeons so dark and so grey.
As we return to the light of day
We remember the poor souls who dwelt in that place
And the sacrifice they made to make Mossflower safe

I look across a once Green field.
I see death, destruction.
Browned, fire swept, Blood churned into mud, Giving the field an Dusty, red appearance.
Good beasts did here.
By the score.
Good beast's mangled Bodies mixed Indiscriminately with the bad.
Why does it take death to unite the two half's? Why,
in the mists of war,
does one beast live,
and another die?
Is there a reason to live after such horror?
Will we ever recover?
As I watch,
The sun rises,
Good beast and bad,
There is no difference.
The difference has gone.
We will never recover from what happened here,
But life does go on.
Spearlady Gorse,
Lord of the Mountion,
No Remorse for vermin.
Vermin slay,
Without a care,
Not knowing one day,
They would DARE,
To challange the Lady of the Mountion!
The last mistake they would ever make!
Hares and the Badger met one day,
Apon the sunny shore,
With the biggist band of vermin,
That the badger had ever saw.
That didn't stop her,
From picking up her spear,
And giving the vermin 'Wot For'.
Now the Mountion is in peace,
Ruled by an old lord stonepaw.
The fighting hares have gone now,
Peace makes Warriors restless
The Old Warriors reman,
Not good for fighting.
But whats this?
Vermin!
More Vermin than the Battle of the Gorse!
Who will save us now?
If a badger lord is old, and is about to die,
who will come to save the mountain,
from those that pillage and slay.
If and badger lord is kill fighting,
Will his son be true?
To all the laws and codes and lore,
set down from a source lost in the vastness of time.
Will the time come,
when the badger lord, has failed to keep the right,
And the mountain is in vermin hands,
is the hope in sight?
As long as they’re a badger lords,
they will obey the law,
keep their father company,
until dark forests door,
and if you are the vermin,
I wouldn’t fight the badgers
you will die.
Sixclaw, Sixclaw, what do you see?
I see you, do you see me?
I am hiding in your bedroom;
I am hiding by the door,
I am poisoning your drink now;
Just killing, nothing more.
If you happen to wake up;
While I am here at work,
I will just have to kill you;
And waste my poison, you stupid jerk.
When I am finished killing you
I'll start on your whole horde:
If you try to stop me, son,
I'll whack you with a board.
Sixclaw, Sixclaw, what do you see:
I'll kill you, will you kill me?
Holt Stailatra's Rowing Song
-Kailia
Now dig yer paddle in deep
an' make yer enemies weep
the arrows fly true as long as
yer heart is pure 'n white too.
Aye cathrue cathrue for we a mukkle a doo!
Aye cathrue cathrue poor me a mukkle a doo!
We've got tales t' tell an'
we've got rivers t' dwell,
no spear wielding rat'll keep
us far from watershrimp stew.
Aye cathrue cathrue for we a mukkle a doo!
Aye cathrue cathrue poor me a mukkle a doo!

Foreign Night
~Kailia Silverstreak
The wind doth die
on a blood swept day
and arrows do fly
on their own.
What night is this?
that swallows all
without a thought to stars,
and in a graceless ceremony
lies heroes down to sleep.
Poems by Hon Rosie
Filled with ups and downs,
and hardships and joys,
Bitterness and Sweetness,
Is my life.

Poems are freakin' hard to write,
I don't know how I even accomplish this,
'Cuz I don't have the freakin' talent,
To write even this little thing.

I've been paid to eat this hotroot soup,
Paid with other hotroot soups,
But the one who did this must be really daft,
'Cuz I'm a bally hare!