It seems a few folks liked me recent poem about me grandpa. Here is another about him, one I wrote over a year ago.
Miss Jadite hosts quarterly poetry competitions on Laurelin, and I wrote this one for the 2012 summer contest. However, since I had nabbed the first prize in the previous spring poetry competition, I was asked ter be a judge, which ruled me out the poetry recitals. Besides, I needed all me energies to stand up to them other judges. Ranking the competitors during the Laurelin poetry competitions is a hazardous task, involving scowls, scolds, and swinging frying pans between the judges.
Still, I always liked the poem and pondered on making it public. This is a slightly atypical poem for me, since I tend ter aim fer happy stories about clever children and amazing sheep dogs. Once in a while, though, it is good to go outside of the comfort zone a bit, which I certainly did here. Both in contents and in rhyming style.
Them's grand, them grandparents. Be sure ter give them a hug!
Boats out of bounds
Me grandpa made a wooden boat A little one with tiny sails He carved me name into its hull The finest toy I ever had
We let it in the river float And then he told the wildest tales The summer day was never dull Me grandpa always made me glad
The boat would travel to the south Through forest, field and swampy bog The current pushing it along To speeds no hobbit could obtain
And when it reached the river mouth It would be lost in misty fog And neither hobbit rhyme nor song Could bring it back to me again
Out there the world is strange indeed But wonder also waits beyond Perhaps the boat would find a friend Or reach the distant blinking stars
The boat would sail at lightning speed Across the mountain, under pond To rest beneath the rainbow's end Where biscuits wait in golden jars
Me grandpa smiled and stopped his tale What happens then, I asked of him He winked and held up in his hand A fresh-baked golden biscuit sweet
And through the summer, without fail No matter if the rain was grim The day would always end up grand Whenever he and I would meet
A box of old and dusty things A whittle knife all red from rust I close me eyes and swallow hard Me sweet old grandpa passed away
No stories more of far-off kings No biscuits more with golden crust No hugs when we meet in the yard The summer never felt so grey
But still, I have his wooden boat That once was cut from oaken log I smile and hold it in my hand Then let it go and wave farewell
Through currents wild it stays afloat It passes through the misty fog And crosses to the summer land Where friends who leave us go to dwell
A pleasant, lush and lovely land Beneath a warm and sunny sky Where rainbows always mark the spot Of golden biscuits free for all
And there the boat is in his hand He smiles to me and waves goodbye And I remember all he taught Of summer days and stories tall
More poems
I have written many more song lyrics than poems. The few I have written, though, are available here.