V. 2, #206: October 21, 2013

The giant crouched down low. He spread his back
as broadly as he could, and clutched the child
close to his chest. The goblin general smiled
and signaled to his archers to attack.

The little girl clutched tightly at his arm
and cried. The giant gently kissed her head.
"There there, be brave, my little love," he said.
"I swear I'll keep you safe from any harm."

He knew he might, with one tremendous blow,
send goblins crashing down the mountainside
and free the kingdom from their evil blight.
But then he'd have to let the scared child go,
and turn away from her. He held her tight,
while arrow after arrow pierced his hide.

V. 2, #197: October 12, 2013

The clock began to strike. The prince's date,
who'd been his sole companion for the ball,
exclaimed, "Oh my, how did it get so late?
I've got to go, your majesty. Please call!"

She stumbled down the steps and lost a shoe--
this is the part that everybody knows
--then disappeared, which left the young prince blue,
and then...well, you know how the story goes.

But what the books don't stick around to tell
is how, after the shine of new love's gone,
a heaven can be transformed into hell.
But then, you're stuck, and have to carry on.

The prince hunts game to satisfy his pride,
while Cindy keeps her lovers on the side.

V. 2, #189: October 4, 2013

The rabbit made it to the brier patch
and leaned back on the thorns to catch his breath.
The fox stood glaring at him from a thatch
of nearby underbrush, his eyes like Death.

"You're meant to be so clever, sly, and mean,"
the rodent taunted. "I'd think you would know
that kits are taught from birth to slide between
these bushes, where no predators can go."

"I am aware, of course," the fox replied,
"of your foul species' penchant for the brier.
I'd hoped to catch you ere you ducked inside,
but you eluded me, just at the wire.

"But this loss I can easily forgive.
For I am sly--and I know where you live."

V. 2, #166: September 11, 2013

The horrifying monster in the cave
outside of town is fierce as he can be.
He scares the pants off everyone but me;
see, I made friends with him. I call him Dave.

His insect eyes are big as bowling balls;
his tentacles are thirty feet in length,
and no one knows the limits of his strength.
He loves to have tea parties with my dolls.

My folks don't think a little girl should play
with with some abomination from the deeps;
but I say when you're friends, you're friends for keeps.
The kids at school don't like me, anyway.

So if the cave emits a rumbling moan,
it's Dave singing to me. Leave us alone.

V. 2, #165: September 10, 2013

The dog, who's on the couch, scratches his ear.
His tag takes on the semblance of a bell,
and maybe somewhere, not too far from here,
a Pixie Fire Brigade mistakes the knell

of that aluminum identifier
for some alarm sent up from forest keeps
of their Dread Pixie Overlord, whose ire
they should not wish to court. He never sleeps.

And so they rush from out their mushroom beds,
strap on their gear, fill thimbles full of dew,
to quench a blaze that's only in their heads.
They'd mock their own confusion, if they knew.

The Pixie Lords may punish as they please.
Meanwhile, I think I'll treat my dog for fleas.

V. 2, #152: August 28, 2013

They say that minotaurs can be quite rude,
but I can't say that's true of those I've met.
Likewise, I'm told some ogres come off crude,
but I've not known one to be so, as yet.

If there's a dragon, evil to his core,
in my acquaintance he will not be found.
An impolite, offensive manticore?
I'll let you know if I see one around.

In fact, I've never met one faerie being
who cut a wicked figure to my eyes.
And as we know, believing equals seeing:
to find one now would come as a surprise.

Of course, I've never met a nice one either--
I'll let you ponder that one at your leisure.

V. 2, #149: August 25, 2013

The mighty Elven King lifted his blade
and smote the Evil one last, fatal blow.
The blood roared like a fountain as it sprayed
and rained upon the meadow far below.

Shocked and dismayed by their leader's defeat,
the Goblins fled the field, a jumbled mass
of malformed limbs and armor in retreat.
The Elves rejoiced how it had come to pass

the way the runes foretold. Meanwhile, not far
away, a rabbit crept out of his hole
and stepped in something viscous, black, like tar,
that shot up through his veins, and soon his soul.

And that's how Elvenkind was doomed to fall,
and now the Bunny Lord rules over all.

V. 2, #140: August 15, 2013

Where Sam the Sea Slug slumbered in the sea,
a dozen dolphins also made their home.
They were a rowdy bunch, and sometimes known
to party late at night, obnoxiously.

Sam was a quiet sort, like most his kind,
and confrontation was not his forte.
But the noise! He couldn't take another day,
and so a seedling plan grew in his mind.

Now, even after months of poring o'er
the charred debris that was the dolphins' place
and several autopsies, there's still no case
against the soundly sleeping slug next door.

But one thing's certain--no one makes a peep
at night. They know Sam really loves his sleep.

V. 2, #124; July 30, 2013

The  kingdom fell on dark days--all the knights,
whose skulls did not adorn his throne, had fled.
The earls and dukes had given up their rights
to that cursed, blasted land. The beast that fed

upon the serfs and vassals that remained
lay undead in his crypt, fat as a leech.
His nails were black with earth, pale white lips stained
with every brave man's blood, as if to teach

all humankind what price is paid for sin,
in this world and the next; to show there's worse
awaiting man than simple death--his skin
a parchment on which God hath writ His curse:

"Here is the end of Pride and Vanity,
the mouth of Hell agape--it waits for thee."

V. 2, #97: July 3, 2013

The warrior's left his trusty sword to rust.
His helmet's on the mantel, under glass,
a piece of ancient history, gathering dust.
He spends time at the Y, teaching a class

on low-impact aerobics, in a pool
with middle-aged ladies in swimming caps.
They tell him how his battle scars look cool
and bat their eyes whenever he does laps.

Sometimes he wakes up in a sweat, his skin
still raw where it was licked by dragon flame
or sawed by goblin knives. He drinks his gin
neat at the bar. The drunks all know his name.

He reads his Bible every single day.
His beard is long and white. His eyes are gray.

V. 2, #84: June 20, 2013

The monkey sat upon the mountaintop
where cold winds blew and snowstorms raked the crags,
and charged supplicants twenty bucks a pop
to ask their questions, and receive gift bags.

Most queries tended toward the quite inane:
"Will I ever be rich?" "Who'll be my mate?"
It drove the wise old simian near insane,
but still he answered, at the going rate.

One day a young girl summited the peak,
and said, "I have no question for you, sir.
I think the ones who trust your wisdom weak,
and lacking fortitude. Don't you concur?"

He smiled, stretched out his hand, and shook his head.
"I do. That's twenty bucks," the monkey said.

V. 2, #76: June 12, 2013

The sleepy little Snufflepuff had stopped
to rest along the steeply sloping road.
His chubby fuzzy body stooped and dropped
onto a very rockish-looking toad.

The toad croaked out, "Get off me, you big lump!
I'm not a stool for floppy, furry freaks!
Besides, the downy whiskers on your rump
will likely give me allergies for weeks!"

The weary, worried Snufflepuff arose
and made apologies for his neglect.
"I didn't mean to irritate your nose,
good sir. I'll just move on then, I expect."

The toad harumphed, then turned to let him pass.
That's when the Snufflepuff cold kicked his ass.

V. 2, #72: June 8, 2013

A princess was imprisoned in a tower
(it happens to a lot of them, you know),
and years on end nobody had the power
to kill the beast that would not let her go.

This beast, of course, was quite a nasty dragon,
a fiery, fiendish brute par excellence,
whose castle no king yet had hung a flag on,
whose roar made most brave knights besmirch their pahnts.

So one day, tired of waiting for defenders,
the princess (who had read some Buddhist texts),
chanted some prayers, then burnt herself to cinders!
Which left her captor shocked, dismayed, and vexed:

"It's brave, and quite a statement, I'll allow--
but folks will think I did it anyhow."

V. 2, #59: May 26, 2013

Upon a time once, far away form here,
there lived a princess known as Scary Jane,
whose suitors screamed and scattered, pale with fear!
The King asked his advisors to explain.

"Could it perhaps be how she spins her head
right the way round?" pondered one trusted Duke.
"Or how she levitates, raises the dead,
and covers all her would-be beaus with puke?

"She summons branches from the Haunted Wood
to tear their flesh and prod them shamelessly.
Of course they run away! Anyone should.
The fault's your daughter's, Sire, it seems to me."

"No one's perfect!" the King said, with a cough,
then asked his men to cut the Duke's head off.

 

V. 2, #11: April 7, 2013

So once upon a time there was this fish
(called Glubblubdub--but friends just called him Mike)
who had the power to grant a single wish
to any fisherman come down the pike;

One day a young girl caught him, using worms
(you prolly figured such would be the case)
and Mike, to save his tail, laid out the terms
to his amazed captor (whose name was Grace).

After a moment's pause, she shook her head.
"If you could grant a wish, why would you stay
like this? Why not become a king instead,
and rule creation till your dying day?"

"By George, you're right!" Mike said. "I'll do that thing!"
And this is how a catfish became king.

 

#444: A Story without a Moral

So once upon a time there was this troll
who lived, like many did, beneath a bridge.
He earned his meager living taking toll
from tourists on their way to Witches' Ridge.

(The Ridge was an amusement park of sorts--
there were no witches really, just some crones
who put on shows for guests at their resorts
and sold them turkey legs and ice cream cones.)

The troll (whose name was Norbert) never got
to see the Ridge or ride the Broomstick Swing.
He took the travelers' money, cursed his lot,
and lusted for ice cream like anything.

One day they built a bypass round the town,
and both the toll bridge and the Ridge closed down.

#442: The Lucky Frog

Come on: you must have kissed some frogs before
you got to me. It's only common sense.
How many? Dozens? Hundreds? Maybe more?
Not every maiden searching for her prince

gets lucky that first trip down to the bog.
Enchanted royalty don't come around
like beggars, forming lines on every log
with broad lips puckered, waiting to be found.

You must have sickened of the taste of slime
and failure long before you stretched your hand
to scoop me from my pad--Just one more time,
you thought. Don't worry love; I understand

the reason I now wear your golden crown.
I'll do my best to keep the croaking down.

#432: The Rabbit's Dream

A bunny we'll call Moppettop once found
himself in some strange field; the grass was blue.
His floppy ears paddled a sea of sound
he'd never heard before. The flowers grew

on woody stalks three times their normal height.
They bloomed to platter-size, and smelled like rain.
He crouched there, motionless, until the night
came on in deep maroon. Almost insane

with dizziness and fear, at last he slept
and dreamed green meadows, red and golden flowers
that smelled the way they ought. When he awoke,
the magic of the intervening hours
had dissipated like magician's smoke.
Incurious, the rabbit looked, and leapt.

#423: Truffles and Bones

So once upon a time there was this dog--
a little guy, with hair all in his eyes.
His best friend was this truffle snuffling hog,
whose talent made him every Frenchman's prize.

They went into the woods one day alone
(their owner sleeping off too much red wine);
the dog in quest of some long-buried bone,
the hog for fungus much more rare and fine.

Then suddenly the dog began to dig
and pulled up truffles, truffles by the pound!
"This is easy!" he called out to the pig.
"I'm finding more than you have ever found!"

"Should I start seeking bones?" the pig then said,
and bared his tusks. The dog just shook his head.
_

#415: Gepetto

Upstairs, in that small room above his shop,
the puppeteer is carving something new;
his gnarled and wrinkled hands know what to do
as all around his feet the shavings drop
like Autumn leaves. His knife blocks out a chin
and notches lips above; the nose a twig
repurposed. Two knotholes will serve for big
blue eyes with just a little paint. Within
the hollow of his chest, where blind grubs ate
scant days ago, the ashes of his boy
now dead these seven years--a father's joy
whose smile made sweet a life he'd grown to hate.

A few more spells, perhaps another day--
his son will live again, and God will pay.
_