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[Ranger of the North]

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[Ranger of the North]

2nd poem ever written. Eleven or twelve.

The Horse

What animal's so elegant and sleek?
They sometimes shy, they're sometimes meek,
They are strong, they are not weak,
How I wish for one of these creatures God has made,
My memory of them will not fade

[Ranger of the North]

3rd poem ever written. Eleven or twelve. Duma is Swahili for Cheetah.

Cheetah Hunt

Zooming along the ground,
Fastest ever seen,
His heart begins to pound,
He is very lean,
Muscles moving glossily beneath his shiny coat,
Looking for his prey,
He quickly sights a goat,
The day begins to fade,
As he speeds towards his quarry,
The goat begins to run,
As it gets in all a flurry,
Duma has some fun,
Toying with his dinner,
Pulling on alongside, he quickly pats his prey,
The goat then does a spinner,
Duma pounces on his prey,
He drags it to his lair,
Where his wife and children,
Come to eat it in the air

[Ranger of the North]

4th poem ever written. Eleven or twelve.

The Tale of an Escapee Horse

Mane and tail flying,
Dogs are all a-whining,

Hooves pounding on the break,
Making splashes on the wake,

Nostrils flaring,
Sirens blaring,

Neck arched proudly,
Men shout loudly,

"The horse has flown!"
Horns get blown,

Cattle low in alarm,
As the horse speeds past the farm,

Men run past with ropes and halters,
Some they stumble and they falter,

The horse runs through the prairie grasses,
Runs through gorges and narrow passes,

The men they tire,
And build a fire,

For mules and dogs they all head home,
Cold and wearied to the bone,

They tend their stock and hurry back,
Most of them shouldering a pack,

The horse rests underneath a shadow,
The sky and grasses turn quite mellow,

He stands and prances,
Gallops and dances,

Like a colt in a meadow,
Runs a race with his shadow,

He trots away to find some food,
He is in a glorious mood,

He perks up as he hears a bay,
The noise was from far far away,

He knows what it is: the hounds,
Most of them weigh one-hundred pounds,

The men stop on a hill,
They hear a trill,

And then a bray,
Upon a hill along the way,

They see a mule asleep in the shade,
From his home where he has strayed,

The horse runs far and finds a spring,
He hears a bird begin to sing,

A nightingale he sees,
It flits into the trees,

Entranced he followed the bird,
Past a buffalo herd,

He followed the bird up hill and down dale,
'Til he was enclosed in a misty veil,

'Til in the prairie grasses once again,
He saw a fair mare with flowing mane,

With a whinny he stands and calls to the mare,
She answers with a call so clear,

It brings all the horses from far away,
Even though there is no light of the day,

the mare and the stallion took off to their heels,
They ran through clover and cabbage patch fields,

Through orchards and forests,
And gardens of florists,

'Til they came to a lake,
And splashed in its wake,

'Til the sun came up and the moon went away,
They ate some hay and went on their way,

They wandered free,
'Til they became three,

They were free on their way,
For three years and a day,

'Til they became six,
They passed a farm with twenty-three chicks,

A stallion stopped and sniffed at the farm,
He remembered a comfortable, homey-like barn,

He called to his mare,
And pawed at the air,

A boy heard the horse,
And heard something quite coarse,

It was the boy's dog,
That could chew up a cog,

He ran outside fast,
And called his dog, Jaast,

Jaast came to his master,
The boy called his dad faster,

"What is it?" he said,
And then saw a horse-head,

Sticking out of a door—no, four!
No, more!

The horses were kept,
Except...

Two year later,
A captivity hater,

Did it again,
With his mane,

And tail flying,
The dogs were all a-whining,

His nostrils were flaring,
His pricked ears hearing,

Neck arched proudly,
The men shouted loudly,

"The horse has flown!"

[Ranger of the North]

5th or 6th poem ever written. (I'd say probably 5th). In between the ages of twelve and thirteen.

The Book

The Book is a wonderful thing,
They can teach you the right words to sing,
They can tell you what dance,
People like in ol' France,
The Book is a wonderful thing

[Ranger of the North]

5th or 6th poem ever written. (I'd say probably 6th.) In between the ages of twelve and thirteen.

Butterfly! Or is it a Leaf?

Look there, there's a butterfly,
Fluttering about the sky,
Though now I think that it's a leaf,
And now the thought is a belief,
Now there is another leaf floating 'round and 'round,
Oh, no! It is a butterfly flitting to the ground!
The butterflies will disappear,
I wonder if they ever fear,
To simply die, or just migrate,
Flitting bravely to their fate.
I wonder why they look alike,
Maybe 'cause they both take flight,
Maybe 'cause they're both orangey-red,
Maybe 'cause they both get led,
Through the worry and the strife,
By the Hands that hold all life.
Do you think the butterflies could,
Die as red leaves in the wood?

[Ranger of the North]

7th poem ever written. In between the ages of twelve and thirteen.

Bird Characters

The Sea-Gull is wild and free,
He soars over land and the sea,

The Magpie is wicked and sly,
He causes o-ther birds to die,

Sparrows are noisy and small,
They nest in the trees that are tall,

Tui sing beautifully sweet,
They fill up the air with their tweet,

Fantails are friendly and cheerful,
They're always dancing—not fearful,

The Kea is playful and cheeky,
He makes every new thing quite creaky,

The Robin is friendly and funny,
If he could talk he'd be punny

[Ranger of the North]

10th poem ever written. Thirteen.

Hoom hum.

It's very personal: my Grandma died.

Sorry, guys.

You can pm if you'd like to read it.
The Veil

[Ranger of the North]

11th poem ever written. Fourteen.

Fantasy

I have the power,
To make all things true,
To turn time around,
And make the world new,
To make dragons fly,
In skies mantled blue,
If you don't believe come,
I'll prove this to you...

[Ranger of the North]

12th poem ever written. Fourteen.

When Scribblers Daydream...


People sit down with their pens
and sigh,

"What is there to write about now?"
they cry,

Writers sit down with their pens
in glee,

"There're so many stories untold!"
they agree,

When their pen touches paper
beware! beware!

For tales will grow
with excitement and fear,

Dragons inhabit the clouds
at a touch

Or cheeky brown rabbits
at home in their hutch.

With magical sparks
the wizards appear,

And beautiful maidens
with mile-long hair,

A knight and a villain
with elves oh so bright,

And dark things galore
on black, shadowy nights.

Brave heroes wander
the paths of great dread,

But when stories end
not all's ever said,

For burning behind
the bold writers' bright eyes,

Are uncountable tales of
great deeds and dark cries