A Shieldmaiden Am I
The Evenstar shines brightly on my doom,
though it is he who rides towards the dead.
Permitted not to suffer by his side,
they will not find me weeping in my bed.
No Rider of the Mark could wound me so
(yet Wormtongue schemed and many others
sought).
In every scene we shared, I saw a crown.
The lover stirred within must come to
naught.
'Attend the sick,' I'm told, 'hear duty's
call,
in kingdoms led to safety, glory lies.'
My hopeless heart will tolerate no cage.
No dry nurse here, a shieldmaiden am I.
Forsaken hobbit pity's only muse,
but few would envy him what lies in store.
No softness will I spare on my behalf -
the man is hers and Dernhelm rides to war.
Repay the Gift
Remember them all,
each slander and slight,
the huddled group and the obvious glance,
the words you weren't supposed to hear,
but especially those you were.
Take them to the laboratory,
refine,
mix with mortar and pestle,
experiment with abandon.
When you've fashioned something foul enough
to be worthy of the recipients,
go back and repay the gift.
Next life, I'll teach you forgiveness.
Must Be a Fairy Tale
When you're wasting away in rags each
night,
when a rubbable lamp is your only light,
when the wicked step parents connive and
spin,
when the wolf comes knocking and finds you
in -
well, you might want to squeak with sheer
delight,
for this must be a fairy tale you're in.
Believing this, you can reach the stars,
then proceed to galaxies near and far,
in an old forgotten castle delve,
spell with wizards, cavort with elves
and commission a prince in a twilit bar.
Just be sure your carriage is back by
twelve.
Lawrence Moore has been writing poems - some silly, some serious - since childhood. He lives in Portsmouth, England with his husband Matt and nine mostly well behaved cats. He has poetry published at, among others, Dreich, Pink Plastic House, Fevers of the Mind, Quince Magazine and The Madrigal. @LawrenceMooreUK
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