The Kingdom of the Meadows(G)oldenrod C(o)smos Re(d)-hot poker Bea(r)dtongue Marg(u)erite Beeba(l)m Speedw(e)ll Blazing (s)tar="sGod Rules

Spirit cannot be killed, that's what the harbingers say.Only filled or spilled, and that alone on your appointed day. 'Tis an harrowing hour, when naked souls stand in blazed or putrid breeze,to gain the prize immortal or to the gates of hell must flee.To till or to mill, that is the key.Choose the path of the way to be. Dark Sword Midnight Novel/Poem

Valley of the DamnedCh. One: Dark Storm Rising’Tis said giants grapple in the Earth so deep,To contend for souls that they might keep.

A lazy summer's day and a long, lost love. Can a poet ask for anything more than a broken heart ordained from above? --the poet; unknownOrange Room Poems— Douglas Laurent

A lazy summer's day and a long, lost love. Can a poet ask for anything better than a broken heart ordained from above?--the poet; unknown, Orange Room Poems

Valley of the Damned (The 'Halla, Vol. # 1) No force can oppose Love in Earth or Heaven above, No, not even the damned of Hell can stop relentless Love.—Valkyrie Kari, Chapter Sixteen

Midnight SteelWhen Love’s steel draws near it doth but conspire,And pierces she the hearts of all she holds and so desires.Come thou, dear Love, to sleep, rest in your arms and dream but deep.Help me to love all of my days, so that on sweet earth I may stay.—Valkyrie Kari, Musings in the Night

-A Kari TaleKari entered under the archway, hitting her chest to get the cold out and stamping snow off her boots.Prince Thomm ‘The Bored,’ drolly looked up from his metallic spinny globe. “How ever is the weather out there–with the peasants?” he said dryly.Kari looked up and tee-heed a smile. “You don’t say,” retorted the Prince.“Best dress sharp. ’Tis knowing out there.

Black Toast IntolerantHe dreamt of golden brown chewy bread,And upon it pads of butter he did spread.The butter melt, the bread was sweet,Thus, he had his fill and he did eat.But when the toast was burned, he did rave and rant,He was a connoisseur–he was black toast intolerant.-- Poems on the Run, vol. I