A selfish merchant loved his coin more than his selfless wife.
His mistake was made plain. A restless year after she died.
He climbed a thousand staircases to seek the old mystic.
“Please,” the merchant begged. “Take my gold coin! My silks! My diamonds!”
“I wish to see her at the expense of my luxuries.”
The seer’s cryptic question: “Your wife is all you wish to see?”
“Your holiness, please! I have a fortune! Just name your price!”
The merchant saw his wife again. Paid the Gods with his eyes.
Art by Ed Binkley
You can find this poem, and the rest for this contest on WattPad: https://www.wattpad.com/story/306715590-moon-gate
History starts with an invader’s vow.
A dim man. His dim men. Their lavish scow.
A trespasser’s wretched flag.
Stabbed it into foreign sands.
History ends. The fool, dead by arrow.
Art: Newell Convers Wyeth (1882-1945)
Oh! My days! What was that blasted phrase!
Oh, damnation! Dagnabbit incantation!
Must’ve spilled a little grog on my magic tomes’ pages.
Hell’s teeth! Curse my mispronounced sorcery.
The result? An enchanted travesty.
The hex, meant to plunder my rival of rest. Just a few days.
Instead, a discombobulated rabbit, he became.
A summons from the wizard’s guild. My punishment awaits.
A freshly baked blueberry pie rested on his doorstep.
What floundering tippler misplaced this pastry at first light?
He jested, perhaps it was left with intention — sans-poison.
Crafted with affection? Hah! Nothing, but a dream, he gleaned.
No lady could ever love a beast as frightening as he.
A feminine squeak. She unceremoniously toppled out from his shrubs.
He froze at the sight until — he felt a note tucked beneath the confection?
Her cheeks flushed, she looked up at him, eyes brimming with endearment.
Art By Abigail Larson
The seas’ susurrous seductions summon
ashmen, where the seas and skies are seamless.
With silver pendants, they sail Galleons
seeking conquest beyond the shallow shores.
Days of starvation. A pretty maiden.
An oasis, to heedless seafarers.
She charms the masts towards sharp crags. Death is —
like icy spikes, then euphoric slumber.
Art belongs to Tsabo6 at DeviantArt.
It ensnares wanderers, the forlorn road.
A meandering rowan berry grove.
The fae’s realm, ethereal.
A dark, and mirthless timelessness forebode.
She plants her boots until she’s rooted, and ready to engage.
The axe on her shoulder wielded by solid hands — a resolve to match.
A demon adversary with Goosander fangs enters the fray.
With mottled purple flesh, like Gloxinia Empresses, poised to attack.
A towering wolf. His fur, and the fog, are the same graphite gray.
Two legged, and familiar — body knotted like a lumberjack’s.
The wolf seeks her eyes where unspoken words are exchanged.
When the demon shrieks with violent rage, her wolf bellows back.
A third part of the earlier prompts, memory, and sublime.
By morn, my son returns. His memory fragmentary.
In the thickest of nights, he leaves. Hypnotized.
To the depths of the wilderness, lured by a melody.
I worry about the strange emptiness in his eyes.
“I am at ease in the arms of my beloved,” he assures me.
My son and his wife, their fates always intertwined.
But who embraces my son? His beloved is in the cemetery.
It’s been many moons since my son’s wife has died.
Her village, nothing more than scorched wood on a map.
A cursed land. Mother says she owes her life to the wolves.
At eighteen, sturdy, and ripe, she chops lumber, and lifts her axe
with limber ease. The wind scratching her cheeks, so sublime,
she fails to heed eventide until she hears them. Demons.
Prowling beyond the brushwood, growling with hunger.
A mixture of fear and purpose to mow them down until a familiar howl.
The moon is whole, and his eyes, glow umber.
A continuation, but a separate poem, from the memory prompt. Trying to stick with nature/wood/mineral themes.
Her earliest memory. Burning lumber, and strangled screams.
He feels as solid as hickory. The heady smell of soil,
and the comfort of matted emery fur under her belly
as she hangs bonelessly — draped over him like a mantle.
Running. Running. Running. Two umber eyes
are the last kindness she sees. Her adopted mother
would find the sole survivor of a demon raid
covered in wolf fur, hidden away, inside of a hollowed tree.
A/N: I have a bunch of other poems already completed too, but I'll upload a few at a time.