Mary's Poetry
Mary has no pretensions as to the publishability of her poetry.  Therefore, her limited dabblings in the realm of poetizing are all available here.  (I told you they were limited...)

The Necromouser Cycle

January, 2006

Like a cat,
I bring you a dead mouse,
Mine has ellipses for a tail.........

Make me a necromancer!
Be my lightning machine,
Resurrect this poem many times,
In your eyes and mind.

Little mousies,
Eating Orchids,
But mousies don't eat orchids,
So this poem isn't true.

Song of the Sabers
Spring, 2005
(Composed by Katasha, night elf hunter of Cenarion Circle,
while waiting for the cooldown on her Evergreen Pouch.)

Oh beautiful sabers!
Sabers so sweet!
Sing for me sabers!
Howl to the skies!
Roar with your might!
Sing to Elune!
Sleep sweet sabers, sleep all the night!

Oh spotted saber!
Most spotted of them all!
Your spots are a sign; the touch of Elune.
Oh, sweet blessed spotted saber.
Sleep softly, blessed by your spots.

Bestriped sabers!
Sabers of great, grand, noble stripes!
Your stripes are a sign.
The mark of Elune.
Sleep with your spotted brother.  Sleep watched by Elune.

Oh armored swift-sabers!
Wear your armor well!
It is the gift of Elune, a distinction given to few...
Hold it not over your striped and spotted brethren...
But sleep sweetly, softly by their sides.
Watched by Elune, under the wide, wide sky.

Oh sabers all!
Friends of the night elves!
Bless us with your friendship!
Share our blessings under Elune!
Ride with us! Travel with us!  Fight, flee, and adventure with us!
Be our companions under the light, guidance, and blessings of Elune.

One Word Too Many
Summer, 2015

"Do you love me?"

"I love wind and rain and sun.  Newborn puppies,
my mother's homemade chocolate cake, and sitting
quietly, just thinking."

"But do you love me?"

"I love many things.  My heart has space for everyone."

"For me?"

"I love the world and everyone in it."


"You... too."

Every Spring

Yellow stars in the grass;
Golden trumpets,
Herald the coming of spring.

Yellow Roses
Spring, 2004

Ah my roses!

The bush a Menorah lit with buds.
Brightness in the night.

The Sweet Berry
Summer, 2001

A wise Sage walked in a yard

Eating of the berries that there grew,
They tempted with color black,
They taunted with taste
Sour as were they green.
The Sage ate unheedingly.

Finishing of his turpentine supper,
The sage, triumphant, announced
"The world is benevolent, the last berry is ripe."

Walking away content, he found a thorn in his sandal.

The Bread of Life, John 6:26-40
Summer, 2001

My friend gave me a fruit-cake,

Presented me, proud, with this Grand Gift,
Thick of flour, nuts, and gummy fruit.
Raisins, always in fruit-cake, I do not love...
Will I eat it?

But a centerpiece for the table is nice.
(No one would know of a hollow inside...
Or a plastic shell...)

My friend gave me a Bible,
Presented me, proud, with this Grand Gift,
Thick of word, ornate prose, and metaphor.
Religion, I have not loved...
Will I read it?

Waiting On Elaine
Spring, 2007

Before a daughter, a time of waiting,
A time before memory.
I walk the halls of my own childhood,
Places and houses only dimly remembered;
I will not find her there
But I think I am looking.

My Uncle's house; the house on Garfield St.
Places I lived before I lived,
When I mainly lived in another's eyes,
As she lives in this empty house.

Now is the time and place before her memory.
Even after the waiting; even when she is here,
This house will have the quality not only of a dream
But of the fading memory of a dream.
To her.

Like Garfield St.
And my Uncle's house to me.

In these places and times, known mostly vicariously,
Perhaps subconciously, on the edge of our beings,
Before she is my daughter and I am a mother,
Instead we are infants, daughters togethers,

Proto-minds struggling and reaching,
Waiting to wake up and discover,
In the future, our own selves.

Do You Dare?
Fall, 2011

When the mighty peach doth approacheth,
Weild thy vorpal cats and their snicky-snacky claws,
All twill be avenged upon such floral spheres,
They were ne'er giants nor windmills,
Only the fruit of nonsense upon a platter.
So, slay yon peach!
And, with the owl's runcible spoon,
Serve it to thy loyal cats, brave cats.
They will disdain it.  But you may feast,
Knowing that no peach -- so sweet,
and so cold -- shall ever defeat thee.
So much depends upon it.  And a wheelbarrow.

Fall, 2015

I used to think that if you knew something was true
about yourself, you could change it.

Know that you're boring? Be interesting.
Know that you're shy? Be bold.

But knowing is just knowing. And people never change.

Pins and Strings
Fall, 2015

I glimpsed glittering worlds through a veil,
I pushed back the veil, explored, and wrote down
what I saw.

The worlds are words.
They're written now.

They glitter.

They're dead,
Pinned like butterflies
in a box.

And all that's left behind the veil is cartoon images,
Two-dimensional, joke versions that I jerk to life
Like puppets on strings.
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