Poetry Thursdays - The Hunter

Greetings, readers! I come bringing poetry, and very bad poetry at that. Please try to enjoy my rhythmic fumblings below:

Deep in shadows of the nightly glade,

Where crawl the creatures of the night,

A silent hunter lone is laid,

Awaiting prey in his eyesight.

The hunter's arrow notched and primed,

His eyes do see the sudden shape

Of silhouetted doe well timed;

He crouches lower in his cape.

The string drawn back, he fires aloft,

And strikes the deer straight on at once;

The hunter springs, with feet so soft

And follows after the bleeding prey.

He finds her in a field afar,

And takes what's useful from her hide;

He sets off under nightly star,

To home, where he'll prepare the side.

Poetry Thursdays: When Yarbull Slew the Strock

Hello, welcome to Inkweb! Today I'll be posting some nonsense poetry. Expect the next cat monologue tomorrow, and a new short story hopefully on Saturday (if I can manage to stop procrastinating and write one). All right, here goes!

"When Yarbull Slew the Strock"

It was a while ago indeed,

When in the flangen fields of whivering slogg,

Our hero Yarbull ventured forth aneed;

He traveled far and wide to seek Caerbrogg,

Where legend says he did his fimious deed.

Poetry Thursdays: My Grandfathers

There's a light on in the small room up the creaky stairs

Where my grandfathers work all night in their four chairs;

I never know what they are doing but I'm

Just certain they do it all of the time.

I've only peeked once into that little room

When I was only three years out of womb;

I don't seem to remember its every detail

I only remember the shiny fish scale.

I touched it and kept it as my little lift

And now I know they'd all planned that little gift;

A fish scale, so dark, I could see my own soul,

But in the end those caring men made me whole.