I Told the Wizard to His Face

I told the wizard to his face, 

"You're just a fraud, a phony,

A fake, a sham, a charlatan,

Your spells are pure baloney,

Your hogwash couldn't fool

An unsophisticated child-

What do you have to say to that?"

The wizard merely smiled.

"You see, you have no answer,"

I continued, feeling bold,

"You only use illusion

When you turn balloons to gold.

In fact, your poor pathetic act

Is practically a crime-

What do you have to say to that?"

He smiled a second time.

I escalated my harangue,

And blared triumphantly,

"Your prestidigitation

Simply can't bamboozle me!"

The wizard smile a wider smile,

"Piff poff" was all he said-

Since then I've been but two feet tall

And have a hamster's head.

Bellow

I'm Bellow the ogre,

I rumble and rave,

I'm craggy, volcanic,

My mouth is a cave.

I grumble and thunder

And yammer and fret,

I gobbled a goblin,

My stomach's upset.

I'm Bellow the ogre,

I bluster and boast,

I roasted a troll,

He was perfect on toast.

My manners are grisly,

My temper is hot,

I nibbled a wizard,

My head hurts a lot.

I'm Bellow the ogre,

I smolder and moan,

I carry a cudgel

Of dragon-tail bone.

I swallowed a giant,

He went down like lead-

Bellow the ogre

Is going to bed.

Ogrebrag

A callow knight in armor,

Appropriately brave,

Displayed his lack of wisdom

And charged into my cave.

He challenged me to battle,

In moments it was through.

He made a tasty morsel-

His horse was tasty too.

A Solitary Yeti

I'm a solitary yeti,

Traversing frozen plains,

Upon a constant lookout

For dinosaur remains.

I savor them for supper,

I relish them for lunch,

Their flavor is peculiar,

But I adore the crunch.

Five Giants

At our planet's icy summit

Looms the Giant of the North,

Ancient glaciers tear asunder

When he stirs and blunders forth.

His incalculable equal

Is the Giant of the East,

Whose least consequential footfall

Chills the boldest savage beast.

Neither holds the least advantage 

On the Giant of the South,

Who can house a pride of lions

In the cavern of his mouth.

All are matched in size and power

By the Giant of the West,

Who regards with condescension

The most lofty eagle's nest.

But the being deep in slumber

At the world's volcanic core,

Could between one thumb and finger

Crush and pulverize the four.

Every titan on the surface 

Fears the Sleeper in the Flame,

They are doomed if she awakens,

So they dare not say her name.

Chitterchat

You may now make my acquaintance,

I am famous Chitterchat,

My old witch's dear familiar,

And a venerable cat.

I am steeped in ancient wisdom,

Rich in elemental lore,

Though my witch knows much of witching,

I'm replete with volumes more.

I'm no doddering grimalkin

Mystified by skeins of yarn,

Or some simple-minded mouser

Chasing shadows in a barn.

I'm no skulker in an alley,

Culling bones for bits of fish,

And no pampered portly feline

Lapping from a porcelain dish.

I've but little time to trifle

With such stuff as wool and mice,

For I'm sworn to guide my mistress

And provide her with advice.

If my witch omits essentials,

I discreetly show her how

To conduct her incantation-

It takes just the right meow!

Blizzard

I'm Blizzard, a wizard

Of wretched endeavor,

My whims are my own,

And I do as I choose.

I trifle with humans

For simple amusement,

I plague them with hiccups

While shrinking their shoes.

I'm Blizzard, a wizard

Of peevish demeanor,

I'm crabby, I'm cranky,

I'm crusty, I'm cross.

A wave of my wand,

You're a tree in a forest,

A blink of my eye, 

And you're covered in moss.

I'm Blizzard, a wizard

Of woeful employments

My methods are many,

My ways are bizarre.

One snap of my fingers,

You're dripping with syrup,

One twitch of my nostrils,

You're slathered with tar.

I'm Blizzard, a wizard

Of hostile intention,

I'll turn you to tallow, 

To jelly, to clay-

Your presence annoys me,

You're ever unwelcome,

I'm Blizzard the wizard,

Stay our of my way!

If I Were Not a Wizard

If I were not a wizard,

With craft unkind and keen,

You wouldn't have to worry

That you might wake up green.

I couldn't with no fanfare,

And a minimum of fuss,

Transform you into butter 

Or a hippopotamus.

If I were not a wizard, 

Unwaveringly weird,

You'd not have sprouted antlers

And a fifty-foot long beard.

I'd lack the talent to transmute

Your breakfast into leaves,

And there would be no butterflies 

Residing in your sleeves.

You'd find no fish and melons

Perched atop you feathered head,

Your ears would not be fashioned

Out of jam and gingerbread.

I'd never have transmogrified

Your nose into a yam,

If I were not a wizard-

But then again . . . I am!

The Haunted House

On a hilltop bleak and bare

looms the castle of despair,

only phantoms linger there

within its dismal walls.

Through the dark they're creeping, crawling,

frenzied furies battling, brawling,

sprawling, calling, caterwauling

through the dusky halls.

Filmy visions, ever flocking,

dart through chambers, crudely mocking,

rudely rapping, tapping, knocking

on the crumbling doors.

Tortured spirits whine and wail,

they grope and grasp, they wildly flail,

their hollow voices rasp and rail

beneath the moldering floors.

Shadows from the dim hereafter

hang from every creaking rafter,

laughing disembodied laughter

in their ghostly glee.

Shades of evanescent matter

whisper their unearthly patter,

rattle chains that chill and shatter

on their spectral spree.

Revenants on misty perches

taunt the ghost that lunges, lurches

as it desperately searches

for its vanished head.

Shapeless wraiths devoid of feeling

hover blindly by the ceiling 

ranting, chanting, shrieking, squealing

promises of dread.

In the corners, eyes are gleaming, 

everywhere are nightmares streaming,

diabolic horrors screaming

in the sombrous air.

So shun this place where specters soar-

it's you and you they're waiting for

to haunt your souls forevermore

in their castle of despair.

The Will o' the Wisp

You are lost in the desolate forest

where the stars give a pitiful light,

but the faraway glow of the will o' the wisp

offers hope in the menacing night.

It is lonely and cold in the forest

and you shiver with fear in the damp,

as you follow the way of the will o' the wisp

and the dance of its flickering lamp.

But know as you trudge through the forest

toward that glistering torch in the gloom

that the eerie allure of the will o' the wisp

summons you down to your doom.

It will lead you astray in the forest

over ways never traveled before.

If ever you follow the will o' the wisp

you'll never be seen anymore.

The Witch

She comes by night, in fearsome flight,

in garments black as pitch,

the queen of doom upon her broom,

the wild and wicked witch,

a cackling crone with brittle bones

and desiccated limbs,

two evil eyes with warts and sties

and bags about the rims,

a dangling nose, ten twisted toes

and folds of shriveled skin,

cracked and chipped and crackled lips

that frame at toothless grin.

She hurtles by, she sweeps the sky

and hurls a piercing screech.

As she swoops past, a spell is cast

on all her curses reach.

Take care to hide when the wild witch rides

to shriek her evil spell.

What she may do with a word or two

is much too grim to tell.

The Ogre

In a foul and filthy cavern

where the sun has never shone,

the one-eyed ogre calmly gnaws

a cold and moldy bone.

He sits in silence in the slime

that fills his fetid home

and notes the nearing footsteps

in the monstrous catacomb.

The one-eyed ogre drools with joy,

his stony heart beats fast,

he knows that for some girl or boy

this day shall be their last.

He wields his ugly cudgel

in a wide and vicious arc,

it swiftly finds his victim 

in the deep and deadly dark.

Then down and down and down again

the ogre's blows descend,

to rend, and render senseless,

to speed his victim's end.

So pity those who stumble through

the one-eyed ogre's cave-

that dark abode he calls his home

shall surely be their grave.

The Wizard

The wizard, watchful, waits alone

within his tower of clod gray stone

and ponders in his wicked way

what evil deeds he'll do this day.

He's tall and thin, with wrinkled skin,

a tangled beard hangs from his chin,

his cheeks are gaunt, his eyes set deep,

he scarcely eats, he needs no sleep.

His fingers wave arcane commands,

then bony sticks on withered hands,

his flowing cloak is smirched with grime,

he's worn it since the dawn of time.

Upon his hat, in silver lines

are pictured necromantic signs,

symbols of the awesome power

of the wizard, alone in his cold stone tower.

He scans his mystic stock in trade-

charms to fetch a demon's aid,

seething stews of purplish potions,

throbbing thaumaturgic lotions,

supernatural tracts and tomes

replete with lore of elves and gnomes,

talismans, amulets, willowy wand

to summon spirits from beyond.

He spies a bullfrog by the door

and stooping, scoops it off the floor.

He flicks his wand, the frog's a flea

through elemental sorcery, 

the flea hops once, the flea hops twice,

the flea becomes a pair of mice 

that dive into a bubbling brew, 

emerging as one cockatoo.

The wizard laughs a hollow laugh,

the soaking bird's reduced by half,

and when, perplexed, it starts to squawk,

the wizard turns it into chalk

with which he deftly writes a spell

that makes the chalk a silver bell

which tinkles in the ashen air

till flash . . . a fire burns brightly there.

He gestures with an ancient knack

to try to bring the bullfrog back.

Another flash! . . . no flame now burns

as once again the frog returns,

but when it bounds about in fear,

the wizard shouts, "Begone from here,"

and midway through a frightened croak

it vanishes in clouds of smoke.

The wizard smirks a fiendish smirk

reflecting on the woes he'll work

as he consults a dusty text

and checks which hex he'll conjure next.

He may pluck someone off the spot

and turn him into . . . who knows what?

Should you encounter a toad or lizard,

look closely . . . it may be the work of the wizard.

The Dance of the Thirteen Skeletons

In a snow-enshrouded graveyard

gripped by winter's bitter chill,

not a single soul is stirring,

all is silent, all is still

till a distant bell tolls midnight

and the spirits work their will.

For emerging from their coffins

buried deep beneath the snow,

thirteen bony apparitions

now commence their spectral show,

and the gather in the moonlight

undulating as they go.

And they'll dance in their bones,

in their bare bare bones,

with the click and the clack

and the chitter and the chack

and the clatter and the chatter 

of their bare bare bones.

They shake their flimsy shoulders

and they flex their fleshless knees

and they nod their skulls in greeting

in the penetrating breeze

as they form an eerie circle

near the gnarled and twisted trees.

They link their spindly fingers 

as they promenade around

casting otherworldly shadows

on the silver-mantled ground

and their footfalls in the snowdrift

make a soft and susurrous sound.

And they dance in their bones,

in their bare bare bones,

with the click and the clack

and the chitter and the chack

and the clatter and the chatter 

of their bare bare bones.

The thirteen grinning skeletons 

continue on their way as to

strains of soundless music

they begin to swing and sway

and the circle ever faster

in their ghastly roundelay.

Faster, faster ever faster

and yet faster now they race,

winding, whirling, ever swirling

in the frenzy of their pace

and they shimmer in the moonlight 

as they spin themselves through space.

And they dance in their bones,

in their bare bare bones,

with the click and the clack

and the chitter and the chack

and the clatter and the chatter 

of their bare bare bones.

Then as quickly as it started

their nocturnal dance is done

for the bell that is their signal

loudly tolls the hour of one

and they bow to one another

in their bony unison.

Then they vanish to their coffins

by their ghostly thoroughfare

and the emptiness of silence

once more fills the frosted air

and the snows that mask their footprints

show no sign that they were there.

And they danced in their bones,

in their bare, bare bones,

with the click and the clack

and the chitter and the chack

and the clatter and the chatter 

of their bare bare bones