Novel & Cerita Whimsical Poems

" Emily writhed and blushed again. Why couldn't she have seen that herself? Any goose could have seen it. "Sail onward, ships--white wings, sail on, Till past the horizon's purple bar You drift from sight.--In flush of dawn Sail on, and 'neath the evening star-- Trash--trash--and yet there's a picture in it-- Lap softly, purple waves. I dream, And dreams are sweet--I'll wake no more-- Ah, but you'll have to wake if you want to accomplish anything. Girl, you've used purple twice in the same poem.

The werewolf howling at the moon growling baying, softly croons, a clown I think might be a goon, the wicked hour coming soon, cackling witches laugh & snicker spirits run & candles flicker demons plot, giggle... ... snicker, rubbing hands, they fight & bicker, Hehehe... I must admit their kinda spooky Some are cute and kinda kooky, To me look like a bunch of groupies, Ha ha, good one poet! Oh, well thanks! I give my stick another flick, I guess I gotta few more tricks!? as fires dance in flaming licks,

A curse. A delicate-looking Fae, Titania Moonwhisper, her eyes like pools of moonlight and her voice dripping with a saccharine sweetness that belied her true age and power, sighed dramatically. "Oh, the malaise. It was simply dreadful. My gardenias wilted. The sprites refused to sing. Honestly, the sheer lack of ambiance was quite telling." She fluttered her eyelashes, seemingly oblivious to the gravity of the situation, yet her words were a subtle probe, testing the waters, gauging the true extent of their fear.

I'll take the soft tones of moonlight over the blinding sun any day of the week! Meena giggles, the sound pure and mischievous all at once. If fairies were real, she could probably be one. Everything about her is musical. It sounds like a donkey braying when I laugh, but it is as melodic as the whispering waters of a babbling brook when my sister laughs. "I know they're not real, Jessa. But wouldn't it be wonderful if they were if magic was real and could whisk us away from all of our worries?"

The poem went this way, Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there; I did not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sun on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush, I am the swift uprising rush Oh quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there; I did not die.

Their unspoken desires, like shimmering stars in the winter sky, danced in silent harmony, carrying the promise of reunion and the timeless enchantment of the season. As Asmo found himself amidst the vibrant tapestry of Christmas cheer, a whimsical thought took root in his mind, unfurling like a mischievous wisp of laughter in the midst of his introspection. Pondering the age-old enigma of Father Christmas, he found himself ensnared in a labyrinth of bemusement, his brow furrowed in mock solemnity as he contemplated the veracity of the jolly old figure who traversed the world in a single night.

Mischievous Cheshire cats with wide grins trailed behind us, a flock of winged teapots poured tea on unsuspecting passersby, and a dapper mouse led a parade of dancing playing cards. Unable to resist, I joined the merriment and began to dance on my saucer, twirling and spinning through the air. The Chronically Delayed Bunny hopped from cupcake to cupcake, his little feet somehow perfectly synchronized with the whimsical music that seemed to emanate from every direction. The black-coated and white-hatted factions, caught up in the enchantment of the tea, joined the frenzied chase. They zoomed through the sky on enchanted brooms, attempting to capture us, but the whimsical magic of the tea con

It was a field of wishes, where dreams were whispered and carried away by the wind. With each step I took, the dandelions seemed to come alive, their feathery heads swaying in a synchronized rhythm. It was almost as if they were dancing, gracefully moving to an invisible melody only they could hear. I couldn't help but stand there, mesmerized by the spectacle before me.

"Chamomile is the goal, smile like a daisy. A pot of gold is waiting by, the end of the road." "This gold is priceless, its pot is timeless. Time is ticking yet, never it will be old." "However, watch out! clever hostile awaits. Whatever happens, they'll slacken."

He begins to read, speaking slowly and clumsily, stumbling over the words… "How now, spee..ritt.... Www..wither won-dur yoo… Jennifer stares at the page, then back at Jack, then back at the page. How now, spirit! Whither wander you? She reads on.... Over hill, over dale, Thorough bush, thorough brier, Over park, over pale, Thorough flood, thorough fire, I do wander everywhere.... Her eyes race through the words; words like fire and music and all the most beautiful things she has ever imagined and never had the chance to see....