And without further ado (wait, was there any ado in the first place? whatever...) the Ballad of Samuel Jack:

Gather 'round, and hear the sound,
of this me incredible tale.
Gather 'round by my feet, and share of the heat
of my fire and sip of my ale.

I tell a tale of a man like a whale,
not a virtue did this great soul lack.
He was born to be free, but was bound to the sea,
this man we call Samuel Jack.

We open our tail of a man and a gail,
with eyes so distant and black (the man, not the storm)
a ship tossed about, its fate in great doubt,
and that man of the sea, that Samuel Jack.

At the helm he did sit, the sea in a fit,
a rage not easily quenchable.
In the anger of night, the men gave good fright,
the waves were not easily trenchable (a seafaring term, I couldn't possibly explain...)

And up on the deck, a cold breeze on his neck,
his face as set as steel,
Captain Jack stood alone, his features like stone,
expressionless as he grappled the wheel.

From the safe cabin warmth, the 1st mate called forth (it ryhmes, dammit!)
"Oh captain, there's something amiss!
Inside you must come, before you succumb,
to the coldness of deaths icy kiss!"

"That dark angle is near, I can feel him here,
upon my neck I feel his icy breath!
Oh Captain- arret! for the further we get (the first mate is obviously French, no?)
in the storm, the closer your death!"

"Promise me Jack, your pride you will crack,
when the frost forms a beard on your chin!
When your fingers turn black, you must turn your back!
Promise then you'll come in!"

And thus promised Jack, to get off his back,
the first mate that he told to go in.
And back he would come, when the cold bit his thumb,
and the frost formed a beard on his chin.

But as the first mate went in, he turned back again,
and spoke as if heaving a sigh,
"If in the n ight you should chance see a light,
then tonight is the night that we die."

Jack dismissed with a laugh this preposterous gaff,
and sent him back into his room.
"The sea is my friend, it can't make my end.
An ally cannot mean your doom."

So he gritted his teeth, the frost underneath
his chin he did wipe away.
For he was quite made, like a foundation laid,
that he would not die today.

So the ship kept on tossing whilst Jack kept on bossing
the whell and kept them afloat.
With a righteous right hand by the wheel Jack did stand
keeping the lay of his boat. (more sea-talk)

And when frost formed a beard, as the 1st mate had feared,
with ice as a natural plume,
Jack gave quite a chuckle, for he wouldn't buckle!
An ally cannot mean your doom.

And on in the night did Jack press without fright,
His hands soon froze to the wheel.
He glance at his thumb, which had long since gone numb,
and found nought but a blackened heel.

He laughed in spite at insidious fright,
his chuckle a cackling boom.
For tho' danger was near, he was not afeared,
for an ally cannot mean your doom.

The sails were a whipping, the wheel was a flipping,
the sea had a grim grip indeed.
waves pummeled the skiff, and acted as if
their gaping mouths he would feed.

Waves pummled the hull sounds pummeled Jacks skull,
he lunged at the sight of the moon.
The light led the way, he would live today!
An ally cannot mean your doom!

The ship and its crew, as well as Jack too,
all share a watery tomb.
for though the sea is a friend, it can make your end,
and an ally can mean your doom!

Er, this poem is weird... it came to me at about 1:30 in the morning on the plane... I had to disturb every passenger on the flight as I struggled to get my book without popping my shoulder out of the socket, and by the time I'd found it all the thoughts had disappeared! I had to sit and wait for them to come back again, it was a long, painful process, mostly because I knew the thoughts I got were second hand and that the first ones were better. So if you think this poem's mediocre, just think how good the original one was! I need something that automatically records my thoughts... huh, maybe that'd be a bad idea... I'm not sure the world has enough paper...

The Turtle Moves

An Ode to my Noodles

An Ode to my Noodles

or

The Not Quite So Thermidorian Reaction

Early in the afternoon
when spring was springing near,
a shadow fell across the land,
that of a Great Noodlish Fear!
The Parliment of Noodles
had been called away,
the 3rd estate of sodium,
would recognize today.
The noodles came from far and wide,
with assaignats long and dry,
to the palace of the saddened poet,
The grandious "Verse-sigh".
The Ramin and the Cup-o,
with their riboflavin hands,
demanded noodle constitution,
for each and all the lands.
Then came the time I paniced,
and closed the noodles doors,
I hoped that they would go away,
sweat seeping from my pores.
And now I hear they've taken
some oath upon a court.
and stolen some large bass,
or something of the sort.
So my noodles are not stolen, friends,
though many have forsooth,
they merely have revolted,
and that's the gosh-darned truth!

The Turtle Moves

Aimlessly Aimless (a poem of a wandering nature)

Ew... well, I suppose what's been done is irrevocable now... you have yourself to blame. Keep in mind, I had just finished
listening to "The Windmills of Your Mind", so it may be a little... disjointed.

Aimlessly Aimless (a poem of a wandering nature)

Like the road that stretched before you,
and the road that stretched behind.
The liimist being dictates
of your will and of your mind.

Like a winding, spiral staircase,
flowing gently to the ground.
Like the circle of a question
to the answer you have found.

Bright futures seen before you,
dark futures seen as well.
Some days to see the face of heaven,
some days the face of hell.

It's the turning of the clock's hands,
it's the beads that slip the glass.
It's the moment that you'd die for,
but know will sooner pass.

It's the fragment of the mirror,
that will not show your face.
It's wandering down your hallways,
as if they were a maze.

It's the eye that stares above you,
it's the eyes that stare below.
It's when you have an answer,
to a question you don't know.

It's the spinning of a child's top,
the spinning of your mind.
It's the sudden realization
that your whole life you've been blind.

It's the wandering aimless nature,
of this poems groping verse.
It's the question that we all must ask,
the circles growing curse.

It's the purpose that's not known to you,
but not unknown as well.
It's the eyes that look at heaven,
and see the place of hell.

It's a circle in a circle,
a spiral in a square.
It's the misty winter morning
it's the breezy autumn air.

It's the tired, rambling wanderings
of a pen within my hands
it's the music found in life itself,
and music found on stands.

It's the feeling that you've seen yourself,
in someone that you've met.
It's the ending of this rambling verse,
that hasn't started yet.

Don't even bother asking what the hell that was, I don't know either.

The Turtle Moves

Evolution

So I thought I'd drag through the bilges and found a nice little poem from my patented "Liddle Book 'o Poems" (TM) This is one of my early, early, early, early, EARLY ones, so don't be too harsh. How early do you say? Well, it's on the first page... =P

Evolution

by

Malacola

Their feathered wings, now plated steel,
Their taloned feet now rubber wheel.
Their slitted eye, now shield of glass,
Their fieldmouse now a leaded gas.
Their singing now a wailing shriek,
A nose where there was once a beak.
Their engine once a soul divine,
An engine fueled by gasoline.
There was a time we said they'd "soar",
But times do change, and now they "roar".
Thus it began, our revolution.
We like to call it "evolution".

By my troph! I am off! ::trophs off to bed::

The Turtle Moves (trophedly, no doubt...)