Poetry and Stories, Janet C. Ro

The sun is wrought iron, the moon cement , Where Winter Gnomes do dwell— At the bottom of deeps ,  when  lands lament , And cold drives thoughts towards hell. Like orphan born to live forlorn, Set adrift in humanity, As you turn to face each gloomy morn, Don’t wish you’d lived life as me. I look upon your aged fears, and with the Winter Gnome, Walk until we reach the years That each must tread alone. At eighty-one, when love you lack,   The Winter Gnome pursues, Latches hard onto your back, And makes you sing the blues. Helplessly, as seasons changed, I watched the Winter Gnome Disturb the nights and chill the days In which you’re forced to roam. Death catches up with us, you see, When life abandons us too— The sun shining pointlessly, The moon a meaningless hue. I gave you gold when friendship sold At no price at all, my pretty, But this decline has loosed the hold Of life on you so cruelly. Nothing given and noth

Wallie’s Reflection By Janet C. Ro A furry allegorical tale In Blackwood Forest many magical creatures roamed among the gigantic trees and caves. Witches, sprites, and wizards were the most respected by the humans who cherished the woods. The sprites lived along the river, tinkles of laughter betraying their presence as they fluttered high in the trees, sprinkling magic down onto the ground. They were also detected, as they happily flitted from one part of the forest to the next, by glowing spots in the night. Indeed, a ctivity in Blackwood Forest could be seen and heard for miles around. As if to compliment the sprightly glow, lighting bolts of wizard magic would shoot up into the air as they attempted to send their light to the moon. The magic of witches was more discreet, set within large bonfires where they circle-danced. Each of these families of the forest received proud respect from the villagers around it.   There was one family of creatures, however, that wa