The good poems always rhyme
And always have time
And are artistic, like a mime

If it doesn’t rhyme, it’s not the real deal
Even if it makes you feel
It isn’t poetry, and it isn’t real

Blank verse is pretty bad
Free verse is really quite sad
Frankly, it makes me mad

If you want to really make it
As a writer, and fit
In, you have to rhyme a bit

When you pick up the pen
Try to fit in
Free verse is actually a sin

Thunder booms outside. Soaked, I run. I have to get away from that awful place.
Rain it pounds on my worn out clothes, stinging my fair skin.
"Sierra! Sierra, get back here girl!" a man's voice yells.
But I only run faster. He is evil.
I know he isn't my real father, no matter what he and his wife say.
I make a turn into the forest nearby. Haha! I think, he'll never be able to find me in here. Maybe he'll be eaten by a mountain lion. I grin and then feel guilty. That was way too mean.
Plus, I might be eaten by a mountain lion!

home is a hard thing
to find
a soft place
to fall into
a dream
like a cloud in the sky
white on blue
where the sun shines through
to my heart
as it winds its way
over the landscape
of this sojourn
unwinds its strings
seventy times seven
moves on again
driven to a
home, a safe place
to land
a promise
of belonging
to give you a name
and a strength at your back
like the wind
on the mountaintop
drives you until
you fall into that place

living half empty
driving after a love that will fill us
hanging by a half-starved hope
that around the next bend
we'll find happily-ever-after
nobody stops to wonder
if maybe we're running
away from the one thing
that can ever bring peace

Flowing through the isle
Swishing through the hall
I take my stand alone
My hands curved
My head tilted back
With a look of dreaming

The spotlight flares
It glows around me
Like the moon of night
Music flows my legs do dance
My arms rolling around me

I fly and fall like the frost
On the moor
My eyes beaming with joy
I leap and bound, turn and rise
Upon the dancing floor

Chapter the Nineteenth

Through mist and haze
Through fog and storm
Through raging sea
Through whistling air
Through night and day
Through dawn and dusk
Through fiery sunset
Through tumbling falls
Through sun and sand
Through rock and hill
Through falling rain
Through pouring hail
Through moon and stars
Through silver and gold
Through falling snow
Through glistening fields
Through tree and wood
Through grass and dew
Through flaming mountain
Through rolling clouds
Through brook and stream

The Greek army also consisted of men from several other Greek states while the Spartans took up three hundred of the total of four thousand men. Most of the men of the army took the chance of escape and all who remained were three hundred Spartans and seven hundred of another place in Greece called Thespiae. Among those to stay were Menegal, Luvilia, Ebhali, Havam, Wixtil, Dislin, Ranfia, Gravan, Taniva, Rilvay, Hilfarey, and Leonidas.
Menegal walked up to Luvilia after Leonidas had left.

Ebhali watched the fog roll in and the sun being clouded in a thick shroud. He was getting uneasy about Menegal and Luvilia. He knew they were gone to the watch, but the emptiness on the left of him was not reassuring. The other men around were quiet. No one had spoken or moved since in moved the fog. The hours dragged by slowly, while the sun began to tear through the clouds. Ebhali’s ears had been sharpened as he lay in silence, and he heard far off yells and battle cries.
“Do you hear those yells?” Ebhali asked another soldier that lay near him.

Majestically he stands grey
Against the shimmering snow
Wind crashing through
A long tail and mane

His nostrils flare
His deep eyes wild
Arched body laden
Upon legs of iron

Rousing storm
Pours down
The heavy snow
But gallops alone
Ironhooves Son of
Thunderhooves