Here's something I came up with today. Not my best, but then again, I haven't been writing in a long time, owing to exams and the end of the school year and such things that complicate a teenager's life...

Anyway, on with the poem, hope you enjoy it!


The Forbidden Forest
~Or a first-year's account of a night of adventure~

Burnt umber twigs frame
the entrance to the impenetrable darkness
of oozing magic. Great, gnarled trunks
twist and spiral, ever reaching
towards the night sky. Littered with stars
that are now but obscured
by the swishing, mahogany canopy
of the Forbidden Forest.

The eldest oaks and ageless elms
tower menacingly, as deeper and further in
our visitor dares to venture. Tread
with care, newcomer, and beware
the bitter howl of the werewolf.

There! see? Shimmering silver
from a unicorn's veins, severed
by some daring evil. A terror
roams the paths ahead. A print,
an indent on the shadowed moss,
will lead you to the centaurs. But do not
disturb the stargazers this night.

A hoot, a flutter, a mouse's shriek,
and the tawny owl is gone.
Black spiders, as large as plates
and as swift as a Firebolt, scuttle
to investigate the murder scene.
You must make sure, dear guest,
that your trail leads not to Aragog.

The flicker of the Lumos illuminates
a fiend's grey hood. Coldness
seeps into your bones as your wand
clutters to the ground. The clutch of terror
binds your limbs by invisible tethers,
and the rebelling Dementor approaches.
It should be guarding the gates,
but it abandoned post.

Already the skeletal fingers encircle
your dry throat, already
the breath in the hood rattles
the sound of your death.
But what's this?
A wolf! nay, a dog, a
great black brute with its master.
Bounding at you with a stray Patronus
following closely behind. As you collapse
you see a familar face -
and then no more.

The Gamekeeper and his pink umbrella
have accompanied Fang to the rescue.

...any comments at all?

There will be more, uh, sometime soon.

If you'd like more, of course

Shadowed

Midnight stars blotted out
by the swish of colossal wings.
A black shadow snatches their light
as it glides above the grounds,
hooves flailing in silent gallop.
Knobbly knees bend in the rhythm
of flight, and the skeletal figure
glares around blindly.

White eyes, uncovered by the lack
of a mane, stare eerily, reflecting
the full moons' glow. They do not
blink, never, no lids adorn
their luminous glance.

Feathery limbs, borrowed from birds,
may only be seen by those cursed
to behold the Grim Reaper's show.
Hard flanks heaving, sunken
stomachs can be touched by any
daring enough to approach.

A secret to some, normality
to others, they echo
loss and grief. Ebony
heads turn away, speeding;
the Thestrals vanish gradually
into the pastel horizon.

Here is a tanka that I've given a try.

Morning Letters

The soft swish of wings
resounds throughout the Great Hall;
mail is delivered.
Scarlet envelope attracts
all attention; a Howler.

Below is a sestina I've given a go - haven't tried one in ages. Actually, I haven't written a poem in ages, so please, excuse the rustiness.

------------------

First-year at Hogwarts

I see you've been shopping, dear first-year - a wand
is held in your hand as you step into Hogwarts.
Brow creased with worry, you fear some spell
will prove too much for your blossoming, Muggle-born magic -
but, never fear! there's many like you, in every House,
and each of the four is haunted by ghosts.

The memorable entrance, your first night marked by the ghosts
will gather dust in your mind forever. Fumbling with your wand,
(you recall, do you not, the fear before being sorted into your House?)
a curse lights up in your mind, pleading to be uttered - you read it in Hogwarts:
A History. But swiftly did you learn, with red sparks and adult anger, that magic
is not as easy to control as you might have thought. There's more than words to any spell.

A few months later, though, you've learned more than one spell,
and know the icy chill of passing through the silver matter of ghosts.
You have control now (most of the time) of your magic
and have perfected the precise art of swishing, flicking your wand.
In fact, you have come to treat the ancient, always secretive Hogwarts
as a home, have you not, first year of Ravenclaw House?

Uncertain as you had been when first sorted into your House,
Books, yellowed pages and sugar quills have increased your confidence while handling spells.
Despite the pain of crashing into a rogue Bludger which attacks the audience, the Hogwarts
atmosphere, hovering candles and fluttering bats entrance you, while the ghosts
have proven to be wildly entertaining company by the Common Room fire. When the wand
is up your sleeve, ready to test those spells you read of last night, there's nothing for it but to enjoy the magic.

Ah, many a time have you stood in Filch's office for magic
that has bubbled forth from your mouth, losing points for your House.
Yet never have you regretted shooting sparks from your wand
to punish that meddling, sneering and glaring Slytherin firstie with a spell -
even in the presence of mildly disapproving ghosts.
Duels, fun, pranks, fun, lessons, fun, all compose the life of Hogwarts.

Another six years ahead, first-year, to be spent at the legendary castle of Hogwarts.
Six action-packed years full of mystery and magic.
Boy, will you miss it all this approaching summer - the ghosts
will throw you welcome next year, never fear. Your House
shall await your return, and hop fervently that no forbidden spell
will escape your lips in August. Time to put away your wand.

You've had your fun with your wand, and enjoyed a marvellous year at Hogwarts,
casting spells at others and having the time of your life with magic;
have you not? Ravenclaw House will miss you these two months - though I'm not so sure about the ghosts.

WOW! You write beautifully! Keep it up!

Hehe thanks, glad you like it