The Maiden and the Spriggan King

The Maiden and the Spriggan King

By J.Lynne Moore


“T’is the equinox!” She said,

as she cackled soft and meek.

“The moon will be my candle,

tonight vengeance will speak.”


Upon the mossen floor,

a fairy-ring was laid;

tender care was taken,

his betrayal shall be repaid.


Her brumous figure quivered,

her incantation spoke,

“Tarry not dear spirits,

your power I do invoke.”


“My body lays among,

the lilies of the spring.

Please grant me this request,

oh mighty Spriggan King!”


The words she whispered, woke

what slept within the wood.

Tonight her unbound spirit,

would be laid to rest for good.


The Spriggan King appeared,

before her in the gloom,

along with his horde of Red Caps,

their lips sticky with grume.


“His name is not important,

it’s his deeds that make him bad.”

Resolve grew within her voice,

at last revenge would be had.


“Tonight he walks the streets,

in search of victims sweet.

Innocent blood is taken,

from those he happens to meet.”


“I will not welcome heaven,

until his spirit burns!

Hell will be his eternal home,

trapped within the guerns!”


The Spriggan King accepted,

her request so sincere.

Surrounded by his Red Caps,

his intention was very clear.


The cobbled streets were silent,

as the knave wandered alone;

unaware of his ill fortune,

tonight he would not return home.


The swiftness of the Red Caps,

made quick work of this fiend.

With wicked wetted teeth,

his bones they fleetly cleaned.


Heaven welcomed her soul;

his claimed by the gates of hell.

Victory wrought by the forest guardians,

her vengeance they did quell.


Lilies dancing around her grave,

awaken the flora of spring.

The forest fauna rejoice,

as they welcome new offspring.


The forest guardians now rest,

deep within the mists untold,

enjoying nature’s serenity,

watching springtide unfold.


© 2016 -2017 Cashmere /J.Lynne Moore All Rights Reserved


The Garden

The Garden

By J.Lynne Moore


Enter now the flowered bed,

That held our bones the night we wed.

Winter laps at petals soft;

Cynical, the sun, at or love has scoffed.


Tender stems now break away;

My heart smashed, dust of clay.

One last time, let mercy flow,

And taste my soul before you go.


Wilted now the flowered bed,

The love that tended it, is dead.

Winter’s chill claims this garden plot,

The flowers have melted all to rot.


Leave me here with this flora, frozen…

Move ahead on the path you have chosen.

I will not leave the flowered bed again,

I close my eyes and remember when…


© 2016 -2017 Cashmere /J.Lynne Moore All Rights Reserved