Poem Feb 5
Happy animals are sleeping animals, so never let them wake,
Set your clocks and watch the time, and never, ever flake,
In two hour's time you'd best be prepared to meet their every need,
So gather up your spinach, and lay down some new seed,
For if they wake and need what you cannot harvest, gather or steal,
They'll stand around and look forlornly, waiting for their meal,
Growing ever-more sad with each passing moment of the sun,
And that pig of yours will only yield five hams instead of forty-one.
And if you think I'm crazy just you wait and see,
My alarm goes off every other hour, not a minute sooner, not even three,
For happy animals are sleeping animals, I know that this is true,
My chicken just laid five hundred eggs, and she's been sleeping since 2002.
Another one inspired by my wife. I'm starting to believe she's crazier than I am. She's definitely on the villager / gatherer side of things more so than the Hero, and that's fine by me. She used to steal all the stuff from my garden, but she's since out leveled everything I can produce! If you'd like to visit her, you'll find her camped out in her backyard stuffing her boars with cornbread muffins and staring down judgment on the pitiful gardens next to her own. No offense to our guild mates, but you really should water your blueberries and feed that lonely sheep.
Several weeks ago I was surprised to meet a level 90 that had apparently never been to the village of Vinton in game. Vinton, like so many other wonderful places, isn't on the most travelled paths. There the residents are having a large celebration - for reasons that I seem to have forgotten (or perhaps they don't need a reason). Off to the side sits a tavern. I love this quest and I love the tavern. As with many quests in V&H there is a lovely punchline, which I dare not spoil for any new players (or any level 90s that haven't been by). Below is the poem inspired by my travels there.
Poem Feb 8
In the village of Vinton, amongst revelry,
Sits a very large tavern, quite splendidly,
And though all the townsfolk stumble about,
The tavern's not serving any meads, whiskeys or stouts,
And the keeper stands near with moderate concern,
And it won't take an expert for you to discern,
That his tavern is filled with all matter of vermin,
Who seem to have taken a liking to bourbon,
An odd assortment of thugs, ogres and rats,
Stand idly about in his habitat,
That seems strangely comprised of six rooms and some caves,
Which I am sure must be used to host Vinton's raves,
But before we invite the townsfolk to the tavern's soiree,
We must first carefully evict all those that outstayed,
Their time in the tavern as unwelcome guests,
So hurry on in and remove each of those pests.
Poem Feb 20
I wonder how my character might feel,
While she’s stuck in the game while I’m stuck in the real,
Is it empty and void while all powered down,
Does she still talk to her friends while I’m not around?
I’m stuck in a taxi, I just left a plane,
She’s stuck on a hard drive, she can’t even complain,
It’s snowing outside and the traffic’s quite dull,
She has no view of the world, trapped in a lull.
Will she remember all the lost days?
Or does it pass in a moment when nobody plays?
A blip on the radar in her digital life,
Hardly aware she passed close to the knife,
Of those that care not that she’s real to me,
Part of my day when I choose to flee,
From this world with all it’s traffic and snow,
Slowly passing me by in my taxi’s window.
Poem Feb 21
I’m at a crafting party with all my friends!
Although it’s quite quiet and just pretend,
I opened a screenshot from three weeks back,
And I can almost hear the anvil’s Kling Klack,
You’re there and I’m there and so are you too,
There’s dancing and riddles and pies - all true!
And stuffed in my bags are stacks of raw ore,
I’ll be crafting ‘til midnight, it’s quite a large chore!
I’ve brought plenty to share, so please give a shout,
If you’ve arrived lacking or just plumb run out,
There’s sure to be prizes for those that can guess,
The answers to riddles - so please try your best!
It’s all really happening, right here in my head,
As I stare at the screenshot and lie back in bed.
Poem March 4
My best friend started over, she gave rebirth her first try,
She once was quite formidable, but now she's a small fry,
With a wave and a word she'd blast things to icy bits,
But now when she sees a bee, she runs away in fits.
All enemies upon her path would - with an icy glare -
Cower before her frigid might, frozen by her stare.
Now they stand quite in the way, with a hearty laugh,
As she tosses tiny ice cubes, and waves her wooden staff.
Someday soon, she shall return, commanding blizzards at her whim,
But until that day, and for the morrow, she better hit the gym.
Poem March 6
The in game store is full of stuff,
Of which, my cat, can't get enough,
Each night when I set my tablet down,
That ball of fluff is spending crowns,
I thought I'd take a quick hiatus,
Just park my toon, looking aimless,
Harmlessly standing in some corner,
When a streak of gray, and paws a-blur,
She tapped at the screen with a pat-pat-pat,
A few thousand crowns, as quick as that,
It's my fault you see, for I didn't control,
The in game purchases, so now the cat stole,
Money from my Christmas fund,
And I'm left here gawking ...quite stunned,
And also wondering what could be worth,
All these crowns bought by her mirth,
But in my bag I now see clearly,
Two-dozen bog frogs, looking surly,
A yellow beacon (make that nine),
Perhaps she thought it might be twine,
Fireworks, and water too,
Hundreds of them - it is true!
This little cat, just sitting near,
Is grinning there from ear-to-ear,
It may have been what she intended,
She's quite proud, and feeling splendid,
And now I'm broke, but I'll adjust,
Cat food for a month for both of us!
Poem March 7
A magic number with no refund.
It may take a week or two or three,
Or a month...or six, possibly,
Your mind set on this single task,
In solidarity, before you bask,
In the splendor of your selection,
But choose correctly, with reflection,
For you must live with this single choice,
No regrets, simply rejoice,
No remorse, no looking back...
For if you do (you maniac!)
You'll need an alt to try again,
How many times to reach your zen?
I swear to you, you have malfunctioned,
You say you want to have another?
Your armor-smith, she needs a brother?
What shall you save for this time around?
I won't deter you, you're quite spellbound,
But now I know you are insane,
You bought more alts, each one you'll train?
You know who you are, yes, you do!
You're reading this, you know it's you.
Poem March 8
At the stern of the boat stood a man wearing red,
And all there before him, his army is spread,
Helpless captives lured by his promise of fun,
Forced to remain...until the riddles were done,
Standing there motionless, frozen they wait,
For the man to ask questions that are sure to elate.
Every Friday this madman lures more to his side,
With the promise of friendship and laughter to guide,
An evening that grabs all in it's wake,
To stand at the ready, with answers they make,
What shall he do next week, we all must ponder,
And where shall we meet? Where will he wander?
We are left waiting, to see where he goes,
To join him next Friday, his army follows.
Bonus Poems March 8
Captured from chat over the past few weeks. One of my favorite things to do in game is writing impromptu poetry responses to chat.
Imp: What's Cooking? Loxana: Me
Loxana needs a hero,
As quick as you can be,
She's really in a jam, or a pot for fricassee.
She's coming to a boil, the flames are piping hot,
So rush on over quickly, and free her from this spot.
How she got into this position, I really do not know,
But if I had to give a guess, it's a troll that cooks food slow.
William: there's a small part of me that hates you because of how good you are at poetry...
I heard a little lie today, I know it isn't true,
Someone said William hated something, I don't think that they knew,
That William is the kindest sort with a caring heart,
He cannot hate, and cannot be mean, he doesn't have those parts!
Rijm: *shamelessly eats a peep*
There is a little planet, oh so far away,
Where all the peeps, in harmony, like to dance and play.
There's all the little yellow ones that frolic with the blue,
And the only thing they like to eat is human-shaped Cordon Blue.
Jenny: Write a poem about cats!
My kitten drank my coffee, when I set it to my side,
The kitten ran to chug it, then ran again to hide.
Her purr it started whirring, then I heard a buzz,
Then she exploded out with energy, an up-cranked ball of fuzz.
Imp: … (when logging in after two weeks off)
Oh give me a home, with a pig and a sheep,
With a vault full of herbs that I endlessly keep,
A garden of flowers that sell for some gold,
And a plot on the beach that never grows old.
Home, Home in the Game.
Where my chickens all look the same.
Where seldom is heard, a mod with bad words,
And all of the dragons are tame.
Imp: What’s up Tom? Tom: 4th time in the same spot of the dungeon run. I have yet to complete a run without the game restarting.
Tom in the dungeon was quite ill-fated,
He approached his goal, quite frustrated.
He knew in the lair there was a trap he would spring,
And back to the beginning it would bring,
And force our hero to restart,
But how he triggered it, he knew not that part.
He carefully stepped over wire and rock,
He removed each of his boots, and tip-toed in socks.
He held his breath and crawled on his knees,
And still he triggered the trap with ease.
He sat and he watched as heroes rushed by,
They moved very quickly, not one came to die,
So he took off his helmet and with a scratch to his head,
He sat and he pondered - until his head bled.
He’s sitting there now, go give him a hug.
He’s trapped in his mind, in a hole that he dug.
Deri: Zombies sleeping in coffins…
I met a zombie, sound asleep,
In a coffin, buried, deep,
He said, “shut the lid before you go,
I’d give you a chase, but I shamble too slow.”
So I closed the lid and said “Good night,
Don’t let the vampires bite.
Donut Queen: Imp new poem. Context issues
I need new socks, I heard you say,
But that’s hardly what you meant.
You needed rocks, I’m sure of it,
Ones with a minty scent.
I hardly seem to understand, the context isn’t there.
Unless of course it was your intent, to set fire to your hair.
Grimmac: <stands there mining. waves>
To harvest the ore, this iron ore,
Is quite a chore, is quite a bore.
You swing at a rock that sticks up from the ground,
With a ting and a tang that sings it’s sweet sound,
And the rock…it jiggles…just a wee bit,
When you give it a whack, when you give it a hit.
Sixofnine: Let’s run dungeon I’m tired of gathering
SixofNine has gathered four-score and ninety hours,
Each finger now has blisters, possessed with super powers.
The purple one that bubbles, can scare fish right into a net.
The red one that looks angry causes fruit to ripen when it’s wet.
So just imagine when she points her ping at an iron node.
You can bet that the node you see is likely to explode.
Elmeti: Why are there so many giant mutant bees, but no honey? ; ) Imp: Why are there so many quests to kill giant mutant bees? WHY are there SO MANY giant mutant bees? And most importantly, can I drink whatever they’re drinking so I can be a giant, mutant Impresario?
I am so happy being me, but I’d be happier as a mutant bee,
Armed with my stinger as big as your arm,
I’d gladly terrorize your farm,
and slay each young hero that wanders by,
buzzing my sweet, deadly, lullaby.
Deri: If it is as big as my arm, does it even qualify as a stinger anymore? Isn’t that a rapier on the wrong end? Fruit Loops: Bigger is better. The stinger will go right through you, no venom Deri: Venom would be a little overkill at that point. I like overkill. Imp: You all are over analyzing this. The point of the matter is that my simple wish to be a bee to terrorize you, and all your friends and jolly crew. Deri: Over-analyzing is one of the most popular skills in V&H. Mine is over 60. Fruit: Nah, perforations can be fixed, space bee venom is deadly
Some people want to be a lovely fairy,
Or something hideous and scary,
I just want to help make honey,
After I skewer the hero and take all his money.
Fruit: Sadly… you die shortly after you sting. Imp:
I’ve changed my mind, I don’t want to die,
A mutant bee sounds silly to try.
I’ll buy all your gralla seeds instead,
And bake them into brownies and bread,
Then serve them up at some fancy dinner,
I’m sure my baked goods will be a winner.
Poem March 10
I lost an entire hour of my day,
An entire hour where I could not play,
I will yell, insist, and demand,
Compensation from those that govern this land.
I'll march to the capital of my fair state,
I'll knock on the doors, quite irate,
And explain to the governor with a heated exchange,
That I'm owed a pie for this hour-long change.
And a shirt. I want a shirt too.
One that shimmers with a purplish-hue.
New shoes would be nice - boots made of leather,
And an oversize raincoat for days with bad weather.
I'll gather my neighbors. I'll gather my kids.
We'll all march together and demand fifty quid.
(By my estimate, that's sixty-five U.S.D.,
That's totally worth this flippancy!).
Actually I'm tired - I lost an hour of sleep,
I'll just go back to bed to count golden sheep.
Poem March 15
Each and every bag I own,
Is filled to burst, the seams - they groan.
I carry them upon my back,
Six bulging humps - I will not lack.
I dare not leave them in my home,
They must be close - with me they roam.
In the first, a change of clothes,
My level two boots - I might need those.
In the second, stacks of wood,
I could build a house - or a neighborhood.
In the third, stacked zogs from bees,
Someday I'll trade them - for gems, please!
In the fourth, I carry fruit,
Papayas and peaches - and just one lute.
My fifth bag is very hard,
I gathered stone - from my town's yard.
And in my sixth, lest I forget,
Food and treats - for lazy pets.
It makes me anxious to set them down,
So perhaps I'll stay - and sort vaults in town.
Poem March 18
The hero strides confidently away from home and field,
Covered in shimmering plate mail against all harm he is sealed,
And each month he's paid a stipend, a boon for another day,
For our hero does not harvest, does not gather or craft in any way.
Deep within his vault, tucked far from view,
Are clockworks, motes and potions - far more than just a few.
They've collected in the thousands, caked in webs and dust,
Some potions cracked and leaking, and clockworks trapped in rust.
One day after a battle, hard fought and barely won,
Our hero is home resting, his hero days are done,
A neighbor down the way feeling sorry for a friend,
Bakes a stack of pies for him to eat while on the mend,
And with a note of encouragement, to give our hero a small nudge,
"These pies are packed with vigor, they'll get your bones to budge."
And with a bite he's ready, to give his retirement a new try,
Our hero is not ready to curl up, wait and die.
Armed with pies, and motes, and potions,
And so many clockworks - they could fill oceans,
Our hero approaches a single pine,
And with a single swing - he levels 9!
He feels a rush of inspiration,
Another source fuels his elation,
Three swings later he's 41,
With a hearty laugh, he's having fun,
And arms full of roughshod timber,
At the lathe it's all a blur!
Level 14 in two ticks of a clock,
This woodworking skill is a cakewalk,
His elation continues, and builds, and grows,
Crafting ever faster, arms like dynamos,
He takes a break at 53,
And off he wanders for more to see.
A copper node should stand no chance,
Hopped up potions and pies he gives it a glance,
A swing of his pickaxe and his bags overflow,
Our hero attacks it with renewed gusto,
Five downward blows and he's 35,
A villager is born! He's quite alive!
With bags quite full at 44,
Our villager drags his copper ore,
To the anvil and with a whack,
He hits 11 with a cling, cling, clack.
Motes at the ready, and with twelve hours of inspiration,
A new aspect of play fuels his anticipation,
Our villager levels with the greatest of ease,
Brought on by his hoarding of calendar freebies.
The sun is shining, but does not warm.
I stand here anticipating Spring to transform,
weary days shortened but soon will prolong,
to bring heat to our days and inspire new song.
The cold has settled deep in my bones, the winter has marked me and it must atone,
it must open the gate for Spring to arrive,
to warm up my soul and help it revive,
to embrace the days filled with love and laughter,
then seal the gate, barring Winter ever after.
Oh where are potatoes? A common refrain,
From those who are new and joining our game,
For they’ve suddenly discovered something quite new,
A quest that will take them on a new journey to do,
Many things in a village where they choose their lot,
To set up their house, to make it their spot,
But to the rear of the house are spaces quite lonely,
That need love and attention before they are homely,
To which we receive another lively shout,
“Oh where are the seeds at, are they lying about?”
And soon you will see attached to the fence posts with care,
Two little signs that always were there,
One is for seeds that you plant right about here,
And the other is for sheep that magically appear.
The devs try to tell me that math does these things,
To decide if my sword hits when my warrior swings,
To make a decision on what loot I receive,
It's math at the heart, they say to believe,
That without addition, subtraction and fractions galore,
My playtime experience would be quite a bore.
It's quite complicated, they say with conviction,
To multiply things with explicit precision,
You need a degree in physics and theory,
To understand mechanics of gaming quite clearly,
And to this I must say, while rolling my eyes,
Sounds dreadfully tedious, I thoroughly despise,
The need to quantify percentages from eating my pie,
To calculate dodge chances I won't dignify,
For I simply desire for an hour or two,
To forego reality and explore something new,
Would it be all that bad If I choose to think,
That my screen is a portal to a different world on the brink,
Of destruction and chaos - in need of a hero,
And somehow my actions do magically bestow,
The person I'm watching with direction and purpose,
To give hope to that world, to give life to the lifeless,
And maybe somewhere there is a screen featuring me,
And each day at work someone watches and sees,
And unknown to myself I'm receiving direction,
Someone beyond that's giving me much needed attention.
Poem April 6
It's a bittersweet week with Sugarsweet gone,
So many were waiting, now it's withdrawn,
And yet there is good news that we can now share,
An expansion is coming! Quite soon, so prepare!
Each week they'll reveal something quite new,
So tune in next Friday for something grand to debut!