This poem is for my brother, who when I first started role-playing, listened with wide eyes as I talked about all the fun I was having. He also insisted, as little brothers are wont to do, that I make him a character and talk about him. I had no doubt for a minute as to what that form should be. It became a joke between us, an affectionate way of teasing. Then, much later, as I began writing my minotaur poems, he and my mother ganged up on me to write one for him. Being the older sister and mischievous minotaur I am, I finally granted their 'request'. So, to E.J. the ogre-child. ;)

The Ogre and the Minotaur

It is a well known fact,
That minotaurs and ogres,
Do not get on at all.

Ogres.
No one ever said they were smart,
And they don't look it either,
Squat hairy brutes.
This ogre-child no different.
His fangs are crooked and dingy.
He slouches over and grunts,
Wonder if he speaks.
A young one,
Already showing the promise
Of his frightful breed.
His arms are long,
Stringy muscles,
That will one day bulge.
A snarling visage,
Above which two eyes rest.

Those hazel orbs catch fire,
Not always in anger,
Or in rage.
But with a light
That can only belong
To a generous heart.
Those snarling lips
Do on occasion,
Twitch into a grin.
Releasing contagious laughter.
Then this monster
Seems almost a Person.

And my tail flicks.
How is it possible?
That this creature and I,
Are tied together
By blood?
I am a minotaur,
And do not resemble
That young he-ogre at all.
But when he pads up,
Throwing arms around my neck,
I must smile.
Baring my own fangs in mirth.
He is my brother,
Even if I snarl back,
Snort or flatten my ears.
And I do love him.

Ah well.
Nobody was ever after
Saying minotaurs were smart.

© 1997 kazanthi@geocities.com

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