Are you looking for some dragon poems? Well here are some of the best dragon poems you’ll find anywhere!
“It does not do to leave a live dragon out of your calculations, if you live near him.”
J. R. R. Tolkien
The Japanese Dragon Poem
by Ryū Tatsu
The Japanese word for dragon is ryū;
it sort of rhymes with the word dew,
but these dragons
are anything but a gentle brew.
The Japanese dragon is wingless,
he’s a spidery serpent, long and winding,
with short agile legs and long clawed feet.
The Japanese dragon has ancient eyes
that will see through you and into you;
his long whiskers started to grow
back before man stumbled
in his first upright steps.
The Japanese dragon greets you
as you enter the shrine;
he sits at the fountain and watches you;
less he reads your impure thoughts;
he spits the very spring water
with which you must purify your hands
before you are ready
to petition the spirits of the old
and the dead—
to the Japanese dragon
your wishes are trivial and vain,
so bow down and show your respect to him
less he chooses to shatter your hopes.
The Japanese dragon knows
just how foolish you really are,
how empty and naive,
and if you are not careful with your dreams
he’ll silently sweep into them
and then in a flash, he’ll take you far away—
such that when you wake
it won’t be you that wakes
but a shadow self—
your friends or family
just what became of you.
The Rainbow Dragon Poem
by Drake Wyrm
There is the dragon red,
He lives among the tall haunted peaks;
And his breath is a thing to dread,
For he who meets it surely shrieks.
There is the dragon orange,
He lives among the ever sleeking sand;
His breath will fill your eyes with orange
As you melt and sink into the lolling land.
There is the dragon yellow,
He lives deep in a great flower glade;
Oh, you don’t want to hear him bellow,
For his breath slices quite like a blade.
There is the dragon green,
You’ll find him in the wide cave near the grove;
His breath has the sweet smell of benzene,
It’ll bake you as if you’ve been in a stove.
There is the dragon blue,
He lives far out in a waterless arid land;
The air around him will crackle through you
And leave you ever so deep and darkly tanned.
There is the dragon indigo,
They say he lives only in the sunset;
His soft breath is a twilight glow,
A sweet dew, so that you’ll die all wet.
There is the dragon violet,
He lives among the ruins of the old;
His breath is fast and quickly it will cut
A wide laser path, even through the bold
Then there is the dragon rainbow,
He lives anywhere and everywhere;
His breath is clear, and when he does blow
To stone you’ll go, only left to stare.
The Dragon Spell Poem
by Triolet Saphira
First you must empty out all of your mind,
You must find the heart of the eye inside,
From which you will mold the clay in kind;
You’ll fire it for three days until it has dried.
Then paint the sharp spikes and slippery scales
But save for the very last those mighty eyes;
With a file of steel sharpen the nasty nails,
then with a pin and a drop of your blood, it’ll rise.
Name him then, and be sure to name him well,
For this dragon now is forever to be yours;
Sweep your hands wide to finish the spell—
Then paint the eyes that will face the wars.
But if it should happen that the dragon turn
Then the spell was flawed, and you shall burn.
The Dragon Slayer’s Sonnet
By William Smaug
Shall I compare thee to a blasting hot stove?
Thou art more scary and more perilous;
As thou sit above thy towering treasure trove,
Thy breath is bad and thy voice garrulous.
At times too hot the eye of hell shines
And the pile of gold thou sit upon is dimmed;
Yet I do not think the mighty warrior declines,
Only he feels thy heat will leave him trimmed.
Thy eternal evil soul shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of its endless greed,
For all the ages man shall quiver in your shade
While women and children fear your every deed.
Now here is my sharp sword that thou did not see,
Between two loose scales I’ve stabbed deep into thee.
The Dream Dragon Sestina
by Chrys O. Phylax
I’m riding deep down on the dragon;
I’m falling into a lost lingering dream;
It all has the feeling of a poem,
Only I can’t trace the theme,
And I’m too scared to understand the symbol;
It’s something dark and something ancient.
The real mythology of man is ancient,
And for long it has harbored the dragon;
You search for the the key to the symbol,
That symbol always present in your dream
Because you think there must be a theme
And this theme must underly the poem.
Yet sometimes a poem is just a poem
And the force that acts on you ancient
And beyond any simple graspable theme;
That is the power of the darkest dragon
That resides deep down in your dream;
He cannot be just a simple symbol.
You need more than just a symbol,
You need the nourishment of the poem,
That runs both to and from the dream
With words that one day will be ancient
And tells the tale of the dragon
That goes beyond your tenuous theme.
That’s not to say there is no theme;
That’s not to say there is no symbol;
It’s only to say that a dragon is a dragon,
And what you call a poem is just a poem,
Until the test of time has made it ancient
And then it’s not yours, but a collective dream.
Yes, it was a deep delicious dream,
And in my boiling blood I felt the theme;
It came from some place deep and ancient;
It went far beyond just the symbol;
And it was more than just a flighty poem
For it was, for me, in the flesh, a dragon.
The Ancient Dragon, a poem
by Ian Wyvern
A mammoth cave deep under the ground
where people live off the energy
of an ancient blue creature,
a primeval dragon, shackled and harnessed,
slowly dying over a span of centuries
for crimes long since forgotten.
Night perpetual over long spindly structures
that stretch from floor to ceiling,
perspective lost in a maze constructed,
yet made organic by the passage of time,
dragon scales grow like fungi;
the dragon’s essence seeps among them all.
Here and there, through vapors gray
people climb and walk
where the dim violet lights shine;
hidden faces in breathing masks,
body forms buried in long flowing robes;
each soul lost in a private world of shadows.
The meeting of lips here is death
in a place where too much fresh air
burns the lungs, passion is sin;
but the dragon stirs, and the dragon knows,
that sin is not always sin
but at times only a place to begin.
“Oftener by the claw of dragon
Than the hand of friend,
Guides the little one predestined
To the native land.”
— Emily Dickinson
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