Well, it is called the Mad Poet's Cave, after all... here are a few poems of varying degrees of madness.

The Lamentations of Ironstar - A Narnian Fan Poem

   The following passage is from a set of ancient scrolls written by Ironstar, an aged centaur prophet and poet who lived during the 100 year winter and through the entire Golden Age of Narnia.  This particular work was written in the year of the Hunting of the White Stag, sometime after the disappearance of the Royal Four.

Bereft and kingless is our land,
Bare and dust-covered are the thrones of yore.
Not slain with the sword are they who ruled with justice and might.
Not felled by sickness or vile spell are they who ruled in wisdom and vigor.
They are lost to our time, whose hour was the Golden Age of Narnia.
They have passed beyond mountain and waste into the West.
The face of the Lion is hidden from us.
The trees are bowed down with weeping.
Our enemies mock and howl at us,
From mountain and from desert they say,
"Look, Narnia is undone! So is it with all who look across the sea for their aid!"
Our hearts are besieged with doubt.
Our hope withers in the winds of returning winter.
From the marshes, a voice cries, saying,
"Ho, all good times must meet their end."
May the heads be crushed that now rise in pride,
May the hands be broken which now clutch for foul dominion at the scepter.
May the eyes of the downcast be raised up,
And the hearts which are broken be bound up,
As the healing of a wound.
Behold! One hundred and fifty-five winters have these eyes seen,
And one hundred years of winter besides;
And I know that he who is Lord of the Spring will not let Winter go undying.
May the blessing of Aslan be with all those who wait patiently for his aid,
And to those who have come, and returned from whence they have come,
I, with lifted hand shall say,
"May the Lion's Peace be forever upon you."

The Song of the Last Queen - Another Narnian Fan Poem

I imagine this being the rest of the inscription found on the bell that Digory rings in the palace of Charn in The Magician's Nephew. (If you have no clue what I'm talking about, consider reading the book!)

The land of Charn was great and strong,
The year before its dire fall.
Its heart was cruel, its arm was long,
Its pillars firm, its towers tall.
But Taranvar the emperor died,
And gasped his last upon a stair.
A hireling's dagger in his side,
Sent to him by his own heir.
His death began a civil war,
The like of which was never seen.
For both his daughters battled for
The throne and scepter of the Queen.
Before the sword of war was drawn,
The vows of battle both they took,
Beside the Altars of the Dawn,
Their magic powers both forsook.
Three hundred thousand warrior-souls,
The sisters threw into the fight.
The bells in every tower tolled,
Appealing to the gods by night.
The younger sister scorned her oaths,
With spells she gained the upper hand.
She led her force to Acranoath,
Where her rival took her stand.
She reached the shrine of Gathrasteen,
Where on the steps her sister stood,
"My vict'ry can be clearly seen!
Your reign is over now- for good!"
So the victor hailed her foe,
But she in all her glowing pride,
Did not her sister's secret know:
Of power from the darker side.
Then Jadis, elder of the two,
Replied in calm and icy voice:
"The vict'ry's won, you've spoken true!
But it is I who shall rejoice!"
And as her sister's soldiers rushed,
She uttered but a single word;
At once the world of Charn was hushed,
And not another sound was heard.
At last the world was at her feet,
For all beneath her feet were dead:
In ancient halls she took her seat,
Where living foot would never tread.
But in these halls she wove a spell,
That she in darkness long would sleep,
Until some hand will strike the bell
Which hangs inside her mighty keep.
"Make your choice, adventurous stranger,
Strike the bell, and bide the danger,
Or wonder, 'till it drives you mad,
What would have followed, if you had..."

The Tower of the Flock - A Christmas Poem



It stands not far from Bethlehem, 
The town of David's birth.
It reaches up to heaven 
From atop a mound of earth. 
A lonely spire of piled stones, 
Where shepherds rendezvous, 
Out of the night wind's freezing moan, 
A solemn task they do. 
'Tis here where shepherds bring the ewes 
And sacred lambs are born.
The purest ones the shepherds choose
For sacrifice at morn.
The helpless bleating creatures then 
Are wrapped in swaddling bands, 
And sent up to Jerusalem,
To die by priestly hands. 

Upon a quiet winter's night, 
When shepherds were afield, 
The streets were void of life and light;
The local inn was sealed. 
Two strangers came, a man and wife, 
And sought a place to stay. 
But though the winds cut like a knife, 
Each house turned them away. 
Yet one man said, "If you don't mind
A house of frozen rock,
Go north of town, and you will find,
The Tower of the Flock."
The husband then did ask him if there was a midwife here, 
For his wife was great with child and her time was drawing near. 
The townsman said "Go seek ye she
Who births the temple lambs."
He pointed out her house to them; 
They swiftly to it ran.
They knocked, and she did open up, 
And with this skillful crone, 
They fled up to the fields, to the ancient spire of stone.
Inside they found a manger,
Amid a mound of straw, 
And through a lofty window, 
A single star they saw. 
That star was seen by shepherds 
As they huddled by their fires;
Yet in a flash across the skies 
There came an angel choir; 
Who shouted news of holy birth, 
A king of David's stock, 
And sent the shepherds racing 
To the Tower of the Flock. 
Inside they found a manger, and within,
A fresh-born babe; 
They knelt, as to an altar, 
And gladsome worship gave. 

In truth, 'twas not surprising, 
For one more Lamb was born. 
He was swaddled, cleansed and suckled, 
And before long, he was shorn. 
He went up to Jerusalem,
Where, by popular demand, 
This Lamb was swiftly sentenced 
To be slain by priestly hands. 
But this Lamb was far purer than all those who came before, 
And now, in old Jerusalem, 
The lambs must die no more.