Poem: The Silence of My Soul

The Silence of My Soul

In the silence of my soul
my heart lies dreaming
of sunlit meadows,
far blue hills and
valleys filled with mist
and magic, and all that
lies still over the horizon
in the undiscovered country.
And I call to my heart ―
“Wait! Wait for me,
let me catch up
and set me free.”
My heart seldom listens.
When it does, it answers
with soft, enigmatic smiles
that slip away at once,
elusive as a song heard long ago
and only half remembered.
Yet I hear it still,
if I listen hard
in the silence of my soul

Touching base ... with apologies to JRR...

 

Just a ditty to keep contact with this blog while there isn't much to talk about. Yeees, the art started its life in Bing, but I promptly cut it up, rearranged it, repainted it, did a lot of things to it. And yes, I would have painted from scratch, if I had the whole day to spend on this (I don't). And yes, I would have rendered it in CG, if I had a spare hundred bucks to spend on the props (I don't). So we'll embrace the concept of compromise: AI + digital painting.  And now the ditty --

With Apologies to J.R.R. ...

I sit beside the fire and knit
And all the sweaters that don't fit --
All the scarves that fall in mud --
Are made right here, although I could
Be off and roaming 'round the Shire!
But I'm afraid that something dire
Will happen if I leave this hill,
So here I am, and I'll be still:
Comfy by my hearth I'll sit...
And dream adventures. While I knit.

Poem: Wine Country Autumn (Fields of Gold)

Wine Country Autumn

Gold lies strewn to the horizon and beyond

As if some careless godling

Turned out the divine pockets and

Let the doubloons tumble where they may.

Fields of gold burn, lustrous in the westering sun

As evening settles ― but not for long.

In just a week or three, the next rapacious wind

Will gambol among these vines and loot the hoard

Till bare wood alone remains,

Enduring winter’s ire with never a hint

Of the transient splendour that was

These fields of gold.

The Night After Christmas ("Whoville Chainsaw Massacre")

 

'Twas the night after Christmas and Whoville was rocking

With the kind of wild party that brings people flocking.

The noise and the booze, all the singing and dancing ...

The racket and rumpus, the shmoozing and prancing ...

Would drive to the point of starting a riot

Any poor fellow who just fancied quiet.

And you already know who was sane by an inch:

Poised on the brink was the poor old green Grinch.

By nine in the morning even Max was vibrating

With the jackhammer jollity; it’s not overstating

That not even Max could endure so much ‘cheer,’

No matter how snockered one became on Who beer.

And by two in the P.M., oh, Maxie was worried,

For the Grinch looked so manic; the beast who’d been buried

Beneath fudge and tinsel, and the charm of a child

Had clawed back to the surface ... and my, he was wild!

All the popping and bopping, the preening and prancing,

The swinging and zinging, and -- oh, the break-dancing!

Were more than the Grinch could guess how to endure ...

And then, all at once, he envisioned a cure,

For there by the Christmas tree, flat on the floor,

Was one lonely present. A forgotten chainsaw.

And the Grinch had no sooner set eyes on that tool

Then he said to himself, “Grinchie, you’ll been such a fool,

To think you could bear all this ruckus and humbug,

This rumpus and dumpus, this scampus and scumbug,

This noise, noise, noise, noise, that these Whofolk call ‘fun,’

While the stores are all closed and you can’t buy a gun --

There isn’t a fowling piece (nor even a pheasant),

But one of these idiots forgot his best present!”

For under the Christmas tree, left on the floor,

Wrapped up in red ribbons lay a brand new chainsaw:

All shiny and sharpy, all toothy and jagged --

Just begging for gasoline! So, out the Grinch swaggered

With a light, empty gascan and a bag full of quarters,

To the gas station downtown, with a brain full of slaughters ...

There wouldn’t be any Who left to make noise!

They’d be peacefully absent, the Who girls and boys.

The Who-guys and ladies would be quiet as the snow --

And Cindy-Lou Who’d be the first one to go.

For the Grinch could envisage the headlines tomorrow,

When no Who in Whoville survived to feel sorrow --

Here was a task to which the Grinch felt quite equal

(And MGM’s already contracted the sequel):

GRINCH II: WHOVILLE CHAINSAW MASSACRE.

Merry Christmas, 2023

 

Merry Christmas

to all,

Christmas Eve 2003

From, our house to yours ...

Hoping for a wonderful 2024, and --

Peace on Earth

"...and then I dropped my cup of tea, because something magical happened that hasn’t since I was a child, no older than Tommy is now. The living room faded away. Every light shone brighter, and snow began to fall gently, silently, around the tree. I’d promised him, if he was very quiet and still, and watched, and watched, it could happen — a ruse, to get Tommy to take a nap on Christmas Eve, while mom snatched an hour of rest where she could. He’d fallen asleep — always the plan … and I hadn’t believed in magic in so many years." 

Poem: Horizons

I would give all I have for a place to be

Where boundless horizons reach out to the sea --

Like the castles of war gods the mountains rise,

Crowned with ramparts of ice ’near tumultuous skies.

I’d trade easy comforts; I’d trade youth and looks

For a warm, dry cabin, a trunk of books,

And the health and strength to be mates with the vast

Till the winds and the stars call me home at last.

Announcement: A Darkness Incandescent is published in Best of Newmyths Volume 4

'A Darkness Incandescent' has just been released, in the Cosmic Muse anthology, from Newmyths ... it's a poem I'm rather proud of, and it's thrilling to see it in this volume.

The link to buy Cosmic Muse as an ebook is a little awkward -- it's available in so many formats, the publisher has supplied a "catch all" link which will send you to something called "Books 2 Read," and from there, you can bump on to your store of choice, with something like nine options ... though not without allowing Books 2 Read to set "preference" cookies (which, for myself, I prefer not to do. It's your call). 

So I'll give you three links here: this first will take you to the aggregator, Smashwords, where books funnel through to ebook stores galore; the second is to the "Books 2 Read" page, where you can make your own decisions about whether you'll accept cookies; and the third link is to the paperback edition of this anthology, available from Amazon. 

Enigmata ... "The Shortest Story Ever Told"

 

Enigmata

A princess from out of the aether ―

Not Martian, Venusian, no, neither ―

Landed, hapless, on Earth

Where she promptly gave birth

To offspring that could have been either,

            But ―

From the heavens there issued a roar,

So loud, metalheads shrieked, "Please, no more!"

While Her Highness's child

Merely giggled and smiled

(Though he threw his stewed prunes on the floor)

            Because ―

This princess had pushed the wrong toggle,

In a mishap that makes the mind boggle ―

Came, in error, to Earth,

Quite compelled to give birth...

(Yes. Geneticists do curse and goggle.)

            Then ―

Down from the Vaults of Forever,

In maelstroms of Physics, soooo clever,

The Great Roar (with vast joy)

Beamed up princess and boy,

And, when asked, replied, "We'll return ... never!"

            Yet ―

Indeed, to this day (this part's great)

There's a cult with a somewhat strange trait:

They worship loud noise,

Adore odd-looking boys...

But they're doomed to a rather long wait!

Poem: Dreams of Spring

Dreams of Spring

The leaves are falling.

The woodland blazes, gold and flame,

More beauteous at the death

Than in those days when

Blossom turned to greet spring's sun

Without a thought of summer,

Much less of fall.

But every breeze steals gold and fire,

And only bones endure beneath...

So brief is autumn: winter snows

Begin to fall before the final leaves,

And those enduring bones --

Strong yet beak, bare, stark --

Merely drowse, and wait, and dream

Of days when blossom crowned their brows

And strewed their feet. They dream, I think,

Of youth and yesteryear.

(Originally published in Sylvia Magazine)

Poem: Ode to a Black Cat

Slender shadow, stalking, rare --
Master of the wide-eyed stare ...
Silken; soft -- with sickles, ten:
Will he shred? The question's when?!
Curled in slumber in his lair --
My pillows and his long-shed hair...
Five minutes on my lap and then
Without a glance he's gone again.

(Remembering Bagheera, who left us close to eight years ago, and who is on my mind...)

Poem: How the Garden Sings

Silver morning sky,

Soft rain, cool upon my face --

How the garden sings!

In South Australia, rain comes so seldom amid summer's ferocious heat, when it happens -- it's worth celebrating the event with a "bookmark in memory." This is our second consecutive La Nina summer, and while some parts of the country are ablaze, just for a short time ... the garden sang.

Poem: A Yuletide Blessing

 

Long is the night
        and the stars are bright;
Cold is the wind,
        and sighing.
Bare are the trees --
        there's snow in the breeze;
Silent, the land...
        but not dying:
Sleep is the cure
        when one must endure --
Lord, knight, lady and fool:
    here is the night
When back comes the light:
    blessed be all, upon Yule.

Poem: Cat Magicks

There's magic in the moonlight,

Enchantment in a song.

If you haven't danced in starlight

And heard the night wind's song --

If you never bathed in moonbeams

There's no remedy for that;

So, you can't imagine how it feels

To be the average cat!

Poem: The Cat and The Christmas Tree

The tree was tall and prideful of its lights.
The cat was small and mindful of her rights...
A cat is she: to rip and shred and claw
Is what cats do, and should do. Wait, there’s more!
When claws and lights and trees and cats combine
A cat (whose lifetimes previously numbered nine)
Becomes the Mighty Hunter. And the tree
Would shed those lights and garlands all, and flee,
Save for the fact it’s plugged in. Curse those lights!
What of the cat? She stands upon her rights:
Up, up the tree, defeat the tinsel snake --
For such delicious mayhem, felines make.

Poem: A Trick of the Light

 

One dawn I went a-walking
Through springtime woods, so fair;
My tired eyes roved, a-seeking
For rest and peace -- and there,
Upon a stone 'twixt flowers
There sat a figure, small...
I can't have seen what I just saw!
Didn't glimpse her there at all!

My weary soul was needing
A charge of hope, or zest;
What magicks had been leading
Me to that glade? The best
Was yet to come -- she saw me,
And for one second smiled
'Fore fading into sunbeams
And leaving me beguiled...

I didn't see what I just saw --
A trick of dancing light,
And tired eyes, and weary soul...
I was mistaken. Right?!

Poem: La Vie en Rose (A Rose's Life)

Each summer has a rose that’s last to bud,
When all the rest have long since bloomed and died;
And, quite alone, it turns toward the sun
While snow is drifting down the bleak hillside.
All its kin were sooner in their falling,
But this, the last, blooms on for long and long,
Till every bird has passed into the south
And, soft, one hears the threads of winter’s song --

The sad lament of those who do recall
That once their kind danced, vibrant in the sun;
And now the last, with courage, braves the wind
That strips each petal till the dance is done.
Every season brings this final flower,
The last of all its kind, it blooms too long –
Yet, while winter’s cloak will hush the valley,
Its petals falling, still it hears its song:

Harmonies recall each bloom which flourished.
Each note becomes a memory to keep
Until the music fades to perfect silence…
The last rose lapses gently into sleep.
Does it dream? Springtime is no more distant
Than dawn is far from midnight’s dreary worst.
If it dreams, it dreams of life’s beginning.
Where one was last, another will be first.

Poem: Ginger in the Moonlight

When all the house is quiet

And everyone's abed,
With all the dishes put away
And all the goodnights said --
When all the doors are locked up
And moonlight shines so bright,
That's the time when cats make magic...
But it only works at night!

Poem: Simple Magicks

Look again -- and look quite hard,

Where sunbeams glow and raindrops dance:

There's magic in the simplest things,

Wonders we only glimpse by chance.

Not all faeries have gold wings, and

Not all dragons span the sky;

But drowsy daydreams encompass

The simplest magicks, by and by.

Poem: Magick Hour

 

At magick hour the mist comes creeping 

While the world is silent, sleeping… 

Mice and voles, and cunning rats, 

Foxes, owls and stalking cats 

Know the hour; they know it well, 

Its ancient song, its timeless spell: 

While the woods are clear and cold, 

When the night has grown so old 

That dawn is not so far away –  

No time to waste before the day! – 

Then, while starlight trumps the sun,

By moonlight are the magicks done! 

Magicks small and magicks great: 

Spells and charms to shape our fate – 

Heal the world, soothe aching souls, 

Ease the sick, achieve our goals.

 Enchantments white, enchantments wise… 

At magick hour the powers rise! 

No time to tarry ’fore the dawn: 

It is the hour when dreams are born! 

 At magick hour the mist comes creeping 

While the world is silent, sleeping, 

But those who know will seldom tell 

The secret of the night’s deep spell.

Poem: Horizons

 

I would give all I have for a place to be
Where boundless horizons reach out to the sea --
Like the castles of war gods the mountains rise,
Crowned with ramparts of ice 'neath tumultuous skies.
I'd trade easy comforts; I'd trade youth and looks
For a warm, dry cabin, a trunk of books,
And the health and strength to be mates with the Vast
Till the winds and the stars call me home at last.