This Feast and That

(Ghosts and Maypoles)

Up there in the top half of the world

soon it will be the merry month of May.

There are still folk who will dance

on May Day around a Maypole. Some

will still call it Beltane, and know

the pole as phallic.  Here, however –

this is the night of Samhain. I just

spoke to my brother, by text. He is

far away; but still, like me, Southern

Hemisphered. Today, separately,

we both remembered our parents.

They have been dead a long time.

But their ghosts visited. Only today,

I finally recalled some trifling ways

they helped me, looked after me.

I felt grateful after all. It could have

been worse. I guess I forgave at last.

My brother still can’t. This I understand.

And I’m sitting here counting the ways

it affected me too, for the rest of my life.

I didn’t set places for them, but I do

wish their souls peace, and wish

they return again behind that veil.

What’s done is done. It is over.

For me there came also, today,

the three dead husbands – all

welcome, even the first – and various

other friends and lovers. These

I celebrate, these I thank. With these

I’d happily dance round a Maypole.

Written simultaneously for Yesterday Never Dies at 'Dark Poetry for the Cruellest Month' and Poetizing the Maypole at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

Wiccan pentacle image freely available in public domain

To Mention Just a Few

On being asked for my favourite author, book or quotation

I don't live in the fairy-tale

of falling in love once only 

for the whole of a long life.

Many princes are charming,

and I have loved many.

That sweet lad in the desert

with sun-gold curls and a rose,

he was lovely. He understood

how to see with the heart

and the way to tame a fox.

There was the one in exile

from his land and tribe,

who consorted with wizards, 

elves, gnomes and tree people –

a traveller with a mission.

And I'll always fall for a man

who makes me laugh,

even if he takes me for a ride

and tells me, warm and friendly, 

'Don't panic', as we crash-land.

Another had dash and flair,

and loyalty to friends. 'All 

for one and one for all!' I like

the adventurous type. He knew 

exactly how to wield his sword.

I spent a long time loving

a small man of large heart

and much wisdom, a gentle

and most earthy spiritual type,

in a village, a little world.

Lately I'm favouring a tall,

long-haired rural dweller

with an attractive native accent,

who likes outlandish women – 

well, foreign to himself, anyway.

How could I choose just one

to cuddle up in bed with,

when God has bestowed 

such beautiful abundance? 
I love them all, forever true.

UK Pictures: Woman reading a book, Sept. 21 2005

Creative Commons 2.0 (by-nc-nd)

Cheat sheet:

1. The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

2. Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien (specifically the character of Aragorn, though my description could also apply to Frodo)

3. The Hitch-Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy, and sequels, by Douglas Adams

4. The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas

5. The Little World of Don Camillo, and sequels, by Giovanni Guareschi

6. The 'Outlander' series by Diana Gabaldon

These are indeed among my favourite books. In the poem I have also made each one equate to an important man in my life, but I'm not giving a cheat sheet for that! (The people closest to me may recognise some.)


Written for Sanaa's Prompt Nights: When armed with the license to quote. (My poem does include quotations, whether indicated or not.)

Also linked to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #300

Snapshot, Front Window, Evening

It's wet out. Shiny purple

challenges the grey, 

saying: 'Fairies live here'.

You can read it from the road.

And to me the photo animates 

my wind chimes' mellow notes, 

kids in the street whistling, 

the flurry of a sudden bird.

China clowns on the sill

play instruments and dance. 

A toy car rests, 

awaiting a boy's visit. 

The rag doll I begged 

from a shoe shop (there 

to quieten customers' children)

lounges on the thermostat.

Bin lids and evergreen trees

are bright in fading light.

I close the blind on Autumn cool,

turn in; feed myself and my cat.

Written for the Instapoetry prompt at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

Not Telling

(On being asked for bio notes on The Real Me)

Rosemary Nissen-Wade refuses absolutely 

to tell you the many illegal and immoral

acts of her long life. (The fattening you can 

see – though she vets her public photos.)

You must know? Oh alright – Rosemary’s 

a pirate: long red hair, boots to thighs, 

a mean hand with a cutlass. (Yes. Really.)

(Picture freely available for use in the public domain.)

At Words Count in 'imaginary garden with real toads' we are asked to write our real bio in 50 words or less.

Tea from the Heart

When you serve tea to your guests, you should simply serve tea from your heart, and think about nothing more. – Sen No Rikyu *

Let me open the cupboard and show you.

I have Earl Grey and English Breakfast,

the delicate or the warmly reassuring.

(You did know Earl Grey is supposed to be

drunk black? So many people add milk,

overwhelming that subtle bouquet.)

Perhaps you prefer green tea? I have it plain,

or flavoured with vanilla. Organic of course.

I hope you don’t mind tea-bags? If you prefer,

I can give you leaves. I was told that these

are high quality. They came from Japan, a gift

from a lovely friend, who has since died.

Or here is this tea they call white, by which

they don’t mean milky, but a special variety

of green tea, minimally processed. That, 

they say, makes it uniquely mellow and sweet.

Complex and sophisticated, even! Once

it was only for Emperors; now it can be yours.

And here I have herbal. Lemon ginger is good

this time of year, when the air starts to cool –

simultaneously soothing and heating, a balm

with a bite. Or there’s rose-hip, for your Vitamin C.

Peppermint is reviving – that clean, tangy taste.

Chamomile’s best before bed; it helps you sleep.

I’m sorry, I only have mugs. I hope you like

a drink that lasts longer. Tea, I know, is for sipping

not gulping, but I trust it won’t get too cold; I warmed

the mugs. This one for you, I think, with the roses?

Do sit on the couch. I’ll fetch some biscuits. Me?

I don’t drink tea myself; I’m a lover of coffee.

Written for The Way of Tea at 'imaginary garden with real toads' and for Poets United's Midweek Motif: Openness

* There is plenty to think about when serving tea, particularly when you're not a tea-drinker yourself – but I hope I look after my guests from an open heart.

Heritage

Through my mother, 

I come from a Scottish isle –

a fey place of warriors and poets.

Through her I come, too,

from a sea coast in India –

town of temples and sacred trees.

Through my father, I come 

from temperate Australian farmlands

and a tiny island in stormy Bass Strait.

Through him, I come from

thinkers and rebels, dancers and lovers; 

and from sober preachers.

Through my own birthplace, I come

from mountains and rivers,

tall trees, surrounding ocean.

Because I can feel and hear and see,

I come as well from an old people

who walk here still, who made me welcome.

Soon is the Feast of Samhain

here in this Southern Land.

To all my ancestors: Hail!

At 'imaginary garden with real toads' we are invited to answer the question, Where Do I Come From?

Photo of tartan and badge: Heirlooms from my mother. 

© Rosemary Nissen-Wade 2016

Photo of crag available under Creative Commons licence:

Page URL:

File URL:

Attribution:

The True Tale of the Little Mermaid

I'll tell you, both Hans and Walt got it wrong.

Well I've never actually seen the Disney movie,

though I've been told about it often enough.

But I did read the Andersen story long ago.

All very romantic, not to mention a nice dash 

of horror – the walking on knives and all that,

and even worse, cutting my tongue out. As if!

I soon refrained from speaking, that's true. You learn

pretty quick. I mean, he was a Prince, used to

having his own way or else. No wonder I walked

tippy-toe, on eggshells, treading so gingerly. No

wonder I kept my mouth shut, avoided expressing

any actual opinions. Yes, they did try to warn me,

the family back home; but I was fifteen, you know?

Luckily for me – although at the time I didn't think so –

he never did marry me; it was all talk. I can't believe

I fell for it! But, like I said, too young to know better.

Anyway, they finally found him a real live princess.

She wasn't a local of course, and she probably thought

she could control him. Maybe she could; I don't care. 

I'm happy here now, on bluest ocean, floating light as foam.

Little Mermaid Statue
Photo by: Celesteh , Creative Commons

Written for Beyond the Ever After at 'Dark Poetry for the Cruellest Month'
Also linking to The Tuesday Platform this week at 'imaginary garden with real toads'

There are several online comparisons of the Andersen and Disney versions of the tale. I like the one at Movie Pilot.

Wolf-Dog

Mostly wolf

he was unlike other dogs,

the fully doggy. He was

wind-woven movement

hunter-quiet through trees, 

cat-contained self-sufficiency,

deep-loving, soul-faithful

but not puppy-exuberant,

not wriggly-jerky hysterical. Never.

His distance-speak

sustained me many months.

We had good mind-talk between us:

we two heart-kin, spirit-friends

who summoned each other

with immediate vision-share

instant thought-meld, the knowing

of the vast, timeless forever-abyss

from which we'd sparked into life-light.

He wasn't my dog; there was

one dearer, skin-close, the friend 

we shared and in our own ways guarded.

It's a long time ago now, 

far-dwindling yet never full-gone. 

Not wholly done, dead-over.

Though he is dead of course,

and our man-friend older,

well happy. He is horse-master now.

Me, I love cats. And we both have known 

some other dogs. We never speak 

of that one, heart-deep, unique.

The night-road, the moon-path

along which he reached me

with loving mind-touch

has taken him elsewhere,

gone in the other direction.

He did return just once

to tell me the way of it,

his death-fall. Though I had already

felt it, from too far away.

Photo Copyright © David Mikulenka 2007. Not to be reproduced in any way without written permission from the copyright owner.

Note: 'Mostly wolf' – he was 75% small timber wolf, 25% domestic dog.

This poem was written for the kenning prompt at 'imaginary garden with real toads'. Kenning is the creation of compound nouns. I have created a few compound adjectives here, too (which seems to be easier) and used some compound nouns which already existed.

Giving Thanks

To David, Carolina, Maia, and their companions

In Guatemala on Earth Day

near Lake Atitlan,

my friends are planting trees.

The wind thanks them

for a new tool to make music; and

the birds thank them for welcome rest. 

The sun thanks them. The work

will be better, tempered by shade.

The animals thank them likewise.

The Lake thanks them. The roots

will bind its banks. The branches 

will spread, leafy, to shade the fish. 

Rain, taken up into clouds, 

will drip from the leaves, down 

to refresh the earth and its plants.

The plants and the soil say their thanks too.

Only the people - except for a few - don't thank.

(Oh well, people. What do they know?)

Image by Vijay/ Creative Commons

Posted for Sanaa's Prompt Nights: Jour de la Terre

Saving the Bard

(If you could save only one of Shakespeare’s works…?)

Could I save only one sonnet –

‘Marriage of true minds’ would it be

or the sweet, ‘Shall I compare thee’?

Well, if I am really honest,

I’d choose both. You can bet on it.

The same for the plays, I expect.

Which? Romeo and Juliet,

Hamlet, the Merchant of Venice,

King Lear, Macbeth or The Tempest?
Save one, and all others regret!

At 'imaginary garden with real toads' we are invited to Tip Our Hats to the Bard – and the question in my subtitle is posed. 

At dVerse we are asked to try the Décima form. 

I decided to combine both. Result: a most un-Shakespearian example of doggerel! (Occupational hazard of doing the April 'poem a day' thing.)

Mother Earth Farewells Her Human Children

I made you soft grasses

and sand for your feet.

I made you great waters,

the salt and the sweet.

I made you the skies

in which you see

the stars and the clouds,

the birds flying free.

I made you forests

with trees thick and green;

the valleys, the mountains,

the hills in between.

You wanted them different,

these gifts that I gave.

You changed them too much,

past what you can save.

So farewell to you, children;

I cut you from my heart.

I have others to cherish.

You must now depart.

For Earth Day, Magaly in On Her Day, Gaia Wails at 'Dark Poetry for the Cruellest Month' requests a poem from the Mother's point of view; while Gillena in Fashion Me Your Words at 'imaginary garden with real toads' asks for something with a dance rhythm, aimed at environmental protection, in no more than 100 words including title. 

Photo: Jet Stream by NASA 29 April 1991, Copyright free

So What?

I was three

when I rode the elephant.

She was big.

They said she was old.

She went slow.

I was very high up.

My Mum, running beside us

and waving at me, looked little.

The seat swayed and wobbled.           

I asked if I could get down.

All the grown-ups, my family,

told me it was a treat.

They said I would always remember

riding the elephant at Melbourne Zoo

the day I turned three.

Well, I do.


Written for An Elephantine Challenge 
at 'imaginary garden with real toads'

Elephant at Columbus ZooPHOTO: SHELL KINNEY[CC-BY-3.0 (HTTP://CREATIVECOMMONS.ORG/LICENSES/BY/3.0)], VIA WIKIMEDIA COMMONS

A Desperate Wooing

Oh my luscious love,

my delectable sweetie,

the most desirable,

the most tantalising –

I crave you!

I want to lick you all over

slowly … savour

your fragrant aroma …

nibble gently

at your soft and tender

edges … until at last

I touch your heart.

It’s true, I confess,

there have been others –

but none, now, 

to compare with you.

Be mine! I promise to love you

more than all the rest

for as long as you live.

Come, give yourself to me.

Oh, I could eat you all up!

Yours truly,

yours besottedly –
~ Cookie Monster ~

Subtraction.com and all contents copyright 1998-2016 by Khoi Vinh unless otherwise noted.
Contents under Creative Commons License.

Written for Dark Poetry for the Cruellest Month: 
Legendary Beings in Love

It's perhaps a bit of a stretch but I'm also linking this piece to When Good Wishes Go Bad at 'imaginary garden with real toads'. If Cookie Monster gets his wish, it won't do his beloved much good, and he's setting himself up for a very brief affair!

Downside-Up

Depths down, I float in clouds.

I twist but I can't see.

Sky enters the river.

There’s nowhere else to be

but this cave of blind white

where I find no life, only me.

No fish nor weed nor insect –

just me, tree-deep, sight-free.

Another for dVerse Quadrille – 7: twist, doubling as response to Turns of the Tale: Poetic Surprise at 'imaginary garden with real toads'. Come at something from a new angle, they invited. I frequently rhapsodise about rivers and celebrate clouds – but not quite like this.