Tag Archives: magic

In which I am apparently studying at Hogwarts!

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And for the matter, Hogwarts is currently masquerading as the University of Nottingham. No, it wasn’t the fact that I will be spending a significant amount of time this semester over runic texts and/or books on Old English and Old Norse. It wasn’t the fact that if all libraries on campus are as large as the one I hang out in (Hallward Library for those in the know), then clearly Hermione Granger had an active involvement in their design. It wasn’t even the fact that part of the campus could possibly be the Forbidden Forest in miniature (although if anyone fancies looking for unicorns and/or thestrals, I’m up for it).

No, what go me (and a few friends of mine for the matter) suspicious is the sheer number of staircases, doors and corridors that seem to lead nowhere in this place. I swear, in Trent Building only there’s more corridors than actual rooms. Is that even architecturally possible? Not that we are complaining. I can’t speak for the others, but having spend a good part of my early teenage-hood fully expecting a Hogwarts letter to arrive I am simply glad to be able to indulge in a little fantasy play and pretend I’m a very studious Ravenclaw or a mischivious Slytherin (I could never quite decide which House suited me better…).

And with the first week of lessons not being over yet, I can’t help but feel like a little first year, star-struck with all the new experiences and spending a lot of time getting lost in one corridor or another. It certainly looks like it’s going to be an interesting year if nothing else. Normally I don’t judge places and people at first glance but this time I will hazard a prediction: the next fifty-one weeks are going to be unforgettable!

Strawberry Moon

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It hums in my blood; the moon’s sudden madness,

Long before the bloodied sun has ever set.

Around me the people, they all can feel it,

And speak a bit louder, laugh a bit stronger,

And their movements, their movements are a dance.

 

The strawberry moon hums in my blood

And gladly I obey its calling.

Wrapping myself in a plethora of flowery sink,

Pinning a rose in my hair and crescent on my neck.

Tonight I shall be daring, shall not hide or blush;

I’m of the moon’s touched tonight.

 

I’ll swing my hips to the sound of drums

And lay against the sun-baked stones.

Long after Selena takes to sky,

I’ll draw the cards – to read under her light

What may or may not, what friends

And lovers and even foes

The summer tide will bear me;

All under the gaze of the strawberry moon.

Gretel

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Gretel keeps her head low

And goes about her way,

Does the bidding of the witch;

The mistress of the house,

While Hansel stays up high, locked.

Who warned who?

Who first approached the house?

 

Starved and stranded in the dark,

The gingerbread house shone

Like a beacon through the storm,

Like red-hot coals in a baker’s oven,

And with its heady scents invited:

“Come, come my ducklings!

Come, feast on my honey-sticky sweetness.”

 

Like a caramelised apple

Baba Yaga’s smile shone crisply,

Framed in curtains of cotton candy lace.

Kindly she invited them to her table,

Gave them supper, let them eat their fill,

And in the choices the siblings made

Took measure of their characters.

 

Where Gretel ate slowly and savoured

Each single morsel as the last,

Hansel ever devoured and ever wanted more.

At dusk –at last- they bowed to sleep.

They woke with dawn’s first call;

Hansel in the cage and Gretel in the bed.

 

Household and lessons blur together

For Gretel who learns her mistress’ Craft.

A charm for sweeping apple seeds,

A conjuring of caramel,

Divination with cocoa beans.

And in the evening, the fattening of Hansel

For reasons Gretel dares not dream.

 

But while her brother wiles away the days,

Eating his fill and still presenting bones,

Gretel bides her time and learns.

The witch is, after all, old.

And every night in their corners

The three conspirators

Are turning uneasy in their sleep.

 

The candles begin to burn again

And Baba’s patience is gone.

Her eyes are not what they have been

But children’s plots are easy to divine.

The girls is ready, the boy is ripe.

She orders Gretel to prepare

Her brother for the fire.

 

In silent co-plotting the two children,

For one perfect moment thought as one.

The fire set their ending goal,

Hazing and blazing in the house’s cave dark,

And with a scream that tore the air

The crone they push inside its gaping mouth.

 

Two children did the woodsman have

Two were he lost in the forest.

But, stumbling out of the snow-covered trees,

Only a son did the forest return to him.

For cunning Gretel stayed behind, heir and only child

To Baba Yaga and, in time, a Baba Yaga too,

To raise the storms, to wander in the wilderness,

To judge, to guide, to guard.

The Fisherman and the Water Maiden (rewrite)

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Author’s note: I usually don’t post rewrites of pieces I have already uploaded, but I wasn’t happy with how it originally turned out, so here’s the edited version.

The fisherman and the water maiden

In a land not far from here, in a time not long ago, there lay a small village at the edge of the shore. Many of the men made a living out of fishing, leaving their wives and children before dawn and returning with the setting sun –or not at all. The shoreline near the village was treacherous, littered with sea caves and reefs, waiting to claim unsuspecting sailors. It was here, the stories said, that water maidens lived. It was rare one might see them, as it was said that they appeared only to those that made them curious. Nevertheless, people said they made excellent wives.

 

In the village lived a poor fisherman with his mother. The lad was reckless, as young people tend to be, and often brought his boat far closer to the rocky shore than most considered wise. One year, the young man was making the customary wine liberation ‘to appease the Old Man Sea’, as his elders taught, when a most unusual thing was caught in his net; a golden comb inlaid with pearls. The fisher threw the comb right back in the water, not wanting to face a water maiden’s wrath.

 

Little did he know that the comb belonged to one of the daughters of Old Man Sea himself, who had been drawn near by the unfamiliar sweet taste of wine in the water. The following dawn the fisherman returned to the same spot and cast his net once more when, out of the gleaming water, came the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. Her skin was pale as foam, her eyes were the gold of the sand on the shore and her hair the many blues of the ocean. Fascinated, he offered her some of the stone-baked bread that he had brought to lunch on. The maiden took one look at it and laughed, as tiny waves rocked the boat gently.

‘Your bread won’t do for me!’ she said. ‘It’s far too hard.’

Still laughing, she dived underwater and disappeared.

 

The fisherman returned home and that night and every night after his dreams were haunted by the water maiden’s laugh. Every morning he would return and cast his net on the same spot, hoping to catch another glimpse of her. At the end of the week his patience was rewarded. The mid-spring sun was burning overhead when, with a mischievous smile, the water maiden reappeared. This time the fisherman offered her unbaked dough, but the maiden shook her head and a cascade of pearls fell from her hair to the boat.

‘Your bread won’t do for me!’ she said. ‘It’s far too soft.’ With a wink she disappeared underwater again.

 

The lad returned to his mother with feverish eyes and a bag full of pearls instead of fish. One look at her son’s sorry state was all it took for the woman to understand the situation. Knowing this to be the sort of love-sickness that cannot be cured, she determined to help her son win the maiden. For the next few days she gave him half-baked bread to offer to his faery sweetheart. Indeed, in a week’s time, when the water maiden appeared to the fisherman with a smile, he offered her the loaf and, to his delight, she accepted it.

‘My name is Awel,’ she said softly before diving once more into the wine-coloured sea.

 

The fisherman almost jumped after her in his despair, but, before he could, the sea grew choppy and out of its depths appeared the Old Man himself, followed by twelve girls, all identical to Awel.

‘Choose wisely, young human,’ said the Old Man. ‘Pick the one you have been courting and you may take her and all that is hers to your land-bound house.’

The fisherman studied the twelve sisters carefully. They were all silent, all gazing at him with the same sweet-as-wine smile playing on their lips. And yet…near the middle of the line one of the maidens had breadcrumbs on her lips. The young man looked at her and said,

‘You are Awel.’

 

With sparkling eyes Awel stepped inside his boat, dressed in a bride’s white raiment.

‘Know this, young human,’ Old Man Sea said once the couple had settled on the boat. ‘My daughter shall be your wife and bring happiness and prosperity to your house. But take heed! Should you forget she is not bound by the rules of your world three times, she and all that is hers will leave you.’

The fisherman was so entranced by his bride-to-be that he eagerly promised to accept her in every way.

 

And so the fisherman brought the water maiden to his house and made her his wife. Awel was always cheerful and industrious, and the couple were happy together. True to the Old Man’s word, from that day on the fisherman prospered, his nets always full and his boat safe. Awel bore him three sons and three daughters and there was never shortage of laughter and merry-making at their house.

 

So happy was the fisherman, that he was willing to overlook some of his wife’s more… peculiar habits. She might like her fish raw but the food that she served on their table was always perfectly cooked. And if the children grew as wild as the seals at the sea caves, what did it matter? Everyone agreed that they took after their mother and he loved them just like that. Days turned to months, and month turned to years, and the fisherman counted himself the happiest man in his village. Then, one day, he returned to find the house empty of wife and children. Awel had a habit of taking the children to the sea, but she always brought them back before her husband returned. The fisherman didn’t have to wait long before his family walked through the front door, laughing and soaked to the bone. Torn between fondness and exasperation he chastised his wife for not having the house prepared for his return. Awel looked at her husband.

‘I cannot live all day by the hearth,’ she said. ‘Take care.’

 

The fisherman understood the warning and, loving his wife too much to lose her, paid extra care to avoid anything that might cause her departure. For a while all was well in his household once more. Then, after a terrible storm, news reached him that one of his closest friends had drowned. The entire village gathered to pay their respects to the man when, amongst the cries and tears, Awel’s lilting laugh was heard. Despite her years away from the sea, she still remembered the tricks her sisters and her would use to lure young men to their caves whenever they felt like taking a lover. The man might be lost but he was far from dead. The fisherman, hurt by his wife’s reaction, scolded her. Once more her laughter stopped and she looked at her husband with sad eyes.

‘I know of things you cannot know,’ she said. ‘Take great care.’

 

The third and final error came not long after the second. Awel’s eldest daughter had grown from a child to a maiden and, as maidens are bound to do, she fell in love with a young man. The wedding was swiftly arranged, but, amongst all merriment, Awel cried, knowing her daughter forever bound to land and forever out of her reach. Forgetting himself and not wanting to cause a scene, the fisherman insisted she stop crying on a happy occasion. Awel looked at him with tear-filled eyes.

‘Your rules do not bind me. Now my house and yours will forever be divided.’

 

A sound like a thunderclap shook the wedding hall to its foundations, a wild ocean gale followed it, and in its wake Awel and her five remaining children disappeared, taking with them the fisherman’s prosperity.

The fisherman and the water maiden

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In a land not far from here, in a time not long ago, there lay a small village at the edge of the shore. Many of the men made a living out of fishing, leaving their wives and children before dawn and returning with the setting sun –or not at all-. The shoreline near the village was treacherous, littered with sea caves and underwater reefs, just waiting to drown an unsuspecting sailor.

 

It was perhaps because of that, that the sailors often returned with stories of the water maidens, beautiful blond women whose songs were what caused the drownings. Despite their lethal reputation they were thought to make excellent wives for those cunning enough to entice them to the shore. In fact, many of the older families in the area boasted of having a water maiden as an ancestress.

 

Now, in the village lived a poor young fisherman with his mother. The lad was reckless, as young people tend to be, and often brought his boat far closer to the rocky shore than what most might consider prudent. One year the young man was making the customary wine liberation “to appease the Old Man Sea”, as his elders said, when a most unusual thing was caught in his net; a golden comb inlaid with pearls. The fisher knew if the stories, so he threw the comb right back in the water, not particularly wanting to be at the receiving end of a water maiden’s wrath.

 

Little did he know that the comb belonged to one of the daughters of Old Man Sea himself, who, having never tasted wine before, had been drawn near the boat by the unfamiliar sweet taste overpowering that of the salt in the water. The dawn the fisherman returned to the same spot and cast his net once more. The newly-risen sun painted the water gold and out of it came the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. Her skin was pale as foam, her eyes were the blue of the deep ocean and her hair the gold of the sand on the shore. Remembering the stories he had heard, he offered her some of the stone-baked bread that he had brought to lunch on. The maiden took one look at it and laughed, as tiny waves rocked the boat gently.

“Your bread won’t do for me!” she said. “It’s too hard.”

With one last laugh she dived underwater and disappeared.

 

The fisherman returned home and that night and every night after his dreams were haunted by the water maiden’s laugh. Every morning he would return and cast his net on the same spot, hoping to catch another glimpse of her. One week later his patience was rewarded. The mid-spring sun was burning overhead when, with a mischievous smile, the water maiden reappeared. This time the fisherman offered her unbaked dough, but the maiden shook her head and a cascade of pearls fell from her hair to the boat.

“Your bread won’t do for me!” she said. “It’s far too soft.” With one last wink she disappeared underwater once more.

 

The lad returned to his mother with feverish eyes and a bag full of pearls instead of fish. One look at her son’s sorry state was all it took for the woman to understand the situation. Knowing that this was the sort of love-sickness that cannot be cured, she set off to help her son win the maiden. For the next few days she gave him half-baked bread with the instruction to offer that to his fey sweetheart. Indeed, in a week’s time, when the water maiden appeared to the fisherman with a shy smile, he offered her the loaf and –to his delight- she accepted it.

“My name is Awel,” she said softly before diving once more to the wine-coloured sea.

 

The fisherman almost jumped after her in his despair, but before he could the sea grew choppy and out of its depths appeared the Old Man himself, followed by twelve girls, all identical to Awel.

“Choose wisely young human,” said the Old Man. “Pick the one you have been courting and you may take her and all that is hers to your land-bound house.”

 

The fisherman studied the twelve sisters carefully. They were all silent, all gazing at him with the same sweet-as-wine smile playing on their lips. And yet…near the middle of the line one of the maidens had breadcrumbs on her lips. The young man looked at her in the eyes and said,

“You are Awel.”

 

With sparkling eyes Awel stepped inside his boat, dressed in a bride’s white raiment.

“Know this young human,” Old Man Sea said once the couple had settled on the boat, “my daughter shall be your wife and bring happiness and prosperity to your house. But take heed! If you strike her unnecessarily three times she, and all she has brought, will leave you.”

The fisherman was so entranced by his bride-to-be that he eagerly promised never to lay a hand on her for anything other than a caress.

 

And so the young human brought the water maiden to his house and made her his wife. Awel was always cheerful and industrious, and the couple were happy together. True to the Old Man’s word, from that day on the fisherman prospered, his nets always full and his boat safe, no matter how treacherous the water he treaded. Awel bore him three sons and three daughters and there was never shortage of laughter and merry-making at their house.

 

So happy was the fisherman, that he was willing to overlook some of his wife’s more… peculiar habits. She might like her fish raw but the food that she served on their table was always perfectly cooked. So what if the floor of their house was never quite dry? They lived close to the shore, some damp was inevitable. So what if the children grew as wild as the seals at the sea caves? There were six of them and born as closely as they were, there was always a baby to focus on.

 

Life was as perfect as could be for the fisherman until, one day, he returned to find the house empty of wife and children. Awel had a habit of taking the children to the sea, but she always brought them back before her husband returned. The fisherman didn’t have to wait long before his family walked through the front door, laughing and soaked to the bone. Torn between fondness and exasperation he lightly pulled his wife through the door. All laughter immediately stopped. Awel looked at her husband.

“This was the first strike,” she said. “Take care.”

 

The fisherman loved his wife and had no intention of losing her. For the longest time he paid extra care, fearful that he might forget himself and bring her closer to her departure. Alas the day he feared came sooner than he thought. After a particularly nasty storm, news reached him that one of his closest friends had drowned. The entire village gathered to pay their respects to the unfortunate man when, amongst the cries and tears, Awel’s lilting laugh was heard. Despite her years away from the sea, she still remembered the tricks her sisters and her would use to lure young men to their caves whenever they felt like taking a lover. The fisherman, embarrassed by his wife’s reaction and not privy to her knowledge, lightly rapped her hand. Once more her laughter stopped and she looked at her husband with sad eyes.

“This was the second strike,” she said. “Take great care.”

 

The third and final strike came not long after the second. Awel’s eldest daughter had grown from a child to a maid and, as maids are bound to do, she fell in love with a young man from their village. The wedding was swiftly arranged, but, amongst all merriment, Awel cried knowing her daughter forever locked in the land and forever out of her reach. Forgetting himself and not wanting to cause a scene, the fisherman lightly struck her hand once more. Awel looked at him with tear-filled eyes.

“This was the third strike. Now my house and yours will forever be divided.”

 

A sound like a thunderclap shook the wedding hall to its foundations, a wild ocean gale followed it, and in its wake Awel and her five remaining children disappeared, taking with them the fisherman’s preternatural luck.

The Fun Fair

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Deep in the gardens, just off the main street,

The Fun Fair has set its games once more.

They came with the morning mist,

By mid-morn they were ready,

A village’s worth of gingerbread rides.

 

Music and children laughing,

Donuts and sausages and cotton candy,

Gaudy bags, stuffed animals,

“Two-tokens-a-ride!”

“Come play, everyone wins a prize!”

 

Wrapping paper glamour crinkling

And sparking under stage lights.

Vendors always cheerful,

“That’ll be three quid, love!”

“Come, come, try your luck!”

 

Later at night, when the stalls will shut down

And the lights and the music will stop for a while,

Take a walk with the wind, hear it whistle through

The rusty skeletons of rides, see the confetti

Move tiredly with the night breeze.

 

A few last people might amble around you,

Shutting down power supplies, cleaning fryers,

Shoulders stooping from a day’s work.

Smiles and Fun are a serious enterprise.

After all…someone has to gild the glitter.

Galahad

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Galahad, Galahad,

Doubly his father’s son,

Mounted his steed

And off he was

To seek the Sangreal.

 

Galahad, Galahad,

Haute Prince he’s called,

He’s traded his sun-red armour

For Virginal white

And a bloody shield he bears.

 

Galahad, Galahad,

Begotten of magic,

Arthur’s shade

And younger half,

A perfect knight is called.

 

Galahad, Galahad,

He’s rescinded his mother’s,

His nursemaid’s charms,

And for a Wasted King

The Wastelands he charts.

 

Galahad, Galahad,

Lightbringer of Camelot,

Why do you hurry?

Why find the Grail?

Fulfil the Quest?

 

Galahad, Galahad,

Your name is a beginning,

A beginning of an end.

What makes you so worthy,

You, who are but a means to an end?

Faery Queen May and the Minstrel

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Once upon a time, in a small village by a long road, there lived a young man who wanted nothing more than to become a minstrel. Day in and day out he would labour with the lute until his fingers bled. No matter. The notes fell flat and scratchy to the ears of his unfortunate neighbours. Day in and day out he would practice his singing until his throat was hoarse. No matter. The ballads of desperate lovers sounded like market gossip when he sung them. Still the would-be minstrel practised, determined to achieve fame, to one day travel to the distant capital and perform before the king and all his gold-arrayed court.

 

The young man lived with his mother and grandmother, in a small house near the long road. They had a garden in their backyard and made a living by selling fruit and vegetables to their fellow villagers. The minstrel’s mother was at her wits’ end with her daydreamer of a son.

“Thomas,” she’d say, “go and water the garden.” And Thomas would go out to the garden, but get distracted, grasping for words to describe how the sun light made the water drops gleam, and half the garden would be left dry.

“Thomas,” his mother would say, “take this basket and go to the market to sell our wares.” And Thomas would take the basket to the market, but get distracted, listening to the sounds of life and people, and half the fruit would go unsold and spoiled.

 

The grandmother was old, some said as old the long road. She moved little and spoke even less, but her eyes were sharp as hawk’s and she saw what burned her grandson. One afternoon, as Thomas sat in the garden, practicing the lute in vain, she called to him and spoke thus:

“Child, I know what ails thee and how to remedy it. And if you do exactly as I instruct you, you will become as great a minstrel as ever’s a minstrel been.”

Thomas set the lute down and swore to do exactly as she instructed. The grandmother pointed to the long road.

“Tonight,” she said, “the court of Faery Queen May will go a’revelling through this road. Mark me well. Go and sit yourself on the ground and draw an iron circle around you. Then play your lute as ill as you have ever played. They will invite you to their dance, if only to stop your music, but heed them not and stay a’playing. They will ask your name and that of your master, but heed them not and stay silent. Know this well grandson. If you speak to them, or move out th’circle they will take you with them and it will be years before you find your way home. They will tell you many things, many great secrets, and if you keep your peace and pay them heed, I guarantee, a minstrel you will be, as great a minstrel as can be.”

 

Thomas thanked his grandmother for her council and determined to do as she had ordained. And the wise old grandmother, knowing her child’s child to have more heart than reason, gave him a spoonful of pine honey to hold in his tongue before he left the house, with the instruction not to swallow until dawn broke.

 

That very night the minstrel drew a circle of iron in the middle of the long road and sat himself in. Before long Faery Queen May’s court appeared, dancing and singing their way out of the woods and into the crossroads before Thomas. He looked and saw as fair maidens as he had ever dared imagine and even more so. Their skin was white as the glow of stars, their eyes glittered like gems and their voices were as melodious as any nightingale’s. They saw Thomas and beckoned him with sweet smiles to come and join their revel. But Thomas merely picked his lute and started playing as ill as he could.

 

Before long a faery, wrapped in the greens of leaves, came and stood on the edge of his circle.

“What is you name fair youth?” she asked. “Who is your master? He is poor master indeed, to have taught you so ill. Listen to the wind as it brushes my leaves, that is how you should brush your strings.”

Thomas listened to the way the wind brushed the leaves but spoke not.

 

The moon was half-up in the sky when another faery, wrapped in the blue and crystal of the deep forest pool, came and stood on the edge of his circle.

“Where do you come from sweet one?” she asked. “Who are your parents? Your music will ne’er be sweet if you lean on your lute so heavily. Mark my light dewdrops hanging from the flowers. That is how light your body should be.”

Thomas marked the gathering dewdrops hanging from the flowers but spoke not.

 

On and on, all night long the faeries revelled in his tunes and every now and then one of them would come to stand before Thomas. They tried to get him to sing but the honey made his tongue heavy and unyielding. They tried to get him to join their dance but the circle kept him in. And as the minstrel listened to their words his fingers grew deft and swift, and as the night passed the notes came sweeter and smoother, as good as any minstrel’s of the past.

 

At last Faery Queen May stood before Thomas. She spoke not but gazed at him with sad eyes, and Thomas gazed back and saw that she was fairer, so much fairer than her companions, shining light the full moon amongst the stars. At last Faery Queen May spoke.

“Oh dearest one, your music will ever be but notes unless love touches your heart. Come with me, beloved, and let me teach you about love.”

She offered her hand and Thomas, spellbound by her beauty, swallowed the honey and sprung to his feet, but! As his hand reached through the circle dawn broke. Like a flash the faery court disappeared and Thomas was left alone on the long road, with a head full of wisdom and a heart aching for love of the Faery Queen May.

 

He picked the lute in his hands and, as he walked the long road back to his small house at the small village, he played and sung. His old grandmother heard him and wept, for she knew what it meant to have fingers as swift as the wind in the leaves, hold light as dewdrops hanging from flowers and a voice as sweet as a lover’s yearning for their love.

The maid and her two lovers

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A maid lived once, much beloved,

Of the ocean and the sun.

Long had the two in combat met

To win her tender favour.

Long had the maid despaired

Over her lovers’ strife.

One summer day, on the pebbled shore,

She stood and so she cried:

‘Oh Ocean, ever-tumbling, ever-lasting,

Much do I love thee!

Your waves embrace me in passion

Your currents lead me on a woman’s dance.

You ebb and flow, you follow

My lady Moon’s commands.

Your burning, salty breath heals

The sickness of my body.

How can I part from thee, beloved,

When all my inner self belongs

To thy passionate demands?’

The Ocean much swelled in pride

To gain such favour from the lovely maid.

But still the maiden cried and turned

Her flowing eyes to the sun.

‘Oh Sun, all-burning, all-revealing,

How can I not love thee?

Your gentle kiss and your caress

Warm my frost-covered skin.

Your smile is favour to my lady Earth’s

Bounty that feeds my kith and kin.

Thy love is distant, yet enduring,

Thy affection steadfast and true.

How can I part from thee, beloved,

Whose favour helps endure the winter months?’

The Sun hears and swelled with pride

At the maiden’s commendation.

But still the maiden despaired

At the fickleness of her own heart;

To have such worthy suitors

And yet unable to love one.

She wept and wept and wept.

Her tears painted her lover Ocean’s

Waters blue.

She wept and wept and wept.

Her tears were dried by her lover Sun’s

Rays as kisses soft.

All day and night the maid lamented

And in the coming dawn,

Her kith and kin came to the coast,

To find no maid; only a tree,

Prickly and gnarled with tears

Streaming from its leaves

And ever kissed by Ocean and Sun.

W is for Wishes

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A wish is a brief thought; delicate and ephemeral,

Like wisps of clouds against a burning sunset.

Beautiful fractals of frost on a window,

Turned rainbow crystals by the golden-grey dawn.

Here for a moment and then gone,

Trailing soundlessly the ether.

 

Uttered and then forgot; children of a moment,

None thinks that they come true.

And yet, under the blinking lights of a tree,

Surrounded by the sparks of fireworks,

Pressed up in hugs by familiar strangers,

We cannot help it. The words form,

They slip unheard, unseen, unfelt,

And perhaps, just once,

The magic of the days is enough

And we believe.