Dragons, Fairies, and Other Invisible Friends

I fill my dreams with beasts

That you cannot find in a zoo

The sort that frighten folk

Who have too much to do


I call them to me as one calls

A pet a or gentle friend

And with them all this day or next

I’ll have fun with no end


Monsters that hide beneath my bed

I shall never fear

For I keep my beasts-

Those watchful beasts- always ever near


And when i wake from sleep

And see my dreamy mates

I’ll rejoice- for I will be

With friends both true and great.


Written on the Back of a Library Receipt

Wait a little bit, oh dear

For my time to come.

For me to conquer touch of fear

And call my courage done.

Then from armoured breast my heart

Will burst the sealed drum.

It pains the blood to flow apart

While sobs and daydreams hum.

It may be long before I rest,

Forever in your arms,

But though I cherish still I dress

In chivalry- safe from harm.

My faults I quote, as does befit

A man who fortune warms,

And once again I will submit

How great your beauty’s charms.


I am a man of fashion old

Whose creed is not in vogue.

I feel myself a wander bold

Whose yoke is heavy load.

I wear this suit of armour cold

To keep my heart from rogues

Who would subvert and bend and fold

My creed to craft my goad.


So once again I will say:

I do not flee my maille.

But rather do I stand- and pray-

That you not name it jail.

To work from confines small- nay!-

As large as ocean’s gale

And not be like the stag at bay

Not like some shell born snail.


I play my role inside my mind

Where the land is long,

And never shall I ever find

A sweet and endless song

So great and peopled with so grand

A cast of right and wrong.

My home I make inside this land

For long as day is long.




Leafy green fronds waving in the breeze
Of underwater- water!- that flows so swiftly by
And carries fishy birds to the Northern seas.
Under it all, the clouds, the sun, the sky
There lies a world of murky currents
And secret places in the coral
And such the singular occurrence
As an octopus in the distinguished choral
Section of the band. Stood up on a box
That serves so well to show off the flow
Of the water- Water!- that is subtle like a fox
And outlives any and all of its foes.


So, I wrote this back at the beginning of the month (honest, I did!). But then I just never got around to posting it. So now I am.


Stepping up to fill a gap left between trick-or-treat and Jingle Bells, November stands in the spotlight.

A slightly quavering hand scoops up the Autumn leaves as its mate holds back the winter snow. November, the month of in-between. No real claim for notoriety, except for a pleasant meal as a whole near the end.
But the days of November seem to apologize for the absence of specialty. They mumble excuses of getting ready for the “Busy Season” and wander away.


Old Man Storm

I stepped out when I was young
Beneath a sky, cold and dumb
From which winds were tossed and flung
And the peace was broken.

I looked at it, face upturned
And asked a question that which burned
At my mind and now had earned
The right to be spoken.

“Old Man Storm, why do you frown?
Why do you glower as you gaze down
on our unflinching mortal town?”
The cloud gave no token.

I decided to try again
To get an answer, add to my ken
And find me out where I was when
The storm had broken.

“Old Man Storm, why do you sigh?
Way up there with the clouds so high
Where the birds are free to fly?”
The wind was unbroken.

“You blow and whistle with wind and breeze
And push and buffet at houses and trees
I ask you now, why do you do these?”
No answer there was spoken.

“Old Man Storm, why do you grumble?
With lightning crash and then thunder rumble
In the distance, like a quiet mumble?”
The thunder gave no token.

“Flashes of light and echoes of sound
Reverberate up, fall back down
To crash again upon the ground.”
No answer there was spoken.

“Old Man Storm, why do you cry?
Rain squeezed down from way up high
Cheeks of storm below eyes of sky?”
The rain fell unbroken.

“The weather washes the earth below
But what about the sky you know?
Does it get fixed by the stormy blows?”
There was no answer spoken.

Before too long the rain had stopped
The grass had dried, the clouds all dropped
Their weary load and then had popped
Like balloons, had broken.



September heaves a sigh of relief as it drops a burden of school books and folded notes before it moves off-stage. October jumps into place, all show and crackle of fallen leaves. It flounces a cape of midnight serenades fit for any February 14th, and then shines the back porch lightbulb that is the jack-o-lantern in the sky. Illuminated are a thousand tiny bugs that fly like witches in the sky, only to be bitten apart by the night-hunters of Dracula lore.

“From ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggety beasties and things that go BUMP in the night”

That was written for October, with its scary stories and cool nights. Every dewdrop in the morning only a slide to take you to the next night. Midnight reels in the line and pulls out a fat catch. Days are only the means to get to evening; to night; to adventure.
For what greater adventure is there than to walk out among a horde of unseen fairies that dance and chine in every step? Their voices made of soft-sighing winds and hard-crunching leaves. The Scooby-Doo villains that walk arm-in-arm with every lonely traveler, livening spirits and lifting away sadness.

It changes the colour of the sky. Blue turns smokey and darkness brings in its own special shadow to hide the moon on nights when it isn’t full.
In wonder they think of all this, all just for one night, right at the end of the month. But October shakes his head and tells them better. For every day and every night can be spent like October. Turn your thoughts the right way and you can take a walk down the lane that leads through the heart of the October Country.


For I have books to read and stories to tell. I know not when I will be done and able to slumber. I know only that these things will not take wing and fly by themselves. They must be given freedom, outfitted with wings made of words and syllables and noises from outside the ring of light. Then those tales and legends and books that were read flap away unsteadily, looking for the next eager pair of eyes and ears that they can come to for rest.


August collapses in a helter-skelter pile as it lays down to sleep for eleven months. Then September tucks it in with a blanket of newly changed leaves and moves forward to take charge. The wind grows cooler and the air crispens to embrace the warmth of summer-left-over. September realizes the child’s fear that school is really here and not just a dream. They sigh from practice, but care less about the sudden responsibilities now that they’ve become more used to them. Age brings complacency, it seems.
Stills, more adventures await in summer, a mere eternity away, and we’ll greet them as friends when they come. But, until then September will have to do.
Autumn is on its crackling way and will arrive before anyone realizes. October lies just around the corner, but it’s not November yet.


Act I

Everything begins the same as the night before. The audience files in and takes its seats as a whole. The curtain raises and the players are all in their places. They have all their line memorized and locked away in vaults of flesh and bone. His accent is perfect, her laugh has a slight snort every three breaths. All their actions, connections, beings are scripted to the letter. They are ready.
The play begins. Lines fill your ears one after another, lilting and flowing from one into the next as easily as water. The main event is a tragedy wrapped in the warm folds of comedy and dashed against the shores of romance to add realism. Each part was painstakingly written and rewritten to make sure that it is perfect.
The scene changes once, and then it’s suddenly the end of the act, and the curtain closes. Fifteen minutes without play grinds on the payers’ nerves until the curtain rises again. The play continues like every other night. Except…
One of the players trips. A vase is thrown to the floor and gives the dull sound of plastic bouncing. The audience will forgive these things, just show them what will happen next. But the players just stare at the vase. Slowly, one picks it up and drops it again. The sound reverberates through the hushed audience in an audible whisper of echo. Then another player takes hold of the wonderful, crystal glasses and listens as they sound of plastic on the floor. Then, suddenly, everything is gone to chaos.
The players begin ripping apart the stage. One discovers the wax fruit on the table, another finds the books that stand blank on the shelf. One by one, the players sit and cry. They all wear matching carnival masks of surprise, and cry the tears of those betrayed.
The audience that came with rotten fruit in one hand and a tissue in the other leaves the latter on the stage and then just leaves. The curtain closes.


July breathes a smoke filled sigh of relief as it leaves the center stage and August claims the spotlight. While crowds of children groan in protest as time turns from summer fun to the weary responsibility of the school year. Christmas, and even the magic of October are far away and all that can be seen are the too-hot nights and the fervent wishes for dreams to bring back the joys just once again before the Fall.
A truckload of shooting stars delight the springtime minds of now older, wiser children. Youth is wasted on the young and summer is wasted on the old. If only the two could make an exchange. An endless youth filled with balancing check books and scraping frost off of car windows. Across the street, a cadre of men and women with hair like snow on swing sets and jungle gyms and playing tag under the sun forever young.
But, slowly now, we’ll go to bed. Let August wins its weary way past to make room for September and all the adventures it will bring.


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