The First Frost

Sorry, but this is what comes out at 5:30 in the morning. Maybe I'll come back and edit it. Maybe not. Maybe I'll write a sequal entitled "The First Snow" or maybe not, Eh. I'm gonna go sleep now. :P

When Evening Shade has dropped her cowl

Across the face of the vaults of Heaven

Star studded obsidian veil

Shimmering in the late fall night

Then rise the Moon, the glorious Queen

Her fullness round and beaming brightly

Raise her head through Darkness cowl

Laughing moonbeams upon the sleeping Earth

A whisper wafts upon the willow leaves

Curls about the ivy, rustle the rue

Upon the air currents runs a laughter

A puckish voice within the green

Then from the Emerald Deeps come lanterns

Dim stars shining upon the earth

Their lights caught deep within the mushrooms

Paraded forth by the little folk

Lines and lines of the wee running ones

Their torches held like flicker flames

A sea of candles upon the forest floor

No word is spoken, these are not summer games

They have all come now, to the old oak

Its viridian foliage gilt with gold

The gnarlled and twisted white bark

Creaks in reply to the anxious faces

When suddenly the wind whispers near

Kicks the leafy carpet of brown

A laugh is upon the breath of heaven

The wee folk draw nearer the base of the oak

And stepping out of the deepest darkness

The night itself about his shoulders hung

With skin as white as the Moon his mother,

Stepped the Prince of Ice, her son

Where ever his booted foot took step

A frost cracked as it spread on the ground

The air grew still and turned all to silver

As beating breaths came out like smoke

"I have come to thee, oh Forest Lord,

To claim what is mine by right of law

The seasons bid you hand now over

All your power to Winter's maw."

The ancient oak, its blackened seams

Creaked in reply a breathy voice

That rose from the hollow of its base

Like a silent whisper of the woods themselves

"Prince of Ice, your claim is heard

But here today you shall not prevail.

Your claim must first be prove'd still

Before these ones work to your avail."

So the Prince of Ice in furor rose

And walked the glen towards the King

But ere he passed within harming's reach

He stepped within the mushroom ring

"Come no further, you shall dare not.

The ground you step upon is mine alone

If you wish to make your claim tonight

You must first mark all you would make your own."

So retreated he from the Oaken Glade

And took upon the wings of night

And looked he far for the wandering shade

Who took many forms by the moonlight

Robin Goodfellow called was he

At least by some in some forms he would take

Puck, Trickster, Thief, Green Boy

When the moon was full none could place him

But the Prince of Ice knew he plan now lay

Upon the shoulders of the impish lad

For there was one form that Puck could take

So that all the lands by the Prince could be had

So flying high and flying low,

Across the sea and land

Searching forest, mountains, glades, fields

The hidden depths and foreign strands

But nowhere could he spot the imp

And so with feverish dispair

He cried unto his mother the moon,

"Mother! I can't find him anywhere!"

The guiding moon her soft radiant glow

Smiled down upon her child

And her lights gathered upon the forest

A place most savage and most wild

And there within the darkened bough

Beneath the willow curtain

Lay that impish boy called Puck asleep

On a bed of chamomile and lavender

"Puck! Robin! Whatever your name be!

Halt and I would have words with thee!"

"Nay, but sir I must away from here

For daylight soon shall appear,"

"Noble Puck, please hear my plea

If thou help me, I shall reward thee."

"....."

"What kind of reward?"

"Anything, anything thou desire,

Name it but, and it shall be thine.

But please, take form tonight as me

And help claim all the world as mine."

The imp though quick upon the task

And then with boyish giggling laugh

He declared he would for the proffered prize

And so set he about to make his disguise

He wove about him the same cold skin

The gleam of ice upon his brow

He took upon the same blue weeds

And silver set was his crown

Then with a merry giggle he flew

Across the ponds and woods and glades

And where he went he blew and blew

Upon forest and sea, nymph and neraid

And where his cool kiss did come

A sheath as cold as death itself

Hard as adamant, pure as pearl

And sharp as the diamond's point

The crystal dust he blew and threw

And painted upon each blade of grass

He rushed it along the river path

Enjoying his silvery task

Then came he upon dryad glade

And melting into the black guise

Crept and fell over their frames as a shade

And blew sweetly upon them the ice

Dancing upon river, writing upon glass

Dusting the world with his diamonds

He circled the land and returned again

And was hailed by the Prince of Ice

"Well done sweet Puck, they work is grand

Thou has taken my visage and done to the accord

And covered every inch of the land

Now, good imp, name thy reward."

"You Prince, you say, you are put a Prince

And carry not yet the title of King.

So how is it that you shall gain authority

To rule over everything?"

The imps question was met with reply

Both short and to the point

"I shall marry the Princess of Snow,

Then shall all my power know."

"Then my mind is made, I know what I want

To meet this Princess of Snow."

"Then follow me, thou sly sprite

And away to her castle, we shall go!"

Her castle stood on the farthest shore

Where monuments of ice stood firm

And mountains moved in waters cold

White as snow was all around

The two walked into the High Gate

And up the stairs to the throneroom

They passed into the presence of her

Whom all knew as Lady Winter

"Who comes here now at this hour?

The world seems colder to my taste.

Who threatens the serenity of my bower?

Speak now, both of you make haste!"

"I come imploring your hand princess,

For now having seen your face.

I would rather die here upon the ice

Than away from thee take a single pace."

"What now, what foolishness is this Robin?"

Cried the shocked and outraged Prince

"You are nothing but a rude forest imp

This treachery comes, from wence?"

"My name is not Robin (at least today)

And I have come a very long way,

To tell you, my name is Jack Frost

And I would have thy heart at any cost."

The Lady of Winter looked through her white veil,

Eyes glowed silver with the dancing light

Then stepping forth brought out her hand, pale

And using only a fraction of her might

She pushed both out of her court's door

And they flew from there to the snow cold

And skidded across the icy floor

Till they came to rest in the land of old

Where now all things were covered in Frost

And the Prince drew back in his cloak of night

And Jack Frost stood up, having never lost

Against man or beast or troll a fight

But then the words of the Winter Queen

Echoed through the clearing where they stood

"Foolish you have both now been,

I seek the one who my heart understood."

So they both departed in sorrow and despair,

But as they drew to leave

The Lady of Winter spoke again

So that they would not have reason to grieve

"I depart these lands, but only for a time

Till then you both shall stand

And cover all the world with what is mine

Till Winter has covered the land.

And I shall return to you once more

Once the first snow flake come down

And then whom ever has spread the most, for

him shall I share my crown."

Then the two were off night and day,

Jack Frost and the Prince of Ice

And they worked tirelessly covering the world

And uncovering each other's work in turn

So that is why the first frost came

And that is why it has come ever since

For to this day Jack Frost and the Prince

Still try to win the heart of the Lady Winter

Tales from the MAX

People on the MAX always look tired. Tired in the morning when the train pulls up on its sleek steel sliding rails. Tired from their long nights. Tired in the evening when only the sound of steel tracks and the lights illuminating tunnels of raindrops tease the weary senses. Tired from their long days. They need something to wake them up.

Here, let us give them a siren.

As the loud call grows closer and closer, the effects of the siren awakens the sleepers. Is it ambulance? Is it policecar? Is it firetruck? It is the sound of disaster growing closer in its circular call going round and round with the flashing lights.

The old man shakes his head, somewhat slowly, then reaches for his iPhone– that's right, go ahead and drown your thoughts in music. The woman across from him reading The Economist furrows her brow, a quick glance up– eyes back and deeper furrow– try to concentrate. The teen guy, baseball cap askew– go ahead and guess at his ethnicity– looks down, thin fingers meant for the piano or violin turning the large diamond stud in his ear.

The next clump of people. A man with a thick neck, tells his story of being dishonorably discharged- telling how unfair it was- telling how he has no idea where it came from. Then he stops. Stops midsentence. Has to comment looking towards the sirens' directions "mother-rapers". Well he definitely gets points for creativity. Though I think the correct declination would be mother-rapists. But this comment doesn't seem to sit well with the middle aged immegrant–don't ask I how I know she is middle aged or immigrant– places her hand on her cheek and shakes her head. Which just looks odd, fabricated, artificial.

But the people begin to fade again. The small flame we began has died down to an ember. A dying ember. Shall we wake them up? Shall we colour their grey monotonous in technicolour?

Here– let the three come in through the sliding, beeping door, into this dreary, wearisome scene. Go ahead, start telling the other two your story about trying to find a deadbeat job in this kind of bad economy, of fighting off those idiots that grabbed at your girl at the bar–your girl!– and how hard it is to save money so that you can go to junior college next year, all because of your no-good thief of a mother who steels the money from that old pickle jar to buy cocaine. Go ahead and tell about how your lil' sister's car seat wasn't fastened all the way by that same crackhead mom, how they went for a drive that afternoon, how the car went flying over the side of the cliff by the dairy queen, how no amount of make up can hide the way her fat face is scarred.

But you're not the only one who has some entertainment for these weary travelers. Go ahead, yes you, tell the other two about your girlfriend's mom. About how she's an even crazier bee-otch. How you'll let your girlfriend go out on the town on her own, but not with her mom. Because she's so desperate she'll try to sell your girlfriend off like a "ho". How once she even tried to sell her off to a nigger. Thats right, go ahead, use the n-word. Upset the nice African American gentleman that's staring such daggers at you now.

Yes, it may be better for you to get off now, you don't seem to be making too many friends here. Maybe people enjoy their weariness. Maybe they need their tiredness. Why? Who knows... maybe if we simply watch for a while, no interference. No sirens or disruptive interruptions. Let them simmer in the grinding down of their live's through the rough hands of the clock running around its silver rim. We will sit. We will watch. We will reserve judgement. For now. We will be silent.

Today Is A Practice Wearing the Colour Red

Today is a practice wearing red

I place red shoes upon my feet

I pull red shirt over my heart

I tug red ring around my middle finger

I even wear red underwear too

Because today is a day for practice

Today is a practice in red

And if what I have read on the subject of red

Has led me to bed understanding whats said

By the colour red I mark my every breath

Keep time, time time

Red time keep up

Keep strong

Red Strong

Red goes on

Today I will practice wearing this red

This hat, this face, these fingers are red

This nose, those eyes, these beatings are red

This heart, this mind, these motives are read

Snow known by nothing other else in the world

Than Birds who bask upon its dewy down

Red needs practice

It leaps in the eye

It flares nostrels

Breaks jaws

Looses hearts

and loses them too

Passion

Crimson

Scarlet

Fever

Desire

Energy

All of these and more, oh red,

All of these are wrapped in your fillements

They wind around your center

Like the slow turning of the planets

That I should take the galaxy of red on my shoulders

Heft it high and strong upon my back

Would it break these bones in futile anguish?

Should attempts be made when no gain could come?

There is a gain which is not immediate

There is a gain which is not tangable

There is a gain that is not a gain and never will be again

Red spinning stars around me

I take them all upon me and feel their burn

Cool and flicker, they lick me red up and down

They coat me in their red until I am red as they are

I look down and see in a world of grey and black

Red. Fire engine red. It sits heavy on my coat

and seeps out into the surrounding pages

It leaves a red trail, a watermark, a bloodmark

where I have trod.

So that today

As I take this red upon me

and practice it

Today I embrace

Embrace the redness

Redness of the soul

Redness of the human being

I embrace all of these

I do not claim my body

I do not claim my soul

I do not claim my footsteps

Or the echoes of my fingers

But I drape red over all of them

Like the bodies in a morgue

I lay them to rest neath the vale of red

That they may be in peace now.

I pull the same red veil over my face

It is the final curtain of the act

Today is a practice in red

A practice in wearing the red.

Today is a practice in wearing the colour red.

For the Hatred of Mirrors

Parts and bits of mirror shard,

Stick up, stand straight from the rough wood floor.

Pieces of mirror, glass now shattered,

Lying all upon my closet door.

Lying dead upon my closet door.

A hundred eyes look back on me,

A hundred faces, none the same.

A hundred different forms taken,

Taken upon a breaking frame.

Asking, begging for so much more.

Masks set firm on wall peg places,

Mounted in cement and tears.

Steel girders gird the secret bower,

Locks and chains made of memory and fears.

A central piece from crimson tore.

Pull the veil once more across,

Hide the Holiest away for now,

Tear not at this gentle steel curtain

Pierce not past this faceless brow

Let lie the sleeping, vampyric core

Bits and parts of shattered facemask

Sticking up from the mirror’s floor

Chipped ceramic faces falling

Falling, breaking upon my iron door

Breaking, shattering–– no more.

Happy Sunshine Poem

Happy Sunshine-y Poem

Sunshine

Sunnyshine

Happy Sunny Sunnyshine

Trees–– happy, pretty trees

Puppies–– happy, cutesy puppies

Kitty–– fluffy happy kitty

Butterfies, butterflies, unicorns, ponies

Butterflies, butterflies, twinkle little stars

Sugar rainbows, happy elves

Christmastime, all year round

Magic ponies (did I mention the ponies?)

Hot chcolate, chocolcate milk, cookies and milk

Pretty much any milk and chocolate combination

Wishing wells and enchanted spells

Raindrops on kittens and whiskers on roses

A biiiiiiiiIIIIiiiiiiig smile

Good night kisses

Tucked into bed

Now its time

To lay down your

Happy

Sunshiny

Sunny

bright

glad

cheery

smiling

head.

Emily, My Emily

So I wrote this for my writing class... yeah I know its really dark. This may in fact be the darkest thing I've ever written.... *shudders* Just a fair warning, not for the faint of hearted to read. In fact, don't read it at all. You'll regret it. Go read another of my works instead. In fact, I'll post a happy sunshine poem after this, so go read that instead!

* * *

Emily, My Emily

The holy father had assured us that the farm would be safe now, but Amelia still had her doubts after what she had seen. It was a spacious property tucked away in eastern Oregon, serrounded by low hills covered with long golden grass, a piece of the prarie that had survived the harsh desert. On either side the closest neighbors were 27 and 32 miles away respectfully. Isolation was what had allowed it to happen. It was why no one had noticed. Why it kept happening over and over and over again. And why Amelia knew it would keep happening. No matter what some excercist may say.

But I had other ideas. Having grown up in the city all my life, but with a real country heart, I couldn’t wait to get out on the little patch of prarie and begin building on my claim like the pioneers of old. As soon as we moved in I repainted the house and the barn, made sure the three cows that came with the house were up to date on their shots, and began planting the corn.

That was my second mistake, according to Amelia. She said that they had planted corn too and if we did then it would all start again. So I gently reminded her that part of the reason we had moved out here was also for her degenerating health. That she was sick. Very sick. And that right now she should just focus on getting better.

“But Harry, I’m scared! I know! I know its going to happen!” she mumbled through persed lips.

“Scared of what?” I inquired, trying to be gentle with her frail mind but she refused to talk, pressing her lips together as if she would swallow them before revealing what she knew.

Amelia had grown up in this part of the country. She knew all about it. Every stream, every blade of yellowed grass was intimate with her. She could lie on her back in a field at night and find all the stars and tell you their names and life stories and where they would hide. I think thats why I first fell in love with her. She was the living embodiment of my beloved country-life.

But as much as she loved to tell me about the country she did not one to tell me one thing. What had happened on the farm, and to its previous owners. All she insisted was that I call a priest before she would even set foot in the house. I obliged, partly out of genuin concern for her, partly out of my own curiosity to see if the priest would know anything, but mostly because I really wanted to house. It was my dream house after all.

Once we moved in she was apprehensive. Apprehensive about everything. She creeped through the house, stepped gingerly on the floor, faintly traced the walls, as if afraid to make too much contact with any part of the house at once. At night, she shivered, even when it was warm. We had to sleep with a light on for her.

But as the years passed we grew accostomed to the house. Or maybe I just grew used to the way she acted around it. She had gotten paler, thinner, with a gaunt look about her eyes. It was soon after the birth of our daughter, Emily. When Amelia decided to become the assistant teacher at Emily’s preschool I was glad, I won’t lie. Having her mope about the farm was tiresome. In the spring I hired a few hands to help me plant corn and hopefully they’d be back in the fall around harvest time. It was intresting thought, I had put the add out and literally the next day they were there. I didn’t know it worked that fast, but that must just be country folk’s good neighborlyness.

When the corn was high and harvest time was near, I cut the corn into a maze. It was bizaar. The hired hands showed up, hopping out of the old black pickup, and said they had come early to cut the maze. Said it was a tradition. I wasn’t sure what to say. But the next night, I had the most vivid dream and woke up with the perfect idea for the maze. A maze that would be impossible to see the exit out of when you were inside, unless you had a map.

They looked at my plans and smiled. I can’t describe the smile because I can’t really describe their faces. They all seemed similar in a way. Come to think of it, everything about them seems really hazy... and out of focus.... no matter how hard I try to remember... but anyway...

The maze was cut. The pumpkins were ready. Our cat we brought along had a litter of kittens. It was most definitly time for the Pumpkin patch to be opened. Couples came with their children. Teenagers came with their boy friends and girlfriends to kiss in the maze. Fall was in the air and everyone was celebrating it. It was Halloween, when we decided to invite the preschool to the pumpkin patch.

They arrived in the afternoon and fell upon the various activies we had planned for them. They carved pumpkins. Had pumkin seed spitting contests. They drew pictures. They played tag in the patch. But we had told them, no one was to go into the maze. They were too young. The last thing we needed was a crying lost child.

But my Emily didn’t listen. She went into the maze. The maze! And it was an hour before we realized she was gone. Amelia was frantic. The teacher hearded the rest of the children aboard the school bus and they left. We searched and searched but could not find her anywhere. My wife was sobbing, cluthing my arm viselike repeating the words, its happening again, its happening again.

Finally in a half crazed mode, I ran for the cutter, and jumped in. My wife grabbed my arm and screamed to me.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m cutting my way through to find Emily!”

I started the motor and careened towards the field. I passed over acre and acre hitting rocks and stray pumkins as I went, but she was nowhere to be found. I kept screaming over the tops of my lungs, calling her name but she was no where to be found. As I made a turn around the corner, I hit another pumkin that squelched and cracked as I ran over it in the cutter, tears stinging my eyes as I kept looking for my little girl. My wife ran to me, jumped up on the cutter and started hitting me, screaming hysterically. I grabbed her wrists but couldn’t hear what she was saying. I turned the cutter off.

She was hysterical, screaming, and had red splatter marks on her face and dress. As I went to her, to see if she was okay, she tried running, but again I grabbed both of those delicate and frail wrists and yanked her towards me, forcing her to look me in the eyes. Her eyes were wild and red and tears gushed down her cheeks and she continued to cry, thin lips pressed together in agony.

“What’s wrong? Did you get hurt?” I asked but she just shook her head in response, more tears rising.

“Then what? Whats wrong?” I asked, daring her to say what I dreaded most, shaking her violently as I yelled it again, “What is wrong!”

She simply whimpered and pointed a shaking finger towards the cutter. Its blades gleamed red in the harvest moonlight and dangling from one of the sharp scyths was a tuff of blond Emily shaded hair, matted with the redness, and one of her tiny pink gloves she had been wearing. But it didn’t make sense.

Why would Emily have left her glove there? And why a lock of her hair? What strange child was this who could disappear like an elf and then leave such strange clues to her wereabouts. I did not know why but suddenly my eyes began to tear. Why was I crying? What was wrong with me? I couldn’t think. My brain was roaring.

Then I saw her, there, running between the cut stalks of corn, jumping over them in her pink gloshes, flashing her grin and letting her blond curls catch in the wind. Which I thought was odd too because there was no wind. My little girl. But why was she running from me? Why did so go towards the old black pickup at the other end of the field? The same one the hired hands had come out of. No, don’t go with them, my girl. They will be doing hard work. You wouldn’t want to do that.

“Come back over here right now, young lady. Emily, I mean it. Come on Emily, I’m not going to say it again.” I notice my wife backing away towards the house... did think that or say it aloud.... I can’t seem to be able to tell the difference.

“Emily! Emily! Where are you going Emily!?” I called after her, laughing... why was I laughing?

Next think I know you were here officer, asking me all about the house and my wife and Emily. I told you. I know where Emily is. Nothing bad happened to her. No that must be someone else’ daughter. No, my Emily’s hair isn’t red like that. No that can’t be her blood cause her blood is inside of her right now. She’s with them. No. She’s here. With us. And the three men who all look the same are all here too. Can’t you see them officer? Can’t you understand? The priest said nothing bad would happen any more! The pries said! The priest said!!! Emily! Emily! Amelia! Emalelia! My bow –– to atoms blown!”