On Valentine's Day

on a moonlit morning

we'll have a cup of tea...

(to be continued as it is continued
in the morning's moonlight probably)

Our House

In front of the door 

sits a large grey cat with topaz eyes.

It has no intentions of moving.

Behind the cat 

stands a small white house
with a door the color of jade

guarded by the large grey cat.

In front of the house 

grows a tall tree. 

At its feet 

lay the amber leaves of Fall.

Inside the house 

before the smoldering hearth 

with ruby coals

sleeps a brindle dog with eyes of onyx.

Beside the dog 

a spinning wheel rests

wound with flaxen thread
twisted in vermeil.

Behind the house 

the sun sets in a sapphire sky 

streaked in turquoise, copper, 

and an unearthly rose.

Beneath the window 

before the sky

sits a bed piled with pillows 

covered in dreams

topped by the large grey cat

with topaz eyes.

Outside the window

in a garden of peridot green

grow potatoes, pearls of the earth.

In this garden perches the lapis jay

watched by those topaz eyes.

Beyond all this

upon the sea

flows a shimmering path of gold.

....

Binky, Boo, And Beetle Too

Binky and Boo were related somehow. Beetle was too. Everyone knew that.

They did not live in the same house. Binky's house was in the east. Boo's house was in the south. Beetle's house was as far west as a house could be without falling into that ocean.

They did not look the same. Binky's hair was straight. Boo's hair was curly. Beetle's hair had hardly grown in.

They did not like the same food. Binky spit out anything red. Boo would eat nothing green. Beetle put everything he found in his mouth.

But they all shared one same thing, Grandma's smile. When Binky, or Boo, or Beetle smiled, everyone would say, "There's that smile, Grandma's smile."

Binky, Boo, and Beetle did not see each other every day. On certain days they would go to Grandma and Grandpa's house in the north and Grandma would smile and tell everyone, "My angels are here." Grandpa would chuckle to himself, "Here comes the wrecking crew."

For at that house they were not angels. They were together and together they made more ruckus than ten hundred indomitable boys. Everyone knew that. When everyone saw Binky, Boo, and Beetle too all together at that house, they whispered, "Those boys are together again." and tightly shut their doors and windows.

One certain day Binky, Boo, and Beetle played loud, louder, loudest ever! Grandpa was deep in a book and deaf to the world.  Grandma stopped smiling, held onto her head to prevent it from flying off, and shouted, "Quiet! I must have quiet! Go to that other room! Quietly! Sit down in there and keep quiet!"

"Here we go again." Said Binky to Boo.

"Oh no, not again." Said Boo to Binky.

Beetle cast himself upon the floor and had to be carried to that other room. Once there, they became quiet, very quiet.

"Let's go somewhere Grandma can't find us. " They conspired.

"Yes, let's trick Grandma and make her laugh." They plotted.

"We will turn into little sneaks and crawl out the window." They agreed.

Binky snuck out the window. Boo snuck out the window. Beetle snuck out the window too.

"My, how quiet they are." Grandma said. She was not accustomed to hearing herself think and it had taken some time for the quiet to be perceived by Grandma.  "I wonder what they look like when they are being quiet?"  She tiptoed to that other room and peered through the crack in the doorway. She did not see them.

She opened the door widely. She still did not see them. "But, they're not here." She worried.

She looked in all the house. "I cannot find them." She fretted.

"They're gone." She gasped.

Grandma ran out of the house, down the street, back up the street, calling out all the while, "They're gone! They're gone! Someone has stolen my boys!"

And everyone whispered behind their tightly shut windows and doors, "Who would steal Binky, Boo, and Beetle too?"

The three little sneaks were so tickled with their trick, they laughed and turned back into people. Laughter was their magic word. Grandma, who was running by on her way back down the street saw Binky, she saw Boo. And, she saw Beetle too, sitting outside the window, together, all laughing.

Grandma became indignant, causing her red hair to shoot sparks. Binky was impressed. Boo was impressed. Beetle sat down immediately and practiced looking innocent.

"Grandma's not laughing." Said Binky to Boo.

"Let's climb back in the window."  Said Boo to Beetle.

Beetle pointed at the window. There stood Grandpa, not saying anything.

Now, on this certain day, Grandpa had finished reading his book and was no longer deaf to the world. It had occurred to Grandpa that the world inside the house was silent. This unusual discovery intrigued Grandpa and had sent him looking. He had looked in that other room and had seen the window was open. He had looked out the window and had seen the three little sneaks turn back into little boys. And, he had seen Grandma sparking indignantly. Grandpa had seen it all.

"What's going on?" Grandpa asked, knowing trickery full well when he saw it.

Binky said nothing. Boo said nothing. Beetle did not say nothing, Beetle said his first word.

"Food." Said Beetle.

"Beetle talked." Said Binky.

"He did." Said Boo.

"Oh my" Said Grandma.

"What's for dinner? " Asked Grandpa. "I'm hungry too."

Beetle had already climbed back in the window and was sitting at the table, ready to eat. And eat they did.

"What angels they are."  Grandma said and smiled her smile at Grandpa after Binky, Boo, and Beetle were asleep.

"What?" Asked Grandpa, deep in another book. But Grandpa was smiling too.

...

The Firefly and the Egg

                                                       

Lila was stuck in a series of doubtful moods. The night sky was backlit by an unseen moon. There was not one star to play with, to stare at through her eyelashes until it offered her a golden strand to swing upon to the face of the star then back again to earth. Swing out and away then home again free, freed from doubtful moods.

She saw this night’s sky as a grey dome covering her in the opaque shell of an egg. Lila pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. She was beginning to feel like an egg, contained within her own dense shell, thinking when she would rather be dreaming, sitting when she would rather be flying.

“There are fireflies, and then again, there are eggs.” Said the large grey cat sitting beside her on the porch.

“What do you mean?” Lila asked.

“I mean, if you are an Egg, you do not long to fly.” Answered the cat.

“The cat is speaking, again.” Sighed the brindle dog sitting at Lila’s other side.

Lila patted the dog’s head and was silent for a while. Then, she said, “Well I still miss the stars, and I still feel like an egg.”

The dog leaned against Lila. He stared at the cold overcast sky. He turned his head and stared at the doorway behind them that led into the warm house. Then, he stared meaningfully into Lila’s eyes. Lila stood and turned towards the door.

“I knew a firefly who tried to be an egg.” Said the cat.

“Oh?” Lila asked. She turned away from the door.

“Yes said the cat. “It all started because, well, eggs can be attracted to fireflies.”

“Really?” Lila asked. She sat back down between the large grey cat and the brindle dog, propped her elbows on her knees and rested her chin on her hands.

“And now it begins.” Sighed the dog. He curled into a round ball. “The cat’s speaking, and Lila’s listening. We’ll not be going inside, not now.” He sighed once more and closed his eyes.

“Yes, eggs can be attracted to fireflies.” Continued the cat. “Fireflies are pretty and very unlike the egg. This catches the egg’s eye.”

“Then what happens?”’ Lila asked.

“The egg charms the firefly into becoming the egg’s pet. But, the egg requires that the firefly must contain itself and flare in a predictable manner.”

“Why would a firefly do that?” Lila asked.

“Eggs are clean and handsomely smooth and they glow warmly when they reflect the light of the firefly. Sometimes a firefly is attracted by this glow and is pleased that the egg shows interest. So, to please the egg, the firefly cuts down on its glowing and stops flying. It does not realize the glow is its own reflection on the surface of the egg.”

“The firefly tries to please the egg?” Lila asked.

“Sometimes. And when a firefly tries to please an egg by insulating itself from sudden flares,  after a while it looses its spark it becomes tired all the time. Fireflies should never try to please an egg. It turns them into fuzzwads.”

“Fuzzwads?”

“Yes. Fuzzy dull grey wads with no light, unable to fly.  A firefly is always cold when it turns into a fuzzwad. It huddles quietly next to the formerly glowing egg trying to get warm. This pleases the egg. It is pleased that under its influence the firefly is learning to evolve into its true form as an egg. You see, the egg is so dense it thinks the fuzzwad is a rudimentary egg.

“Is the firefly happy when the egg is pleased?” Lila asked.

“Happy?” Asked the cat in reply. “Remember, Lila, the firefly is now a fuzzwad. It could even be said that a fuzzwad is a dying firefly.”

Lila looked at the cat and said nothing.

The dog opened his eyes, then closed them when the cat began speaking again.

“The fuzzwad is content for a while to be in the company of the egg. Eggs are very convincing. They have convinced everyone that the egg was here first and is therefore the center of the universe. Thusly, the fuzzwad feels fortunate to have the egg for a friend. Eggs take themselves very seriously.”

“Do eggs ever laugh?” Lila asked.

“They chuckle. They occasionally snort. I do not know if they giggle or not. Eggs do not guffaw. They believe too much laughing can get out of control and cause a crack. Containment is of the utmost importance to the egg.” Said the cat.

“Does the egg like the firefly better when it becomes a fuzzwad?” Lila asked.

“Well, a fuzzwad is much more contained than a firefly. This is preferable to the egg, of course. Also fuzzwads make them more comfortable, cushion their nest. Eggs value their comfort. It gives them composure.”

“But the egg liked the pretty firefly.” Lila said.

“Eggs do not truly believe fireflies exist. Since the fuzzwad does not glow and does not fly, the egg tosses off such notions as fantasy. Fireflies are, they believe, a reflection of light on a speck of dust.  The very idea that a fuzzzwad thinks that it was once a flying speck of dust is proof to the egg of the fuzzwad’s incompleteness as an egg.” Said the cat.
“But it it was the firefly’s glowing and flying that caught the egg’s eye. That’s what you said.”

“I said, the firefly is pretty and unlike the egg. That is all the egg noticed.”

“Oh.” Lila said. “Well, does the firefly like being a fuzzwad?”

“Fuzzwads usually feel guilty for not being more egglike, out of loyalty to the generous egg. They can remember flying and glowing, a little bit. Most often, a fuzzwad just thinks it is a dull messy egg and feels unattractive and inferior to the larger, smoothly defined egg. Once a firefly hold down its spark and becomes a fuzzwad, it too acts like the egg is the center of the universe.”

“What do the other fireflies think when one of them becomes a fuzzwad?

“That it spent too much time in the company of eggs. Occasionally they buzz the fuzzwad in they hopes they can spark its memory of being a firefly.”

“Does the fuzzwad remember?” Lila asked.

“Yes, but it uses its spark trying to convince the egg that it used to fly.” Answered the cat.

“Does the egg listen?”

“Oh, the egg’s denseness is vast. They are thoughtful in appearance, but eggs do not really listen. They pat the little fuzzwad and say,  ‘You have no proof.’ and, ‘you don’t really believe such things.’  Then, they sigh heavily to the other eggs and expound upon their belief that fuzzwads are irrational and difficult. Eggs are filled with beliefs. This leaves them little room for thinking.

“What do the other eggs do?”

“They discuss what a problem fuzzwads can be. Then, the eggs all agree what a good egg it is to have been so selfless to allow the disruptive fuzzwad equal time and space without loosing composure. Eggs believe they are very open-minded and kind, especially to their inferiors. “

“Doesn’t this make the fuzzwad angry and want to fly away?” Lila asked.

“Yes. But eggs are convincing, remember? Now the fuzzwad thinks in order to glow and be a firefly again, it must be able to convince the egg this is possible. Yes, the fuzzwad is upset but it is upset that it cannot properly express itself to the wiser egg. In effect, the fuzzwad gets unhappier and unhappier, and dimmer and messier, has a few more unacceptable flares that the egg generously and promptly overlooks. Soon, the fuzzwad will die in the company of an egg.”

“Is the egg sad when the fuzzwad dies?” Lila asked.

“The egg doesn’t notice. Dead fuzzwads harden up. The egg just assumes that the fuzzwad, with patience on the egg’s part has finally learned how to truly be a proper egg. The egg believes it has accomplished a heroic deed.”

Lila sat quietly for a while. Then, she asked, “Is that the end of the story?”

“If you live in eggdom and aspire to become an egg, it is. If you miss being a firefly, there is another possibility.”

“Which is what?” Lila asked.

“A fuzzwad with strong memory and even a tiny fragment of its inner spark has been known to turn back into a firefly.”

“Is it happy again?” Lila asked.

“It is even more than happy. It realizes that its unhappiness did not come from being unable to prove to the egg that it was once a firefly. It was unhappy simply because it no longer flew.

The cat stopped speaking. Lila, the dog, and the cat sat silently beneath the starless sky.

“I’m not an egg.” Said the dog.

“I did not say that you were.” Said the cat.

Lila laughed. She stood and opened the door. The little candle on the table beside the window glowed softly.

“No eggs live in this house. She said. “Not tonight.”

Lila the brindle dog, and the large grey cat went inside. The door closed behind them. Gently, Lila blew out the candle and they each went off to their own warm bed.

The end.

Passenger Number Three

When searching for a dragon,

the one who sleeps at sea,

take sail with a Phoenician 

in a boat that carries three.

With you and the Phoenician,

of three, that makes but two. 

That which fills the space that's left

is woven from bamboo.

This basket's lined with mirrors

reflecting moon and sea.

This paper covered lantern

is passenger number three. 

Don't look into the lantern.

Ha! this you shouldn't do,

for all that you will find there

is a mirror holding you...

...alone with your reflection

in a boat that carries three.

Beyond your sight a dragon

crests the surface of the sea.

.......

(the moral of the story - when sailing with Phoenicians,
wait till you get home to look in the mirror.)

Trees' Roots

each tear a story tells
every tree the story knows...

Lean your head against 

a tree to cry

 and know

trees' roots go far down

and take your tears

to all the waters

that carry all the stories

and tell them back again

so as to know

you do not cry alone.

Ever A Child In This Garden

I was born in this garden

within its secret ways

amongst those who grow here rootless

and blooms that go unseen.

This garden's lapped by waters.

Its gateway is the sky.

And this garden always travels

by way of the sun

encircled by the moon.

I can play in this garden,

 grow gardens of my own.

I have only to remember

I am one of countless born here,

I am not an only child.

This garden is around me

everywhere I am and 

even when I fly I travel

in this garden, Earth's garden

by way of the sun

encircled by the moon.

.......

Feathers Flying

I cannot sleep, I cannot keep from chasing thoughts that lead to troubles, 

real or imagined. 

I go outside, I try to hide in the solace of the night, 

but my thoughts come with me.

A sound sweeps by through this night's sky, then another. It's the rush

of wind through feathers, flying, on the wing.

I leave behind my fretful mind and begin to dream that I have wings, 

that I am flying.

The sound soon fades, again the shades of doubt surround me. 

It was just the wind, or my imagination.

Then something twirls, it spirals, whirls into my hand, one small feather

fallen, fallen from the wing.

I close my hand around it and go back to bed. I close my eyes 

and soon I'm sleeping.

Again I hear a sound come near - the rush of wind, of feathers flying.

I must be dreaming.

A great wing lifts, it circles, drifts. It is searching for the fallen,

the one small feather held within my hand. 

The great wing fans, the sky it spans. The wing sweeps back,

scoops up the feather and takes me with it.

Now comes to me with mystery, in whispers like secrets, tales of now,

tales of old, and stories of tomorrow.

I listen to what dreamers do where they have flown upon the wing 

in the time between now and everafter.

And when I land in morning's hand within my own rests a feather, 

my keepsake of the wing. 

Oh, feathers fly, so can I, for it is the dream that is the wing

that takes us flying.

Yet I wonder...

as my dream flies through distant skies, should another feather fall, 

could it be my dream that circles back to catch it?

Laughing With Trees

If you throw your arms around a tree in the middle of a laugh, 

the tree will give you a mystical secret.

Few think to do this while laughing,

laughter is immediate transport to its own magical land.

Those who have, when questioned, smile mysteriously and say,

"I only remember laughing."

Butterfly Logic

Someone told me once, "Whatever you are thinking when you see a butterfly is a good idea." He also said, "Sleep when you are tired. Eat when you are hungry. Work so others can play only if they are children."

I know many things. I know the first star you ever saw will always be your own lucky star. And I know if you work for wages, you will always need money and you will work till you die. A wage brings just enough to eat, a night's sleep under a roof, then you get up and work for another wage and another meal. That's the way of it.

As to that, you must keep secret from the wage payers. Once they find you, they never let you be. But, if you use butterfly logic, you can get away. Otherwise it's a struggle because the wage payers are good talkers and have everyone's ears.

I always dream free in case a butterfly comes by.


...

Sketch

Now to get back to what I was doing before the computer and camera problems. This is a sketch of the front of my house, the thumbnail for a watercolor illustration for a poem called "Our House" - a poem I wrote when my son was little and we didn't have any money - about the richness of having a home. I thought if I took a photo of the sketch and put it up here, it would help motivate me to finish the picture. Or maybe I like it just like this. I won't know until I try. Laetitia Thistledown is still yet to manifest. She's a tricky one.

Misbehavior

The blanket thinks it's a magic carpet

and flops up and down all night.

That cup insists on telling fortunes.

It will only take tea.

The clock doesn't work. It would rather dream

about traveling through space

than sit and count time.

The piano plays sonatas in the middle of the night

because it's inspired by the moon.

The telephone is tired of hearing voices.

It disconnects as soon as it rings.

And the book, the book keeps disappearing.

Why? It's a mystery.

Worst of all the candle believes it is the eternal flame

and will not blow out.

I simply cannot remain in this house

where no one behaves!

Laughing With Trees

If you throw your arms around a tree in the middle of a laugh

the tree will give you a mystical secret.

Few think to do this while laughing,

laughter is immediate transport to its own magical land.

Those who do, when questioned,

smile mysteriously and say, "I only remember laughing."

Tellers of Secrets

Tellers of secrets are sneaky.

They smile and look you right in the eye

while they pluck out your secret and tuck it under their wing.

They wait
for the worst possible moment to lift their wings to fly.

 Out drops your secret
to be seen
by everyone.

Tellers of secrets can't fly.

You know that.

 Dream stealers are even worse.

They are, at this moment, beyond discussion.

The First Mirror

The River is old. Once

it held

the reflection of someone

who bent over its bank

and stared

for the longest time

at the water.

Between the long waters running

and the round moon shining

someone knelt.

And there,

upon the length of water

within the hold of moonlight

rested a mirror

the first mirror.
...

Lullaby Of The Wing

For those who are as sleepy as I am, a lullaby...

Close your eyes now

you will know how

to find your way.

You don't have to

see your way through

the darkness to dream.

Go to sleep then

you will know when

to come back here.

Little traveler

you'll remember

each one of your dreams.

Drift away now

you will know how

to fly up high,

little feather
lifted ever

on the wing of dreams.

(chorus)
close your eyes

sleep's not far
close your eyes
to dream 

The History Of Moonstones

...and other earthly events.

When moon turned blue over the word "Lunatic!" 

and sun reigned oblivious to earth's dark side, 

dragon, in disgust over the word "Mythical!" 

left sky, went to ocean. 

There now drifts 

alone in sleep.

Moonstones were before that time.

Or, they could be dragon's tears,

molten droplets upon cold waters 

when dragon turned for one last look 

at the beautiful Luna 

over its left shoulder 

as it dove into the sea.

Or, they might be moon pebbles 

tossed by Luna 

to rouse her friend 

from the deep.

...