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Her Surreal Highness

Her Surreal Highness,
The Fairie Queen Helen Of Tippie,
The High Duchess of Laney,
Order of the Dreaded Honey Bee Sting [Knight & Plank Owner],
Nurse Most Excellent of the Shire of Greater Bastropia [Ribbons with Flourishes & Bows],
Hottest Reddest Heart Insignia, First Class, Distr. (Education) of Lockhartton,
And dozens more exquisite honours and accomplishments regal,
Was in mourning.…

Sally Gossamer Wingstep, hesitant, took one step,
Then walked slowly onward from her nest;
No fluttering nor soaring above the Fairielands—
Grounded, given the great sadness, she thought best.

In the distance…The Queen’s Tree…
Her great branches weighed down in sorrow.
Betrayed The Fairielands further grief:
There was to be no Queen’s High Tea tomorrow…

Sally felt so awful to feel so awfully angry;
The Queen’s loss was far worse than a missed party.
Even though Jonathan Spider had woven her the finest dress
Which shimmered bright while flowing about her curves smartly.

But the yawning emptiness in the Good Queen’s Castle,
Even the young fairie felt as she struggled with how she was feeling.
She could not grasp the meaning nor see a path ahead;
The sheer suddenness had left all their minds sore and reeling!

Absentmindedly, Sally rounded into Copse Square,
And came face to face her Most Regal Presence!
Wide-eyed, stutter stammering an apology quick,
Sally keenly hoped she was making some sort of sense.

“Oh, my dear Sally, it is you!” Queen Helen said.
“Are we not cavorting across the sky?
Such joy you lend us with your loops and curlicues…
But you are walking, please tell us why.”

Said Sally: “Oh, Your Highness, I thought it improper to fly
When in these dark days we mourn with thee.
We too share in your deep loss, and weep.
We agree on foregoing this year’s High Tea.”

“Nonsense and nettles!” roared the Queen.
“As our spiders weave and the highland bees make honey,
I will care to have our fairies unfurl their wings, to fly,
And so to rule the skies, whether they be dark or sunny!

“So, such and such a time that has as now passed…
Methinks, it is time to move on, I most solemnly decree.
Yes, he has gone, but we shall recall his Royal Goodness—
Sally, care we must and shall host a Great Celebration Tea!”

As swiftly as their wee silken wings could beat the wind,
The fairies carried The Announcement all over and beyond the Fairielands:
All who had furled their wings were to don their most Fun and Glorious Finery,
And TO FLY into the Castle Ballroom with all the Joy such a Fete demands!

At the appointed hour, our fairies looped, soared, fluttered, and flew,
Doing the most ambitious winged acrobatics into the Castle Ballroom;
Even Queen Helen, in her richest Duchess of Laney silver livery,
Flew around such that even the keenest witch could not match on her broom!

Sally Gossamer Wingstep, seized the room—such curlicues and soaring loops!
She was wearing a new shimmery gown, so tight and true to her young frame, without guile.
Her Surreal Highness, The Fairie Queen Helen Of Tippie, The High Duchess of Laney,
Joined in the fairies’ rapturous applause, and did give Sally a nod, and a knowing smile!

Wondrous fruits and cakes and teas were served to the celebrants in abundance.
Her Majesty even allowed the Royal Tea Keeper to let loose the rare jasmine.
From now, and for the time ahead, she would remember the lifting joy
From her subjects as on this night all joined in the grand celebration of him.

So, the Great Celebration Tea ended as a wondrous success—
The Good Fairie Queen went to her rooms while floral aromas caressed the air,
Because surely you know that what is best with good jasmine tea
Is a hearty, loving serving of Tender Laney Care!

Hey Everybody

Hey, Everybody—
Come sing this song,
If you can feel Life’s Love
Then you’re welcome to come along.
Yo, Everyone!
Raise your sweet voice;
If you crush on the next sunrise,
Then you know that this joy is the best choice.
You, over there—
You’re my brother or sister, oh man;
Lend your heart and strength,
We’re all just doing the level best that we can.
Hey! you right here—
Take a chance to know:
That together the hate barriers will fall.
And, as One, United, we can make this Life Love grow.
Hey, Everybody!
Come sing this sweet song;
If you’re still in this, our Life with Love,
You know you’re most welcome to come on along.

Do You Mean Me?

Are those soft words meant for me?
Is it now safe to settle into tranquility?
Icy rains ahead on roads fog-wrapped
Fleeing a love wherein I was once trapped.
Twelfth Night revelers muster at the Carrollton barn
Their annual trek to recover their childhood yarn:

Hey, throw me something mister!
Hey, don’t look that way at my sister!
Meet me at The Avenue and Seventh
Of course! Bring your cousin Kenneth!
Doubloons, cups, beads, catch the daylight;
Oh baby, kiss me good; sweetie, hug me tight.

And so Hump Day with ashes full arrives
And recriminations cut with dull knives—
I only kissed her once on a day care forgot.
We’re done, that’s it, you’d rather not—
Why is life in the thirties so stupid?
Aren’t we adults, who killed Cupid?

Why do we think ourselves
Into such boxes of darkness,
Into that snare of wrong turns;
To put down hard roots
Into a newer unloved land;
Grasping, weak and missing—
Another lost kite string over the hedge;
Another lost thing we swore to keep;
Living a clueless life over the edge
As now I lay me down to sleep?

Are those soft words meant for me?
Is it now safe to settle into tranquility?
Diseases and ruin now arrive to drag us back home.
My armor was never silver but warehouse chrome.
O, to die in Ashland, intox’ed by her clackety-clack.
Just to home return, but you can never ever go back.

Just February Sixth

The another has gone,
With the better returned,
Life curls out and onward—
Karma has forward churned.
Music and the Buddha
Parry for the soul of man.
We’re all about just doing
And becoming the best we can.
May All be happy
To whatever joy they aspire!
No thanks Mr Stewart:
I needn’t be taken any higher.
But today’s someone’s birthday:
Quite readily I wish you Many Happy Returns!
Be mindful of the hearts with which you tumble—
Howsoever cautious, some changes leave burns.
The rain keeps pelting
With a hint of winter bite.
I hope I live ‘til tomorrow.
Y’all, have a great night!

Wait On Tomorrow

In the flat awful of your newly broken heart,
Find that space for a (yes) scant new start.
It’s a hard surprise, a twist in the plot;
It’s your chance to show ’em what you got–
A vision true to see over the far yonder hill:
That happiness can still find you, I know it will!
So repair to a bed that druther entertain two
That is again graced with the joy of just you.
Wait on tomorrow.
See the new day.
Start a new poem!
Whattaya say?

Aloning on New Year’s

Tried to share her in a poem,
But the heart would not scan.
Trying to forget all about her—
I fail, trying as hard as I can.
Winds turned to colding;
The heater runs all day;
I can see each wispy breath—
Singled out in about every way.
Staple-gun together some words,
But joy and doubt won’t rhyme.
Aloning it again on New Year’s—
It’s Love for sometwo else’s this time.
But, it’s all good for this po little coda.
And, yes please, a lil more rum for my soda.

A Winter Southbound

The fallen leaves scattered across the tracks,
Southbound 53 would push these farther on.
A love that was empty as Ashland’s winter trees—
A hard weight was lifted now that she’d gone.

No tears, but also no joy, would be found here.
Yes, may the very best find its way over to her;
And should any good be left over hanging out
Perhaps might could entertain here along with Jack’s purr.

Santy Claus is due to arrive in a few days
And we’ve all tried to be and to do our best;
But sometimes it’s never close to good enough
And you cancel flights along with all the rest.

Maybe in the new year happiness real will come
And everyone can breathe and let it all just be;
Festivals and dances return for our lives renewed
And I can get back to that crescent bend in the Mississippi.

The southbound blew its horn passing thru Ashland town
And the online chatroom railfans counted up all the cars.
The empty trees shimmied in the rolling winter wind;
The resettled leaves looked up and counted up all the stars.

Toymaker! Toymaker!

Toymaker! Toymaker!
Please make me a car!
Make it go fast!
Make it go far!
Paint it hot red
With racing stripes of blue;
Yes, Mr Toymaker,
All the kids love you!

Toymaker! Toymaker!
Please make me a dolly!
Something to take to granny’s
When we go on the trolley!
Make her with a pretty dress,
Something in silver and gold;
Yes, Mr Toymaker,
I ALWAYS do as I’m told!

Toymaker! Toymaker!
Make me a kite!
Make it fly high,
Clean out of sight!
Can it have a long tail?
Will it spin in the sky?
Yes, Mr Toymaker,
I’ll let sister have a try.

Toymaker! Toymaker!
Please tell us true—
What is your favorite toy:
Izit a horsey or a cow that goes moo?
What do you make
When freeing your wiles?
Yes, Mr Toymaker,
I do see all those kids smiles!

Sweet Bonnie Marie

Sweet Bonnie Marie
How do you fare?
It grieves me you’re distressed—
Need you a kiss, a hug, and a prayer?

May the following new days
Spread Light and Joy over your way;
And into the yon cold nights
May Happiness and Warmth with you the longer stay

Sweet Bonnie Marie
Of the Shamrock and the Thistle—
If anything I can humbly add
Know well all’s required is your beckoning whistle

Be Ever Grand And Light of Heart
And bring your Smile to the new day’s start

Number 62 In Blue

The candle sputtered
Then guttered out
The wick a speck in the wax
The old poet looked
And suffered to stand up
The last present wrapped was Jack’s

A fresh Christmas candle
Striped Santa red and holly green
With its new flame warmed the room
Placing presents about
A tree to shame Charlie Brown
The shards of wrapping left with the broom

The cat’s tail flicked serene
The poet reached for his quill
As words soft filled a new page
A chance Winter memory
Spurred the poet on
Thoughts neither steep nor very sage

She bought him skis for a gift
Though “cross” country would mean something else
Tears of laughter with every tumble and spill
He wondered where she was now
A score of years have long passed
When meeting on Concourse B was such the piquant thrill

Chinese Five Spices
Floated upon the solemn merlot
The poet paused to let the tightness pass
Tomorrow the two-state drive
Back to his beloved Crescent City
Though this year without his own wee lass

Daughter would be skiing
Off out with her Mother and half family
Cross country over in the mountain West
He’d be with swiftly aging brother
And a Christmas with the family Creole
But things always work out for the best

A meow and a sigh
The poet let Jack out the door
A cat in search of secret nocturnal meetings
The candle blew out neat
The cold front had as promised arrived
As the rain pelted out its Season’s Greetings

Waxing and waning here came Christmas Number Sixty-two
But he yet looked ahead brightly through this Yuletide in Blue