Category Archives: Fantasy

Old chum

There’s a feller
comes to my windy
some nights.
He tall
He skinny bones
He grey like
He looks right in
with a big face
First few times
i real scared
i cry and run to my elders
they say dreams dreams
go to bed
i say no come come i show you
and he gone
they make fun
and say tell no more lies
and so last night i see the big face again
and it sort of smile
blinking black eyes
and now i don’t run
he look up then down
up then down on the windy frame
but i cant open
new paint dried oh yesterday
then he put long wormy fingers on the glass
and push up up open
he take my hand in pyjamas
and i smell him
like spearmint gum
and i not afraid no more
he take me far far away
we sail
and i see things not one of you will ever know.
just my old chum.

***

Art by Jaroslav Panuska, via Google

The way out

Cable-carried am I,
upslope,
in harness.
Slow. It is slow.
I hear the rollercoaster clacks,
each prophesying sinister thrills.
With powered eyes I see
continents of fogged-in secrets.
Sorry horses stand, bedraggled in streaming rains.
They look to me with pleading eyes,
but I have no help to give.
Clack, clack, clack…..a sharp turn.
The dream veils are dropped,
and it is bright cooking sun.
Beetles of football size float by with a helicopter buzz.
At my left hand, now, is a rail of brass.
From it hang leather pouches,
each containing an object of obscure purpose.
Now a can of grease.
Now a pair of winged sandals.
Sunglasses with upside-down arms.
I see now that my left hand holds a red stop button,
and I press it.
The rippling tinkle sound of a taut chain relaxing.
I do not wish to leave items that I might need,
but I don’t know what to take.
I pick up a red phone, hung from a post.
Its rotary dial says “phone a friend”.
I say hello.
Someone in a cackling voice says
“We are all mad here”, and hangs up.
I decide that the items in the pouches are false bait.
There’s a tin pedal at my foot,
like the ones in bumper cars.
I step on it, and move on.
My path drops away, suddenly downslope,
and I feel a release from the ratcheting chain.
I am speeding now, in full panic.
There are three rushing rivers at the end of my Zip line.
Within arms’ reach, there is a lever with three positions available.
I try it, but it does nothing yet.
There’s a brake pedal too, and I jam it as hard as I can.
I smell the smoking steel, memories of subways long ago.
Once more, I am at a crawl, coming to the end of the line and the rushing waters.
There is one last leather pouch.
It holds a pair of stout cutters, and I take them.
Out of track, now.
Feet dangling, I hang from an overhead derrick.
I try my lever again.
It moves me over the gateways of each water.
Cockeyed conifers point to the left hand way.
On a ledge, above the right hand river,
a rainy horse.
I shift the lever, then cut the cord.
The water is warm,
and oh so sleepy.

Mister M.

 

 

We mumbles,
yes we mumbles,
and oftentimes we screams.
Depends a lot on Mister “M”,
Director of our dreams.

We stumbles and we fumbles,
through the achy breaky pains.
And he always makes us stay inside,
excepting when it rains.

Now, quite a skimpy imp he is,
but never is he humble.
He Keeps us down and out of it,
no matter how we grumble.

He takes delight in malady
and worthiness a-crumble.
Remembrance of normality
has taken quite a tumble.

We hear that even Superman
could not defeat the imp.
We’ve got to learn to think again
to cure us of its gimp.

So, fight its stories drear and dark,
and give it no more place.
Unhappiness, his mortal mark,
may leave but little trace.

The Birth

so sleepy.
caresses with gloves of plush velvet.
and so, let me slide…
I fly over brooding lands of Origin.
my mast head turns to visions magnetic.

pieces of The Art, half seen.
rumors of stories ancient.
obscured, they tantalize.
they collect within me until I must pause to consider each.

as a bird, I alight, upon a branch of rusting iron.
and there do i give hot birth to the leaden egg.
marbled in its weight, it burns,
swirling, showing on its shell a hint of bright beginnings.

i wait only for the Word,
but confounded am i by the echoes of witless conversations.
theatrical in their urgency.
demented and demonic.
the Great Lie.

there is the sound of one hand clapping.

the falsity bursts into crackling embers, then full dark.

There is a bang.

***

Image credit: http://www.dinosaurus.puisto.com

The gathering

In the late fall morning of frost and fog, they came. Many without even their coats. Little ones in borrowed rubber boots. Women still in nightclothes. None could put to words the why of it. Each were surprised by chance meetings with fellow walkers, as their ranks grew. All had a sense of quickening excitement.

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They knew to gather at the tumble-down wall of stone, built by men in ages beyond their memory.  At seven of the clock, with the warming sun beginning its climb, they heard one who spoke to all.  In his words, they were called good.  The ones who had kept faith.  Now, they were to prepare, for they were to be saved.  Five days after the first snow, they must send a messenger to the Wide Wood, to speak of their readiness and hear what they must do.

There were three sisters who lived apart in the land.  They were known for their mercy to the poor, and for their tending to the sick.  In a meeting of the townsfolk, they were chosen to be the messengers.  The first snow came and stayed, and, in the time left, they went about to the houses of home, helping with what was needed, and blessing the people.

On the day appointed, Ilona travelled long by bicycle.

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Irina and Ingrid walked apace, for they were close to the wood.  They had never strayed long into the forest, and were in fear of being lost in the gloaming, when they heard Ilona’s voice calling along the cool evening air.

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By a standing stone, evening-lit in a mushroomy glow, the sisters were well met at last.  At seven of the clock this November night, they held each other’s hand, and put their faces to the stars.  They sang a song of readiness, their steamy breath rising in the lime light.  Their angel was revealed, and sung to them of surety, of the sadness of the world, and the madness.  On the morrow, they would receive a sign.

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paintings by Aron Wiesenfeld

Miss Maven and the Raven

MISS MAVEN AND THE RAVEN

Sweet Maven was handsome,
and worth a King’s ransom,
but headstrong and haughty was she.
She spurned all her suitors
and mastered her tutors
in matters of lore and Faerie.

Now, her father and mother
and soldierly brother
were vexed with her contrary ways.
And they thought if they let her
alone, t’would be better,
to do what she willed with her days.

In a willow she fashioned,
with whimsical passion,
a cradle of moss for herself.
And, in comfort exceeding,
she took to her reading
of the land of the Fairy and Elf.

But too long did she tarry,
alone and unwary,
and the treacherous moon cast a spell.
In her mesmeric sleeping,
the darkness came creeping,
and followed her down to the dell.

Maven woke to a flapping
and a curious tapping,
and in the moon’s glow she could see
with an aspect malignant,
and blackest of pigment,
a raven had perched on her knee.

The willow was creaking
when the bird began speaking
with a sweet and a buttery tongue.
And he sang all her praises
and told her of places
in want of a princess so young.

His Maven, said he,
as a Queen she would be,
and the people would bow at her feet.
(As he spoke, she came near.
She had lost all her fear,
and his flattering spell was complete.)

So she bent down to listen,
and her wild eyes would glisten,
but an ugliness came to her face.
And what once was so merry
and bright as a fairy
A countenance grim did replace.

‘Twas a sight to behold,
for she’d grown very old,
like a visage had come from the tomb.
But the Raven, he rendered
a spell that would send her
to the land of bewitchery’s broom!

***

Art by http://janaheidersdorf.com/

These aren’t the ‘roids you’re looking for

hey!

I just got back from pikkapak

and I don’t know why I came.

It’s an asteroidy bric-a-brac

like in the viddy game.

It’s big enough to have some fun

but you gotta come out early

(just before the morning sun)

to catch the hurly-burly.

Their party time is two-four-seven,

and no one ever sleeps.

And nobody will go to heaven,

but no one ever weeps.

Now, if you’d like to visit there

to wash away your worry,

well…brush your teeth and comb your hair

and get dressed in a hurry!

The next conveyance leaves at five.

Be waiting at the station!

And try your best to look alive

to pass examination!

The planting

I had to support his brain as he disembarked, leaving the ship’s queer gravity. He was their monarch, born one in a billion. Emblazoned on the pale pink of his forehead was a galaxy with named suns. I have never become used to his elongated cranium, its soft translucent skin revealing a venous pattern of blue, purple, red. I felt his people’s deference to him, and was honored to have such a place amongst them. As rehearsed, the retinue bore his chair to an area of scorched earth. In vestigial hands, he held a vial. One of our number, using a cylindrical instrument of contained heat, neatly extracted a deep core of earth. Then, the Lord let fall his treasure. With ceremony, the core was replaced and tamped down. An attendant brought an urn of liquid and poured it out upon the site. In my third ear, I hear There will be plenty. And, at the last, You too will be of plenty.

You see, I also carry a seed.

Dream twenty four: in the funnel

I lean in from a cloud,
spying this lake of slate,
in the never evergreen bush.
The sunny side has big boats three,
yachting this shiny blue day.
Merrymakers loll on the decks.
Shapely girls lean out on the prow rails,
icons of the Titanic.
I hear their cries and laughter
over the gulls.
In my monstrous vertebrae I feel,
from southern climes,
the approach of electric grey,
with green barely seen.
No weather master am I,
and so I take a lungful of fluffy steam,
stadium-sized,
to blow a Southwind warning.
On deaf ears it falls.
They jeer at the momentary gale,
for I cannot blot the sun.
And then, the sounding storm.
The waters riddled with rain.
They scurry like aimless ants,
furling sails.
The stormfront’s infantry:
three vacuum funnels,
all of contrast sharp,
all of bright chrome.
Slowly they revolve at the outset.
Then, of a sudden, they part ranks at speed,
like silver balls released in a trice
by pinball plunger.
I fear for the fate of the four score on deck.
The spouts harass the boats,
like bothering bees,
and there is much terror and clinging.
They do a devil dance,
then congregate, as if by design,
at the North’s sandy shore.
Stay, they do.
The mile long lake they suck and spew,
into the clouds, as fine as dew.
And the sailors of the weekend?
Their upright ships do gently rest
at lower elevations.
Stuck in the mucky silt of centuries.

This thing

He waits for me, each night,
of late,
in the cottony caves ‘twixt longer dreams.
The script:
I’ll be born once more from ectoplasm,
and flutter down on nightwings,
like settling leaves in the cease of the breeze.
He knows I come.
That I can’t stay away.
But I always wish to startle him,
so I slide,
a form of translucent grey,
across his stalactite ceiling.
But he smells me
and smiles a slow smile.
Bovine, feline, canine by turns.
In the voice of The Rock Biter, he says
PULL UP A CHAIR.
Of what form will he be tonight?
Sometimes, we play the name game.
Threenight ago, he was ratlike, but stood erect.
In his black top hat, he spoke sneering syllables,
saying he had eaten five pies and I was to guess his name.
His scaly tail twitched and whipped,
and his sharp yellow teeth champed at the bit
until I said
nimmy nimmy nit not, your name is Tom Tit-Tot.
His eyes grew wide and bloodshot,
and he reached forth with chickenfoot hands.
Screeching in the rat language, he ran about,
like a balloon let go and blubbering out its air.
And impaled himself upon a stalagmite.
I went home.
Just last night, he was all in white feathers,
and was duck-billed.
He wore a blue vest with brass buttons,
and had a sailor’s cap.
I said Where are your pants, Donald?
Whereupon he let out a loud quaaaack,
and pounded on the table.
Whereupon all things bright and beautiful winked out.
And tonight?
Ah yes, tonight.
I must tell you this, writing as it is, from the Seventh Circle.
Tonight, I parachuted as usual, down from his spiny ceiling.
All is damp dripping darkness,
but, in a far corner, there is a golden light.
I hear a rhythmic squeaking, and someone hums along with it.
There sits a small creature, sitting on a stool beside a spinning wheel.
Piles of gold surround him.
PULL UP A CHAIR!  it says.
We’ve much to discuss!
Topics of import, like
is tea better than coffee?
is an apple better than an orange?
what happens to a bubble if it is left to float undisturbed?
if you collect the powder from a moth’s wings,
can you be made to fly?
We mull it over.
Prevaricate.
Debate.
But, it is tiring, discussing such worldly things.
There are no clear answers.
We begin to yawn widely, ready for the second sleep.
I say By the way, you look a little rumpled tonight, Stiltskin.
Whereupon he takes off his pointy hat, throws it at me,
and stamps with one foot on the stony floor.
Our world bursts asunder, and our feet go from under.
Into abyss we tumble, grabbing and grappling,
but all is gossamer.