The bookshelf of Fantasy

The pines of Dor-Lomin
The Baron Harkonnen
Lothlorien’s swan ship of gold

The shining Silmaril
A ride on a barrel
The sandworms of Dune to behold

The hero Estraven
And Poe’s eerie raven
The treasures of Smaug were untold

When Brandin was scolded
Isolla exploded
And they stood ’til her body was cold

Saruman’s tower
And Sauron’s great power
And Bombadil, oldest of old

The Nephredil flower
The hobbits’ great hour
And the soul that poor Sméagol had sold

The Eloi and Morlocks
The wizards and warlocks
Fair Luthien, Beren the Bold

And Moria’s door
And the Priest-Kings of Gor
And the stories that Tolkien told

Feanor’s Folly
The catapults’ volley
The Fellowship’s climb in the cold

And Yoda’s finale
The Jedis’ last rally
(This story is yet to be told)

 

 

Ingrid

You tugged me from the busy room,
zeroed in on my discomfort.
Surprising in your boldness
(I always thought you quiet)
(We were barely acquainted)
“I’m glad you’re here”
you said,
and spoke to me like lovers do.
Your drug was truth, and then
I felt my youth again.
You held me closely in the stillness of a night dance.
Kissed my neck (odd for a woman to do),
and when the partyers came out,
you were gone with a last glance.
I retired to some corner, in thought.
And, when I came back in,
you were going,
with your unintroduced husband.
Leaving me stupidly standing,
with questions, so many.

Wake me up. Wake me up!

Ghostless spirits fast convening

Faces full of fearsome meaning

Fallen angels, minions of the One

Assembled is the shoreline throng

They’re moaning an unearthly song

In penance for the wrongs that they have done

And I, among them, poked and prodded

By the grinning ghouls applauded

The lake of fire is hotter than the Sun

On weakening knees we mouth our pleas

Our souls absorb a dark disease

The inner onslaught makes us want to run

And now, there is but no escape

They’re closing in, our Selves to rape

“The Fire, or by your necks be hung!”

Stiltskin

This secret time,
this stillness of night,
find me in a cloistered glow.
With insanity’s obsession,
I hatch plots.
Given the grim seeds,
a lackey’s direction,
I turn each one over and over,
espying its flaws.
And you,
you my dear,
are none the wiser.
With witches’ Ouija I call you.
Turn, you will,
and come.

Humbug

The moon slides down into dizzy vision, a bright dime in deepening blue.
Along the street of home, straggling snow in sleepy silence.
Rising chimney smoke is breezeless, straight and true. 

I return from the shopping mall, having invented unneeded things to buy.
The right things seem to elude me, always.  Ahhh, no matter, I think.
After all, it is the thought that counts, eh?  Finding the opportune moment to sneak away, braving the Christmas traffic, the idiotic parking contests, the miles between washrooms.  And then, overpaying for some unique item you couldn’t find anywhere else.  After all, the rents in these places are sky-high.  You gotta expect that.

Gaining entry to my empty house,  and laden with parcels, I nearly fall down fourteen stairs as the stupid cat tries to trip me in a bid for attention.  Apparently, I forgot his food this morning.  As I set everything down haphazardly, it strikes me that I am bringing coals to Newcastle.  All around me are boxes from our recent move, as yet unpacked, accumulated during 42 years of marriage.  Some, I am sure, contain items unique at one time, that have never seen the light of day.  Discouraging, to say the least.

These are the things we become inured to in the life domestic.  Laugh if you like, at this
“First world problem”,  but there comes a breaking point.  I suspect it will be after I carry it all back up the fourteen stairs, in the spring, put it out for a “garage sale”, and then bring it back in again when no one wants it.

Merry Christmas!