Sheila's Dribs 'n Drabs

He quit his carpentry job; will we call him lazy? He hung out with the down-and-outs, so will we call him bad? He came to a sticky end; will we say it’s his fault? Then they buried him. His followers caused a fuss; will we silence them? Or follow Him?

Long-haired lay-about died. The crowds were shouting out for blood, quite the fearsome spectacle. They strung him up with the city’s rejects, one each side, where everyone could see. Road stinks of blood. Birds are silent. Air still. A scared taste filling people’s mouths. Long-haired lay-about died so we’d survive.

The long-haired lay-about’s causing trouble and cops are closing in. Seems only a moment since crowds were cheering him. Now they’re shouting for blood. The long-haired lay-about calls us out for not doing as we should. Makes us feel guilty. He used to make us feel good. Cops’ll silence him.

The long-haired lay-about rode into town on his motorbike, engine revving. Hangers-on gathered round, Fishman stinking of salty sea, and Taxman calculating odds. Twins roared and Thomas doubted this was right. Then long-haired lay-about beckoned all to “Come.” “No,” said the old man clinging to memory, listening to different songs.

Teenagers don’t play hide’n seek; they simply wander off; away somewhere; gone with the wind, with friends, with strangers, maybe. Panic sprays like dust. Fear tastes like donkey dung. Streets flash by while flying feet seek solace. And there he sits—all’s right with the world—about his father’s business.

Abram pretended wife was sister, fooled Pharaoh, and grew rich. Sara found Hagar who carried her child, then child found wife and mother to twelve tribes. Joseph, from the other twelve, was prisoner and king. Tribes grew, enslaved, set free. Then Jesus, born to free us, hides away, in Egypt.

“I saw an angel Mom.” “No way.” “I saw a babe in a manger Mom.” “Yes dear. You’re imagining things.” “Saw shepherds.” “There’s no shepherds in town.” “Saw kings.” “Don’t lie to me.” “Saw a really bright star.” “The moon.” “Saw a family run away.” “Silly boy.” “Saw soldiers.” “Flee!”

“God’s going to be born as a child,” said the angel. “No way. He can’t throw His glory away.” “But He will.” Then Lucifer fled through time and space to prove it couldn’t be true. He tempted woman and man; they fell; so the heavens tell, God born as child.

The star tickles his eyes and dust his nose, which he buries deep in books to learn their meaning; starlight's seeming ever brighter in the sky. The secret words declare a king of those who don’t believe that stars have meaning. Kings followed the star to find the holy child.

Cold at night; red sky, shepherd’s delight; dawn’s promised light; cold night. The shepherds shiver, smell the sheep and scents of herbs and hay, see swaying backs white under moon, hear gentle gloom, sheep-saying cold at night. It’s cold and dark, then spark of light is angels in the sky.

Weary donkey’s walked a long hard way, back swaying, feet clop-clopping down on dusty ground. The master frowns. The woman struggles down. At least they’ve stopped and donkey’s found a stable, juicy hay. He brays at animals around him, strangers, maybe friends, then mother lays her babe in manger bed.

Soldiers stamp on dusty ground while strangers mill around. Houses fill, the bedspace, roofspace, spilling people onto streets to sleep. A mother walks so near to giving birth, while father, dearly worried, tries to find a patch of earth where babe might lie. And taxman calls, “Be counted; Caesar’s time.”

The son will fly with tomorrow’s sun, bringing Christmas truly begun. The family gathers; the wreath’s on the door; there’s happy times in store. The dinner gets cooked, different menus parading as one. The dinner gets shared, different offerings eaten. And son Will leave with the year. Seasons Greeting’s everyone.

The Big Freeze closed the airports—passengers stranded, desk-clerks frantic, pilots want to go home. The Big Freeze closed the freeways too, trucks sliding into snow-banks at the side. It even closed shops. The Big Freeze closed the stores? Shock horror! Then shoppers stayed home warming hearts at heart-warmed hearths.

“How does Santa know if we’ve been nice?” “Magic,” says Mom. “Listening devices,” says Dad. “How does Santa go all round the world in one night?” “Magic,” says Mom. “Supersonic,” says Dad. “How can Santa be in more than one toy-store at once?” “Magic,” says Mom. “Multiple personality,” says Dad.

One more Christmas, one last chance to smile and build those memories—promises and dreams for all the years… One more Christmas, but she’s gone. She smiled and gave us hope to conquer fear. She smiled and prayed and took the sacraments and went away. This Christmas she’s with Him. In memory of my Auntie Pauline.

He stood guard over nothingness, weary, bored. Sometimes lights flashed. Then nothing. Bored. Till the soldier heard her cry “Save me!” Save who, he wondered. Who else was here, trapped on the outer limb of a Christmas tree? Then he saw her, dancing angel, glorious, bright. “Save me,” he cried.

The forest trapped her, green all round and branches tight at her knees. A canyon loomed, deep nothing where ground should have been. She shrugged slim shoulders, cape stretched high like angel’s wings, with upturned scarf a halo in her hair. Tin soldier looked bored. “Save me!” the dancer cried.

Silver and gold Tinsel and foil Trouble and toil To get it all right. Silver and gold Her head’s going gray Now her life’s growing old Now you’re going away. Silver and gold; Come home for the tree Come home for the mother The brother and see Silver and gold.

Bob put Tom’s car-keys in the blender. Meanwhile Tom’s car disappeared. Tom sent for the police while Bob drove a miniature car round the Christmas tree. “Nee-naw” he sang. “Stick-em-up.” Not tactful. Tom was fit to explode. Then Bob, the elf, put a strand of Tom’s hair in the blender.

He left his shoes, and snow and mud, on the runner when he came in. He was a child. He left one shoe in Iraq; left a leg there too. He left no shoes when he was gone, but Mom hung onto one; found candies inside it when Christmas arrived.

In dark earth a worm turned slowly to light. Bird swooped. Worm wriggled free. In green tree a squirrel complained at the sight. Bird chattered. Cat pattered on grass. Bird took flight. “Am I being good?” asked the boy who caught the spider. “Can Santa see?” Boy let it go.

There’s snow on the ground and lights in the stores, and more. There’s gifts by the tree and Santas walking the street. There’s flying reindeer, noses glowing bright, and greetings, dreams and promises tonight. It’s cold and wet and rainy gray outside, but kings still follow stars on Christmas cards.

Smiling brightly: “Happy holidays!” Frowning deeply: “Happy Christmas.” Smiling brightly: “Season’s greetings!” “He’s the reason for the season.” Playing music. Singing Santas. Children’s laughter. Teenage banter. But the frowner’s looking down on all the cultural delight. Smiling brightly, little baby’s hailing shepherds, most unsightly, greeting strangers, wrong religion; welcomes all.

Santa’s sitting by stairs on a comfy chair. Fake flames flicker in fake fireplace. Santa’s elf, bigger than Santa himself, has hands that smell of soap. Santa was sitting outside the store too. She knew him by his beard and loving grin. Red coat worn out, he begged for pennies.

Somewhere a plane is flying. Somewhere a mother’s riding to her child. Grandmother brings her walking cane and slowly treads the land of Christmas tree and candy-canes. Christmas comes at the hands of the beloved. And boy who rarely smiles or hugs runs forward, eyes on eternity, joy welcomed in. My Mum is on her way as I write, bringing Christmas on airplane wings.

Puppies bounced through hedgerows while leaves turned into snow. Small legs raced fast through mounded white. And pups got stuck. Mom clambered through hedgerows while leaves squelched into mush. She rescued pups and set them back on paws. Her feet sank deep in slippery sleet-sodden mulch, white sauce on brown.

The shoppers shop. The music plays. The candy-canes dissolve in sticky goo. “Too noisy” says one vendor. “No. Too quiet.” “Too much religious stuff. Play Santa songs.” The shoppers shop. The music plays. The vendors sing along, while holy child in manger smiles, and promises salvation when the Christmas-music stops.

Time to write those thoughts and memories of a year, sighed Jan, when mail brought timetables of wondrous deeds: "Tom graduates," "Mike’s aced his test" and "Jess plays first violin." Blinking on tears and thinking happiness, she wrote a letter filled with hope, then found her heart uplifted after all.

The Christmas trip… The Christmas trip on a plane to family abroad… The Christmas trip where you take off your shoes and struggle out of the wheel-chair, only to be asked if you’ve got any “soil” in your suitcase, and “When are you leaving?” But grandchildren’s smiles make everything worthwhile.

I remember Mighty-Max, his miniature figure in every design—“What color’s his shirt this time?” We panicked when a Transformer’s driver went missing—“He’s the robot’s head, Mom.” And I remember presents around the tree, piled high as the little boys’ knees. But now they just want flat-packed computer CDs.

I don’t know where time goes, Only it flows Like rain. I think I lost your photograph Left it in a book I gave away. Water washes pictures from the page While ages pass and lemon grass Grows sepia with age. Don’t know where time went But we grew old. Giving thanks for time to grow older

Step forward; Futures beckon you But stir and twitch uncertainly Till wretched stop; stand still. Step back Where memories tangle steps That wrangle angered thoughts until The path before is filled. So step aside, See different paths, And ones not taken yet. Step forward Set your eyes on God again. Giving thanks for opportunities yet to come

Dad made me jump; I dropped my knife And splattered gravy Far and wide; It splashed my brother Who tipped his chair Bumped into mother Who tripped the cat Which jumped and scratched The dog who bit The table-leg And made the baby cry; So that’s what really happened Honestly! Giving thanks for childhood innocence

They’re blaming need on want, forgetting greed; Blaming war on peace, then closing doors On hoped-for conversation. They blame computer games for fights And music for their sleepless nights And books for cruel looks Pictures for lies. They’re blaming dreams. It’s time to fly Away. Let celebrations’ thanks be mine. Giving thanks for festivals and joy

Run rabbit run; Follow winds to the sun; Never end ‘til the story’s begun. Fly turkey fly Or they’ll eat rabbit pie; Watch the leftovers pile to the sky. Flow with the wine Drinking grapes from the vine Taking walks round the field when there’s time. Then run rabbit fly. Giving thanks for exercise

The scent of cooking, Sweet and savory; Sounds surround A scrap, a bubble Gravy. Clattering pans, A smattering of something Splats the floor. Alone no more There’s pattering feet And paws Where scent of cooking, Glorious cause, Imbues the pup with Glorious applause. Your chatter draws A lapping, happy tongue. Giving thanks for Thanksgiving dinner

The truth lies in-between, A frozen leaf that clings, ice-rimed Bejeweled, its amber hidden deep inside. Beneath the silvered sky Attached to heaven’s bough by frailest Web, wind-whispered promises don’t lie. The truth is then and now And when and how and ever tries To tell eternal thanks, well-prayed, well-signed. Giving thanks for faith and truth

The turkey paper’s giving me ideas for turkey day And says It’s quite okay to not eat meat Just bring your own dish Sweet or savory. The page is full of turkey deals and ads For turkeys free with this week’s shopping Still I plan To give my thanks Thankgiving-turkey-free. Giving thanks for Thanksgiving dinner: Poem inspired by vegetarian son and today’s newspaper insert.

Between the rocks of ages stand And watch the imprint of his hand That formed the sundry creatures and Their wonder on the land. Between the science and faithful stand Above their worries, open hand To each, by both uplifted, planned His love, their plunder. Hand In hand together stand. Giving thanks for argument

Did I ask before I bought it? Did I think before I thought it? Did I wonder? But he caught it And he asked me why instead. Didn’t watch the checkbook’s number Simply wrote it unencumbered By the knowing, thumbed my nose at plans. The blame lands on my head. Giving thanks for financial planning.

Was it wrong to cry? Wrong to whisper my goodbye To you? I don’t know why But somehow it felt right And still I cried. Was it right to make An end to it, agree and say Okay and let them let you sleep. I weep remembering Keep wondering why. Giving thanks for the comfort of pets.

There’s holes in the insulation under the door Where wind blows in. Its whistle calls and thundering voices echo in the hall While leaves of fall have clattered Worn and battered underground. I shiver but remember more The children’s tread, Small voices echoing all through my head Warm sounds instead. Giving thanks for home and family

Not lost; just hiding, Sliding the words between pages White space defines me. Not lost; unheard though Wondering if she’ll be there Remembering she’s gone. Not lost; preparing Warily checking the beat While she’s waiting to dance. Not lost; emboldened Enfolded in symbol and sound The muse and the chance. Giving thanks for the muse and the words

Tell me why the wind blows Winter whispering so coldly Ancient shadows make me old? Why are leaves like aging Bitter rain falling like time that’s Painting wrinkles on the rhyme? Why are squirrels hiding Birds are silent, kittens gliding Into comfort While the windblown branches frown. Why’s it fall? Giving thanks for seasons

Stacking dishes, plates Empty the dishwasher. They’re waiting Still for dinner, sitting watching The TV. Stacking football scores on notepads On their knees. I’m stacking dreams Under the magnets On the fridge. Stacking all those pictures there From kids; they’ve grown to adults. Dinners stacked their muscles Set them free. Giving thanks for housework

’Tisn’t raining Ground is almost dry, disdaining Leaf-mold’s cruel slide. Strains to peek From side to side, small kitten wearing Water in her fur. It isn’t wet The kitten ventures out and yet There’s raindrops in the air. Kitten despairs Of ever being warm again ’Til door is opened there. Thankful for comfort and warmth

Sometimes the road seems more a sign than choice. I know which way I’ll go And dreaming, hope for good. Star-crossed adventure calls me on. Rejoice But drawing breath I stand Beyond this land lie dragons. Awaken now and listen to the voice That says “I am.” Reply I can. Giving thanks for opportunities

I spent my day at a Christmas bazaar selling books and bookmarks etc... Can I give you a flyer About my books; There’s no obligation to buy’em. I do quite agree The necklaces look Very nice and beside’em The hand-creams are scenting The season. A little boy reads And his smile Is the reason for writing; It makes all the salesmanship seem Worthwhile. Giving thanks for reading

They say you’re independent, free To find your own way, choose your own Path. See, they’re watching, waiting while You fall. My independent rose Was quelled by weeds that ever-grow From ever-flowing seeds. They tell how war and warming’s only Politics they say while clock ticks Faster than their needs. Giving thanks for lessons learned

No one wants to turn the summer sun to graying fall To watch the flowers die and all The memories lie still. No one wanted to climb that hill, to face the battle all Encumbered, but they took the call And fell. So we, we will Tell all, remember them. Giving thanks for veterans of war

She’s not for you. He ran away to war. She isn’t yours. He kept her face before His weeping eyes while colleagues died. He’s not for you. Don’t care she said. I’ll marry my American she said. Then he was dead. So one true love of two survived, and I. Giving thanks for my grandparents’ love.

They said don’t run; you’ll breathe the gas too deep. He ran with mustard seeping dark inside Too far, too fast, and weeping till he stopped. They said he’d begun to die that day. Instead He slowed to watch new wars begin and end Again, praying forgiveness till he dropped. Giving thanks for peace

They told him the earth was flat, four-cornered, square. He walked and wondered where The end is. They told him the earth was round, anchored on pillars Eternally bound, unmoved by Any trending. They told him creatures were born fully formed. He Yawned, his earth still orbiting; Still friends though. Giving thanks for faith and science

They poured, exploded from their rest From anthill’s quiet domain now pressed By child’s unwieldy eagerness To know. But silence pours its life with tears As strangers probe her childhood fears And nothing changes there or here She knows. Forgiveness pours a precious balm And frees a soul from harm. Giving thanks for healing and hope.

Looking for her in the fields evergreen in the leaves going brown in the gray olden town in the way that you frown at me. Looking for you under memories of words That you say. You’re not her See you’re looking for me but she’s gone and the memory fades. Giving thanks for memory

It's Guy Fawkes night in England--remember the 5th of November... One day he fought Strange guy He failed of course. One day he tried To blow up parliament. Today we all Recall Wonder as well How once he tried To change the way things went. Today we burn Our guy With blazing spell And wisdom well Replays the lesson meant. Giving thanks for history

On a chair In a house On a lot Nothing’s there And the mouse In the yard’s Gone away. Hear the dots And the dashes The painter Is splashing And slashing The old paint Away. I wonder Perhaps Does the paint Hold the walls Altogether. The mouse says I’ll stay. Giving thanks for our homes

Sometimes the leaf-fall whispers, Maybe calling windblown promises From trees. Sometimes the autumn chatters Raindrops splatter in the dust of Fallen leaves. Sometimes the children scatter More like needles from the pine than leaves To please. But motherhood remembers Like the trees of Oregon and bends Her knees To Thanksgiving. Giving thanks for absent family and friends.

D’you remember halting teetering steps One foot, another, falling Calling me? D’you remember sweet and lost at school Your silent eyes were watching Stalling me? D’you remember I still left you there In time you left me too Enthralls me now To see how your grown life is started new. Giving thanks for children growing up.

She still looks round that corner Behind me Still waits though I mourn her. She’ll find me Some curious dawn where I’m crying And nudge me, forlorn fur Abiding In memory. I’ve torn her From dreams But she’s mourning me still And each pup fills my Longing to see her. Giving thanks for dogs.

Three witches, a headless horseman, and a ghost went into a bar. “I’ll have a scotch,” said the horseman. “Make it a double,” said a witch. The other two intoned “Ah, toil and trouble.” The ghost said spirits weren’t quite his thing. Come closing time three author’s shades went home.

D’you smell the wet earth loamy, Taste the leaf-fall in the air? D’you hear the owl-call, nightfall’s host While squirrel’s strident chatter shares Its mystery? Do you see the dark? Your fingers splay in hopes to touch the day? D’you sense him now? You really shouldn’t have come here anyway.

The orange pumpkin seems to glow, hanging with bright plastic handles from little boy’s hand. He feeds it candy— begs at all the houses—“Trick or treat”—hoping for more. Brighter and brighter shines the light in orange pumpkin’s eyes, till sudden roar. Pumpkin gobbles child. Child begs no more.

“Trick’r treat,” shouted Mom. The spaceman hid behind the table. “Come on sweetheart. Trick’r treat.” Sad eyes gazed up through helmet’s bowl. “Time to go.” He stared with corners of mouth turned down. “Trick’r treat.” The trick is to stay very still. The treat is when monsters don’t eat you.

“Trick’r treat!” He heard the children’s voices down the lane. “Trick’r treat!” He struggled out of bed. “Trick’r treat!” The gravestone’s weight pushed him to earth again. “Trick’r treat!” He crawled around the other way instead. “Trick’r treat!” He hurried home. “Trick’r treat!” Contentedly he gave his dog a bone.

Janet checked the time. “They’ll be here soon.” Jared checked the candy-bag. Jessie checked their costumes were all on straight. “D’you think they’ll notice we’re invisible?” asked Joe, adjusting bone-white gloves to cover his wrists-bones. “No way,” said Jason, tugging a black balaclava over his skull. “They just want candy.”

“Trick or treat!” Three children waited at the door, a witch with black pointed hat, a wizard, an angel, and a scorpion. “Trick or treat!” The woman who answered wore black, dusty veils over her face, blood dripping from her teeth. The children screamed and ran. The scorpion ate her.

It happened in a moment. Bright sky turned dark. Shadows descended over the scene leaving red on the ground. “Vampire” shrieked the dream. It happened in a moment. Sun turned to rain—day to night. Red leaves fell down but when the light returned, heavenly gold still clung to trees.

Sometimes it sounds like someone’s trying to get in. No problem. Just the wind. Sometimes they scratch at windows, doors. It sounds perhaps as if they’re all inside. Then footsteps trudge across the floor. Sometimes it sounds like nightmares come to life. On Halloween, the witch tells you, they do.

Amanda raked the leaves to form neat piles. Amanda’s puppy jumped and scattered them. Amanda raked the leaves again then took the puppy safely back inside. Outside, the wind blew wild and free. Leaves scattered far and wide. And hidden spiders grew to monster size. No problem. Puppy ate them.

Leaves fall soft as orange snow turned brown on weary ground. The sun sinks low in evening sky. Night falls and owl-calls drown the squirrels’ sound till all is still. As leaves and shadows fall on grave-yard stones, then hands reach up and climb. It’s Halloween, the zombies’ hallowed time.

The fridge’s stomach rumbled. The heating woke in the bowels of the house, blowing hot like fire. Watching clocks blinked fierce red eyes, bright numbers counting the hours… Not a creature stirred, not even a mouse, said the rhyme. Not even a house? Number 13 Primrose place ate its occupants.

Ah, the gentle sound of leaf-blowers in the fall; mulching machines chew limbs from trees while lonely lawnmowers, last of their tribe, scythe down the summer’s grass. Sunshine brings out the busy in us. But skies grow dark, night-eyes spark bright, and rustling creatures whisper autumn’s terrors as they pass.

The moment before it rained The ground was dry. The sky threatened with gray but I Was kneeling in my memories Pulling weeds. The future drenched me. The moment before witches Flew the sky My Halloween was memories too Of twigs and paper hats But dire Adulthood wrenched me back.

A squirrel was hunting acorns in the grass. Sunshine flamed like firelight from his tale. He twitched and passed—warm squirrel. Beautiful—from lawn to deck where shadowed hand reached out to wreck his day. Warm squirrel. Mmm. Delicious. Discarded furry brush, some bones and an acorn all that remained.

Technology; they used to say it was going to put us out of work. Sure, the caseloads got smaller when technological temptation got so easy, but there’s always those clever-clogs want to break the system. Everyone’s so careful now, data protection, switch off the gps. Demons can find you anywhere.

There’s a reason they put mirrors on the walls behind bars. All those drinks and bottles reflecting their jeweled colors; all those smiling faces lifting glasses like treasure to their lips. And me. As long as there’s a crowd no-one notices they can’t see my reflection, till it’s too late.

“Mom. How did you meet Dad? He’s such a dork.” “Ah, love. You really don’t know him so well.” “But seriously Mom.” “Okay. I’ll tell... ...We were playing in the churchyard in the woods; you know, that old abandoned place where the roof’s caved in. And a demon came from…”

The view from the window was gray. Mist made ghostly shapes over trees, over paths. Mist trailed its thin damp fingers on the glass. Mist stared at her. Misty gazed deeply into mist’s gray eyes; was suddenly surprised when the sun came out. Then she opened her mouth, breathing mist.

He rapped his knuckle on the windowpane, peering through the pale cloud of incense that surrounded her table. Watchers gazed entranced. She’d be promising forbidden glimpses of the future he guessed, revealed in the cards, while she, all unknowing, ignored his dark-cloaked presence and white-bladed scythe waiting by her door.

“That’s a novel idea.” “What?” “Going back to the beginning of time.” He showed her the instructions. “See, so you can tell if women were really made out of man’s ribs.” “Sounds messy to me.” “Cream and sugar my dear?” Eve poured. Adam stirred. The dog chewed on the controls.

From milkman’s granddaughter to cowed by the farm: Don’t miss this terrifying tale of death by a thousand udders. You’ll never look a bovine in the eye again without flinching... Meanwhile, from innocent calf to bovine Halloween. You’ll never look humans in the eye again without flailing those powerful horns.

I dream in color Green when I’ve been weeding, Brown earth feeding grayish scents To nostrils. If I cough Perhaps I’ll wake. I dream in sound Around me ivy rustling; Sense how the ground is shared With spiders. If I scream Perhaps I’ll wake. I dream in nightmares Shaded gray.

Green ivy crawls on painted walls while gray clouds hide the sun. Sky’s yellow eye grows dim but leaves shine bright, about to fall. Then red and orange and gold will mold to brown spread on the ground. Green weeds poke through the mass, remind, spring always finds a way.

D’you suppose the flowers don’t grow because they know I’ve not got green fingers? D’you suppose they’re upset ‘cause I’m pulling down the ivy from the walls? D’you suppose they don’t like me because I don’t like spiders? And is that a spider, crawling in my hair? I hate yard-work.

Night fell fast and street-lamps faded yellow into mist. Jane’s knuckles white, she steered the car away. Red lights like alien eyes appeared while tooth-lined mouth, snake-tongued opened beneath. Slamming the car into reverse, Jane backed into a lamp-post; screamed. Her headlamps now like beacons shine their warnings into sky.

The guy dressed as a tomato advertised the salad bar, but Danny thought the shark looked much more fun. Dad stopped the car and leaned out the window to order, “Two shark steaks.” He learned too late, this bar sold human steaks to alien shark-shaped clientele. The sharks ate them.

“You want him to run away don’t you?” said Meg as her dog barked wildly over the carcass of a dead squirrel. Pale autumn leaves fell round them, bright-plumed birds, dead spiders and a fly. Dog wagged his tail while Meg dragged him inside, while alien weapons burned the sky.

Petey loved the lions at the zoo. “Wish I could set you free,” he said. “You can,” the lion replied. “Hey, he can speak!” Petey grabbed his mother’s hand, then trembled as his voice grew hoarse. “Who can speak dear?” “No-one,” said the lion in Petey’s skin, while Petey roared.

Late afternoon sun reflected on a hole in the ground like liquid gold. “There must be a stream,” said Dianna running forward to see. Dave tried to hold her back. Late afternoon sun tangled her legs like stockings trapped and trailed from the fabric of time. Then she was gone.

An orange moon for fall; brown leaves on the ground; golden sunsets crowning russet cloud-feathers of sky… Squirrels, red and gray, hunt through the day; cats chase and play; then fierce coyotes conquer fearsome night. A squirrel-tail, cats-paw on dull green grass. Ghosts howl to orange moon and rainbows pass.

Emily gave names to her apple trees. “Lady Alice” had fruit peach-colored and sweet, blushing redly under the sun. “Uncle Tom” bore a crop with tiny red specks like dust. “Peter Piper’s” crop were tiny and green, slightly sour with sugar behind. And “Spiderman” bore juicy globes knit together by spiders in the night. They must have liked the taste. They had real names, but all Emily knew was they bore sweet fruit like none she could find in stores. When she talked to them, her neighbors called her a witch. But they don’t burn witches anymore, just apple trees.

Sometimes the weather surprises you. The prophet said the river would be poison, but nobody cared until the fish all died. He warned us “Frogs” but we didn’t realize—without fish they got everywhere. Then they died too; didn’t eat the flies, so the flies ate us instead. But it wasn’t our fault. A storm tore up the crops; locusts ate the rest; then the sky turned black. But things like that, they really can’t be predicted. We planned a party, made yummy cakes but the guys that ate them died. Too late, we ran the prophet out of town.

Lizzie looked out from the back of the car as they drove towards the park. “What’s he doing?” She asked about the man in the stream. “Fishing, I think.” Lizzie rode the ghost train, won a fish, and ate candyfloss snow. Then she looked again from the back of the car, carrying her plastic bag, watching out for fishermen. “There he is Mom!” The fish leapt up, fluttered fins and gills, then grew and flew through the air. A scream in the night—no fishermen now. The tiny gills on the side of Lizzie’s neck opened wide in a smile.

Summer’s over. The fair has gone. The field lies empty and bare. See, here are the treads of the merry-go-round, the dents from its wheels and its stands in the faded grass. Here’s where the door to the mirror-maze stood. Here’s the candy Sam dropped on the ground. D’you remember that? And here; I’m following footsteps now. He’s where Sam stopped; you see how the earth’s trodden down? Here’s where he found an image so entrancing he couldn’t move on—wonder what it was. And here? The footsteps end. Sam never came back and night’s falling. I’m sorry. We’re trapped.

“Don’t tell lies,” the teacher said. “Why not?” said Meg. “Because they’ll spread.” The class went onto the green where dandelions had recently been. “Pick some flowers,” said the teacher. “Why?” said Meg. “You’ll see.” Meg chose the puffiest flower and pulled its stem. But seeds flew in a mighty cloud till only a pinprick was left. She chose another and shielded it but still the seeds escaped. She wrapped her hands round a puffy sphere, but threads and flickers trickled away through her fingers. “Can’t do it,” said Meg. “And you can’t stop lies from spreading,” the teacher said.

Alice saw flies on the forest path and swore she’d not go there. “They’ll itch. They’ll bite.” Kevin saw fairies in spider-webs and begged her to follow with him. “They’re perfect Alice. I know I’m going to catch one.” Andrew saw spiders waiting to capture Kevin. Kate saw angels watching and knew they were safe. But there’s one thing they all forgot; nobody knew the way. So they wandered lost till a flutter of wings led them towards the light. A fairy said Kevin. An angel said Kate. A Mom with a flashlight searching, Alice replied, and she was right.

He flew on business to lands where strangers cooked, cleaned and washed his clothes and cared for him. He went to places where lanterns fly and secrets light the sky. He flew abroad where she could never be, and phoned once in a while. “Did I leave that paper on my desk? Can you tell me what it says?” He left her looking after home and family, and, when he come back, told her he was tired. She—I’m the lazy one, she thought, imagining he thinks she’s done nothing worthwhile. Then he smiles at her. “Missed you my love.”

I liked that clock. I liked the ticking that beat the passing seconds one by one. I liked the dong, always out of time, a quarter-hour with twenty minutes gone. I liked its telling of the hour, random numbers just for fun. “What will we do with Granddad’s clock?” I asked after he died. Mum sighed. “You know he always hated it.” “Why?” “It was all his parents gave him for a wedding present—a second hand clock, he said, for a second-hand-life.” “Poor Granddad.” I still like the clock but it stands all alone and stopped, silent like him.

“Grandma never loved me,” said Jen, wiping laceworks of dust from her face as they emptied the attic. “Why d’you say that?” “I wasn’t good enough. She always said…” Jack would’ve called it Grandma’s way of caring but didn’t dare. A hidden suitcase of photos only served to prove Jen’s point. “See. She didn’t even keep my pictures on display.” Downstairs they watched a passing breeze set Grandma’s chair to rocking. Sunlight fell on a photo of Jen. “She loved you,” said Jack. “She never even framed it.” But written on the back: “My Jen, best part of my life.”

When summer ends the house gets quiet. Dog makes friends with cat again and they curl on the sofa looking out at birds. They bark or yowl at passing strangers and carefully guard the doors. When summer ends it’s time to clean house, stretching paws to hidden parts of floors where enticing scraps lie hid. Cat finds a beetle—always fun. Dog finds breadcrumbs and wishes he could reach that distant speck of meat. When summer ends there’s still the odd sunny day and one last barbeque. Cat wonders if they’ll try cooking squirrel, while dog tries to catch one.

The children came home from school demanding to eat. “I want cookies,” said one. “I want cake.” “I want chocolate.” Mom chopped up fruit and put it on a plate. But they wanted more. “I want candy,” said one. “I want ice-cream.” “I want apple pie.” Mum chopped up carrots but the children still wanted more. “I want peanut butter.” “Jelly.” “Milk and juice.” Mum brought a bowl of cherries out and the children reached for their treats. But the fruits dissolved in a puddle of goo with swarming ants underneath, and the children didn’t want them. Neither did Mom.

There’s something in the silence of books As if the words whisper their way From pages sealed in paper To the wall of ages past. There’s something in the way the sun shines down As if the books are spreading stars in dust The sound of them Flying as soft as night. There’s something in the scent of books Of paper, glue and mystery Suspense, romance Suspended. Then It tingles on the tongue That taste of secrets. Fingers look and touch And wipe away the dust. Page opens wide… There’s something In a bookstore means I simply must buy more.

Dami didn’t want to go to school. He told his mother “No” but she wouldn’t listen. His father only answered, “Go talk to your mother.” His grandma laughed and Grandpa said, “Oh no? Well, what do you know?” Dami hid in his bedroom but heard his mother climb the stairs. He hid under the bed but heard feet approaching there. He wriggled into a storage box and found… A book with pictures of a kitten hiding under a bed. “What’s this?” His mother smiled and said, “It’s a story. They’ll teach you to read it if you go to school.”

There’s a noise outside. Blue jays are fighting again, and a squirrel joins in, shouting abuse from its corner of the ring. Trees bends their branches to listen with the memories of centuries weighing their thoughts. Bright flowers, baby upstarts, laugh. And a human intruder looks out through the living-room window. There’s more flowers because of the rain. There’s more birds, so they’re fighting again. There’s more sun, and the trees’ weary branches are showing the strain. Fall comes early this year bringing leaves tinged with yellow too soon. Meanwhile the human intruders ignore the dark elephant warming the room.

Eric leaned back triumphantly in his chair. The computer screen scrolled intricate words while speakers played their musical parade. “I won,” he exclaimed. “Good job,” said Mom who’d just won her own private battle with the washing machine. “Good job,” said Dad who’d helped his boss win a contract and saved his job. They used to complain at computer games, saying Eric’s eyes were glued to the screen and it had to be bad for him. Eric missed the old days. But now he was packed and heading back to college. His Mom and Dad missed the old days too.

“Wake up!” Jessie aimed a kick at her sleeping sister. Cassie groaned. “Time for work,” said Emma, tossing cold water on Cassie's face. Cassie whimpered and groaned. “They’re leaving,” said Mom and Dad, and Cassie was silent. Five minutes later Jessie and Emma strolled in through the factory gate. “Your sister beat you,” said Tom, the security guard. “Thought she was asleep.” “Well, her eyes were still closed. But she beat you anyway.” Inside, Cassie sorted through aircraft parts with skillful hand and blank face. If you listened closely enough you could hear her snore. “Wish we could do that.”

They’d moved for his job and nowhere to live, just family and car and luggage in the back. But at least the camp-site had a decent shower. Miriam took the children to town. “We want to play,” they said but she insisted on school. “Where d’you live?” asked the woman at the desk. “We’re between homes.” “But where?” Then Mikey piped up, “We live in a tent.” “We sleep in the car,” said Anne. “We’ve not got a bed.” “You’ll need an address in the school district,” said the lady and Miriam sighed. “Okay, maybe studying’ll wait til another day.”

Pete didn’t want to go to the party. “I haven’t got a present,” he said, but Asher’s Mom made him come anyway, and he watched, dismayed, while Asher opened his gifts. “I love this car!” said Asher, so excited till the wheel came off. “I can fix it,” said Pete. Sticky-stuff in his pocket worked a treat. “This rocket goes fast.” The elastic broke, but Pete’s pocket contained a spare. The pictures were fun till the crayons ran out, but Pete’s pockets had more hiding there. Pete enjoyed himself, and Asher’s Mom said his were the finest gifts of all.

We went shopping that day, youngest son and me, starting out with the internet; emails, then links; much rejoicing to find out that the stores were nearby. We looked at lists of towels, bright colors and patterns; thought the kettle would be a good gift, but of course, he’s running late and they’re only available by mail—snail mail that is. Then we went out, in the sunshine, in the car, with printed list in hand. We bought a photo frame collage, decorated with words like “Love” “Joy” and “Family.” My youngest son going to a wedding: I felt old.

When I was young I raged that they’d Blow up horse guards’ parade. I’d cried already, writ my words For Mums and children dying With no arms’n legs’n eyes. They said It was for God. They lied. When I was young I thought that I Could stand and say my piece For peace. The rhymes fell off the page. The world grew up to rage Again and on a different stage they’re waging War for God. They lie. Catholic and Protestant, they lied. Christian and Muslim lie the same as then, again today, It’s other people die Still wondering why

Danny wasn’t very good at waking up. He set his alarm clock. It didn’t work. He set his phone; it didn’t ring. Then he downloaded “Wakeup” to his computer. Danny became an expert getter-upper and the neighborhood pain. Five thirty sharp, the computer would screech and wail and Danny would leap. “Stop that noise,” shouted old Mr. Thompson next door. “Sorry sir,” shouted Dan. “Where’s the fire?” Mrs. Williams wailed. “Only me.” “It’s the end o’the world!” “No, Miss Hughes, just the start o’the morning.” Danny rushed out to deliver newspapers, while neighbors dreamed, and his Mom sighed with relief.

He fought in the last war, he thinks; a long long time ago, or yesterday. Heard Humvees in the streets last night and ran from flashing lights. It’s when you see her carrying the baby in her arms, you realize—it’s in her eyes—she’s out to terrorize. He fought in the last war. Today, he couldn’t quite remember what to say, so many questions flying by, wanting to hide or turn away. It’s when he reached under his coat because his side was hurting, then the policeman fired. And here on lonely streets of home this lonely soldier died.

Mom spilled some salt so Tom slung a pinch over his shoulder. “You’re making a mess,” said Mom. “It’s for luck.” “You don’t need luck.” Upstairs he was checking his shave when Mom crashed into the door. The mirror smashed. “Seven years bad luck!” said Tom. “You don’t need luck.” Tom walked round the ladder, paid the gypsy for a flower, and went to his interview. “You like lavender?” asked the secretary. Tom almost answered, “For luck” but offered her the bloom instead, got job and girlfriend, both in one. “You don’t need luck,” said Mom, and Tom touched wood.

Sun glistens, Dripping scents of honey On whispering waves. Man’s not listening Buries his head and money In the sand. Morning scatters Bread on the evening waters Healing the land. … Sun glistened Shone in the black reflection Of the waves. Man listened Only to safe deflection Of her rage. Earth bleeding Hiding her sores underneath Till they blotted the page. … Earth like a bride sorely wounded Bleeding her lifeblood, the newly Devoted, devouring her beauty Rescuing roamers who knew she Would cry late-lamented, and blue sea Awakes from the gray. … Sun glistens Man learning to listen Life and hope remain.

She woke to a strange sound on the air, insistent, steady, sure. A bird with hiccups she thought and sighed and rolled over. She woke to a stranger sound filling the room, more insistent, demanding its cause. A bird and a squirrel were going to war in a tree. She rolled over again. She woke to a strange sound, loud as a party where squirrel and bird became friends and they danced on the lawn. Then she woke to her mother’s firm hand on her arm. “Sylvie. It’s time for work.” Alarm clocks really do make for very strange dreams.

He gave her a ring, slipped it over her finger, kissed her and promised he’d always be there for her. The air smelled of salt Sea birds flew And altered futures Beckoned. His touch was sandy Dry and warmed with sun His hand in hers They listened to the birds. She hadn’t reckoned He’d betray her. Seagulls beckon tears from eyes That sea-salt air makes cry. Sand’s staining black Mud tracks perhaps or worse. He gave her a ring To seal the hole in her heart But she burst out from it. Under the ocean They’d almost stopped the flow.

Dark tunnel, creeping, Wet stones weeping, Footsteps are seeping Like mud into sand. Explosive is fragile As murder in hand And it burns him. His breathing Is fire. Will the world understand? Captured imprisoned They slaughter the guy And we burn him in effigy Wondering why. Red glare tomorrow Star-covered sorrow Of bonfires returning With games and we can’t understand. Round-eyed with laughter Dazed ever after Where flames touch the rafters And mud slips to sand. Dark shadows weep where The wet stone is seeping Like blood on the water Thoughts scattered like fire-splattered sky Or like mud into sand.