The Spirit Guide

There is a seeking, high above the ground.
Searching in the dark and cold.
Does it require a ploy, a con?
Does it require a gag?

Once you were proud
Once you were white.
But tricksters play, and Gods hold hard.

So, now only the wind calls your name.
Only the fire sings your praise.
But you keep searching,
Filling your dark wings.

There is a seeking, high above the ground.
Searching for that which is lost.
Does it require a ploy, a con?
Does it require a gag?            

--Roy Edward Power.      23 December 2016

For my Father-in-Law on Christmas

The Thing

She was outside when she found it.
It was hiding behind a bush.
"What are you?" She said in something of a hush.
"I am Thing," It said, in kind of a rush.

"Are you big?  Are you small?" She said in an echo.
"Well," it said with a pause, "I could be a gecko.
But if you consider the snail,
I'm much smaller that.
However, I am much larger than the blue whale."

"How can that be?  That's not possible!"  She said without grace.
"I can assure you, it's all very true.
I am even larger than space.

The little girl rubbed her eyes;
She could not believe the surprise.
It was both big and little in size.
"How can this be?" She said with some glee.
It took off its own hat,
And with a smile said,
"I am your revelry."

Be whom (or whatever) you are,
For that is the only thing you can be!

Love,

- Roy Edward Power

24 December 2016.   For my niece Nola on Christmas

Tree

It's the promise exhaled,
The hope inhaled.
It is the promise of life renewed,
In spinning circles, a snake unto itself, eating.
It is the strength in adversity,
Fire and flood, rain and ice.
All grace and majesty,
tall and magnificent
Against skies of clouds and stars.
It is safe on high cliff or low shore.

It is the roof of security,
The support of family.
Adaptable, excepting;
Yielding, yet sturdy.
It is the leaf for philosophy, a place for love's passion.
It is the place where writer’s' store their treasures.

It is rising high out of the muck,
Always reaching.
It is old and wise, guarding.
It is past, present, and future.

Grab hold and hang on.
In peace and meditation, listen.
Let it teach, let it shelter.
Remember and use it well.


With love,

Your brother-in-law, son-in-law, or whatever I am,


--Roy Edward Power 23 December 2016. Christmas Poem.

a

Village News - The Fall Before Coma Day

Something hangs in the air, perhaps a bubble waiting to be popped.  No one seems interested in the village hobby of "checking in on the neighbor's." In fact, villagers seem to be walking away from a bunch of things.  Perhaps, they are simply tired.

They have all but walked away from great debate event centered around the siege of the Fortress of Higher Education.  In fact, the Right Hand Entity has left, leaving behind a giant rectangle of dirt, along with his boss, The God Who Eats Green Things, even though lawn scalpings are still piling up.

Our annual "Gimme Some Sugar" campaign on National Fright Night seemed to be enjoyed with less enthusiasm this year.  Oh, the agents dressed in their uniforms, masks, and appropriate makeup.  But no one said the passwords, "trick or treat!"  Thousands of pounds of sugar were left in door side bowls, because of this.  I suppose the villagers will have to eat all of that sugar and spoil their appetites for National Coma Day.  I did get word, however, that National Fright Night in Hell's Gate, a subdivision in the south part of the village, was a success.  Way to go, all of you agents and designated pumpkin smashers in Hell's Gate.  Good to see the spirit hasn't died there (Wait.  Maybe it did die....the spirit, that is...how can it be a spirit when it's still alive?)

Oh, and The "Rumble on Humbell (Street)" is still going, though no one could tell me what round.  Even though promotors moved the sun and several blocks of village to accommodate, attendance and interest are down this year.  Our fair Village Police Chief has reported that even Old Man Winter's sidekick, Jack Frost, has been absent.  Although, some evidence of overnight shananigans did turn up.  Allegations of steroid use spin wildly around the Sun God Ra this year and has turned off many spectators.

On the night of November 8th, an incident was reported as an all-out brawl broke out in the adult beverage tent at the Rumble.  It started after someone served angry juice, then turned to finger pointing and innuendo.  Police could only get a handle on things after the adult beverage tent collapsed upon the mob.  A witness claimed things "got nuts" when two animals entered the tent.  Roman Schmirnoff, owner and proprietor of the Rumble's petting zoo, was heard telling police as he tried to leave, "I can only afford to do this [Rumble] once every four years.  I thought I could help myself by adding corporate sponsorships.  Only the donkey and elephant ever got money, lots of it.  It became so ridiculous.  The Elephant started wearing.... a thing on his head!  And pantsuits...on a donkey?!  Always posing for crowds and flashing cameras, kissing babies.  Now, it's all just a big three-ring circus.  It's too much for one man!  Too much!"  Fingers are still being pointed today, concerning that incident on the 8th.  Our fair Village Police Chief has been heard to say that if he so much as hears of a loaded finger, there will be arrests.  In the meantime, clean up of the November 8th incident is now sheepishly commencing.  I just hope, now that the November 8th mayhem is behind us, that we can survive until the final rounds of the Rumble on Humbell (Street) on December 21.  I still have money on Old Man Winter, even if things look tough.  Just in case anyone cares.

Well, anyway.  Have a happy Coma Day!  And if you haven't put yourself into a TV-watching-then-snoring-on-the-couch-drooling coma, take those orange ghosts that are blowing around in your backyards into the woods, they look like they need the exercise.

Mourning

It was a cold, autumn Tuesday, the perfect movie rendition of All Hallow's Eve.  It was so dark that the sky never came out of its slate mood and, even at 8 o'clock in the morning, the sodium-vapor yard lights were fooled and stayed lit.  Everything was draped, or cast, in silhouette and a not-so-thin blanket of damp.  The wind sliced with a scythe made of ice, carving deep into the bone; only a hot bowl of stew or dense oatmeal could relieve as you wrapped yourself deep in a warm blanket or quilt, turned yourself into a dense cocoon, and slept away the day.  This day was the day of the wake, the day the buses ran to a small country church, the day friends met family and remembered.  It was a damp day, both inside and out.  It was the day no one wanted or saw coming, not even the Earth herself.

You see, Friday was so bright, shiny, warm.  All was roses.  How could anything go wrong?  But we should have thought upon the morning, given credence to the dawn.  You see, in that glorious morning before a glorious sunrise, there was something treacherous in the hiding, lurking fog.  Hidden in the low, cold valleys, before the sun could reveal, something, other than deer, leapt across the road, a spectral shadow dancing, a menacing thing.  No one suspected such a traitor in our midst on such a glorious day.  But as I traveled through the dense, lowlands, the traitor appeared.  I didn't know; I didn't even suspect.  A boy appeared, suddenly, dressed in dark colored clothes.  I think they were black.

I squealed to a stop; I almost did not see the darkly dress boy standing there by the side of the road.  I opened the mechanical door, explaining that darkly dressed kids get missed in the dark.  But the boy quietly slid on to the bus and then quietly slid into a seat.  No one knew him, no one asked.  They all just simply fidgeted in their seats and averted their eyes.  The boy said nothing, simply sat, staring out into the red-lit darkness of the rear of the bus.  Simply sat; were there dark wings?  Nah, just a trick of red light.

Then, just as the sun began to add color to the midnight sky and erase the bright shining stars, she got on the bus.  Without hesitation, she sat down next to the boy.  Perhaps, she knew him, perhaps, she never saw him sitting their alone in the seat.  No one knew and no one asked.  All was silent and still, statute deer after a snap of a twig in the woods.  A hunter was near, and we all sat, stiff and tense, as I drove down the road, listening to the clatter, chatter of the two-way radio.

Then it was over, the mechanical door opened.  Before the sun crested the horizon and erupted in bright light, all High Schoolers bursted off the bus and into the building, followed by the girl being tailed by the strange, quiet, and darkly dressed boy.  Then later that day, crows gathered 'round.  They bowed their heads in silence, as the girl could not be found.

As for the boy--no one remembers.  I have shaken and questioned, but no one remembers... So, here we are now; in a small country church, listening words and raindrops fall.  We listen and hold hands, and curse, because we did not say, "take care.  Have a fine day."

Village News - Feelings

In this town, it seems we like to "share our feelings."  There is no topic in which we do not "express some word or two."  Fall is no exception.  Now, when I say fall, I am talking about the season and not the act, although "feelings" have been shared on both topics with equal vehemence.  You see, in this town, even the hint of a cold air or broken bone makes a body shudder and agitates the dander.  So, in this case, to clear confusion, when I say "fall," I mean the season.

It has been since the inception of our fair village that sharing our "feelings" has been very important to us.  No topic is too frail or too minuscule for us to share, when playing the "Share Your Feelings" game.  So when there is a slight hint of steam emitting from any villagers' mouth...well, let's just say: the denser the cloud, the louder our communication of our feelings.  Of course, when dealing with the town elders, you have to raise your voice, perhaps a little; most of them leave their hearing aids at home so they do not to hear you.  So if they hear the town elders hear you, I mean that they realize you are trying to get their attention by shouting and the waving of hands, they usually respond by replying back to you something like: "back in the day" or "when I was a kid."

Now, all most folk want to do is simply share their feelings, not receive a history lesson (and regrettably no one seems to like history class in school anymore either), so they tell the postal carrier.  Of course, all the postal carriers went to class where they learned a clever rhyme about rain and sleet and snow and job commitment (or at least that was the commitment John Postman got from his understanding of the poem).  So, we simply run about the village, like chickens without our heads, sharing our emotions with any and all who listen, our barber/hairstylist, grocer, the hall of money swappers, those folks at the Stumble Down Inn, generally any and all neighbors.                

No one understands in all that..um...sharing that we really don't involve the folks who are busy with the process of the season, and quite frankly, I don't think that any of those folk would listen (or even if they possess actual ears).  For, you see, they are far too busy, concentrating on every detail, so when it all comes together in that one brief moment of flash and bang, there is plenty of oohs and aahs.  You see, those folks are interested in the result, the product.  So, it's quite understandable if they need to and not be attentive to our needs.  Of course, every model year is so different from the next.  When you screw up something that you had so perfect the year before, well, you never hear the end of it.  As I have said, there is no topic is too frail or too minuscule  And so, the village shares.

Oh, and in case, you are wondering about the feelings of this little village this season..well, cold bad, so Jack Frost and Old Man Winter bad.  Warm sun and wet lakes and rivers and streams good.  Fishing good.  Great Sun God Ra/Old Man fight bad.  Make Sun God stay.  I'm hungry when does Feasting Season start?   Oh, please, whatever you do, don't tell any of the villagers that there are those who plot the demise of Old Man Winter (I think a local chapter may exist), they would be beside themselves in glee.  No important work would ever get done if they knew.  It would be as if one unnamed presidential candidate from this election cycle actually spoke the language of the village.  Shhh!

Village News: The Last Hurrah of Parade Season

So, here we are, between seasons.  We are no longer haunted by the disembodied man/woman  who filled the air of our fair village over the past weekend.  I really don't miss the voice(s); they just seemed to be (if you'll forgive the turn of phrase) "dialing it in" this year.  The ghostly intonation were just so "mumbly-peg."  Sounds, not words, just bounced off every building in the village.  Sad really.  Oh, and dangerous, too.  Not nice, disembodied voices, to simply toss your mumbles into the air with no consideration to the innocent bystander.  A bit of gobble-Dee-gook carelessly tossed into the air and ricocheted about the hamlet until it almost clipped one of my ears.  What is this, Chicago or North Minneapolis?!  Aim for your audience, disembodied voice(s)!  Aim!  We try so hard to teach our children proper words at point blank range!  WTF!  And OMG, people (voices)!

Anyway, the last hurrah of parade season occurred over the past weekend.  Every year, the County Fair Panel invites a slow moving caterpillar into our village to meander...and eat...I think...parades eat, don't they?  The village folks, and some county folks, come from all over to select "their very own" parade watching spots along the route.  Some go so far to pitch tents and camp overnight to preserve their prized sites.  And this year only two disputes had to be "arbitrated."

The parade displayed all the colors of the rainbow, sang in all the voices of popular musics (Country and Pop only.  Well, marching band was recently added to acceptable list, but no rap or Latin Inspirations, please.).  All manner of propulsion were on display: legs, cars, trucks, field trucks, the ones with the really fat tires and the ones with the really tall thin tires, tractors, fire trucks, mini go-carts, antique things that only the old "children" know, milk trucks, dump trucks, hay wagons disguised as parade floats, parade floats disguised as hay wagons,...well, you get the idea.  There was all manner of folk as well: the various royal courts that exist about the realms - kings, queens, and princesses, court jesters..oops, sorry, I mean- folks running for various public offices.  Let me see, there were Cowboys and girls riding valiant steeds and mares, clowns oozed out from something resembling the Mystery Machine from the Scooby cartoons (not sure if the clowns were the scary kind or not, somehow sad, though), kids, and adults.  I think there may have been a mermaid or two, but little Abby Newsome was the only to report of their existence.

The only thing that did not make the parade was any breed of farm animal that could make the walk.  They were all left at the fairgrounds, too afraid of Sam's WeBuildGreatStuff float; no doubt, a float of great vision, but some how missing in execution.  It was one of the parade floats disguised as a hay wagon.  Besides three very "enthusiastic" folks half tossing fistfuls of candy; it had a giant stereo blasting Oldies music (80's music if you must know).  Nothing else.

After the parade was finished and everyone had left for the last of the fair fun, the village kids would periodically go back to attack the parade route like ants at a picnic with toddlers.  On the sides of the route of the very hungry caterpillar was a sugary sludge of sticks, wrappers, and other candy bits.  There was also all manner of streamers, buttons (political and otherwise), balloons, popped and not, paper shards and sheets, and perhaps firecracker bits.  It will take weeks and many inches of rain to erase any traces.   Just ask Sienna the Destroyer of Sticks and her companion, Jinxie the Retriever of Wayward Leaves (and now squirrels, it seems) who stop every 15 feet, roadway or not, to offer their assistance in the cleanup, licking tongues and wagging tails included.  But, in all, it was a grand spectacular which celebrated the past, present, and future of the entire county, not just our little village.

And now, with the disappearance of the disembodied voice, the Midway trucks and their trailing puzzle-piece amusement rides, the citizens can finish retrieving prizes won, ribbons, pies, and animals.  The County Fairgrounds looks like a ghost town/dude ranch after a horrible storm or a mass stampede.  But that is for a later time.   It is peaceful now.  Enjoy.  Admittedly, the village does feel different, everyone has mentioned it.  It feels as if we jumped dimensions; perhaps, now, we are in "the other" village.  I should look for a button, maybe someone accidentally hit the "Nudder" world in my old bus.  The dimension slip would explain the sensation of time loss (you know the feeling: Wow!  Whatever happened to summer?).  At any rate, now we wait, poised for feasting season.  Sure, school starts in just a couple of weeks and we need to get ready.  But the God Who Eats Green Things will be here soon.  How better to celebrate His arrival than for all of us to eat things as well.  There will always be school.