May 14, 2010

Bed in Summer

In Winter I get up at night And dress by yellow candle light. In Summer, quite the other way, I have to go to bed by day. I have to go to bed and see The birds still hopping on the tree, Or hear the grown-up people’s feet Still going past me in the street. And does it not seem hard to you, When all the sky is clear and blue, And I should like so much to play, To have to go to bed by day? Robert Louis Stevenson Minnie
October 26, 2009

Witches

A be”witch”ing poem for the sake of the Halloween spirit. In a city, on the border Of Greenwich Harbor and Bly, Maine Lies a scene, dubbed out of order The people don’t like to explain For when nightfall finds its calling And the ground is damp with dew A strange, mist-like fog starts falling Believed from the witches brew. When the haze drifts on the hillside The scent of sulfur fills the air Streaking ‘cross the ebbing high tide Till the fog is everywhere Then the night becomes quite stoic ‘Neath the bright yellow facade And the townsfolk, not heroic Find their shelter e’er abroad. Thus, the city is a ghost town Every night when dusk appears But, alas, there’s milling around In spite of the chills and fears It is true, the rumored report Of the fog-like mist and smell For within a vacant resort Is the place where witches dwell. While the walls are swayed by motion And the roof is half intact The witches join to boil a potion Made of decades old extract To erase one’s recollections Of the town that they once knew Once they taste the rich confections That are in the witches’ brew. Minnie