cold snap

i've noticed some disgruntled posts this morning, miffed with our recent
visitation of the white stuff.  it appears this sort of thing doesn't tally with their
idea of Spring.  none of this dilly-dallying with changing seasons for them.
no patient observers of the capricious whims and weanings of mercurial
temperaments, they.  if there's to be change, let's have done with it!
and a wee, crystal voice is whispering in my window, could we have stumbled
on a cold snap from that most evasive of seasons, Caucasion Winter?

of daunting strangers and daring rescues (an excerpt from my novella-poem "Sludge White and the Seven Curmudgeons")

late in the evening as owls were convening

and acrobatic bats flaunted in the sky,

a sparrow announced a stranger approaching

and Lumpy wobbled off to see who was nigh.

Pally the barmaid stepped into the circle

framed by the candles' self-animating glow.

"a dribblin' sentry says they nabbed our Nate.

as your lot were mates i thought you'd want to know."

this news smudged the halo of tremulous light,

dimming their spirits and depressing the night.

they sat up for hours devising a scheme

to rescue their friend from his desperate plight.

a sinister tension stifled the forest

as they climbed the stairs and the candles went out.

a fearful foreboding was freighting the air,

distorting intentions and stiffening doubt.

their unsettled rest was frantic and fitful.

those sleep avoided felt they were being watched.

the shadows in corners resembled the horrors

genetic experiments might have botched.

remorse, disenchantment, and festering hate

seemed to be sulking in every shaded spot.

the dreamers all dreamed of constantly waking

under the dirt in a cemetery plot.

a grey morning dredged up, befuddled in fog,

shrouding surroundings in dripping crystal ice.

out of sync echoes bounced around like caroms,

attentively uttering everything thrice.

while the company gathered in the garden,

obliging pairs of paws packed their travel things.

the birds that had tired of slick, slimy perches

were hovered above on wearying wings.

though Pally joined the party as part of the plan,

Weepy and Lumpy resolved not to go

for they daren't leave Pasty on her ownsome

to face such a heartless, formidable foe.

the strange triple talk hung about for some time

redundantly revealing most of its gist,

and then the voices drifted off with their forms

in the swathing swirls of mysterious mist.

a chill set in as the afternoon advanced.

clammy currents clustered in the cloudy haze.

the wavering vapor spread itself thicker,

as though it intended to roll on for days.

when Sludge White was rounding the foot of the stairs,

she faintly heard taps being rapped on a log.

so she pushed aside the slanting makeshift door,

and a haggard old hag loomed out of the fog.

"my dearie!  i'm so glad i've found you at home!"

cackled the crone, as she cracked a crooked grin,

avidly peering through bleary, hooded eyes,

her cloak clutched close to her thrusting, double chin.

"i would fain find my darling daughter's cottage,

but i fear i've taken a misguided turn.

it's on the old road to the abandoned mill,

betwixt ByWater Landing and Fleagle's Fern."

"goodness!"  Pasty smiled.  "that's several leagues hence.

where the forest thins out near Nobbledy Nook.

up ahead you'll come to a copse of willows.

from there heed the ramblings of the babbling brook."

"i thank thee, dearie.  such a mannerly lass!

having a care for a frail and helpless wench!"

she lurched off the porch and hobbled out of sight,

infusing the air with a mouldering stench.

and Sludge White was afflicted by a vision

oddly familiar and emanating dread,

of the wizened crow's all-consuming gaze

and something unsettling lurking in her tread.

** ** ** ** ** ** **

the colors of sunset were concealed from view

but the murk grew considerably darker

as the watch at the castle sifted their shifts

to the time being broadcast by the barker.

"eight o'clock and all's well!" he brazenly bluffed

and the villagers held their collective breath.

for as soon as the sun rose on the morrow

a hardy life would end in untimely death.

resolutely they abandoned the courtyards

mislaying their echoes in the market stalls.

the fog-ridden ramparts all stood deserted

brooding in a bleakness bleeding from the walls.

the reigning absentia was haunting his window

tailing a hawk with barren, red-rimmed eyes.

the guards at the gate were gathering the drawbridge

barring disruptions and buttressing lies.

the sentry at the entry of the dungeons

was taken by surprise with the fetching lass

bringing his dinner on a smoking platter

and a tempting toddy steaming up its glass.

his crude endeavor to emulate Gropey

was summarily met with a smarting smack.

so he set in to pummelling poor Pally

when Rashful popped up with a right proper thwack.

"ta, mate!  i've rather gone off these randy old sods!"

the sentinel slid softly to the floor.

in a fluttering flicker the keys were snatched

and Gropey's fleet fingers flung open the door.

they entered a realm of palpable darkness

and floundered blindly in a Stygian pall.

Pally bumped his noggin and crossly exclaimed

"it's a good show your lot ain't unduly tall!"

crossing their fingers they inched slowly forward

expecting each footstep to end in a fall.

when fearful fancy supplanted their senses

they got on all fours and proceeded to crawl.

Pally shuddered at the cold clasp of iron

for grasping nothingness had frazzled his soul.

he urgently whispered "Nate, are you in there?

your chums 'ave come to get you out of this 'ole!"

"who wants to know?" asked a hoarse, spectral voice,

and the arteries clenched round their hurtling hearts.

"'tis your Pally from up at the Gimpy Gait.

the one you always call your 'Queen of Sweet Tarts'.

i'm in a crack pack of crusty Curmudgeons.

them blokes what stay in the spookhouse in the woods."

the lock had already been sprung by Gropey,

easily ranking the handiest of hoods.

Nate said "this old man needs to be rescued too."

propelling a shade from the depths of his cell.

"of course he does." griped Rashful.  "just the two of you?"

but perking his ears he cried "bloody hell!"

soldiers were shouting in a nearby passage

and everyone sank into utter despair.

next they were shattered by an ear-splitting squawk.

Rashful asked "what the heck is she doing there?"

the sounds of a scuffle assailed their ears,

a clanging commotion of clamorous clatters.

this was succeeded by shrieks and screeches

and shockingly stifled by gut-wrenching splatters.

"what in blazes is that?" never got answered

but another guard shouted "run for your lives!"

"there's an idea!" said Rashful darting off,

following the lead of the swashbuckling knives.

Sleazy surfaced as they rounded a corner,

looking rather furtive and wanting for breath.

a partly-clad page shot out of a doorway,

cringing from cutlery, frightened half to death.

Sappy and Mock were waiting by the stables,

detaining some ponies by straining their reins.

to judge by the grudging, disgruntled glances,

these human attachments just weren't worth the pains.

"Gramps!"  Mock was ecstatic.  "they told me you died!"

he leapt up and down as if he'd gone wild.

then his face crumpled as tremors set free

the fierce fractured sobs of a heartbroken child.

"wishful thinkin'.  they just buried me alive.

looks like you grew up while i were gettin' old!

this ain't the time for lengthy conversations,

but darlin' you're simply a sight to behold!"

his grandson lifted him onto a pony,

who scornfully snickered while shifting his weight.

and they stole through the shadows to the graveyard,

avoiding the bullies attending the gate.

what with the gruesome gallery of gargoyles

stalking the headstones lining either side,

and writhing branches jutting out of the fog,

it was quite a disconcerting midnight ride.

the ear-splitting squawk staggered the stillness,

disturbing the peace of a murmuring owl.

then the banshee skidded out of the vapor,

cloaked in a floating funereal cowl.

"don't get your smalls in a stitch, my little gnomes!

it's only yours truly, paying my respects.

did you like my bit of fun with the sentries?

i've more up my sleeve than the old bitch suspects!

tell the shiny princess i thank her kindly.

her tip was just dandy!  these new digs are grand!

if there's anything else i can do for her

i'll bend over backwards to lend her a hand."

in a twinkling a series of crackling snaps

carried off the banshee in a swirl of crepe

leaving the atmosphere singed and sizzling,

the outlaws astounded, their mouths still agape.

"we'd better get a move on" Gramps suggested.

"a boggy boneyard's hardly the spot for naps.

and unless you're aimin' to snare mosquitoes

you might want to think about closin' your traps!"

the fugitives resumed their fright-filled flight,

tugged in front by Rashful while Mock propelled the rear

amidst grim reminders of life's final stop,

the ponies snubbing their vain attempts to steer.

** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **

- Evan Hawthorn, the 8^th of april, 2016

a harrowing wind and a jaunt to garner gossip

(this excerpt from my novella-poem "Sludge White and the Seven Curmudgeons" begins as our heroine has just seen the Curmudgeons off on their mission to retrieve the battlerack and watchrug (last seen in the midst of a seething tiff, stashed in a sack and left on the edge of a cliff), and garner gossip from that 'bandy-legged bloke', the garrulous innkeeper at the Gimpy Gate.)

** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **

her entourage emerged in solemn silence

from their crevices and unsuspected nooks.

the feathered folk filled the fence posts and railings

resting their wings and exchanging puzzled looks.

Sludge White smiled at the fawn's tawny mother.

"we may as well go in.  i'll put on some tea."

then a strong breeze stirred up the savor of salt

eerily redolent of the distant sea.

and it shivered every leaf in the forest

with a wail that hovered on the edge of sound,

like some siren on a mythical island

or barrow-wight buried in an ancient mound.

the gusts gathered fury, thrashing a hamlet

huddled in the bend of a neighboring brook,

and spun the creaking sign of the Gimpy Gait

nearly plucking the plank from its rusted hook.

"we'll have no more of your guff, Molt the Miller!

i'm up to my ears with your blatherin' rows!"

the barkeep's eyes flashed a fiery warning

from their shaded pockets, 'neath his knitted brows.

he loaded a tray for a pretty barmaid

who balanced the weight while adjusting his wig.

hale, hardy lads locked lips in darkened corners.

a willowy youth pranced the "jitterbug" jig.

Molt the Miller hiccuped, then slid off his stool

and soaking in his cups, passed out on the floor.

the blustering wind sandblasted the tavern

as Rashful swept in, barely holding the door.

his companions followed, flustered like flotsam

plastered with bruises from a furious tiff,

which broadcast the tale for those that could read it:

they'd salvaged the sack from the edge of the cliff.

"who's for a flagon of mead?" asked the barkeep,

smearing the counter with his foul, grimy rag.

then scanning the bobbing, bodiless heads

he summoned another of his barmaids in drag.

"Pally," said he, "give our darlin' boys the works.

say, didn't that sentry have an unpaid bill?"

catching the drift from the stripling's rolling eyes

he heaved a sigh at his disappointed till.

"i'll fetch him" said Rashful.  "i'm just in the mood."

and he dropped from sight as he sprang from his chair,

regrettably stepping on Molt the Miller

whose garbled protests hung faintly in the air.

"just sit yourself down Rashful my matey.

you'll not be riskin' your life an' limb for coins.

the clangin' wankers are like as not to stiff us.

they're walkin' weapons that think with their loins.

"their lot don't ken we're alive!" piped up Pally.

"on market day last they trampled a child.

crushed his little feet and left 'im for dead.

Trixie 'ad to 'old me back.  i were that riled."

he tucked a tip in his fishnet stockings

and blinking back a tear that was starting to sting,

parried one of Gropey's red-handed advances

and said "that's enough of that, ya' daft thing!"

as he trained his sharp eyes on his leaking source

Mock pensively swallowed a swig from his mug.

"and why would the troops be out in such numbers?

are they keepin' the reason under a rug?"

"well now, as it happens," the innkeeper winked,

"i might have a bit to say on that topic."

everyone in earshot settled in their chairs.

Sleazy leaned closer since he was myopic.

"the word is the princess has been abducted.

and the one they're blamin' is Woodcutter Nate.

what'll happen when they get their hands on him

is too grisly and monstrous to contemplate.

they're sayin' the queen's just beside herself.

though i say her ownsome's quite enough to ponder.

they'll stop at nothin' to retrieve that princess

and dispatch poor Nate to the unseen yonder."

a musing depression enveloped the room

as grim implications began to sink in.

a menacing specter shrouded their future

and managed to drown out the rollicking din.

into the respite, the siren lamented,

their troubles wafted, and the rafters rattled.

a rash of ill winds left rooftops ravaged,

and pendulous prospects, ensnared and embattled.

deep in the forest the treetops were trembling.

frightened creatures quivered in their fragile nests.

horizontal blasts flailed the snapping branches,

stripping them of leaves and casting off their pests.

the sunset had barely embarrassed the sky,

when the wight let loose with his harrowing wail.

the furry retainers had made themselves scarce,

to hide in their burrows and ride out the gale.

the princess sat up by the crackling fire,

awaiting her strange little housemates' return

and dazedly gazed at the amber embers,

infrequently adding a fresh log to burn.

a pattering clatter pelted above her

fraying her temper and needling her nerves.

three creaking windows blew open at once

and the spluttering gusts scuttled dust around curves.

the tension mounted when the candid clock

made a comment on the lateness of the hour.

but when the self-starting candles all went out

the seeds of panic proceeded to flower.

as shadows condensed around the fireplace

a tingle of dread disconcerted her spine.

then an evergreen tree smashed through the front door

sprucing up the entry, spraying it with pine.

Pasty lost her courage and leapt up the stairs

her fleet feet reflecting her fluttering heart.

in headlong haste she mishandled the landing

prying her presence and the present apart.

the cloudburst arrived, tossing in its insult,

spattering her dress and staining it with mud.

and the ranting winds beleaguered the hallway,

entangling her hair in a dark pool of blood.

** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **

- Evan Hawthorn, the 6^th of April, 2016

invasive evasions

i keep posting this in the hope that one day the right end of the stick will
finally be grasped.  protecting America from what it finds "threatening" is
like protecting the Great STrumpet from racial slurs.  "our" troops are not
protecting anyone from anything.  that's not the business our country is in.
when one bullies people, some of them are bound to act out in violent,
antisocial ways.  you bully enough people and one of them will eventually
try to blow you up.  this generally results in weapons sales, but it doesn't
make terror go away.

racism is a disease

thankfully, unlike this eloquent man, i never felt that
i was an "American" (whatever the hell THAT is).
i recognised right off that i was
a human being,
a twig on a Universal tree.
it's one of the gifts i was graced with.
so i didn't have to climb out of boxes
and slip past illusory, limiting borders
in order to discover the rest of my
earth-berthed, spirit-adhering,
love-breathing family.

Aloysius

my soul mate, the spritely Aloysius,

a borderless spirit and a natural genius,

says Mother Earth engenders all of the genders,

and her children wear flesh like exquisite cars.

those who tend their fellows, bend for tender feelings,

lending a sparkle to the dawn like Venus.

others who are blunted to compassionate rays

find they're easy prey to the swaying of Mars.

the deafening silence (a psalm to summon sight)

the release of Albert Woodfox

from his forty years

of solitary confinement,

that relentless and unwarranted

spiteful torture

that quarantines and stifles

so many Black Panthers,

ended last week

with the accustomed omission

of the slightest admission

or vaguest hint of apology.

the silence was deafening.

the twin myths of equal justice

in the land of selective personhood

are as shifting and groundless

as the delusional rumours

of democratic intentions

drifting past its bloodied banks

where unrepentant outcasts

lift weary, unruly heads,

treading the savage,

flag waving currents

of foaming, regurgitated hate.

they are bobbing against

the collateral catch of the day,

in the teeming, conscience-fraying nets

of threatening profiles,

zapped, hapless bystanders,

and sundry uncounted

"bad guy" civilians

with their pigments or passiveness,

their peaceful, earthy protests,

indecent indigence,

or sinful feminine parts;

all of the voice-deprived,

inessential children

of a lesser, unprofitable god.

and they drown in the blunted indifference

of America's unique brand

of self-indulgent

arrogant ignorance,

faithfully broadcast

from sea to pitiless sea,

resplendently shining

in the stultifying waves

of exceptional, milky denial.

would that these blithe bombers,

the blinded and boastful

usurpers of homelands

could unravel the patriarchs'

fabled protection,

unscramble their annals

of evasive projection,

and encountering their own

neglected reflection

discover by some
unprecedented miracle

the flickering, recessive remnants

of their hitherto unimagined

quivering humanity.

- Evan Hawthorn, the 26^th of February, 2016