Winter
yarn, a golden scarf of moss, a song to spin
in sunlight cold as buried casks beneath leaves like fired clay;
festival time is come again.
Bring
a chocolate bar for the goblins to gnaw—
a key, a toll, an iron gate left open—climb the hill, away,
leave silence to the throng.
A hare
of hope, the boy in lace, the castellated clay
where the water crashes fierce beneath the elves’ unending ballad
and the moon’s stairway.
Festival
time has come again as the tired fairy hill
Twists its spine of narrow stairs along its curving flank, waiting…
starved of hunter’s thrills.
in sunlight cold as buried casks beneath leaves like fired clay;
festival time is come again.
a key, a toll, an iron gate left open—climb the hill, away,
leave silence to the throng.
where the water crashes fierce beneath the elves’ unending ballad
and the moon’s stairway.
Twists its spine of narrow stairs along its curving flank, waiting…
starved of hunter’s thrills.
Greetings and salutations. It's the first day of NaNo and my brain is in, well, denial. Also, to be honest, this week's upcoming (US) election is reinforcing that weird quarantine feeling of a constant, slow-motion, car crash. Therefore: fantasy. A brief end-of-year escape.
Sharing this week with The Sunday Muse and Poets and Storytellers United.
-- Chrissa
From winter's yarn to moon's stairway and the repeated reminder of festival time this is gorgeous! It speaks escape in more ways than one! Beautiful poetry my friend!
ReplyDeleteBeautiful poetry Chrissa. Happy you dropped by my blog today
ReplyDeleteMuch💙love
Dear Thorn Hailwand, your poetry is quite lovely. {And escape to the max.}
ReplyDeleteA very musical, muse-filled rendering, Chrissa. Awesome.
ReplyDeleteWell penned. Escape came to my mind as well.
ReplyDelete"A golden scarf of moss, a song to spin." How beautiful. A wonderful read!
ReplyDeleteI just penned a poem titled "Escape" too. Seems we're all wishing for escape from today's reality. Loved your poem.
ReplyDeleteI feel like I should be singing this poem, or perhaps chanting while skipping. I really like the rhythm, and the images that bubble into being as the lines are read.
ReplyDeleteAnd about that pre-elections feeling, you are so not alone.
Once upon a time there was an evil troll named Trump. But the people got sick of him and sent him down into the endless abyss. The End.
ReplyDeleteA very well-timed fantasy, on the occasion of the full moon and yeas, the seasonal festival – a time of magic for sure! I love this poem, so visually and musically beautiful. (And glad to note chocolate is magical for you too.)
ReplyDelete*yes (not yeas!)
Delete"Bring a chocolate bar for the goblins to gnaw—" I'm a nice goblin, I love chocolate, especially with coffee. (Now I have half a jar of Candy Corn left over from National Candy Corn Day, October 30, also my birthdsy.)
ReplyDeleteWe had NO, NONE, tricksters this year. Our dsughter, a few blocks from us, about six or seven, put out a bucket of candy last night and watched. Some kids us cooking tongs, others used little shovels or big spoons. Unlike in your lovely 'epic', we have no hills close, about 50 miles away.
..
Poets and authors are lucky they can retreat into the hobby and the trials and absurdities of the world can be put behind them. I enjoyed your writing very much.
ReplyDeleteIt is more than a hobby...it is a way of life. Escape Chrissa in your flight of beautiful words.
DeleteOK, I super want to be festive. Turning on the festivity ignition. Splutter. Pop. Crickets...
ReplyDeleteburied casks beneath leaves like fired clay;
ReplyDeletefestival time is come again.
Great intro Chrissa! It gives an insight into the expected festivities that is to follow!
Hank
i am a good goblin, please, give me more chocolate. 😁
ReplyDeletewow! what imagery, and i love the rhythm and rhyme of the poem, a real delight to read as the words roll off the tongue.
Quite and enchantment! I hope I can find my way back.
ReplyDeleteI appreciate this bit of fantasy. The boy in lace could have bitten the rabbit's head off and it still would be far more soothing than reality today.
ReplyDeleteWonderful imagery in this, Chrissa! It is an enchanting poem.
ReplyDelete