Lynch lake

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Bright Winter iced lake

Sun warms Eagle above snow

Bluest of cold skies

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The Warning

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he Queen raised her head and spoke,

“Summer shall end one Moon early this year”.

Her subjects nodded their approval.

She continued, “As Spring began one Moon early and Summer began one Moon early so shall Fall begin one Moon early.  To this I add that Winter too shall begin one Moon early.  What stores we have not must be now drawn from the land.  From each field must come into this Palace the food of our Winter.  Placed herein by the many hands of the faithful.  To secure for all of us a future in the flowering fields of Spring.”

The subjects buzzed loudly with excitement as they hurried to their tasks.

The Queen, finished with her proclamation, excused herself and began anew her sacred task.  Laying eggs in the honeycomb.

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A

Single

Rust colored pine needle

Balancing upright

Upon the marbled slate-blue iced over lake

Framed at the edges in deep glittering snow

Binding Spruce into great flowing columns

Anchoring an embracing domed azure sky

Crested by the blinding-white golden Sun

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Winter Mood

It occurs to me that I lose touch with my Soul when I am away from it to long. This statement may sound obvious but the recent holidays and guests, however enjoyable, are far from routine. I am a creature of habit. I have working tolerances to my daily grind. When I exceed my specifications for a long duration problems arise. Namely, I become sullen and withdrawn. The so called Winter Mood. The time when I seem numbed from the loss of connectedness.

There are other times during the year when this malady can strike. Its onset requires a substantial diversion of focus from myself or inner peace (IP in Lady Sorrow terms). To hold the bond with my soul I must maintain a constant level of attentiveness towards it. Seemingly any lasting event can trigger the Mood. Though other than family vacation nothing seems to last long during Spring, Summer, and Fall. However, mid-November through mid-January are fraught with distraction. We all know what they are so I will not list them. Hence I suffer from a weakness of presence during this period.

Yet I know those who flourish in the season, reveling in the many chores. I notice that they act through a rehearsed plan from year to year. Apparently due to something called Tradition. They have slowly worked throughout the year towards these series of events. They then pique in the accomplishment of the multitude of labors. Labors that exceed the proportional load limit of stress during the time frame. Yet they truly feel gloom when it is all over and they must return to normal daily activities. Until next year of course.

Allow me to mention that I have celebrated this holiday period in a different fashion every year since the mid-eighties. I am unaccustomed to anything resembling tradition in dealing with the change of pace. Might I suffer from the disruption of Habit? Habit and tradition are different to me. The order that we dress ourselves each day may be considered habit. While eating Christmas dinner at two in the afternoon is more like a tradition. Many habits fall to the needs of the holiday season. Yet, as mentioned, since I’m without tradition I have only habit around which my day may be ordered. Can I then say that my gloom must come not from a departure OF tradition, as with those who plan for it, but a departure FROM tradition, as with someone who lives by habit.

What is it about tradition that helps us past the angst? I believe one facet of tradition is a possible mechanism for allowing us to behave outside of the norm. Tradition is a cultural positive and an accepted social pattern. Yet traditional activities are almost exclusively outside of normal daily behavior. Evident by a house normally occupied by two senior adults becoming billeted by the latter plus all their adult children, their children, the new baby, and 5 dogs; for two weeks. Where every transgression of protocol is dismissed as “hey it’s Christmas, we only do this once a year”. When under the umbrella of tradition are we not appeased by the alien actions & avalanching stress loads? Are we not permitted to call the unique, normal? Yes we are.

All of this begs the question. Can we assuage stress by planning chaos and making it traditional? This can, of course, lead one into the pitfall of expectations. The other landmine of the season. Yet if I spent the next eleven months planning for the holidays would I not centralize around prime activities. Though they would be odd for any other time of the year they could be a catalyst for focusing energy. The kind of energy that makes people smile instead of grit their teeth. If this is true then I should plan on starting a new tradition in the Polar house. Next year I myself will cut the Roast Beast; while wearing my Santa suit singing Deck the Halls and standing on my head. Did you catch that transition? I’m now anxious for next season to come. I had better start practicing.

I am sorry for making you read all of that just to hear me say, “Man is it hectic around the holidays”. The real reason for these statements is that this year my winter mood was dismissed after only a brief visit. Due mostly to the fact that I realized that my despair was caused by the acute absence of self. After that I had only to invite the awareness of my soul back into my house. Then “BAM” I was where I was before it had all started. I needed to understand my reaction to distraction on scales larger than daily habits allotted for. Once I did I was able to adjust for it.

Of course it will happen again next year if no changes are made. For how can I fully steel myself against these Yule usurpations of being? Considering the above I move towards a traditional remedy. Tradition. I will not create static plans but broad objectives instead. The Santa suit is a winner plus several more simple ones should do. These will not make the problems go away. If I can, however, perceive them as mere stepping stones towards my goals then I hope they will pass easily. Therefore allowing me a Silent Night.

Dead Trees

animism

Pronunciation: \’a-nə-,mi-zəm\

Function: noun

Etymology: German Animismus, from Latin anima soul

Date: 1832

1 : a doctrine that the vital principle of organic development is immaterial spirit

2 : attribution of conscious life to objects in and phenomena of nature or to inanimate objects

3 : belief in the existence of spirits separable from bodies

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The evil in the trees

Is really the insanity in the mans mind

The insanity in his mind perverts the mans life

The perverse life that crawls out into the woods

And becomes the evil in the trees

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I hate the woods at night. They scare the hell out of me. I know there is something is inside of them, something dreadful. I can stand just outside the woodline of a woods looking in at the shadows and silhouettes of the trees. Though I see that nothing is moving, my heart tells me that there is a presence just beyond my vision. My mind screams to me that one of the shadows is alive, malevolent, perverted, and hungry. Instantly I become aware of what a Junco must feels after when its eyes trace out the form of a Coopers hawk from low in a near by tree. At that moment My face grows flushes as hot waves of fear crash into me. Sometimes my muscles seize Left paralyzed as the panic consumes me I become a statue; though my blood boils.  I praying that my stillness will masks my presence and keeps the predator from charging pouncing. At other times Sometimes, though rarely, I have marshal enough courage left to turn and walk away without looking back, terrified.

Obviously, I can never enter the woods at night if alone; if I am in the company of friends I might, but never alone.It is ironic too since I spend so much time alone in the woods during the day.I would be incomplete without the forest.However, night happens, and it happens occasionally while I am out there.Again, if I am with my friends, terror does not strike me, caution does.As long as I stay with the group and do not let myself become separated, I am safe.To me there is strength in numbers.

Please do not ask me what I think is out there because I do not know.I do know, however, that it stands just beyond the limit of my night vision, or crouches behind a bush where even moonlight can not reach.Waiting to pounce.It follows me when I am out there.It waits,…waits to find me alone and not paying attention, which I will never let happen.I may not be able to see it, but I know exactly where it is standing.I can feel its gaze upon my Soul.

Maybe this feeling of mine is just a remnant of ancient instincts that were meant to protect us from ancient predators.If so then horror should confront me during the day as well.Surely ancient man was at risk from predators any time he left the protection of the clan.Yet, this feeling of mine does not act to split my attention during the day.It belongs strictly to the night, the night in the woods.

Yet, oddly, one night something happened.After years of guarding myself from this Evil lurking fate that roams through dark woods, I did what I always thought impossible.After staring for an hour into woods I was only familiar with during the day, I entered them, at night, and alone.This was not just any night, but a dead night.Winter had settled in and nothing that lived was in those woods,…except me, and all things that do not live.

A wet snow was trying to bury the Earth, but I had dressed for it.Many lose layers of clothing kept me warm.I wore a wide-rimmed leather hat to keep my head dry.The snow was covering all of the days animal tracks, including mine as I made them.If I stood still long enough, all evidence of my having walked through the area would vanish.No matter where I went, it looked like I had never been there.The snow was also piling up on the tops of tree limbs as well as my shoulders and hat.I felt as if the night wanted me to become part of it.It is no wonder why I felt a little less human that night.

Before I walked into those woods, my personality had already begun to change.I know now that it was changing into something strange, old, and predaceous.I wanted to find my demon, hunt him down, challenge him, force him to strike me.If he could draw my blood, then he was real.I would know that some fears should never be pushed.When, however, his strike caused me no pain, nor drew my blood, would his power over me be betrayed.I would no longer fear this demon or his woodland domain.

Yet I wanted more than just a release from fear.I wanted revenge for all of the fears that had ever victimized me.My confidence was waxing.It occurred to me that if my demon proved to be weaker than I, that with vengeanced-spite I would harm and hurt him beyond the degree that he had damaged me.This was my plan, regardless of what I may be forced to suffer, the haunting would cease.

The sky was closed-off by the clouds of a winter’s storm.The light pollution from town made the night sky ash-grey. The millions of gorged snow flakes falling through the air consumed all sound.The only remaining noise was my breath wheezing past my ice-covered lips, and my heart beating as loud as a calving glacier.All I could see were the boles of the sleeping trees, their silhouettes seeping out of the ground and spilling into the night.It was as if the night had rooted itself to the earth.

So I entered, and not as cautious as usual. Instead of scanning for the reflection of carnivorous eyes, my signal to flee, I just walked forward with raised brow, as easy prey.Baiting its hunger.

After several minutes, I stopped beneath a small tree. I scanned all around the woods with my eyes, and saw only night.A few areas that seemed dark enough to conceal my demon I openly investigated.He was not there, just night, trees, and snow, so I continued marching through the dark woods.

I made my way by marching between the gaps in the trees.For there are no paths where people never walk.This went slowly.One step, wait as bait.Another step and search for movement.When I came up to the thicket I did not stop.Not now.I simply crouched down on all fours, then continued hunting.Under the brush.Like an animal.Hidden by the night.

When I came to a low, flat area something began to growl ahead of me.I became as still as a rock, except for my head which mechanically pivoted towards the sound.I stopped breathing and calmed my heart to hear better.It then called out with a low muffled bark, though more like a menacing gruff. I could hear the dog pulling its chain trying to break free so it could engage me.

I remained still, and thought of what the dogs owner might see when he looked outside his window.From the sound of it, the dog would be standing on its haunches against the pull of the chain, barking and pawing at the air towards the black woods.I am sure the hair on the back of the dog’s neck would be standing straight up as well.What effect this would have on the owner I did not know, nor did I stay to find out.

Out of the thicket, and once again on my feet, I was now headed towards what was the deepest part of the woods. It was a place I had never been to before, not by day nor with my friends. Seeing only in grey and mostly black, waiting for something to reach out and gut me, I alone would enter this area for the first time.

And still I walked. In dead silence. Except for the snowy crunch of my footfalls and my fear laden breath

As I openly crossed the Natural Gas line into the unfamiliar woods, I again felt different.Besides what affect the snow and the night had on my mind, the dog had aided in making me feel like a true denizen of these woods.My fear was slowly ebbing away as my interest, for this night-shrouded woods, climbed.I was becoming comfortable in the dark veil that was these woods.

Near the center of these deeper woods, I came upon what was left of an old forgotten house. Only its foundation remained standing. Encompassing it were the old trees that had once been part of the house’s external grace, but now were decrepit and venerable in appearance.

Hung from those trees like a spider’s web made from thick steel cable, was grape vine.Its giant knotted mass undulated its way beneath the snow, attacking every tree like cancer.Young trees stood mummified by tendrils while older trees had entire limbs torn from their trunk by the weight of the vine.Near its heart, and like a black candelabra, its eight inch diameter arms climbed skyward into the ugly trees.The vine set upon the woods even though it was winter, a time when trees and vines should be asleep.

Looking at this vine, I somehow felt it was alive, sentient, and aware of my presence.Without fear, but with awe, I walked into its space and began to examine it, to see if it was real.I pulled off my gloves and stuffed them under the epaulet of my jacket.Touching the vine, it was cold, stable and rough.I impulsively climbed onto a lower arm of the vine; it held my weight well. I spotted above me where two arms were narrowly crossed, and began climbing up to them.Only a trace coating of snow had found its way onto the vines, so climbing was easy.When I had gone high enough, I straddled both vines with my legs.Then sitting, I leaned back into the crossed arms of the vines. It was much like a natural hammock. I put my gloves back on before folding my arms over my chest.In this way my silhouette sank into the form of the vine and trees.

From my perch I saw no demon in the woods below me.I felt no fear from the night surrounding me.I recognized no existence of malice or death.All that I could perceive were the vines, the woods, night, snowstorm, myself, and silence.All of us alive and sharing in an intimate peace.Communion.If there was a demon, then he was not interested in me that evening.Everything in the woods made sense to me now.I knew what was behind the trees because I had been there myself, and found nothing.At that point I did not know if the woods belonged to me or if I belonged to the woods.Whichever it was, I felt good, like something that is natural and instinctual, and is just always suppose to happen.

I remained on my perch, staying as still as the trees, watching the storm blanket us in snow.

Later, while still cradled in the arms of my vine, I mused to myself about a group of deer that might wander into this area.They would not sense me; of course I would be part of the night, a section of vine.The deer could scratch through the snowand begin to browse. I could watch, long, and in silence.Or, while staring directly at one, I could whisper a small unnatural hiss through my lips.Of course the deer would immediately raise its head, stop chewing, and freeze in movement.Its eyes would quickly scan the woods for the threat, while its heart began to pound a little harder.Its instincts would tell it that something unseen was watching it.Something that could be hiding in the shadows behind the trees.Something dreadful.

Solstice

 

Let this flame lessen the Dark of this the longest Night so that the Sun may find us well come Morning.

 

 

May the Dark conceal you from Fear

May the new Light never blind you

 

Six-Sidied Spears

Droplets of vapor

Conscripted from the air

Amassed in great clouds

Marshalled for War

Each drop armed with spears

And adorned in armor of Ice

All at once a trillion warriors descend upon their prey

Grass, trees, & buildings all buried in the onslaught

And too am I attacked

Yet many defenses have I

Wide-rimmed hat, coat, & gloves

Protect me from the thousand cuts of each flake

So I continue on my Path unhindered

As a fool who easily forgets

The marksmanship of Snow

To patiently fall so far

So slow

Yet still strike the intended target

It only take one

Six-sided spear

Striking the nape of my neck

To penetrate my skin

And invade my spine with Winter’s chill

Consume my body’s warmth with coldness

Infect my mind with a poisonous Frost

Fill my veins with Ice

And inflict upon me

The same mood

That lay siege to the Land

For Winter has come

And my Soul must sleep

Coal Burning Fire

The 200 watt bulb illuminates
A rusting Pot Belly Stove
Snow turns to steam
Rising from the furnace
As a damp December snow
Attempts to mask it’s presence
Low ceiling clouds lie obscured
By the nights indifference
Christmas trees placed around the stove
Form a shelter against the wind
Huddling within the alcove a man
Stealing the warmth for himself
Feeding the diminishing flame
He takes a stone from the pile
Woolen fingers open the grate
Tossing a lump of coal
Into the low banked
Crimson fire
He leaves the grate open
To watch the stone ignite
Thin wisps of black flame
creep along the edges
Of burning stones
That once covered the world
As continental swamps
Teeming with Life
In the silent quintessence
Of the snowy eve
A man is pulled
Into embers
Older than his race

Wide Rimmed, Brown, Leather Hat

Edge of a field

Just off the wood line

November leaves lie beneath

A grey skies wet snowy blanket

Bound in layers of cotton, snug

Comfortably warm

With the drone of sleet

Colliding with the few leaves

Still perched amid their trees

SOLITUDE

Brisk the breeze that

Reddens and chaps my face

Reminds me that I am alive

Sings to me of subtle beauty

And touches me with a natural smile

Grand is the power of my respect

For as the lovely Queen of nature dances

I stand captivated in joy.

Frost on the Rye

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When the clouds turn to stone

and the harvest dies

the Savage Season begins.

Wind no longer holds wing

and the lightning flies South

it is the season of elimination.

Dearest mother Earth

hides her secret of life

and the mind rages against the soul.

It is the season of the cold Sun.

It is the Savage Season.

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