Teeny, Tiny Fairy
Teeny, tiny fairy
dancing in the night –
twirling on a toadstool,
far from human sight.
Teeny, tiny fairy,
may I watch you dance?
Here, beside the garden wall –
may I have the chance?
I promise not to hurt you.
I promise to keep still.
I only want to watch you dance
around the daffodil.
Your arms are frail as gossamer,
your feet as light as air.
Your hands caress the evening breeze
with tender, loving care.
* * *
Teeny, tiny fairy,
are you all alone –
dancing in the forest dark
upon the moonlit stone?
Or is there one who loves you –
loves you such as I?
Who watches as you raise your arms
up to the star-filled sky.
Perhaps your lover waits for you
beyond the garden wall,
sitting on his throne of grass
until he hears your call.
Until he hears you call his name,
he guards the forest wide,
forbidding fox or fool or foe
to tarry by your side.
* * *
Teeny, tiny fairy,
I wish that I were small.
I’d steal your heart and bring you o’er
to this side of the wall.
Never can I take your hand
or touch your flowing hair.
Never can I kiss your lips,
so delicate and fair.
Never can I hold you near,
close to my beating heart.
This human world in which I’m caught
is what keeps us apart.
I can only watch you –
watch you as you dance.
Here, beside the garden wall.
May I have the chance?
Opposites Attract
Stud stomps on cold wet asphalt.
Hard rain rolls in opaque sheets
across late-night cityscape.
Pretty little princess sits in stalled car,
dressed in pink ruffles and glistening taffeta.
She has a heart-shaped mouth
and frightened doe eyes.
Black night presses against splattered windshield
as muscled savior leaps to the aid of distressed damsel,
his young, hopeful heart
eager to be blessed
or broken.
* * *
Butch broad stomps down dark alleyway.
Cats with electric eyes hiss and piss
on garbage cans stuffed with twenty-first century refuse.
Moon rises over grey-black cloud
of car exhaust and sizzling summer heat.
Sensitive poet collides with abandoned hubcap
while cycling through unfamiliar thoroughfare.
He lies dazed and confused, spouting Shakespearean sonnets
with a slight lisp.
Muscled Ms. leaps to the aid of distressed artist,
her young, hopeful heart
eager to be blessed
or broken.
The Emphatic Ms. MacColl
It was a windy, sunless mid-October morning as Mona settled onto the steps of the MacColl family monument. From here, she could look out over the gently rolling hills and see the leaves slowly changing color. She loved coming to this spot in the cemetery. There was rarely another person about, so she felt as if she had the whole beautiful vista to herself.
She’d been there for about ten minutes, when she heard someone behind her cough. Quickly she turned around to see a delicate woman in a long skirt and bonnet peeping out from behind the monument. “Excuse me,” the old lady said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s just that I’ve seen you here many times before, and I thought I might share a few words with you.”
The woman was “quaint”—that was the image that immediately came to Mona, and she was dressed in very unusual clothing. Her long, full skirt touched the ground and was made of a material that Mona had never seen before.
“No, that’s fine,” said Mona. “It’s funny that you say you’ve seen me here before though, because I’ve never seen you.”
“No dear, I imagine not. You see, I’m part of the MacColl family that was buried here years ago. Goodness, it must be close to 150 years now. How time flies! But anyway, I’m a spirit—a ghost, as most people like to call us.”
Mona drew back in astonishment. Halloween was about two weeks away and maybe this lady was involved in some kind of hoax. Or were they filming a movie nearby? She’d seen so many film crews in the neighborhood lately. “Oh, really?” Mona said. “Pleased to meet you. It’s not often I get the opportunity to talk to a ghost in the cemetery.”
“Don’t patronize me, dear. I know it’s hard to believe, but here . . . let me show you.” The old lady turned around and walked toward the monument . . . and kept walking right through it. She looked back at Mona with a smile. “It’s really not as hard as it looks,” she said, “but I’ve no time to waste, so I thought I might as well show you right away. Certain spirits can materialize quite easily when we spy a person as open as yourself—someone we know can benefit from our presence.”
Mona thought she must be in a dream, although the woman looked so real.
“I don’t know what to say. This is beyond anything I’ve ever experienced before, and yet I believe you. Here I am in a cemetery, all by myself, talking to a ghost, and somehow it seems perfectly normal.”
“Of course it’s normal, dear. It happens much more than people know. But as I said, you’re open, and you’re able to see.”
The two women stared at each other in fascination, while a strong wind blew through the nearby trees. A shower of brittle yellow leaves fluttered to the ground.
“Why are you in a hurry then?” asked Mona. “And why did you decide to talk to me in the first place?”
“Call me Euphemia,” said the ghost. “Euphemia MacColl, dearly departed wife of the late Harold MacColl, director of the Merchants’ Society of Beamsville. That’s the inscription on our monument.
“Oh, you can’t imagine how much I detested that man. It was always, ‘Do this, Phemie’ and ‘Get me that, Phemie’—as if he owned me, as if I were his slave. But what could I do? Life was like that in those days.
“I see you coming to the cemetery, admiring the old tombstones, thinking life was better back then. I could see the look of dissatisfaction on your face with your life the way it is now, and I kept saying to myself, One day I’m going to give that girl a good talking to and tell her she has so much, she doesn’t even realize it.
“Do you think for one minute that women of my time could walk anywhere they wanted as freely as you? Why, that alone is worth all the gold in the world. And those stretch pants you’re wearing—now that’s liberation. You sit on those old stone steps in all kinds of positions we never even imagined back then. I know you’ve had a good education too, and that if you want to, you can do anything you please. And look how tall you are! Good Lord, you look so healthy and fit. You must be eating well and playing sports, something else we couldn’t do in the old days.
“No, my dear. Looking back is a big mistake, whether it’s over a period of a hundred years or just yesterday. It’s a big, big mistake, and I just had to get you out of it—so here I am.”
The wind blew strongly once again, almost knocking down Euphemia in her voluminous grey skirt. She looked even frailer than before, as if the wrinkled skin on her face really were transparent.
“Thank you,” Mona said. “You’re absolutely right. But please don’t go. It’s so wonderful that you’ve come to speak with me from the past—from your grave, really. Please stay a bit longer, Euphemia, and tell me what life was like back then, and what it’s like to die, and how you’re able to appear again.”
“No, dear. As I said, I can’t stay long. And it’s getting so very cold. That wind feels as if it’s blowing right through me. So nice to have talked with you, finally, but my job is done now and I must be returning. Only remember what I said: No looking back.”
Another gust of wind blew up her billowing skirt and toppled the old lady to the ground. There she lay for a few moments, still and ashen, and ever so frail. And then her body just dissolved. There was nothing left of her on the dry autumn grass.
Mona was sad to see her go. She stared at the spot on the grass for a long time. The cemetery seemed very lonely now, with the leaves swirling around her feet and a light rain starting to fall. “Thank you, Euphemia!” she yelled—as if Euphemia’s spirit were everywhere. And she meant it from the bottom of her heart.
She picked up her knapsack and started the long walk back past the tombstones and wind-tossed trees. “Thank you,” she called one last time, her voice echoing through the empty grounds.
The wind laughed in return.