There's Nothing Like a Christmas Snow

There's nothing like a christmas snow to make a child smile

 To wake and see a sea of white that stretches for a mile

Sure even those who've never seen a snowflake for themselves

wake to see on t.v. snowy fields filled with elves

Still, there's nothing like a christmas snow to make a child grin

And if that child's eighty-two, so much better then for him

Jack Frost Part Duex

I'm sure you've heard of Jack Frost, how he visits in the night,
so when you wake the land is changed and covered 'or with white
But what happens to 'ol Jack Frost when the summer comes around
and all is green and sunshine, does he leave or stick around?

Does he travel to the arctic, bringing ice caps to the poles?
Does he melt away like snowflakes that land near burning coals?
When it's summer time where you live does he simply pack his things,
and go to a different hemisphere that's fall instead of spring?
Or maybe all that hard work has begun to wear him down
and he decides to hibernate in a hole down in the ground.

There must be some wise expert in  meteorology,
who could give an answer, but that would ruin the mystery.
Who needs to know for certain when wondering is much more fun,
a mystery's exciting, life's boring when there's none.

Jack Frost

Jack Frost visited last night
and cursed the grass with hoary blight
the flowers frozen in their bower
wilting icily and dour
the doors and every window face
are covered by a rime of lace
and all the landscape frozen, still,
preserved in beautous repose till
the sun comes out to melt away
returning life with light of day

This Place

This place,

As good as any place,

Rocky, thick, private.

Northern Minnesota's my home.

The Tale of Flynn and Lynn

Now Flynn and Lynn were leprechauns who came from Ireland’s shores
Across the great blue waters to a place they’d not seen before
Now you might think it odd and strange for creatures so fond of green
To travel to the desert and its sandy lifeless scene
But it happened just by accident according to a wish
When Flynn and Lynn were captured by a sly and cunning witch
Now witches have their magic, and their own spells it is true
But this witch was no alchemist which made her rather blue
And so to get a pot of gold she laid a cunning trap
Involving string, a box, a stick, and a whiskey filled jar cap
It wasn’t long before the whiskey lured those two fools in
The box came down, the leprechauns were soundly trapped within
The witch came out and said “ha, ha! Now you owe me one wish!”
And Flynn and Lynn replied “All right, jus’ let us out ye witch.”
“Sure” said the witch “but first ye must be grantin me my wish,
For two great big old pots of gold, enough to fill a ditch.”
And up beside the roadside there appeared a ditch of gold
But after that was desert sand, “What’s this!” the witch did scold,
“you wished for gold,” said little Flynn, “and here it is for ye”
“but you didn’t say bring it to you so to it we have brought ye”
“but that’s not fair” replied the witch, “I caught ye fair and square,”
“Ah, but that’s the thing,” said Lynn “life isn’t always fair.”
“we’ll take ye back to Ireland, if you simply let us out.”
The witch agreed, removed the box and blinked and looked about,
For she was back in Ireland beside that same old road,
And Flynn and Lynn were vanished, and so was the ditch of gold.

Pink Rose

i got a pink rose today

the pink of the rose made me think of you today

every time i see the color pink

i think of old times

i think of old thing's

i think about all the good times we shared

making faces in choir pictures

and doing thing's that were out there

now your gone

The Father of Invention

They say that necessity is the mother of invention
Was twitter necessary or was alleviating boredom its intention?
I say that boredom plays a role as well and that is father,
That plastic vacuum seal stuff around cds is just a bother
Is it necessary for rappers to have spinning hubcaps on their tires?
Is it needed that the I-phone have thirty thousand apps and higher?
If I was going to invent something you can bet it would be handy,
Like a magnet for attracting sweets and chocolate covered candy.
Or a souped up kind of flying suit with aviator wings.
But would these be useful or boredom alleviating things?

Recipe

When making up this recipe the first thing that you need
 is a bit if crinkled paper and a pen that doesn't bleed
you'll also need a cupboard that's filled up with useless junk
and a giant steel mixing bowl that's bigger than a trunk
you add a pinch of this and that and taste along the way
with giants globs of you don't know but add it anyway
and every time you add a thing you take and write it down
then stir it up and watch it turn a kind of muddy brown
And once it's done you get to do the most important bit
you take a big old spoonful and you raise it to your lip
and, WHAT THE HECK YOU DOING!?! I didn't say to Eat!
Who eats a cure for bunions? You PUT IT ON YOUR FEET!

Oppressive Weather Poem

There was a feeling of oppression when I woke today for school

It wasn’t homework or the test I had to do,

It might have been the weather, the sky was darkened by thick clouds

And the raindrops pattered thickly into pools

It was frightening in its fury as the wind began to blow

The trees began to shake under the strain

And as I sheltered by the fire wondering which button turned it on

I wondered why it was I couldn’t hear

I could see the storm was howling, I could see that it was fierce

But the library was silent all around

And it might have been exhaustion as I curled up on the couch

And it might have been just boredom but not fear

For I thought if I could fall asleep and wake, then I would find

The weather calm and all the storm a dream

And I’d find myself at home in be surrounded by my toys

All snuggled safely underneath my quilt

And for am minute it was true and for a minute I was there

But then I had a feeling as of guilt

And I woke and knew I was at school, procrastinating   time

When the test is where I should have had my mind

For the storm was not that scary and the weather not that bad

Just cold and gloomy, not enough to cancel class

Maunta

I've got myself a maunta, who takes good care of me
a mom, an aunt, a grandma, combined in one for me
a sage and wise advisor, a kind and loving cook,
a nagging worried matriarch who shoots me dirty looks,
a fun adventuring buddy, someone to count on all the time,
I've got myself a maunta, and the best part is she's mine.

The Tale of Hannah and Anna

Now, Hannah and Anna were fairies
who lived in a forrested glade
and one day they were having a picknick
'neath a Rowan tree and its fine shade

When sudden the grass began stirring
and riding the wind came a howl
and their picknick was certainly ruined
by a feeling of something most foul

Then out of the forrest a wolf came
A slavering fierce looking beast
with eyes glowing red and sharp teeth that brought dread
as he surveyed the glen for a feast

Now, Hannah and Anna were frightened
too late, there was no place to hide
but they bravely put forth smiling faces
if nothing else they'd die with pride

But the wolf wasn't slavering or beastly
and his eyes were just red from his tears
"I've a thorn in my foot can you help me?"
his words banished the fairies' fears

So, Hannah and Anna they helped him
and pulled out the thorn from his foot
And then they all three, sat down to have tea
While the wolf held his cup with his foot

The Black Fox

I also found a video called the Black Fox which was really neat.

The Fox and the Crow

I found this animation while tooling around on the internet and thought it was worth sharing here. It's called The Fox and the Crow. I'm sure most people already know the story and if not, now's as good a time as any to learn. Enjoy!

Fox Story Part 1: As told by the white fox Jack Morgan

The sun was shining the day I received my first commission. Bright rays of yellow shot down through the greenery of the trees, causing dust kicked up from the forest floor to sparkle like a cloud of gold fairy dust in the air. A gentle breeze passed through my fur and the leaves of the trees and amid the rustle I could hear a bird chirping. Everything was perfect. Even the flowers seemed happier than normal to me. I was glad to live in such a beautiful place.

I hadn’t always lived in the forest though. I can remember when I was a kit, running with my mother across a vast plain of white, snow and ice stretching for as far as the eye could see with only the occasional bush or stunted tree to mark the tundra landscape. All that white in my childhood may explain why, now, I seldom wear anything pale in color, especially white. My favorite tunic is a deep, almost black green accentuated on the sleeves and trim with red stitching. I wore it now as I walked the forest path toward the center of the wood.

The big oak at the center of the forest was larger than any other tree. At its base it had been hollowed out to serve as a sort of headquarters for the Rangers, those whose job it was to protect the forest people and maintain law and order. I felt excited and very fortunate to be joining their ranks. Not many of the vulpine persuasion had what it takes to become a Ranger and I was doubly lucky because, as one not native to the forest, I had had to learn the basics from scratch, a difficult but rewarding process. And now I was to receive that which I had worked for so long to achieve, a commission into the Ranger Corps. I wished my mother had been alive to see me now. She would have been very proud.

The President and Me: Two Poems Inspired by Obama

Poem the First

I went to buy myself a game

my mom said, "No, you're broke."

I went to buy myself a book

My mom said, "That's a joke!

"You haven't any money,

and there's none for me to lend."

I said, "Neither does the president

"but his mom still lets him spend."

But she said, "It doesn't work that way

"and you're not the president."

Then I said, "I guess I'll have to go

"and Join the government."

Poem the Second

The president and me

went out walking by the sea

I asked him to explain

what's wrong with the economy

and he rattled off some things

that I didn't understand

and he said, "Do good in school"

then he paused to shake my hand

and I really couldn't tell

If it was me or him

but for all his fancy talk

I thought he was rather dim

If you've got no money in the bank

then why take out a loan?

You've got to pay it back somehow

not just promise on the phone

The Airway Inn

The Airway Inn's the best place I know to go for stuff to eat
The service here is excellent and all the food is great
I wasn't sure what all it was but it sure made a tasty treat

So if you're in the mood for good food and atmosphere
the Airway Inn's the place to be so get yourself out here
beleive me when I say your mood will hit the stratosphere

All the Bunnies Bite and the Pigeon Laid an Egg

I was bored and sitting at home one day with my mom
So I asked if we could do something besides mowin' the lawn
So she looks at me and thinks a bit and says "The Fair's in town,
"If we hurry we might make it before the sun goes down."

So we headed into town and when we finally made it there
We had ourselves a grand old time at the St. Louis County Fair
'Cuz all the bunnies bite and the pigeon laid an egg
the cowpoke's sleepin' withthe goats and all the piggies beg

The kettle corn's a calling, the rain's popping on the roof
the horses line up at the gate to see who's swift of hoof
There's roller coasters, ferris wheels and a merry go round
and the corndogs they taste different the second time around

And you can have yourself a grand old time at the St. Louis County Fair
So don't sit at home a mopin' and get yourself down there
Where all the bunnies bite and the pigeon laid an egg
the cowpoke's sleepin' with the goats and all the piggies beg

Wave Pool

I never knew quite how it felt to be a drowning rat
tossed in a wave six times your size with no clue where you're at
To pray to God you will not drown and keep you're head afloat
to choke and sputter and get hit by life rings as they floatI
never knew quite how it felt to be a drowning rat
Until I went to the wave pool and found no fun in that

Look What I Found!

Random poems I found while cleaning out my dresser this afternoon.

Dan?

A long time ago where the wild things grow, in a shack on a hill in the woods
there dwelt an old man by the name of old dan, house bound but he'd leave if he could
Unfourtunately he had a trick knee, peg leg, fake arm and glass eye
And often he preach, he'd a story for each, and he'd tell anyone who stopped by

He'd first lost his leg to a fine gal named meg, a pirate by nature and trade
they'd been in a fight on a dark stormy night, his shovel against her sharp spade
dan's ship had been swiped, by meg he had griped, she'd denide it of course and attacked
the fight had been brutal on body and noodle, dan left with one leg unnattached

And as for the rest, dan would puff up his chest, and proudly deny that old rumor
that he'd gotten quite drunk, and tripped on a trunk, and fallen right off his own schooner.



The song of the last angel of death

This is the song of the last angel of death
and he sings it to all as they take their last breath
not everyone listens
not everyone leaves
but everyone hears it
and everyone greaves

come my child your time has past
the time has come to go at last
If you've been good no need to fear
the best things will come
when you leave here
If you've done wrong you'd better pray
else bad and worse will come your way

this was the song of the last angel of death
and he sang it to all as they took their last breath
not everyone listened
not everyone left
but evveryone heard it
and everyone wept

The London Underground

I never knew just how it felt
to be a tinned sardine
crammed in a space so small and tight
with no room in between
To not know if that hand was yours
or who's air it is you breath
to be surrounded by unknowns
and not be able to leave
To wait for the tin to peel back
and for the sweet breeze on your face
to revel in your freedom
till you're thrust back in the race

I never knew just how it felt
to be a tinned sardine
until I took the underground
during the rush hour scene

Castle

There was a castle in Linlithgow
Where the wood had burned away
There were fireplaces halfway up the wall
It was kind of fascinating
All the stone works were still there
With holes and gaps were fire made walls fall

There were passage ways and staircases
All over here and there
It was rather like wandering in a maze
It was awfully cold and rainy
As I climbed the tower steps
And tried to view the country through a haze

This place
Where kings and queens were born
Inspiration for many poets’ words
Is an empty ruined place of stone
Nothing now but the dominion of the birds

Rock in Rain

There was a large rock in the rain
On the corner by the lane
It looked so sad and lonely there
I thought it didn’t seem quite fair
And so I joined it for a bit
And used it for a place to sit
But now I rather wish I’d not
Because a wet rump’s all I’ve got

Train Ride to Linlithgow

Trains so close together
You can reach from one and touch the other
Table seat by the window
Crowded in the back
Announcer on the speaker
Train begins to move
Tunnel black as midnight
A bright light at the end
Countryside streams by
On the way to your destination
Lots of stops along the way
Will you remember the right one?

For Silver Crow (if she ever checks this bog)

God's Country: On Returning from a trip to the Highlands

As I was wondering north to south
And roaming east to west
I came across a country
I decided I like best

It may not be the biggest
Or the most powerful place on earth
But I’m finding that the people
Make up for it in worth

I wandered in the Highlands
I wandered by the sea
I wandered in the city streets
And thought this God’s country

The people they were friendly
The landscape it was grand
I find that I will greatly miss
The culture and the land

I’d listened to the music
I’d even read the books
But nothing writ was worthy
Believing’s being here to look

I can’t remember all the stories
But I remember how it felt
To walk where Highland warriors died
And hike a mountain belt

I remember feeling proud and strong
And I remember feeling brave
I remember and am thankful
For the feelings this place gave

And I hope I can come back here
And I hope it won’t be too late
For Scotland is God’s country
And I think that it is great.

As I Was Walking in the Park One Day

As I was walking in the park one day
I spied a pheasant by the way
I wondered at his pretty head
his coloring of rust and red
then fancied he'd look better dead
and served up with a slice of bread

Climbing Archer's Seat

To hike up a tall mountain
the writers make it sound so fun
with views that are well worth it
and a lovely setting sun

But hiking up a mountain
even one that's small
ain't worth it when your feet hurt
and you're not in shape at all

They say the veiw is worth it
but you have to be able to see
wich is something I'm not good at
when I'm blind and all sweaty

Inspired by our feild trip to climb a mountain in Edinburgh. It used to be called Archer's seat but they've rename it a few times and I can't remember what it's called now. It's fairly small but I still couldn't make it all the way, just 3/4. I guess I'm not as in shape as I thought I was. Going down was much easier.

It Rhymed in My Sleep

There was a tunnel in the basement
It was dank and dark and deep
and no one knew for surequite how far it went

The only thing for certain
was a being in the deep
My reflection starring at me from the dark

This poem was composed while I was asleep on a plane from New York to Scotland. It was written on the back of a receipt for peanuts. I remember that t rhymed when I was sleeping but not when I woke up. I have no memory of writing it but it's my handwriting and I do remember buying the peanuts.

It Happened One Night in Winton

It happened one night in Winton, when Joe Maki came to town
A carousing, drinking Finn man who’d let no one laugh him down.
He strolled into a Winton bar and he ordered up a brew,
And as he sipped his gaze roamed round for something fun to do.
A man was playing piano, a loud and jumpy ragtime tune,
While another man stirred coffee with a rusty worn out spoon.
Some fellows smoking cigarettes spoke loudly from a haze,
At a table in the back a Stranger dealing cards looked up and met Joe’s gaze.

The stranger he was Swedish, or maybe he was Dutch,
It was kind of hard to tell and, anyway, Joe didn’t care too much.
As it happened, like all good Finns, Joe loved to gamble too,
So he joined the stranger at the back and cut the deck in two.
Joe watched closely as the stranger began to shuffle and deal the cards
The game began, the table shook as each thumped down his discards.
“I’ll take two.” Said Joe Maki, and the stranger doled them out,
Joe looked rather disappointed and his lips began to pout.
The stranger kind of smiled and he shifted in his seat,
With three Jacks and two Aces he just knew he had Joe beat.
But Joe Maki he was shifty and as he laid down his hand
It was clear four Queens beat three Jacks, and that pout had all been planned.

The stranger he was furious and he leapt up to his feet,
All heads turned in their direction as the stranger shouted “Cheat!”
The man playing at the piano stopped so he could listen in,
Nobody spoke and it was clear a fight would soon begin.
Joe Maki hadn’t cheated, and even if he had,
He couldn’t back down now because the stranger made him mad.
“I’m not a cheat!” Joe Maki cried as he reached for his gun,
But the stranger he was quicker and he would not be outdone.
A shot rang out and people stared, both men were still upright!
Joe Maki stared down at his shirt, now red, no longer white.
He toppled over backwards to lie stretched out on the floor,
As the stranger stared down shocked at the sight of all the gore.
The tension in the room was so thick you could have cut it with a knife,
Then the music started up again as the bar returned to life.

I couldn’t say what happened next, I wasn’t there you see,
But this story really happened, and that’s a guarantee.

Chicken Soup (Inspired by White Fox's Fish Soup story)

Tick tock, chicken feet
This is what I like to eat
Drag the chicken from the coop
Hatchet, water, chicken soup!

Secret

Oh, how I wish I could tell you
The things that are ripping me apart
The way I think
The way I feel
The way I dream
All the things that include you in my life
The things I know
The things I think I know
The things I wish you knew
And the ones I hope you do
Every day it grows harder for me
Living with this secret
I hope to share with you
I have told my friends
And I have almost told you
When you hold me tight
I hope you never let me go
When you kiss me with that passion
The fire burns bigger
When you look me in the eyes
I think I can see your soul
Which makes me want to scream
From the bottom of my heart
Those three important words
I just can't blurt out
I wish I could reveal my secret
Especially to you
The way I feel
Oh how I wish I could say
That I love you
But if I did I would fear
That you did not
Love me too

Fish Soup Part III

I forgot to set my alarm. I woke up around eleven o’clock and was too lazy to cook anything myself. My mom was home, being a teacher she had the summer off like I did. I found her upstairs folding laundry in the living room. There was some kind of soap opera playing on T.V.

“Mom, I’m hungry.” I whined, placing emphasis on the wavering hungry tone I had been working on since I was three, “Mom, cook me something.”

“You’re old enough to feed yourself,” she said without looking up from her laundry, “There’s plenty of food in the kitchen. What do you want? There’s cereal, bagels, hot pockets, soup, sandwich meat…”

“But that’s all boring stuff. It’s lunch time, why don’t you make some Kalla Mojakka? Bud and Hannah would probably eat some.”

“Kalla Mojakka is your dad’s thing,” She said, “Besides, your brother and sister both went out earlier when you were sleeping.”

I let out an exasperated sigh and went to make myself a sandwich. I noticed the metal bowl in the fridge with a plastic bag of fish fillets inside. It was probably being saved for dinner. I grabbed what was left of the deli turkey, about two slices, and made a sandwich with a slice of white bread folded in half. I took it with me downstairs and munched on it while I chilled on the couch. There was an Andromeda marathon on the Sci Fi channel and it kept me occupied until my dad got home from work at around four o’clock.

While I waited I tried to avoid thinking about the swift approach of the school year. In only two more weeks I would be going away to college for the first time. It had been ages since I had last eaten Kalla Mojakka, almost a year, and I was determined to have some before I left. Only my dad really knew how to make it. It was a family recipe he had learned from his grandma Hannah, daughter of a finish immigrant and my sister’s namesake. I doubted if my mother even knew how to make it. Every time I asked her to cook some she would say “that’s your dad’s thing,” and she was never in the kitchen when he cooked it. I don’t really know why I wanted to have some before I left so badly. Sure it was tasty, but I wasn’t sure that was the real reason.

I heard the slamming of the front door that announced my dad’s arrival home from work.

“Hey Hel,” he called, “get up here!”

I always wondered what would happen if he used the shortened version of my name in public. Would it give people the wrong impression of me? I’ve never had to find out so I guess it doesn’t really matter. I always forgot to mention it to my dad anyway.

“What do you want?” I said as I entered the kitchen where my dad was busy pulling potatoes out of the lower cupboard.

“I need you to grab some newspaper and lay it out on the table,” he said, “Then grab a knife and help me peel these potatoes.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because I said so that’s why. How else do you expect to learn the fine art of Kalla Mojakka?”

“Wait, you mean I get to help make it?” My dad had never let anyone help him make Kalla Mojakka before.

“Not if you just stand around doing nothing,” he said, “go grab some newspaper.”

Shaking my head in disbelief I went into the living room and grabbed some papers from the bottom of the coffee table stack. After spreading them out on the kitchen table I took a seat opposite my dad. He handed me a paring knife and I took a potato from the pile and began to peel. I soon remembered why I hated peeling potatoes. I just wasn’t any good at it. By the time I finished my first one, my dad had already peeled two and started on his third. Each peeled potato was cut into pieces and placed in a large cooking pot he’d placed in the middle on the table.

When all the potatoes were peeled I took the pot over to the sink and under my dad’s instructions filled it with enough water to cover the potatoes by two inches. While we waited for the potatoes to boil my dad told me about Grandma Hannah and her husband Nillo.

“I remember this one time when I went over there, Nillo sent me over to his neighbor Ed’s cabin to learn a new fish cleaning technique. Because they were getting old, Grandpa and Grandma were having trouble chewing fish with all the bones still in it. Ed taught me how to fillet fish and take out the bones. I was so excited I ran back to the dock where Nillo and I had kept a stringer of fish we had caught. I went into the boat house and cleaned those fish up just the way Ed had showed me. When I was almost done Nillo came in. He looked at the plate of fillets, and he looked at the pile of scraps in the bucket, and then he shook his head. I couldn’t tell if he was impressed or disappointed.”

My dad took a break from the story to pull some baby carrots out of the fridge. He handed me a bowl and we cut them in half before adding them to the pot.

“So what happened to the fish?” I asked, “Did Nillo change his mind after he’d eaten some?”

“I don’t know.” My dad said, “But it’s a funny story. Later, Grandma Hannah decided to make Kalla Mojakka. I was all excited because she’d used the fish I had just cleaned. After we said our prayers I picked up a spoonful of soup and though ‘oh boy, this is going to be great! No bones!’ I took a big old bite and nearly skewered my tongue to the roof of my mouth. Turns out Nillo couldn’t bear to see so many scraps go to waste. He’d gone back and picked them over for extra things to put in the soup.”

I enjoyed listening to my dad tell stories. Even though I’d heard it before it still made me laugh. It also made me glad that my dad wasn’t as hung up on not wasting scraps as his depression era grandparents had been. I heard horror stories at school about kids whose grandparents actually used the entire fish’s head in Kalla Mojakka. No way would I eat a fish head, not matter how tasty they said it was.

When the potatoes were half done my dad told me to get a can of condensed milk from the pantry, a can of corn, and a can opener. While I did that he was busy getting some spices from the cupboard and some pre-chopped onions and celery from the fridge. We added the vegetables and soon the potatoes were almost done. Half the can of condensed milk went into the pot as well as all the juice in the can of corn. The corn starch would make the broth thicker, like a chowder or a stew, my dad explained. “If we didn’t have canned corn we could do the same thing with flour and water,” he said. Next he showed me the spices from the cupboard, salt, pepper, and allspice.

“There are no measurements in this recipe,” he said, “It’s all a matter of interpretation and taste.” He took a pinch of this and that began throwing them into the pot. “You just keep adding until it tastes right, like this.”

He lifted the stirring spoon from the pot and handed it to me. I blew on it and slurped the broth. It was delicious. My dad brought the fish out of the fridge and cut it up into chunks that I threw into the pot. Already the smell was permeating the house, making my mouth water.

When the fish was all added we brought the pot to a boil and immediately shut off the heat. The Kalla Mojakka was done. I knew I would never be able to write down the exact recipe. I knew how it was done, what it was supposed to taste like, but everything was subjective. I guess that’s the big secret. You can know what goes into a thing but it’s how you put them together that makes it work.

My dad pulled some bowls out of the cupboard and handed one to me. He scooped portions of Kalla Mojakka into our bowls and we sat down at the table to eat. I could see the chunks of potato, carrot, and fish floating in the white broth. The smell alone made me want to go back for seconds. I raised a large spoonful of steaming fish soup to my lips and smiled as it hit my tongue.

It wasn’t so much the taste of the soup that made me smile as it was the fact that my dad had finally chosen to share the secret family recipe with me, not my sister, not my brother, but me. I realized that what I had really wanted all along was the chance to do something special with my dad. This was the best going away to college present I could have asked for. Though I must admit, the mini fridge was nice too.

Fish Soup Part II

I must have fallen asleep sometime between the lake and home; when I woke it was to the sound of an old Hank Williams song on the radio and my dad telling me to grab a fish bowl and bring it downstairs when I got in the house. I climbed out of the truck and made my way up the front steps, fumbled the door open in the dark, and dragged myself up the stairs to the kitchen. There was a big metal bowl in the pantry; I grabbed it and headed to the basement, flipping on light switches as I went.

My dad was already in the laundry room, fish dumped into the sink, old plastic shopping bag lining the bucket to collect guts. I set the bowl on top of the washing machine and stood back to watch as he pulled the first fish out of the sink and laid it on the cleaning board he’d placed across the sink. He grabbed the piece of board he kept on the window ledge above the sink and used it to smack the fish over the head, stunning or killing it so it wouldn’t flop around. He slid the nose of the fish into the clamp at the front of the board and its eyes bugged out as the metal teeth pressed down, holding it in place. Next came the knife, a long, thin, razor sharp thing that got skinnier as it reached a point. My dad started at a place just below the gills and made a cut into the fish, and then he turned the blade flat and ran the sharp edge down the fish’s side and backbone, separating the fillet cleanly from the fish. He set the fillet aside and unclamped the fish to turn it over and do the same on the other side. Then he ran the knife along the back of each fillet, taking off the skin. He made a cut up the middle of each fillet and took out the bones, leaving behind something in the shape of pants.

I always wondered why when we had to dissect fish for biology class we didn’t do it this way. It left all the insides completely exposed and easy to see; if you did it right there wasn’t even too much blood. Maybe it was because knives weren’t allowed in school and it was awfully hard to fillet a fish with a pair of miniature scissors and a metal toothpick.

As my dad threw the guts into the trash bucket I turned and headed over to the basement family room to watch T.V. I only ever stayed to watch him clean the first fish. It wasn’t that I thought it was gross or anything, it was just that it got boring after a while and there were a lot of fish left to go. After checking to see if anything interesting was on T.V. I went across the hall and got ready for bed. It was too late for my dad to cook anything tonight, but with any luck, if I got up before my dad left for work in the morning I could get a nice fish breakfast.

Snow Owl's fist post

Thanks for the author invite, I'll post a poem soon.

Fish Soup Part I

“I’ve got another one!” I said to my dad, “Get the net!”

I struggled to keep my balance in the rocking boat as I stood. I gripped the handle of my Ugly Stick tightly in one hand and cranked the reel a few times with the other. The pole bent closer to the water and I could feel the fish on the other end of the line. It was a fighter, causing the line to spin out from the reel as it struggled to get away. I waited till the line stopped spooling and reeled in again. It seemed like each time I managed to get the fish a foot closer to the boat, it fought and pulled two feet farther away.

My dad cut the trolling motor and reached for the net on the floor of the boat.

“Take your time,” he said, “let it fight and tire itself out.”

He made his way to the front of the boat and stood by my side as I fought the big fish on my line.

“Wow! Did you see that?” I said, watching the fish jump nearly a foot out of the water.

“I saw it,” my dad said calmly, “Looks like you got yourself a fat old walleye.”

I lifted the rod as my dad scooped the fish into the net and over the side of the boat. The walleye twisted in the net and it took my dad a minute to untangle the line and get the lure out of the fish’s mouth. He handed me the Rapalla and I hooked the bottom to the lowest loop on the pole and reeled the line tight. I stored the rod and the net along the side of the boat and traded the camera from around my neck to my dad for the fish. He snapped a quick picture while I held up the fish.

“It’s a keeper right?” I asked.

“Sure is, throw it in with the others,” my dad said, “We’re at the limit now so we should probably start heading back.”

I opened the live well and tossed the walleye in with the others we had caught and slammed the lid down over the splashing fish. My dad made his way back to his seat in front of the motor’s tiller and started her up again. I took my place on the bench in front, pulling my hat off and stuffing it into my pocket. I didn’t want it to fly off in the wind like it had on the way out. My dad had been forced to turn the boat around and I had fished my cap out of the lake with the net. At first my dad had been mad at me, but his mood seemed to have improved once we got to the secret spot and started catching fish.

The boat picked up speed and the wind whipped through my hair, bringing with it the scent of burning wood from the chimney of a lake house on shore. My dad turned the boat to take us out of the sheltered bay where we had been trolling and as the boat hit the open water the prow began to bounce and crash on the waves. Though by local standards Lake Vermillion was a pretty big lake, we never lost sight of shore as we headed back, sometimes weaving in and out of islands, sometimes weaving in and out of other boats. The setting sun began to sting my eyes as it reflected off the water.

The boat slowed as we approached the bay where my dad’s buddy had his cabin. As we made our way to the dock my dad steered the boat in a complicated backwards question mark that avoided the weeds and the underwater rock. I stood up cautiously and moved to the front of the boat. As we pulled alongside the dock I grabbed the rope attached to the prow and stepped over the edge onto the dock. With a few quick twists I secured the front of the boat to the dock, then went back and grabbed the tackle box and fishing rods as my dad handed them to me. I walked up the path, weaving beneath pine trees and those leafy trees I could never remember the names for. I stowed the gear in the back of the truck and waited for my dad to get there. He got there shortly; swinging the big green bucket I knew contained our catch. He stowed it in the back and we piled into the truck and headed back home.

My Life

This is my life
My pain, my strife
This is my life
My happiness, my laughter
My dreams from here on after
The things I love, the things I hate
The things I do by will or fate
My life, my choices
My many moods, my many voices
My memories, my hopes and fears
The things I’ve done throughout the years
The things that I have yet to see
The things that I have yet to be
This is my life

I'm Going Away to Scotland

It's finally time for one of those rambling thoughts from a restless author that the invisible, though hopefuly not non-existent, followers have been waiting for. I, White Foxx, have been planning a study abroad trip to Scotland this coming summer. So far things have been going well. All the paperwork is filled out, I have a passport, and a suit case (sort of). I just need to book a plane ticket. Anyone have some good advice for first time Flyers? Comments welcome.

I'm Going Away to Scotland

I’m going away to Scotland
So I wrote this little rhyme
In the hopes that it will maybe
Help me pass the time

I don’t know what will be there
Guess I’ll have to go to see
They say there’ll be a castle
Some mountains and some trees

I don’t want to get sick from flying
But I’ve never been on a plane
I hope I don’t have trouble packing
Lost bags would be a pain

All the money will be different
All the outlet plugs will too
I hope I don’t get lost there
Or I won’t know what to do

So here’s to my trip to Scotland
I’m sure it will be a blast
I hope the plane’s not hijacked
I hope the lines go fast

Untitled

It felt like wind and rain
Water storming in a flood of power
What would I do I ask of you
Repulsive beauty like a chain in the sea of eternity
Aching to recall a whisper heavy in your breast
And like a void in the sky after the moon moaning falls
Behind your dreams are bitter lives
Always full with love and worship
Raw lust and gorgeously languid vision
Sorrid soars the luscious symphony of life and death

A Diamond Black as Night

There was a man named Sam and a man named Cam and they worked both day and night,
In the hopes that they might find one day a diamond black as night.
And they worked and slaved in a lightless cave way down in the ground,
And though they raked till their bones ached, no diamond could be found.

It came about that when Sam’s shout of “diamond found” was said,
That jealous Cam, became the man who killed poor Samuel dead.
He took the rock and behind lock and key Cam hid it well,
He guarded it and horded it till wealth became his hell.

Cam didn’t dare to spend a hare of the wealth he had achieved,
But horded it and guarded itand soon Cam came to believe,
He could not wed "Because," he said,"she would only want his cash"
No friend had he because, you see, his head they would all bash
As he had Sam that other man, whose ghost haunted Cam still.

And every night by the pale moonlight Sam’s ghost would wail and chill
Cam’s every bone and all his home in the hopes that one day still,
Poor Cam would see and maybe he would finally do what’s right,
And lose the wealth that ate his health that diamond black as night.

But Cam would not, that poor, poor sot. He could not see the light.
He would not sell, or buy or dump, he stayed in hell that stupid lump,
With a diamond black as night.

Afterlife

The dark trees cast their shadows upon the snowy ground
Obscuring those who walked there so that they were not found
If ever ghostly scavengers do walk upon the earth
They will find themselves to full and too wide about the girth
For so long as there is life, death will follow in its wake
But those with faith in Jesus, will live again awake
For though scavengers will eat the flesh and gnaw upon the bones
They cannot touch the souls of those whose faith the good Lord owns.

The Grudge

I am the master of disaster
I am the savant of disguise
I am there but no one sees me
Though I’m right before their eyes

I reek but no one smells me
I shout but no one hears
I’m that little bit of jealous hate
That grows throughout the years

I start out small and mindless
Smaller that a mustard seed
Until I gain complete control
Of every action word and deed

But envy, spite and anger
Their just feelings you want to say
But feelings control your thoughts
Can take your mind your life away

Final Freedom

The anger
The sadness
The pain
It comes form nowhere
And it has no forgiveness
You see the people around you
You see your "friends"
Are they really your friends
Or do they only hang around
Because they feel sorry for you
You think your life is meaningless
And you wonder who, if any
Would miss you when you're gone
Your parents expect you to be perfect
You try so hard for them
Another day you wake up
Another day you are still here
Another day you put on the fake smile
Another day you wait for the end
The end seems as though
It will never be in sight
You decide to help it along
You pick up the knife
You place it to your skin
You watch the crimson blood
As it streams down your skin
Your knees get weak
Your heart grows faint
Your body goes numb
You're finally set free
Free of your pain
Free of your sadness
Free of your anger
Free of your life.

Light is a fading thing that into the night one may seek

Blackie Bear and Johnie Crow: A Fairy Tale of Sorts

Blackie the big black bear lived in a cave near the top of a hill. The hill was called Bear Hill, and it had been called this for longer than anyone cared to remember, certainly longer than Blackie had been living there. Blackie was a solitary creature and his home showed this. It was rather bare and had only one cupboard where Blackie could store nuts and dried fruits and one large pile of leaves in the corner for a bed. Blackie very seldom had any visitors.

Just down the path in the forest Johnny the crow lived in a nest of sticks high up in an old dead tree. The tree had been struck by lightning once before and you could no longer tell what kind of tree it was and all its branches had been burned off. Johnny thought it was a very safe place to live since nothing on the ground could climb a tree with no branches to get him and anyway, lighting never struck the same place twice so he was safe from storms too.

Though they lived in the same forest and often saw each other daily Blackie and Johnny were very different people, and though acquainted they were not friends.

Blackie Bear was a very hard working and reliable bear. He always kept his cave swept clean and always made sure he had enough food stored by for the lean times. Though not a gardener in the human sense of the term Blackie had a favorite blueberry patch that he tended to every summer and it always provided him with plenty of delicious fruit to eat come fall.

Johnny Crow was a lazy bird. He liked nothing better than to mooch off other people. If he could steal food from someone else he would do it, even if there was free food not belonging to anybody already nearby. He was always getting into trouble with the wolves and the bears and the other birds. This summer was no exception.

One day Blackie took himself and his favorite wicker basket down to his special blueberry patch to pick some berries. It was a hot day and the walk to the berry patch seemed long in the sun. After picking enough berries to fill his basket Blackie stopped to rest a while on a nearby rock.

Johnny the crow had been sitting in a tree watching Blackie. Even though he hadn’t done a lick of work all day long Johnny was very hungry. He was also still very lazy and was having trouble deciding how to get his next meal without going too far or exerting himself too much. Seeing Blackie had filled up his basket with berries and that the bear was looking tired and weary Johnny had an idea. It would be very easy to trick the bear into giving up his basket of berries. After all, thought Johnny, bears were supposed to be very slow witted.

“Excuse me, Mr. Bear” Johnny said as he flew down to land beside Blackie, “I can see that you appear to be exhausted. That basket sure looks heavy and you have such a long ways to go yet. I would be happy to carry your basket for you. In fact I insist that you let me help you out, we being neighbors and it being the neighborly thing to do and all.”

“Why thank you Mr. Crow” said Blackie, “I would really appreciate that, but please be careful; I don’t want you to spill any.”

“Oh don’t worry,” said Johnny, “I’ll be careful, I promise”.

So Johnny picked up the basket and flew off to Blackie’s cave with the berries. Once Johnny got to the cave he put the basket down and began to eat the barriers. They were so yummy that Johnny ate every last one, leaving the basket bare. When Blackie got back to his cave a few minutes later he discovered the empty basket and wondered what had happened to his berries. Not one to jump to conclusions, Blackie decided that there was a logical explanation and that Johnny would surely explain things tomorrow. In the meantime Blackie would just have to pick more berries.

The next day after once again filling his basket with berries Blackie sat resting on his rock. He heard a familiar rustle and flap of wings and looked up to see Johnny Crow coming to roost nearby.

“Hello Mr. Bear,” Said Johnny, “Can I help you out again today and carry your basket home?”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Blackie, “Yesterday when I got home the basket was empty and the berries were all gone.”

“Oh,” said Johnny, “I’m very sorry, I must have had an accident yesterday. I’ll do better today; let me carry your basket, please?”

“Well, okay,” said Blackie, “But you must promise to be extra careful today.”

“Oh, I will” said Johnny as he picked up the basket and flew off.

When he got to Blackie’s cave Johnny said to himself “What a stupid old bear, falling for the same trick twice. I can probably get free blueberries all summer long.”

When Blackie got back to his cave he once more found the basket empty with not a blueberry in sight. “What is going on?” he thought to himself, “Something is up with that Johnny.”

The next day Blackie went out with his basket and once more filled it up with blueberries. Johnny Crow flew down once more and tricked Blackie into giving up his basket; at least he thought he did. Blackie, suspicious of the bird had taken a shortcut back to his cave and hidden in the corner. When Johnny got to the cave he began to eat the berries in great gulps and soon half of them were gone. Johnny was so engrossed in the berries that he never even saw Blackie until it was too late. Blackie leaped out of his hiding place in the corner and charged at the now very fat Johnny Crow. The surprised Johnny fluttered his wings in vain but only managed to get a few feet towards the door because he was so fat from eating all the berries. Blackie caught Johnny and ate him whole in one big gulp.

Blackie Bear lived quite happily for the rest of his life, and he never had to worry about missing blueberries again.

THE END

And the moral of the story is: Be careful when bearing bear berries, that a big bear has planned for his sup; If you steal them he’ll get very scary, you’ll grow fat and be eaten up.

Illuminations

Ravenna

(Photo: BlackJack the crow who sometimes visits outside my window)

Once upon a Monday gloomy
I tried my best to call love to me
Alas, ‘twas doomed to ever fail
I called instead a coffin nail

And while I looked upon this sign of woe
It came to be there was a crow
He was a bird as black as night
With glowing eyes that gave me fright

Yet ‘twas his ominous appeal
That caused my very mind to reel
In scratchy voice he croaked the phrase
That death would come in seven days

He asked me not to search for love
I called him daft, an evil dove
I should have listened to the bird
But ignorance I much preferred

I went about my way unhindered
Thinking not of words birds tendered
I called to all who passed my way
Words of love and hoped to sway


I met a woman called Ravenna
With night black hair and eyes of henna
Slender as an aspen tree
Graceful as a cat was she

We loved and wed within the week
And of the bird I did not speak
But soon Ravenna grew quite pale
Each day she weakened and seemed to fail

Her hair once black was turning grey
Her eyes of henna tuned to clay
She could not speak of aught but heaven
And died by the gloomy day of seven

And when I laid her in the ground
And covered up her coffin mound
It chanced to be there was a feather
Black as night among the heather

It smelled of sweet Ravenna’s hair
I held it as I spoke a prayer
I never saw the crow again
But now I use the feather for a pen

The Cat and the Cardinal

The cat spotted the cardinal sitting on the porch rail, picking seeds and bread crumbs from the dish of a wooden bird feeder. The cardinal did not see the cat. The cat began to inch his way forward toward the bird feeder, belly low to the ground, the tip of his tail twitching high in the air. When he was directly below the bird feeder he drew his front paws in, tensing his back legs for the spring, his muscles rippling all along his sides. The cardinal turned slightly to the side and the cat froze, holding his breath. Then he leapt, knocking the unsuspecting cardinal to the ground and pinning the bird with his right paw, left paw raised, claws extended, to strike the exposed throat, mouth agape with razor sharp teeth ready to rend feathers and flesh from bone.

“Wait!” shouted the cardinal, “Please, don’t eat me! I beg you, spare my life!”

“You can talk!” exclaimed the cat, utterly taken aback, “You can talk!”

“Well of course I can talk.” said the shaking cardinal, “The real surprise is the fact that you can talk too.”

The cat was so shocked at this unexpected development that he seemed frozen in mid-attack. His mouth hung open and his clawed paw wavered just inches from the cardinal’s throat. The cardinal himself could not quite believe his sudden luck. This was ridiculous! It was utterly impossible. In fact, it couldn’t possibly be real.

“After all,” thought the cat, “cardinals can’t talk.”

“After all,” thought the cardinal, “cats can’t talk.”

Yet however improbable the situation was thought to be, it had proven to be not impossible. Here they were, two creatures most opposite in nature, who up to now had each believed the other an uncivilized brute incapable of intelligible discourse, actually speaking to one another. Needless to say they were both completely surprised at the other’s transformation into an intelligent being and a capable conversationalist.

“Well,” thought the cat, “I certainly can’t kill the bird now, not after he’s gone and talked to me. It would be rude.” He closed his mouth, sheathed his claws, and slowly backed away from the cardinal.

The cardinal kept a wary eye on the cat as he flipped himself off his back and onto his feet. With a flutter the cardinal flew to the porch rail and began to straighten his disheveled feathers.

“I’m very sorry,” said the cat, “I had no idea you were a talking cardinal.”

“That’s quite all right,” said the cardinal, “it was an honest mistake, and besides, it wasn’t entirely your fault. If I had known you were a talking cat I would have announced myself.”

“Oh no,” said the cat, “it really was entirely my fault…”

“Oh no,” said the cardinal, “I really should have announced myself better…”

“I’m very sorry!” said the cat and the cardinal simultaneously. This was followed by a moment of awkward silence.

“Well… I must be going now,” said the cardinal, “places to go, things to be doing.”

“Oh yes,” said the cat, “I’m quite busy myself.”

The cardinal flipped his tail and fluttered his wings nervously. The cat licked his paw and washed his right ear.

“Well goodbye,” said the cardinal.

“Yes, goodbye,” said the cat, “feel free to visit again.”

“I believe I will,” said the cardinal.

The cardinal gave a little hop-skip and flew away from the porch rail. The cat soon lost sight of him in the forest of thick trees that surrounded the house. He sat watching the leaves blowing in the wind. The cat stretched out in a bright patch of sun, lie down, and presently fell fast asleep.

Come With Me in the Night

"Come with me," said the arctic fox to his silvery corvidae friend,
"Let us wander 'neath the tundra moon and watch the snow descend.
Together we can haunt the night, as lonely as two ghosts,
leaving no trace as we pass, with shadows of morose."

"Come with me," said the silver crow to his ghostly vulpine friend,
"Let us wander where the trees have gone and into clouds ascend.
Together we can hunt the night, you kill and I shall reap,
and all shall fear to hear our song call in the twilight sleep."