Two Cocoas

Two cocoas sat by the fireplace steaming into chill dark air.
    Nearly empty now, the kettle skitters and sings “hip! pip!pop!” on the stove top.

Two cocoas in their mugs amidst hearth heat and smoky fire smells.
    The air is warming.

Two cocoas, their whipped cream melting and bitter chocolate silt sifting to their mug bottoms.

Two cocoas huddle on the floor near the large wooden, woolen-draped rocker
    while the cat looks up intently.
Two cocoas have cooled just enough to be sipped slowly and warm the body
    from the tummy on out, and of course, from palms and fingers on up the arms.

Two cocoas.

Mist Monster

High on the mountain - way up where it is cold even on hot days - way, WAY up where it is snowy in the middle of Summer - up, UP where the trees end and the rocks and snow guard the last small bits of ground before it all turns to sky - in the cold and windy edges of the very largest mountain around is born the Mist Monster.

People speak of the sudden dark the Mist Monster can bring. People shudder to recall the damp and chill of such a visit. Looking at a Mist Monster it could seem quite tall - taller than the tallest trees at the edge of your meadow - sometimes even taller than the hill behind your house. But very few people know the heart of the Mist Monster. Almost nobody knows how it moves about.
In the foothills of Tahoma (the name meaning “that really big mountain over there”) there is a little girl living in a small house on the edge of a grove. The grove is home to a large and sprawling willow tree who never stops sipping from the water springs all around his toes (his toes, you may know as roots). Well, Willow and this little girl are friends. On very hot days she sings songs in the expansive shade of the tree’s long and meandering branches. They get along beautifully. She is never too hot from the sun while under the willow. Her singing makes him want to drink more spring water. Nobody knows they are friends with the fabled, the feared, the misunderstood Mist Monster.
Here is the truth of it. Here is their secret. When the storms on the mountain were simply too fierce for the secretly shy Mist Monster it would creep down into the lesser valleys and hills to hide out. This is how he met the girl under the willow tree.
It was very early on an August morning. The elk were perfectly happy tucked into tall grass beds all around the meadow just down the slope from the little girl’s house. The sun had only just sent word it would come over the hill shortly. Only a glow was peaking over the topmost ridge. It would be hours before any color or heat could threaten the dew drops.
The little girl had woken up early when the chattery birds outside her window started in on their morning gossip. As the warm morning promised a hot day she thought is best to pay an early visit to her friend in the grove of spring water. As she sat singing that day she was surprised (and a little thrilled) to see the Mist Monster curling its way behind the big trees. It was crawling up the creekbed in the foot of the valley. It was clearly minding its own business. The sky was blue. The air was warm. Yet, its gigantic soft and white tentacles wavered along to fill in the valley space ( It was usually unnoticed space, so the little girl was enjoying the show).
Well, the silly old Mist Monster was creeping along ever so slowly. It had not noticed the arrival of the sun. If you did not know already, amongst the hard rock faces of high cliff walls, along the roads cut into treacherous glaciers the Mist Monster has no foe. It may gobble you up, or you and your car, or you and your car and the truck in front of you! A Mist Monster may or may not burp you out somewhere around the corner.

But the still and open, shimmering heat of a summer valley meadow is no place to try to be chilly grey and damp for very long. Why? Because over the hill popped the sun! To the cool grove of springs retreated the Mist Monster. There it curled up under the willow tree. It paid no mind at all to the girl sitting there already. Instead, it swished and it swayed. It floated and wisped. Then it slowly dissipated back into the mountain air. Simple as that. Peaceful as sweetpeas. Here and gone.

To this day the willow and the little girl have told no one how the Mist Monster travels magically on air back up to the high mountain. They are not sure they would be believed.

BINKLE ! BINKLE!

“Mama, I’m scared of the dark!” Mama puts down her book to join the little one who is hopping around the kitchen with a case of nerves. “OK” she says, “You first, there’s the light switch for the hallway. Little fingers reach up to bring on the light down the dark passage. Here’s your room. I know you can turn on your own lamp. There you go. Well done. Choose your pajamas, alrighty. Together they return to the warm living room to finish the bedtime routine. “I need my slippers! The Dark!” Imploring eyes wish Mama off the couch again. “You can do this Sweetie. You know where all the switches are, and you can reach each one. Young eyebrows furrow, a frown is born. “But why can’t you come with me? Half the people in the room find this a reasonable enough question. Mama responds with the steady loving tone for lessons, “I’ll tell you the truth, kiddo. I know the fear is very real, but you made it up, and you can overcome it as well. People do this all the time. They grow up, living their whole lives running from bogeymen they made up and never learned how to face and defeat. I said it before, my job with you is to prepare you for life without me – not to do all you ask of me. Tell you what, I’ll watch you from here, I see you! Right! You’ve got the hall switch there in front of you – now shout out “BINKLE ! BINKLE!” loud enough so as I can hear you, because shadow monsters are very afraid of “BINKLE ! BINKLE!”

“BINKLE ! BINKLE!” - “BINKLE ! BINKLE!” Mama hears the scurry as the slippers are nabbed and the pipsqueak is racing back down the hallway, then the triumphant return to the living room with “I GOT ‘EM!” “YAY! Good for you.

With one light in a small dark room, they cuddle up on the couch for a read-aloud chapter. The shadow monster shakes it head, sighs and shuffles out the back window.

6 Dec 2002

Traveling In The Dark

 

There was a little boy traveling in the dark. He was looking for a place to sleep. He had woken up in a strange place just a while ago.

Before going to bed he remembered sitting in front of a wall that was a window. He hardly blinked at the tall buildings he could look down upon. Everywhere was cement. There were two huge cranes perched on top of skyscrapers right out there. A slithering snake of lights flickered around a wide arc and between the buildings. Mama said that was the big road they had come on to the city. But it looked more like an electric monster in the dark, tall, hard place like nowhere he could remember.

It was puzzling exactly how he had fallen asleep since he was sure he promised himself he would not until he was home. The room smelled funny here. The air was loud! The sheets were scratchy. So when he woke up of course they had to leave and there was no way he was changing his mind about it. Why couldn’t his parents understand? It was simple. Just go home now. That is all. They sure looked terrible as they took him down to the car.

As tired as he felt it still was pretty keen to see all the green and red lights lined up as they drove down the city street. Kind of made him want to sing and dance and tell jokes. Then they came to the high bridge and it was dark all around. That felt quieter. Then there were trees and houses all around and it looked a lot like Gramma’s street.

The scary stuff was pretty far away now. And he was so very tired and relieved to have escaped that nasty room. Traveling in the dark like this with Mama and Papa was pretty familiar . He was in the car all strapped into his special seat. All that seemed OK.

Next thing he knew he woke up in the hotel room again but this time it smelled like coffee. Then he found out there was a hot tub and a cool pool up the elevator on the top floor.  Swimming was one of his favorite things. They even had puffy arm bands he could borrow.

...to Dust

It happened Thursday afternoon,
When she erased it all too soon.
The blackboard was chock-full of notes
Our heads were down, we madly wrote.

Then we’d look up and there was MORE!
Way more than there was before.
With heavy hearts we’re scribbling quickly.
Tapping feet, we’re breathing thickly.

She knew we’re cramming for the test.
Couldn’t she trust we’d do our best?
If only she’d felt we’re on her side
Must we remain her her foe denied?

Her glance was chilling as she swept
All information mere moments kept.
The faintest trace of hope we’d pass
Was clear and gone as light through glass.

But worse, we found to our alarm,
She had erased my classmate’s arm!
And then his knees, and last his ear.
And then he was quite gone, I fear.

For he’d been worried something dire,
Then consumed as if in fire.
We watched in horror chalk dust flying,
Dumbstruck there was no denying.

As she stroked the boards with felt
His corporeal body seemed to melt
Into the air right by my desk.
So now he’ll take no Friday test.

But I was wondering where he went.
And why her notes she thusly spent?
And what the heck was all the hurry?
As if she had to see us scurry.

She might have watched or felt or thought.
She might have waited, reasoned, sought.
She might have paused or breathed or sighed
She might have cared, or maybe tried.

SORRY STONE

The little boy stomped on his Mama’s foot. She cried out, “OUCH!” Then she got mad.
“You are too big and heavy to jump on people. That really hurt. It still hurts!”
The boy turned away - a very small smile on his face. 
Mama continued, ”I would like you to say you are sorry.”
“I won’t.” he replied.
“I’d like you to mean it, too.” Then she added, “Was that on purpose or a mistake?
“On purpose.” was his frank reply.
“Hmmm. Well, it still hurts”

A short while after the little one insists, “Mama, play with me!”
“I am still mad and my foot still hurts.”
‘“Mama! There’s a stone there.”
“Where?”
“There! See? It’s a sorry stone.” He said picking it up.
“A sorry stone?”
“I want to give it to you”
“You do? What does it say?” Mama asks.
“I am sorry” He answers for the stone.
“OK. Thank you for the sorry stone. I feel much better.”

Fruition

*fru·i·tion (froo-ish'en):
      1. The achievement of something desired or worked for.       2. The condition of bearing fruit.

Once there was a man who lived by a field in the hills that head towards a massive mountain. He lived with his dogs and cats. The garden he tended was often visited by deer and elk from the nearby woods. They would choose among all kinds of fresh vegetables and fruits for every season.
He was a good man with a nice home but he wanted more. He wanted to be a father. At one time he had met a beautiful woman. They had had a passion and they thought they would have a baby. But the baby knew it was not a true love - so it returned to the land of baby angels leaving the man and woman alone with lost wishes. Soon thereafter she left him. He stayed home long hours working in the garden.

One cold day in the winter, on a whimsy, he ordered some exotic plants from a faraway store to mail him. They were called “hearty kiwi”. Smaller, smoother and tougher than their cousins from New Zealand, they were said to survive a mountain winter. Time would tell.
Three wisps arrived in a little box; one male, two female. Just shoots with a single leaf apiece was all there was to start so, each was placed in a tiny pot. They grew. So, he placed them in bigger pots until they were tall enough and strong enough to live by the fence at the side of the garden. Years passed. Seasons came and went. To his surprise the little shoots became handsome vines and spread along the fence. They were comely and colorful bushes yet they bore no fruit. Not even one small piece.
As the fence sagged with the growing weight of the vines the man tilled and weeded, sowed and reaped. He tried to forget the lovely woman and the child they never had. While his hands were busy his heart was heavy. Though being a clever fellow he knew to keep his eye peeled for his future mate, which he did.
Time and patience rewarded his efforts. He met a woman at a dance. They danced and walked and talked. He wrote to her. Then they met again. He knew he felt comfortable with her yet he could not say why. They made many meals together and he invited her to chase the weeds away from the flower beds and gather the food as it ripened.
After a time they decided to stay together to make a life in the house by the field with the gardens. They talked and worked. They laughed and they loved and made a beautiful child. One summer a baby boy came into their life. They rejoiced by spending their time with him and continuing to care for each other.
As they worked in the garden they admired the kiwi vines- now a leafy palace over the tired old fence whose posts had finally laid down to rot. Stepping through the wire, pushing aside yellow leaves to inspect the damage they were delighted to discover kiwis just larger than grapes dangling in bunches, many bunches.
After the first frost they were soft and sweet. So she picked them in the Autumn harvest . She smiled and sang to the baby in the barrow as the firm green fruits resounded, “Kerplink! kerplot!” in the bucket. All the while it seemed the garden itself was celebrating the new family by offering this abundant gift of long awaited fruit.

For Real (Serena)

Parity,Quynn, startst his inquiry.

Sarcasm dissembles. My feelings are fiery.

You've been to my house. You've played with my boy.

We've pvzzled our sorrows. Yet,you remain coy.





I want to show youmy body, see how you react,

To see your attraction's a natural fact.

It's simple. It's pure. Call it lust or desire.

-No insult to intellect. That, too, is required.





You came to my party. You left with these words:

(Youmay have beendrunk. But,here's what I heard)

You invited me over to drink and to soak.

That, I took as an offer.Was it only ajoke?





Did you mean what you said? Can you claim how you felt?

Does your beer open doors that when sober just melt?

To write you in candor may feel like a dare.

It may seem like apressure that isn't quite fair.





So, don't feel obliged to honor a joke.

But where was the truth in the words which you spoke?

Is it lurking with fear, just behindthe attraction?

Anticipation keeps you locked out of action?





We'veboth spent longyearswith our love in denial.

Interaction's preferred. You could call it a trial.

Experiment! Fling! Some serious fun.

I'll treat youwith kindness. I'm warm as the Sun.





So, here I have laid all my cards on the table.

With rhyme and in verse to cushion as able.

OK, show this to Suzie. And mention our date.

If you need to cancel, it's never too late.





For I honor your caution, concerns and your pace.

But, I need to live with my life in my face.

Like a wind from the canyon, deep, fresh and awesome.

In my youth I was frozen.Now I have thawed some.



Regan Merritt Perry

November 2001