The Witchling Kiki

It was many and many a year ago,  
   In a village by the sea,  
That a maiden there lived whom you may know  
   By the name of Witchling Kiki;  
And this maiden she lived with no other thought  
   Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,  
   In this village by the sea,  
But we loved with a love that was more than love—  
   I and my Witchling Kiki—  
With a love that the crows from the woods above  
   Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,  
   In this village by the sea,  
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling  
   My beautiful Witchling Kiki;  
So that her high broom flying came  
   And bore her away from me,  
To shut her up in a sepulchre  
   In this village by the sea.

The crows, not half so happy in the trees,  
   Went envying her and me—  
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,  
   In this village by the sea)  
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,  
   Chilling and killing my Witchling Kiki.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love  
   Of those who were older than we—  
   Of many far wiser than we—  
And neither the crows in the sky above  
   Nor the witches roaming the sea  
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul  
   Of the beautiful Witchling Kiki.

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams  
   Of the beautiful Witchling Kiki;  
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes  
   Of the beautiful Witchling Kiki;  
And so, all the night-tide, I ride by the side  
   Of my witchling—my witchling—my life and my guide,  
In the sepulchre there by the sea,  
   In her tomb by the sounding sea.

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Love Is …

Love is a place.
A safe space,
Where you can be you, without fear.
Without judgment or reprisal; just to be clear.
Love is online, a community that fosters your growth.
Love is a home that supports and offers a troth.
Love is that one diner
Where you and your tribe couldn’t be finer.

But love is not *every* place.

Love is a person. They ask if you’ve eaten.
That ride-or-die friend that just cannot be beaten.
They tell you to drive carefully and text when you’re home.
They add color to life when it turns monochrome.
They listen; hold space.
They offer care and grace.

But love is not *every* person.

Love is a thing. A reminder of hope.
A hug in order to cope.
Love is hot chocolate with marshmallows on top.
That teddy bear when the tears won’t stop.

But love is not *every* thing.
In fact, love is so rarely the thing by itself,
Love is the feeling you get from that thing on the shelf.

Love is a clusterfuck of emotions.
Love can be happy. Love can be sad.
Love can be angry. Love can be mad.
Love is confusion. Love is irrational.
Love is calm. Love is magical.
Love is joy. Love is pain.
Love can be all of these at the same
time.

Love is unconditional. But love sets boundaries.
Love is love, even if the sound varies.
It is freely given, without limits.
Love is how we survive all of these minutes.

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Nature’s Contract

The rose grows lovely and lush,
Smelling as sweet as sin.
It will bite you with its thorns.
A corpse flower, putrid and dank,
looking as lovely as a lounging lady.
The balance of beauty.

The Moon is cold, empty, and dark,
Yet glows with Solar radiance.
The Sun is life-giver and cancer-maker.
The levels of life.

Winter: dead outside, but
Snowmen and hot cocoa inside.
Spring: lush and green,
With flowers bursting at the seam.
But the bugs are back.
Swimming at the beach while sweating
and sizzling on the sand all Summer.
Autumn holds the heat at bay,
The trees turn into a bright array,
But the days are short and hide their beauty away.

Who is to choose what Life has to offer?
The light isn’t so different from the dark,
both have their ups and their downs,
they are all a part of Nature’s Contrast,
Our contract with the natural world.
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Malleable Memories

Harken back to yesteryear:
The joys of childhood,
The pangs of adolescence.

Revel and frolic in your visions:
Superheroes dashing about the yard,
Climbing trees that were skyscrapers.

Relive and recoil at your nightmares:
A tender note; rejected.
Peals of laughter as schoolwork is sent scattered.

As you travel back in time,
The good gets better.
The bad gets worse.

We recraft our memories each time we recall them.
Did you never scrape your knees on those trees?
Did no one ever love you back?

Memories are malleable.
We can change them.
Though they depict the past,
They are not written in stone.

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