A Cow By Any Other Name

In the forest of Hatuga, each is called to their own lot. The lot of a Tree Frog is not the lot of the Whale, and the Whale likewise can never hope to take on the burden belonging to the Spider. Each has a role, each has a purpose, each has a thing it does for which the forest itself is grateful. For Hatuga revolves on the axis of deeds. What can be done if nothing is actually done? Nothing at all. Nothing for all.

In Hatuga, there lived two types of cows. The first was a land cow. She was heavily built, rather slow, confined to wherever her sure-hooved legs would carry her. They would not carry her very far, for she had no reason to go very far anyways. But they were strong, and much was entrusted to her because she could handle it.

The second cow was a sea cow. Specifically, a Dugong, who was a free-swimmer and prided herself on no attachments for whom she would need to actually take stock in pride. No, pride meant nothing to her, for lazing about all day and eating as much seagrass as she desired was all that mattered, and the number of tricks she could pull underwater. The better the trick, the better the thrill, and the Dugong was simply pleased in that regard.

The Dugong heard about this so-called land cow which lived much further inland, plodding about with its embarrassing udders and slaving away for the good of its community. It chortled and jeered at the idea of this helpless creature leading such a masochistic life, and made up songs that would shame the poor beast should it ever wander into the ocean where she had all the fun she could handle with nary a care.

When word of this sea-cow and its mean little songs reached the ears of the land cow, she swished her tail a few times irritably and then forgot about it. For what use was this musical lard in the sea foam to one with responsibilities? Her deeds spoke against the lies the Dugong made up about her, and the land cow was comforted by those who relied on her as they spurned the spiteful ditty and soon all word of this sea-cow was forgotten.

Decades passed, and both the land cow and the sea cow died. For some stories are unceremonious, two disputes clashing on the voice of the breeze, only to fade away shortly thereafter. Indeed, most stories are like this – and for that they are rarely told.

When the land cow passed away, she was buried with revered circumstance. Many had benefited from her milk, her sure hoof, her motherly lowing. And so the loss heavily impacted her community. But not in the way of misery, no, for they celebrated her life and how she touched them all. She was loved, and everyone knew it.

When the sea cow perished, her bloated body floated to the surface for a week before built-up gas escaped from the carcass and she sunk beneath the waves. No one would remember her, her tricks, or her song. Heck, no one would even know she died, save the scavengers who came to feed before even they snubbed their noses at her putrid blubber. For the Dugong lived for no one and nothing for her own pleasure, and pleasure is not the sort of thing that lives longer than the present moment. One might even say, having left no impact on Hatuga, that the Dugong hardly existed at all.

Partnershipping with Parasites

If you have ever visited the forest of Hatuga, you know what a miraculous place it is – a place where the bird speaks lyric and the human twitters in the trees, a place where waterfalls flow upstream and apes lend books to man and beast alike. There is an order to the forest to the tune of mutual existence; the beings that live here rely on each other. They do so, not with the animalistic instinct calling them to be herds or flocks, but with complete conscious compliance with their own need for community, for fellowship. However, just because a relationship between beasts might be necessary, does not always make it a good match. There are some relationships that clearly favor one side over the other. This usually happens because one side would rather allow itself to be taken advantage of, than be deprived of the company.

In the heat of the jungle near the bank of the Euphrates shuffled about a complacent Capybara. Now, our Capybara was not complacent when it came to her meals, no; only the finest juiciest melons for this rodent. Nor was she complacent when it came to her resting spots, no; sleep came to her only in patches of grass from which sprouted a certain balance of coolness and warmth. In all of these, the Capybara was extremely selective, never settling.

Our Capybara was only complacent by vice of the friend she kept. That so-called “friend” was Buffalo Leech, an enormous worm who remained joined to Capybara’s hip through thick and thin. Quite literally, whether its host liked it or not.

She tended to like it.

“How am I so lucky,” the Capybara gushed to the Leech, “to have a friend as loyal as you?”

“Stop your squirming already,” muttered the Leech with its mouth full of hip, “or you’ll make me lose my grip. What good would that do either of us?”

For the Capybara, this Buffalo Leech constantly showered her with attention and words of encouragement. She did consider it her Leech, since the worm never seemed to take stock in anyone else. But by drinking her blood, it seemed to know exactly what he was feeling.

“You need to chill out, and don’t have such high expectations,” the Leech would say, when its rodent would start to stress over the mess in her territory or the flavor of her water. “It’s not like you can do much about it, anyway. But you can make your blood taste better by relaxing, so why don’t you do that for me, huh?”

The Capybara never felt alone with the Leech, and was grateful to her companion for its good advice and constructive critique.

Such as, when she was feeling sad for no reason:

“There’s no need to feel depressed. It’s all in your head! Depression is just the disappointment you feel when you wake up and remember that all you are is just a really big rat.”

Or, when she couldn’t quite nail the steps for a new dance she was practicing:

“Oh, wow, you’re doing great. It’s never too late to learn a groovy dance. So it won’t really hurt if you put it off, try it again tomorrow or something, right? Spend some time with me instead…I’m feeling pretty hungry.”

Or, if she had eaten one too many melons for lunch:

“Whoa, there, large Marge. Let’s not get too excited and eat the whole forest, m’kay? What will folks think if they see me hanging around a fat rat who has no self-control? They’ll think I have no self control, either.”

All the while, never ceasing its perpetual slurp.

One morning, however, the Capybara felt…off. She felt like something was weighing her down, breaking her back, sinking her steps. And there was! The Buffalo Leech had grown more than a foot long, weighing thirty pounds full of its host’s blood. The Capybara could live with that, for she was still physically solid on the outside. But on the inside, the Leech’s words had worn her down.

“Man, aren’t you a late riser,” yawned the Leech. “Not like you’ve got anyone waiting for you, or any big plans, though…so I guess it’s all right. Why don’t you hang with me again today?”

The Capybara nodded, used to the routine. But, as the Leech was taking its morning swim in the murky river, she suddenly had an enlightening thought: to run away, and leave the Leech on its own! How foolish it would feel, to look around, and not see its friend anywhere in sight? That would teach the squirmy wormy to weigh me down, thought the Capybara. Worse, teach it to enjoy weighing me down, if it insists on treating me like a pack mule.

The Capybara rose to her feet to follow through with the threats running across her brain. She turned, poised to run…and buckled. Before her was the vast expanse of Hatuga, the steamy jungle that promised only the uncomfortable humidity of loneliness in its tangled brush.

The Capybara felt absolutely awful. She was the worst! How could she ever treat a true friend like that?

“Well, are you going?”

Her heart skipped a beat as he whirled back to the river. Did the Leech bear witness to her traitorous turn? Was she about to get chastised, or, worse, lose a friend?

“Hoo-wee! Aren’t you the jumpy kind? I like that, means we got something in common!”

The Capybara felt something infinitesimally small leap across her ribs, up her back, around her neck, and DINK! Right on the end of her nose!

“You and I will get along just fine,” said a good-natured Flea. “I LOoOoOVE to jump! Don’t stop on account of me, new bounce-buddy! Lessgo!”

So, off they went. It was relief to the Capybara, knowing she could leave the Leech behind, yet still have a friend whispering encouragement in her ear. And what a stark difference in language between the Leech and the Flea! The Flea was full of pep, full of optimism, always wanting to hop along and do the next fun thing. He constantly prodded the Capybara along, never allowing her to stop for a moment, to rest and get mired in worries over what Buffalo Leech was up to.

After a short while, though, Capybara began to realize that the Flea was full of more energy than she had the energy to dream she could have. But she pretended like she wasn’t worn down, sluggish, unable to scratch that persistent itch that demanded she get up and follow the Flea anywhere he wanted. For, at the end of the day, the Capybara would sacrifice her comfort to ensure she at least had one animal there right beside her against the wilds of Hatuga.

It was the Flea’s patience that snapped first.

“Hey, what gives?” barked the Flea. “I thought you were this fun girl who liked to do fun things, not some sad sack of a sorry squirrel! I think I’ll have to hop along and find some friends who can keep up with my company. Call me again when you decide to pull your sticks out of the mud, m’kay?”

And, with one last jeer, the Flea abandoned friendship in the lifeboat of a passing wallaby.

“Oh, no…” moaned Capybara, already feeling the daunting emptiness well up inside her. “What am I going to do without Buffalo Leech or the Flea? I’ll have no one to talk to, no one who relies on me. I’m all alone!”

“I can help you out,” replied a slinky voice in the mud beneath her feet. Tapeworm rose up on its paper-thin body until it was eye-level with Capybara. “But I don’t trust just anyone. I’m very vulnerable, you see, and I need to make sure a friend of mine has a strong constitution.”

That sounded reasonable to the Capybara. The rest of her afternoon was shared with a swapping of secrets, trying to find the next story that they could both relate to. By the time the moon shone through Tapeworm’s translucent body, both had decided that they could trust each other completely as friends. Capybara was content, and they curled up together in a perfectly chosen patch of grass to commemorate the new companionship.

When morning came, Tapeworm was nowhere to be found. Capybara searched and searched, but it was like Tapeworm had vanished into some dark recess somewhere it could never be found. All Capybara had left was a sinking pit in the depths of her stomach, as if the potential of this new friend had created an abscess in its absence that ate away at her last sliver of strength. Capybara was certain that she and Tapeworm were compatible. After all, they had shared so much together in just one night! Why would it just up and disappear like that? There was nothing Capybara could do, now, except wallow in pain and loneliness, wishing on a star that Buffalo Leech would find its way back to her.

A carefree twitter floated down in response to her sobs. Starling landed on her back with the lightest skip, hardly noticed at all until he came to perch near Capybara’s ear.

“No need to squeak around all sorrowful-like, buddy. Tell me what ails ya, and lemme see if I can’t do something about it.”

After listening to her sob-story, Starling had nothing but the realest of sympathies.

“That’s what happens when you surround yourself with parasites. A bunch of little creepy crawlies whose only purpose in life is to suck the energy out of yours. But don’t you worry, naw-ah! Starling’ll keep you company for a little bit. But then, buddy, you gotta learn how to live on your own. Think ya can handle that?”

Capybara sniffled and felt like protesting, but deep down she knew that whatever protests came out were just leftover manipulations from Buffalo Leech, the Flea, and Tapeworm. Starling sang agreeably as she nodded, and she felt his song lift a little the burden of her heart.

Over the next week, Capybara slowly but surely recovered the life sucked from her by those nasty parasites. First the blood drawn by Buffalo Leech returned to her, then the itching to move prompted by Flea vanished, and finally the deep feeling of longing caused by Tapeworm passed through her. Starling was a pleasant and well-rounded conversationalist, never dominating, and always interested in hearing about Capybara’s current state of thinking or feeling. He was, for a season, a good friend.

But he was not hers, having a family to provide for, and she was okay with that. When they parted on good terms, Capybara felt refreshed, confident she could now stand on her own four legs. She still was worried about being alone, but that was natural – Friends made or lost, they were not made forever. Neither were they made to be exclusively hers. But at least she now knew that any friend who felt like a bloodsucking parasite was no friend of hers. She would feel no remorse in cutting it off, even if it meant her search would continue.

Such a selective Capybara has never looked healthier.

The Lonely Scavenger

The forest of Hatuga sometimes acts outside its nature. It is not unusual to get a sunburn in the middle of Winter, or be buried under snow six feet deep in the high time of Summer. But, if a thing occurs without interference from circling elements, is it not anything else but natural? True, that thing might first strike us as bizarre or strange, but this does not discount it from being a natural thing at its root. Nature can be quite contradictory, after all; the only excuse is when a thing tries to become that which it flat-out cannot be. Then, it becomes truly unnatural.

High above the munros of western Hatuga soared a thing that many called “unnatural.” That thing was a bird of prey, a magnificent Bearded Vulture, who went by the name of “Ivan.” It was a name he had to remind himself of multiple times a day, since there was no one around to call him by it. Yes, Ivan was quite the friendless flier, as Bearded Vultures are a species whose sentence is solitude. He tried his talon at chumming it with the rest of the animal kingdom, but never did it dawn on him how frightened they were by his ostentatious display. Not even Ivan’s naïve entreaties could break that natural bond between his visage and terror itself. But he assumed they had somewhere to be, and refused to hold it against them.

Bearded Vultures take great pride in how they decorate themselves; Ivan was no exception, rubbing his ruffles with rust from the soil. He took pride in preening, a laborious effort until his naturally white feathers burned a sunset orange. Plucking up a few choice bones from the ossuary he called nest, Ivan flung on the rib-cage of a chicken as a mask and the skulls of mice as rings, then set off to once again to impress the neighbors in vain with his gaudy attempt at compensating for those secret flaws that no one would educate him on.

Alas, what did the poor bird expect? The same result, no matter how many months he tried to achieve a different result. Off would bolt the neighbors, bird and mammal and reptile, scared to death of his rattling across the skies – lest they end up the next decoration, some sort of bracelet or crown! After five hours of searching for new friends (or even acquaintances) in vain, Ivan landed in a valley for drink. His imposing stature, bright makeup, and sharp beak shone on the surface. The more he stared at his reflection, the more frustrated he grew. These animals didn’t flee before him in a hurry to meet prior arrangements! No…he knew the real reason now. He was disgusting.

The more Ivan though about how disgusting he was to his neighbors, the more disgusted he found himself. The more disgusted he was with himself, the more he felt like…no, he truly did begin to cry. Why wouldn’t he? He was so alone – an unnatural existence staining Hatuga’s munros. The thought frightened him: was to be spurned by all truly the natural order for a Bearded Vulture like Ivan? There was no way a lonely, disgusting creature like himself was strong enough to defy nature.

Stripping off his heavy bone jewelry, washing away his heavy iron stains, Ivan quietly cried to himself until he passed out from weariness at the bank of the pond.

Ivan slept almost peacefully through the morning. When it had almost entirely passed, he awoke with a start to find himself in the midst of a heard of mountain goats. They grazed about him, completely unafraid of the scarlet eyed raptor in their midst. Not wanting to break the peaceful spell, Ivan just sat.

“Excuse me?” Ivan’s eyes refocused down below his enormous wings, where a small, dewey-eyed goat whispered to him. “Are you going to eat that patch of grass?”

“So that’s what it is,” Ivan realized in his head, keeping the revelation to himself. “These goats don’t realize what I am! They think I’m a goat, too, which means…”

Ivan smiled, bent his preened and polished neck towards the dirt, and began to munch on the grass. The small goat smiled back, and stripped a root nearby. Ivan almost cried again – this time for joy.

A week went by, and Ivan did his best to blend in with the herd of mountain goats. He continued to eat the same grass they did, and felt his strength fading fast. Of course, he was beyond himself with happiness at finally being accepted, so the growlings in his gizzard could be stomached if it meant being a part of community. But that wasn’t the only discomfort. The mountain goats, insisting that his painted scarlet feathers were absolutely atrocious, forced him to scrub out all the fashion he prided himself on until he was his natural state of blank. This meant that the filth acquired by wallowing on the ground instead of flying through the sky was all the more apparent.

When mating season commenced, the male goats invited Ivan to join them in their annual ritual. This ritual involved fierce duels, for which Ivan was not equipped unless he absolved his guilt in gouging them with his talons. But he was worried he would be exiled if it came to that, and so was gouged himself, his feathers turning purple and blue as the rival goats stomped him with their hooves and battered him with their horns. He also failed to climb mountains as the other goats did, his awkward knees not built for crawling up a cliff face as their powerful legs and seasoned hooves. Ivan’s talons scritched and scratched, losing their edge, and with nothing to show as he struggled to find purchase that would carry him to the heights of the rest of the herd. But he was one of the goats now, and could not bring himself to use his wings against their kindness, for the sake of his own inclusion.

Ivan also came to terms with the fact that, although the community had accepted him, the individual goats did not. The little goat that grazed with him first never got past her meager greetings. The others, though treating him tolerably well, did not attempt to know him better or closer than if he was just a visitor. Maybe they did see that he was a vulture, and didn’t think it worth pursuing a relationship with him because his presence was of no use to the future of mountain goats? Worry compounded Ivan’s weakness, day-by-day, until he could hardly flap his wings to get off the ground anymore. His heart was just as grounded – and yet still it lied to itself, that this was better than being alone.

One morning, Ivan was roused by the feared bleating of the herd. A shadow flashed across the ground, a fierce shriek, the announcement of a Harpy Eagle as she terrorized the mountain goats with gleeful dive-bombings.

“Ivan,” shouted the herd, almost in unison, “You’re one of us, Ivan! Save us from that bully Harpy!”

van, his heart suddenly alighted by the opportunity to become useful, ignored all his prior fears and weighted wings and took to the skies. He would prove himself, and maybe they would finally accept him as a fellow mountain goat!

The Harpy Eagle didn’t know what hit her at first; she was not expecting an assault from below. Even less so from a fellow raptor, since she was the largest of predatory birds behind Ivan, whose size was closer to an albatross than to his own species. Truly a battle of griffons, talon-locked, crashing into cliff faces and shredding trees. Ivan gouged as best he could, but his claws just didn’t grasp like they used to, pared down to ensure he did not fatally wound his herd. His beak was also blunted, having been close to caving in after one too many collisions with the bony crowns of his bleating brethren. It was still a struggle for her, but Harpy finally slammed Ivan onto his back against a Munro Top. Panting and bleeding, they rested there, gentle winds ruffling their crooked feathers.

“I am surprised,” Harpy gasped, “That a big bird like you could barely put up a fight. There’s plenty to share, though, and I’m willing to cut you in if you can pull your own weight in a hunt better than you can in a duel.”

“I won’t let you hurt them,” wheezed Ivan. “That’s my herd down there. They’re counting on me to protect them.”

Harpy was dumbstruck until laughter struck her even harder. She croaked and cawed at Ivan as he lay on his back. He felt very small, and became aware of his weak wings and growling gizzard again.

“They’ve taken you for a fool, scavenger,” Harpy plainly stated, her expression now serious and unwavering. “Those goats, jealous of your power and your beauty, have pulled you down into the mud with them. They’ve tried to make you a goat, not only to use you, but also to make that which they envy look absolutely ridiculous.”

“They have not! They accepted me-“

“Have they?” Harpy extended her claw, helping Ivan back onto his feet. He towered over her, still, but in this moment she seemed much more empowered than he. What was it, Ivan wondered, that filled this solitary raptor with such conviction?

“I’m glad, even if we butted heads for a moment, that we ran into each other. I’m sure you know the feeling of loneliness that I do, and maybe it’s because you’ve felt it longer that you caved in and settled with sheep. But I ask again, have they really accepted you? Do you feel that it’s right, natural, even, for you to be grazing about down there? Or do you belong up here in the clouds, with me?”

Ivan was torn, and Harpy could read it in his dulled, scarlet eyes. It wasn’t just loneliness – he did not want to betray his friends.

“In three days,” she said, “I will return to hunt. Watch your so-called ‘herd,’ and let me know if they truly see you as a part of them as much as you think they do.” With that, Harpy leapt into the sky and soared, higher and higher on her unapologetically grey wings.

When Ivan returned to the goats, he was met with appreciative bleating and the stomping of hooves. But something new in their interactions with him became clear, some deep-seated resentment towards him. He had never noticed how they talked down to him and isolated him at the same time that they included him in their activities. He was there, but he was not really a part of them. Even their gratitude for chasing away Harpy was backhanded, questioning his ability and wondering why it took him so long to do what should have been natural to him.

The three days didn’t even need to fully pass for Ivan to finally see the mountain goats for what they were. They were miserable creatures, constantly fighting to prove superiority over each other, and eating nonstop to fill some sort of hole in their hearts. They envied Ivan, the individuality of his fashion, his ability to scale the Munro Tops by wing rather than by hoof, and even his sonorous voice. Every activity they included him in, though out of the spirit of community, was meant to break him down into just another miserable goat in the mountains.

Ivan flew to a Munro Top for the first time in a long time, to be alone with his thoughts like he used to be. And it was no surprise that all the thoughts waiting for him were terribly depressing first. Not only was his part in the herd built on lies, but the lies were multifaceted. The herd had lied to Ivan, for he was never really one of them and they had no intention of accepting him as one of them in the first place. Ivan had lied to the herd, for which he physically and mentally weakened himself in order to be accepted by them. And, worst of all, Ivan had lied to himself, and now must go through the withdrawal of separating himself from the goats he thought he had grown close to over the past month.

There was a flutter of wings, deceptively light, which Ivan craned his neck to see Harpy perched next to him. Harpy Eagles are patient, and she made no further attempts to reason with him while his wounds were this deep. He was nursing scars both self-afflicted and society-afflicted, and she knew she would not be able to find words that evenly healed both types of infections. He would need to sort through it himself. For now, she would hunt.

When the Mountain Goats had first found Ivan at the watering hole, observing his lonely shadow for some time, they thought bringing him into their herd was an ingenious way to both eliminate a potential foe and wield him as a weapon to keep their herd safe. They pleasured in how ridiculous he looked while trying to please them, laughing at his pathetic attempts to seek approval and even how he spurned his own natural gifts to adopt theirs.

They no longer laughed as Harpy tugged one of them straight off the face of a munro, sending them bleating until they were dashed on the rocks below. Not of fear, but pure jealousy of the natural talents of an eagle, and all those gifts that made her such an adept predator. They would be predators, too, if they could help it. But they couldn’t even help themselves as they scrambled to safety while Harpy was busy with her freshly fallen dinner.

The Mountain Goats conspired to punish Ivan for sitting out and refusing to sacrifice his dignity for the herd. How dare he, when they had done so much to include him in their mating rituals and mountain climbing! If he felt outcast before, they promised to double their efforts in making him feel both a part of and apart from the herd, and eagerly anticipated how despondent that mighty wyvern would feel in beholding himself to sheep.

Just when they were patting themselves on the back for their clever cruelty, a terrified baaa-ing sounded out from the outer fringe of their circle, carried up, up, and away into the night sky, then plummeting to a halt in the valley below. The sheep were struck with fear – had Harpy finished her feast already, and was back for more? They counted amongst themselves, but even the mountain goats as a herd could not keep track of their own, for the individual mattered very little when they all thought alike.

They realized their mistake as an enormous flap of wings alerted them to the dragon hovering above them – the vulture ready to scavenge the decay of their community. So excited and self-righteous was the mountain goats’ persecution of Ivan, that their vocalization had carried through the Munro Tops up to where he had been lost in thought. Now aware of the obvious truth, Ivan painted his feathers to their former glory, sharpened his talons and beak on a whetstone, decorated his magnificent frame with all his hard-earned jewelry, and filled his gizzard with the fulness of conviction and righteousness that he had been sacrificing at the altar of companionship. Freed from those chains that bound him to the ground, he took to the skies and returned to the herd. Not to join them, but to put them in their natural place.

For the rest of their days, the jangling of bones and the steady beat of wind thrust downwards filled the Mountain Goats with fear. They gnashed their teeth and stamped their hooves in rage and jealousy, but their horns did them little good as they were plucked up by the raptors preying on their insecurities. Ivan felt no joy or vengeance from his hunts – he had realized that to sometimes be alone was the natural state of things. And if there was one thing his time as a goat taught him, it was to not be ashamed of his gifts. There will always be a Harpy out there to complement them, if one searches the skies and not the ground.

Song of the Sprite

The forest of Hatuga is intentioned. Every miracle in nature is a precise mathematical equation – observable but beyond our own computations. Regardless, we can appreciate how these miracles affect us, move us, imbibe us with our own paths forward in a world where a meaning made to last is sometimes rarer than a miracle.

One miracle, felt by Hatugan Forest-Peoples of all directions, was a song. A song born of a fiddle, soft and bright, arriving with the dewdrops of a rainy noon as the heavens pour on cloudless days. This phenomenon happens once every lunar cycle, and has been deemed as a holiday of rest, to enjoy the comforting melody as it wafts through the trees. Every Hatugan near to the sound would stop their work, and prepare themselves for the rejuvenating strings – for rejuvenation takes a surprising amount of concentration. Faint and far away the song might seem, but, listen closely enough, and you would notice how every intricate note, plain as day, was playing inside your own mind.

One young man did not seek rejuvenation at this point in the lunar cycle. He sought inspiration; what was the secret of that song from the forest that made it so deserved in the minds and hearts of his fellow Hatugan? And why was his heart more moved to sing than to listen? To follow these questions, the young man pursued them into the depths of the forest, seeking out that isolated, intimate source.

Three days into his journey, some of which was comprised of beautiful, pointless circles, the young man happened upon another young man. They shared a good-natured talk, shallow perhaps, but still extending all the cordial respects granted to those with shared values, then continued on their separate ways. They soon realized their separate ways were not separate at all, not even vaguely similar, but very much exactly the same. And, as they glared at each other as if owed an explanation, they saw that another had joined their party, who was just as disappointingly confused to see his party-of-one expanding. And expanding, as more were tallied to the group, until they numbered seven in total.

The fifty-ton gator in the room finally had to be addressed, leading to volatile responses all around. The majority consensus was that each individual believed they had been called by the song, and it was their personally handpicked destiny to uncover its secrets. To what end? Well, some claimed they knew, and the rest deferred the question back to their destiny. But one thing they all knew: that their pursuit was their own, and no one else was entitled to take it away from them. Even if that meant taking away someone else’s pursuit instead.

Hatugans are not prone to inciting physical violence, and so the fire that raged from the sparks of iron clashing exploded into most inflammatory bickering. Underneath the cover of enormous radiant spores, argument after argument was jabbed between the fellow dreamers. They tried to outreason their opponents with their own reasoning, only to be reasoned away by another’s – so on and so long until the stars were even hiding until the differences in their similarities were resolved. Or, at least, they tired themselves out, which was even less likely.

Melting points had begun to spill over, mixing with other metals, but the sound had changed. Over the cacophony of frustration and bitterness, the mysterious song, for the first time in its history they were sure, began to play for the second time in one month. But, this time, it was next to them – still faint, but now spirited gracefully between them by a figure blithely fiddling on an ancient instrument, root and vine harnessed together by animal hair. It looked like it shouldn’t be able to make a noise at all, but the elegant figure, four heads taller than the tallest wanderer there, was extracting from that earthen fiddle the genuine melody that had inspired them all to venture into the depths of the forest in the first place.

“You argue about which of you is best equipped to learn this song,” said the figure in a melodic voice, now taking clearer shape as a pale greenish lady of elvish descent clothed in all the fineries of the fungal canopy above, “But you forget to ask three questions. Can it be taught?”

She struck a sharp chord with her bow. Immediately, the song seemed to be called from whichever far away recess it had been bouncing about in, like a bleating sheep called down from the mountains, into the grove. All were calmed as, for the first time in their experience as the audience, they felt the song right there next to them. Not within them, or far away without, but at their right side.

“At the same time you play, can you listen?” The elven lady moved her bow in rapid, staccatoed motions that shouldn’t have produced the song that was currently playing. But it was playing nonetheless, bouncing around behind her like an obedient puppy with a pulsating glow. The wanderers were mesmerized, and might have felt like joining in the dance had they not understood that to do so at that exact moment would provide an obvious no to the second question.

“And, lastly, why does it matter?” The sprite began to sing. Never in the song had they heard a voice before, now realizing that these notes were meant to compliment and enhance the sound of the fiddle, rather than offer its own tangent of cluttered meter and notes. Her long willow hair swept around each dreamer individually, spreading a warmth among the party as they realized that each one of them had been graced with the secret of the song. Almost unconcerned, or perhaps trusting that the song was now with them and she no longer needed to be there, the sprite and her fiddle disappeared between the mushrooms, slowly rising until the song had spread across the germinating flora above them and absorbed by the dark of the forest.

The wanderers split up. Each returned to their home, almost in a trance. The productive kind.

For three months, nothing seemed to come of this encounter, and the lunar holiday continued on time after that abnormal encore that was the talk of the towns for a time. Then, rumors spread throughout Hatuga, that one young woman was promising that she had, in fact, discovered the secret of the song. Those rumors turned into advertisements, for this young woman had gathered a band together, which would be performing her own reinvented interpretations on the original song for a live audience.

The first few shows were sold out, and the tour was a raving success for fifteen days. But fatigue set in, and the young woman became unsure that she could reach these same highs if she tried to pull off the same event again. Moreover, her songs were extremely difficult to write, originality always clashing with popularity, and the pressures of expectation were mounting. After the tour, content with a pseudo-satisfaction that she could claim to have been a great artist at some moment or other while reminiscing on her past success, the young woman retired from the music business to focus a little bit more on herself.

The rest of the wanderers were not so visible to the public eye as they wrestled with the secret of the song. The second wanderer had become jealous, having put all of his advertisements for the same sort of event the young woman was throwing in all of the wrong places, and so his concert never really picked up at all. Another wanderer became daunted by the task put before her, and decided that criticizing the song was cathartically quicker and expended less effort than trying to build or improve it. These two linked arms, and devoted their time to tearing down the systems that valued the song of the sprite – even going so far in their bitter exclusion to lobby in public for the lunar holiday to be scrubbed from their calendar.

The fourth wanderer dove into a focused study and appreciation of the things that had been revealed to him. In fact, he became so focused, so studious, that nobody in Hatuga could really tell you what those revelations were. He would always assure you, when asked, that he was improving the formulas, heightening the notes, drawing power from words unspoken except by the heart. And, if you asked him to elaborate, he would dance around the subject like the elven sprite, now a faded image in his mind, and never really give you anything tangible to understand or appreciate. But he seemed satisfied in his studies, so perhaps there was some meaning to it, and perhaps he would arrive at a shareable conclusion one day.

The fifth wanderer became a menace. Not intentionally, but their shared love of the song and themselves merged to create a sort of monster that could only be satiated by sharing both with the world. The collective groan of Hatugans everywhere as she would arrive, from nowhere to right in the middle of a private interaction, would send Hatugans fleeing in all directions. She played her version of the song with no rhyme or reason to it being played, except that she liked to hear herself playing it, and hardly wondered why her audience couldn’t sit still for one second longer to share in the joys that had been revealed to her.

The sixth wanderer thought on his experience, appreciated it, and started a family. He enjoyed recounting the story to his children, to inspire them and fill them with wonder and an appreciation for purpose. But it was in the higher sphere of spirituality that the song belonged, not in his practical life. And so he kept it at arm’s length while focusing his efforts on things that were kept only at a finger’s length. He found satisfaction in this, as did his family, and it heightened their appreciation of the lunar holiday more than most of their Hatugan neighbors.

For a year, no one heard or saw the seventh wanderer. He seemed to disappear from community altogether, and the villagefolk were genuinely curious what had happened to him. Then, one lunar holiday at the start of a new year, everyone became aware of a change in the song. It was natural, beautiful, somehow deeper and more complex, but still filled with all the subtle magic in the original. This did not start off as the public perception, however, as many insisted it was still just the same old song, just with the added effect of ambient noise that didn’t fully recognize the lunar holiday or appreciation the purity of the song.

But, over time, more and more became aware of this change. It did not replace the song they had grown up with, but enhanced it, grew with it, and gave a little more spirit to the lunar holiday than a mere day of rest and rejuvenation. It became a day of inspiration, filling them with hope for their individual pursuits, and reminding them to let the day pass through them, rather than just pass through the day. And, while everyone knew this new song to be the seventh wanderer’s work, especially those close to him, no one quite understand how he got there, or where he had gone. But since they were filled with the inspiration, it was a blessing every lunar holiday to remember, deep down, that they could find out, too.

The Ghost of Christmas Ne’er to Come

Things have been better, I must admit,
Than this year now fresh on the outs.
Things I could do – Things I should do –
But, instead, opted out of a route.
Since my year had been passive, to say the least,
As the luster of dreams fades to rust,
I can’t help but feel settled into a groove
Where escape is a “Try if you must.”
And I don’t feel I must, for two brisk years
Have been swelled to the brim with to-do’s.
Shows I should watch – Trips I could take-
Folks I might meet if I choose.
Only, I feel my time’s being wasted
When I head to the old day-to-day,
Not loving the work that bores me to tears
Where, without better prospects, I’ll stay.

And now, it is Christmas – the death of a year-
What more have I got to show
Than a swanky apartment on the 12th floor
And a Pachira refusing to grow?
I’ve not decorated, it would just make me mad
Since Christmas is a time to reflect
On the good you have done, the people you love –
Two things I admit I neglect.
With purpose, mind you – there is work to be done
In climbing up where I am now:
Sitting secure on this loveseat at the 12th floor,
Not a wrinkle of stress in my brow,
With a glass of Van Winkle lolling in hand
I glaze out into the night
Where the city sparkles far down beneath me
And laughter remains out of sight.
Down in Hyde Park, the Wonderland rages
With attractions and thrill rides galore
Whipped all about with fluffy fake snow –
A contrived and consumerist bore.

I lull towards the darkness of my silent abode –
Modern fortress to musty tradition –
When something fluttering outside my window
Magnetizes averted attentions.
Through soapy snow dissolving up into space
And the gleam of festive white light
Pierces beam from the heavens, alighting my floor,
To project a spine-chilling sight:
Fluttering past glass, ignoring the pane,
Real flakes fall from clear skies
And outline a form that’s not actually there
As it drifts down before my eyes,
The shape of a man, extending his hand,
Pointing directly at me
As the flakes fall around that absence in space
And I wonder: did I spike my own drink?
The figure’s finger turned to upturned palm
With human distaste mimetic
In how it swept its arm across my abode
And windily whispered, “Pathetic.”

The beam with the snow and the figure
Glided against my wounded expression
Towards me, hurling uncalled-for insults,
And leaving a bad first impression.
“First-impressions,” the snow blustered,
Reading these thoughts to my blush,
“Are my only impression. People like you
Insist on there being a rush.
As for pathetic, I speak of your quarters.
For when I look over each day
I expected a place more enticing,
Alluring, where you’d want to stay.
Since staying is all that you’ve done
Like the hare, napping halfway through,
Gluttoned by aimless objectives
And crippled by fruitless to-dos.”
As the figure turned to the window,
Framed by that crystalline night,
I leapt to my feet in defense
And forgot every sliver of fright.
“And who,” I fumed, “Are you
To insult me in my own home?”
“I am, that I’m not,” it replied, “But you can call me
The Ghost of Christmas Ne’er to Come.”

I smirked, “Like the three ghosts in Dickens? What have I done
To warrant a haunting tonight?
I have plenty of friends whom I treat very well
And still help strangers in spite.”
“I come not for others, but for you, yourself.
For what are these marks on your belt?
Can you name one face you’ve impacted for good?
Some rein in their memory you’ve held?
No, your deeds are fleeting, as is your life,
To be forgotten with the new dawn;
These lives you think give weight to your own
Anchor you down and float their way on.”
My grimace could not be denied,
But there was no comfort accepting the fact.
“Come with me,” said the spectre,
Extending its hand like a pact.
“I wish to show you some lives you could lead,
The people you chance to inspire,
The homes you could build, the glasses to fill,
The hearths by warm Christmas fire.”
I resented this Ghost, devaluing my life,
Clearing my mind but for this –
Yet by instinct, I guess, or a curious itch,
I clasped his existenceless hand and was whisked.

My vision was still a bit fuzzy
Fading into being with the beam
From the snowflakes fluttering ‘round me
And a vignette that seemed like a dream:
My girlfriend and I on the couch
In my apartment, still bare of decor,
The glare of a screen on our faces
And our faces lacking something more.
Those blank stares neither watching
Nor being present with the other
With thoughts far away or not at all there
While my thoughts the Ghost came to smother.
“You might think this the past or the present,
And it is – But also what’s coming.”
“And should this scare me somehow? We are both used
To a world that favors our numbing.”
“You are,” said the Ghost. “But is she?
For pretending there’s something in nothing
Proves harder with two unstable hearts involved
No matter if your spirit’s a tough thing.”
The vignette shifted, I faded out,
And in faded some other man
Along with a house decked out in tinsel
And red velvets across the whole span.
Then he wisped away, and in wisped I,
While she was replaced with another;
Over and over our two decks were shuffled,
A sweet Christmas scene ‘tween two lovers.

There was a connection, an intimacy
That went beyond feeling or reason –
The kind of closeness you only feel
Under amber lights of the season –
So whether we cuddled in fleece on the couch
Or sipped cocoa under the tree,
I knew so long as I followed this Ghost
My mind would not be free
“You are free,” sighed the Ghost, “To criticize
What you think is just an illusion
When you’ve let society dictate your standards
And set you into an angry confusion.
For misery is easy for mankind to find
In a world that determines must-haves
When trust and support are in short supply
And group-cope is better than halves.
For you are free in the group, flit from one to the next
In the search of someone who listens.
But, if everyone’s selfish, what good is a pair
Since one must forfeit their dominant position?”
During his lecture, I noticed something quite strange:
An ominous door just standing alone –
Not a pantry, a closet, a bathroom or study
But the filled frame all on its own.
I felt something dark, there, between the planks
While it lingered back in the shadows,
Overpowering whatever the Ghost meant to teach
With its wood etched grim as the gallows.

And then, we were gone! Poofed onto the next,
An office space decked out with cheer;
My place of work filled with baubles and treats
(Leeches on bonuses garnering leers).
But not in this scene. In this scene, we enjoyed it,
To share in the peppermint punch
While joyous carols set our moods high
And our low work kept us in crunch.
“Low work?” scoffed the Ghost.
“Never here, don’t you sense it?
At this job, you make lasting difference,
Not mere likes or an overblown profit.
But for people you serve, not you yourself;
You can name the how, why, and who.
And the ripple effect can be felt every year
When you were meant to be more than a Scrooge.”
“A Scrooge, you say?” I toppled the punch,
Shoved the nutcrackers all on their sides,
And shouted, “Tell me what’s actually wrong that I’ve done!
Why waste my time on this ride?”
I felt the Ghost then separate
As the beam shifted before me again –
Then I realized, I fit the shape perfectly
As if in my place he’d once been.
“The only injustice,” his cold reply,
“Is only to you in the end.
You may owe nothing to no one,
But, then, what is the worth of a man?
To serve his own pleasures is folly,
To serve someone else’s is bunk.
So while no real wrong you’ve committed,
Why is your mind in a mild-mannered funk?”
All the while, that tall cursed door
Cast its dark in the hall
‘Til the green and red lights were all muddied
And the smiles all around me appalled.

The beam enveloped once more
And I faded smack into a kitchen –
The complete Christmas Eve package before me
Where each family member would pitch in.
The feast on the table looked scrumptious
With its ham, pies, yams, casseroles –
And I saw at the head, the great father…
Why, I, me, myself, filled that role!
“You go too far, Ghost,” I murmured
As the Christmas scene played on in full
Of hearts that were glad at the table
And eyes sparkling wonder for Yule.
I watched as my children retired
Though anticipation kept them awake
For Santa’s sleigh on the rooftops
And the hope for the dreams he would make.
Christmas Day morn was just as exciting
As they’d stampede down to the tree
And unwrapped what they knew they’d be getting
Since they sat on that jolly saint’s knee.
These families shrank and they grew,
But the warmth always prevailed
And I do not deny I wished it were real
With my current state shrunken in scale.
It was hope, it was trust, in those children’s eyes
That hardened the scales in my own
‘Til I whirled ‘round to my kidnapper
And discovered — He took me back home.

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Ne’er to Come,
Undefined by your present or past
But rather the exclusions once you seize a decision
And set forth on a future to last.
The life you divide into moments
Based on a purseful of your happiness
Is not something you tend to invest in
But spend ‘til you’re stuffed with excess.
Life is limited in its quantity
And quality shrinks day by day,
So seize on the chance to make it worthwhile
And ignore those excuses to stay.
Christmas is the time to take stock
And see all the lives that fill you
With purpose and wonder and love in a home
That’s not so devoid of value.
For half of what you do is not real
But desperately filling a hole
That you think dumping into accomplishes something
And stimulates you not to feel.”

With tears in my eyes, I blindly struck out
And that beam of light disappeared
With one last flutter of snow to my floor
And the sudden onslaught of fear.
Before me loomed the ominous door
Now clear in its starving intent
As it slowly creaked open to the void beyond
And the faux lives around me were rent
As shadowy tendrils clanking like chains
Clutched round my arms, waist and throat
To yank me into that yawning abyss
Where as if in oil I would float
And feel only one long longing forever,
Possible Christmases over and done –
And I knew him, the end that always is there:
The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.

I awoke with a sweat on my side, on the floor, stiffened neck,
But otherwise filled with a spark
From clarity focusing what I must do
And some hints that Ole Ne’er Come marked.
Would I quit my job? No. Propose? Not quite yet.
There isn’t real change to be charted
Since what was shown were dreams to make real
And not past traumas that smarted.
This Ghost had haunted me to implore
A change in mind, rather, than deed
Since actions in waste were wasting my life
And leaving my spirit in need.
I now hated the rooms I had prepared,
So set out for the nearest store
To fill it with the Spirit of Christmas
Mimicked by my dream’s decor
After which I would call up my girl
As I already had planned to do
But with joy rather than obligation –
For love, not as the right thing to do.
The snow was now real; it chilled my skin
With a kiss clearing up my fogged mind
While the carols from bundles strolling the streets
The Ghost’s lesson gently refined.

And the smells of the streusel! The toys in the windows!
Carefully crafted for every man’s joy –
Testaments to their time spent for good
A mission towards which I now employ.
Progress for progress is bad for your health,
But so is running in laps.
The comforts we practice day after day
Can put us in some waking nap
Where nothing is real, not even our lives –
Food for that dark gaping door –
When what matters is the choices we make
That builds lives higher or more
Since the endless time we think we own
And spend quite frivolously
Was meant to bring joy in a lasting sense
Like the light of a bright Christmas tree.
For Christmas is when we look all about,
See how empty or full that we are,
Then resolve to choose each dream that comes true
And make this life worth dying for.

World Class

I’ve been all over the world
And it has been all over me
From the cultures in my head
To the landscapes in my knees
As I searched for one superior
That might lay my heart to rest –
For the Earth is like a market
And I demand the very best

But as I searched all over the world
It became evident to me
That the cultures were less productive now
Than society would hope we believe
And the people are obsessed with trifles
That do little to inspire with zest
And so I end up puzzling
Why the Earth has failed my test.

I know now what resonates all over the world
Is not culture, but you and me;
Individuals who make an impact,
Ignore the forest for the tree
To soar among the clouds and stars
And leave behind their nest
Above the world, which must look up,
Beholden to their crest.

I have been all over the world
And it has been all over me,
So I’ll save you the trip, reveal what makes it whirl:
Men, not man, make history.

Shit on a Shingle

When I first saw you sitting there
In the street flat on your derrière
One with the mud
Covered in crud
I thought, “How nasty is she.”
But after a few pints knocked back
My longing just picked up the slack
And now I can say
This fact, clear as day,
That lovin’ you tastes just as good
As shit on a shingle!

Some might claim my taste is shot
Or I’m out of my mind.
Some might say you taste like snot
Or have a loose behind.
They’d find you more appealing
Given the chance to mingle –
Which is why I say you are
My little shit on a shingle.

I tried my hardest to get you to bathe
And you foil my attempts to get you to shave
Your teeth are all crooked
Your low voice is shooked
And I’d have it no other way.
All the fellas’ heads turn as you pass
Cause your vocabulary is crass
But your beer gut jiggle
And your idiot giggle
Remind me that you’re just as tasty
As shit on a shingle!

I sometimes feel I second-guess
How much lee you weigh
And see my life is a real big mess
When you steal away my day.
But there are moments that make it better
To be with you than single –
And there are far worse things to eat
Than shit on a shingle!

Yeah, babe, you’re a vagrant at heart
As am I if you couldn’t tell
Which explains why
We shouldn’t try
To bite off more than we chew.
So I’ll give up what I thought I wanted,
Content to settle on being taunted,
For they don’t understand
How a plain starving man
Would count himself lucky to, morning and night,
Eat nothing but shit on a shingle!

Leave My Hangover Alone

turn off the lights
get back in bed
all i ask is for some peace and quiet
my swimming head
my bulging eyes
i’m trying to take the peace when I can get it
yes i know i know
i haven’t had a drink
in three days
but my head still hurts
and my heart still hurts
and it’s better to blame it all
on too much alcohol
then to look around for something I can’t fix
and most of the time
can’t even see
yes, better to hold your peace while you can
in the comfort of a little hangover
safe inside your head
so turn off the lights
and get back in bed
and give me back my peace and quiet.

The Last Kringle

I am a self-made kachillionaire
Who has experienced many a thing
Only to find it all a flop
And opposite inspiring.
Every outing proves a nuisance –
Every meeting is a bore –
Every holiday does ache me –
Every greeting an eyesore.
So I funneled all my resources
In an expedition to the North
Where I hoped to find a childhood dream
Who might make my money’s worth.

For the only thing which brings me hope
In a land tainted by spite
Is to find that fabled Santa Claus
And bring his deeds to light.
Look at how each child has lost
The wonder childhood holds
As selfish adults weigh them down
With the miseries they’re told.
We don’t believe in anything –
Only the loss of what was naught!
And I hate that I, a kachillionaire,
Are now plagued by these bleak thoughts.

Therefore! Sparing no expense
I gathered craft and crew
To humor this which leaves me bent
Or chalk my life askew.
The news crews all were blazing
To explain my sudden craze
But their theories were just glazing
Meant to sour public praise
For a slew of hopeless, bitter grumps
Felt my dying wallet’s throes,
But more hoped for us in their hearts
Who sought action over prose.

Act I did! Through glacier peak
We drilled straight for the Pole
To discover there was nothing there
But a dark, depressing hole,
The circumference of which ran for miles
And echoed all our shouts
As if to affirm we’d wasted time
And curse us with nothing but doubts.
My team had been handpicked
And our journey silky smooth
But the certain onset of failure
Threw off their professional groove.
They yelled and groaned or sat there, silent –
True signs of giving out-
They blamed each other. Then they blamed me
In the comfort of furious doubt.
My answer was to plunge fast over the edge –
Hope and rope firmly in hand –
Against all cries for me to return
To the despair of my fellow man.

Towards the bowels of the Earth I dove headlong
With the passion of escape –
Down a throat darkened with ice,
Swiftly seeking the nape.
The rope cracked taut, my senses lost
Their calm and stable bearing –
When my blurry vision finally cleared
I thought my sanity was tearing.
For, just thirty feet below,
Like a sea-beast breaching nigh,
Was a starship larger than a liner
Lined with lights bright as Dubai.
I cut my cord, hit the deck
And might have slid right off
If a hundred little mitts retracted
Instead of hoisting me aloft
And dragging me through a tight porthole.
My face blasted with heat
Like the snug embrace of a fireplace
Returning life to frozen feet
That might have run from beady eyes
Glowing warm all round about
If the inner depths did not now echo
From a deep-bellied jolly shout:
“Hohoho! Our guest arrives?
Please, Elves, do show him in!
His present is quite ready,
So our feast will soon begin!”

The Elves, so-called, but more akin
To blue gel-filled gingerbread men,
Rang out in joyful din
That brightened up their den
While lifting me high with gelatinous arms
To spirit me through tunnels winding
I peered through the gloom of their metallic ship
With its steam-spewing vents a-blinding –
Yet all above us twinkling bulbs
Draped down ‘long every pipe
Pulsing gently like stars in a desert sky,
Shaped like sweets of every type –
Golden tinsel snaked through guardrails
Lining platforms that we crossed
As the echoes dark below us
Floated faint “Ar Hyd Y Nos.”
We reached a door embossed –
Poinsettias carved on frame –
And, as the elves led me inside,
I heard him call my name.

Striding into the velveteen dining room
Paneled with a library’s choicest oak
I spied a spread of meats and veggies
That smelled of faintly fragrant smoke.
At the end of the table, in one of two chairs
Sat a portly, pensive fellow
Who I knew could only be Santa Claus
By his clothes, his twinkle, his bellow,
Down to his nose were as the legends tell
And I had finally proved
That hope in the unreal was not yet lost…
So why did I feel so unmoved?
“You’ll pardon me,” he chuckled deeply,
“If I ask you to sit here beside.
The wish that you carry is mature in its years
And might find my lap undignified.
For I know what you’ve come to ask me
Though you don’t quite know it yourself
Since you’re convinced beholding my person
Is enough to put fears on the shelf.
But, after you’ve lost your faith in the season
And in the future of mankind,
You realize, standing there before me,
To think you’ve fixed things makes you blind.”
“How do you know this?” I muttered softly,
Sinking in my chair with despair.
He smiled and sighed, gazing into the furnace behind us,
“Because even I’ve been there.”

“Just a few centuries ago
On a planet much like this
Was a species much like yours
Living in ignorant bliss.
Everything we always shared,
Communities tight-knit,
Our civilization blossoming
With an ever-expanding kit
Of technology a human could only dream of –
Like my elves who welcomed you –
And my sleigh, a smaller spaceship,
Powered by spiritual fuel.
With reliable resources
And a stable way of life
We began to feel unvalued.
Lack of purpose, like a knife,
Divided friends and family
By values and the need
To be overappreciated,
A hunger that did feed
On politics, religion,
Relationships and schools,
Entertainment, financial arrangements
And simple social rules
That had us at each other’s throats –
A maddening plague of the head
Where selfishness and always getting
Left all true Givers dead.
As last of the Kringles, I do feel some shame
Leaving my planet behind
To grapple with doubts that you and I share
And Lo! Was lucky to find
This planet of yours, with Givers abound
Who selflessly offered in spite
Of their lack of resources and very ill health
From the dark cold of Christmas night.
Inspired by hope and the joy of the season,
I decided to lend them a hand
By producing some gifts I made in this ship
And spreading them across your land.
Yet, as your planet matured and was met with progress,
Those Givers rapidly dwindled
And I fear that I played some part in this –
A spool round which their thread spindled.
Your species has somehow got in their head
They deserve more than they should expect –
To tap on all shoulders, to knock on all doors,
Cup their hands each moment they get.
Is this all my fault? Have I spoiled them to death?
Literally, can’t stress it enough,
Since the start of the plague that ruined my homeworld
Found the root of its rot in our stuff.”

I nodded, agreeing, then told him all
That I had witnessed firsthand;
How its music and friends, its newfangled trends
And an addiction to the broadband
Cultivated a culture that made me ashamed
Yet, somehow, spared me its lure –
Which, I believe, was thanks to this man
Who offered us all a brief cure:
The wonder and hope for what we can’t see
Gives our childhood a brief respite
To prepare for pursual of our farthest dreams
Though the world wants to crush it in spite.
I know that I, a kachillionaire,
Would not have reached for the moon
If it did not strike me normal at nine
That a sleigh could fly ‘cross it to grant me a boon.
Though my future is thanks to my hard work
The belief it could even be got
Was renewed each comforting Christmas morn
So it may never be forgot.

Santa laughed and thanked me
As we cut the Christmas goose –
I could have sworn I saw a tear
From his eyes’ twinkles had skated loose.
“Your words are kind, I thank you.
I never do forget
Of what inspired Santa Claus,
But some things I regret.
You may have noticed, but held back:
There is no Mrs. Claus.
My elves are artificial
With dextrous digital paws.
My reindeer are the spirits
Who evacuated with yours truly
For they knew that nature was fruitless
With no one to see it grow unruly.
But my point…” he cleared his throat
And glanced off to the right
Where, casting glimmers on the rug,
Loomed a spruce of towering height
Catching each lick of flames fireplace –
Tongues of purple on every limb –
It was calming, soothing, to stare at it,
And I felt some inner peace within.
“This Christmas Tree I took from home –
An anomaly there as is here –
And only when loneliness clutched at my neck
Did those Christmas Dream Fires appear.
They burn with the hopes of all children
And whisper their prayers in my ear,
Which, with my limited power,
I set out to grant for their cheer.
It brings me fulfillment and joy
I could not otherwise have received –
Selfless or not, my life’s purpose
Was for the good of others achieved.”

Santa rose – I now realized
How humble he was on his throne,
But now that he stood with conviction
It was clear ten feet he had grown –
“Find your tree. Not inspiration
That sends you off in a mad dash,
But someone to hold your aching heart dear
Like the embrace of a warm winter sash
To keep you from freezing, to keep you held fast
Lest your mind beginning to wander
Forgets the importance of people you know
And time with no rhythm is squandered.
For pursuits that affect no one but you
And dreams for yourself you’ve been seeking
Are as formless as ghosts in the cold winter chill
And disappoint like pathological peeking.”
Drawn on by his charge, and my own perplexion,
I opened my eyes just to see
Before me was parked that classic sleigh model
Soaring through childhood fantasies.
Santa helped me on board with a firm gloved hand
And I could see the joy on his brow
As blue shimmering beasts on the wind coalesced
And hitched themselves to the sleigh’s bow.
He roared in a language no linguist would know
And up through the ship we ascended –
Through steam and machines, I saw his faux elves
Pausing to wave from the toys that they tended.
Up, up, we rose vertically through the hole
I had plunged with no thought for the after
Until we hovered over the surface at last
And were greeted by merriest laughter
From the doubters! The blamers! My despondent crew
Giving up before they had been tested.
And I couldn’t believe just how happy they seemed
At their precious hard doubts being bested.

That campsite fell far behind us
As we dashed for the thick of the Eve
With Northern Lights guiding the helm
And I grasping tight to Nick’s sleeve.
It felt like a dream, to be up there,
And I could not describe my elation
Until it was over – my ears painfully popped
From an acute drop in elevation.
We landed atop the penthouse suite
Of a scraper in New York I owned
And I suddenly felt so very ashamed
At how empty and unlike a home-
But Santa interrupted that thought with a clap on the back,
“Off with you, I’ve presents to bring.”
I stumbled off onto the snow-laden roof
As his ethereal reindeer started to sing.
“Now remember, my friend, the tale I have told.
From here, it’s all up to you.
Find your tree, root it, let it grow out
With voices you know to be true.
Some Yules might be lonely, be ready for that,
But know it’s all right in the end
For Givers are ready to receive what you are
And you’ll never be lacking a friend.”

With a crack of his reins, the lights shot right off
With that jolly old man on the winds
As I turned back inside, shivering and cold,
But with a heat rising high from within.
The penthouse echoed as I opened the door –
No decorations, I had left on my quest –
Except for one tiny addition: a gift from Kris Kringle
And the source of the warmth in my chest.
Potted there on the sill, against the black sky
Turning orange with a sun poised to rise
Was a cut from Nick’s tree, lit by faint purple flame
That flickered with its muffled sigh.
So, by the gleam of the dawn on this glad Christmas Day
I make a vow by this blessed branch:
To emanate hope for us all – we all need it –
And to give those who want it a chance.
Our lives are not ours, but a gift from above
And while purpose pursuing our scheme
Is essential, it’s just means, never ever the end.
We need each other to realize dreams.

Riding the Rot

On the Eve of All Hallow’s fright
In the wax of the moon’s orange light
A pumpkin was born.
Then dawn brought the morn
And with it the end of night.

A simplistic sequence of events
Expected without consequence,
But not for that sprout
Who hadn’t a doubt
He would perish before Winter was spent.

Oh, what a frightful thought –
To be germinated for naught!
Since every gourd’s dream
Pointed towards Halloween
As the highest purpose they’ve got.

Yet here lay our poor late bloomer
Doing his best to hold back bad humor
At knowing he’d die –
Reach that patch in the sky
And regret being born not one hour sooner.

Most would chalk up his moment as passed,
But our pumpkin would not say, “Alas!”
And instead with resolve
He refused to dissolve
Until Halloween returned at last.

As November swiftly arrived
He shriveled a smidge just to hide
At the feet of dead trees
Among same-colored leaves
From folks wanting to stuff him in pie.

He learned how he might reach his goal:
Use a greenhouse to weather the cold!
So a letter he wrote
To that Toyman of note
And mailed it off to the North Pole.

Snow came to cover the ground,
Blanketing farmland to sound –
But our Jack-O to-be
And the house of his dreams
In that whitescape could nowhere be found.

When Spring came to thaw off the ice
The farmers were struck with surprise
At the pumpkin revealed –
Its fate not quite sealed,
Pushing past its expected demise.

But the cold had taken a toll –
Left it withered and slithered by mold
But, thanks to this rot,
Farmers decided to not
Bother trying to get this gourd sold.

Still its fame increased cross the land
As Summer brought down its hot hand –
While it grew great in size
More hideous to the eye
And its hourglass never spent sand.

When October’s approach was nigh,
All came to the farm just to spy
That impressive fruit
To whom Nature was moot
And its dream helped it outlast the sky.

A year’s worth of rotting in place
Made it spookier – not a disgrace.
So, with no carving needed,
Our natural Jack-O greeted
Halloween with a smile on its face.