LXXVI-LXXXI

  

LXXVI.

The neopagan movement has its pros
but one thing that I simply cannot stand
is how their grasp of history just blows.
Conspiracy has always been their brand.

Our Halloween traditions are not old;
they mostly come from recent centuries.
Despite the many books Llewellyn sold
there were no ancient pagan Christmas trees.

Oh, if I had a nickel ev’ry time
some meme would claim that Easter’s Ishtar’s kin!
It may be ignorance is not a crime
but such stupidity is surely sin.

A primary citation’s all I ask.
Postmodern witchcraft ain’t up to the task.


LXXVII.

A long and winding drive across the state
through ice and fog as thick as faerieland
to come to this impressive farm estate,
a multi-storey rural Samarkand.

Some forty pilgrims of the clan collect
themselves with food and drink to feed a mob.
No bowl nor dish will suffer our neglect;
the dog will clean up ev’ry fallen blob.

For sixteen years I’ve gathered with this tribe.
I think this time they’ve all outdone themselves.
Our spirits rise with joy as we imbibe
then back unto the smorgasbord we delve.

Thanksgiving with my wife’s relations proves
to fill the stomach and the soul to soothe.


LXXVIII.

A secret passage through a tapestry,
a hidden room that runs beneath the roof,
a crawlspace lit by neon lights to see,
a wardrobe door concealing any proof.

This tall and winding farmhouse turned hotel
possesses ev’ry sort of room and nook
with arcade consoles, TV screens as well
as stacks and shelves and scores of pulpy books.

It really is a wondrous sort of place,
imagination given walls and doors.
The whimsy in itself’s a sort of grace,
a Weasley house of slightly slanting floors.

I wish that we could here extend our stay.
Two days and nights are swiftly borne away.


LXXIX.

I could have sworn a little girl crawled in
our bed at some late hour of the night;
a circumstance which, much to my chagrin,
is commonplace and nothing to excite.

Yet in the morning none were lying there
and all three swore they’d never left their beds.
I must have dreamt the strangely clear affair,
more vivid than most fancy in my head.

The next night at that rural B&B
my wife awoke to footsteps over head,
a pacing in the empty attic lee
that kept her up and listening in dread.

Two haunted nights do not a pattern make.
Still, I was glad ‘twas time our leave to take.


LXXX.

She almost didn’t come to church that day.
She’d planned, in fact, to practice somewhere else.
The heat indoors almost blew her away;
the thermostat had gone and burned itself.

The temp’rature had hit one hundred ten.
Imagine forty feet up by the roof.
The paschal candle doubled back again
upon itself like trailing alehoof.

Poinsettias had shriveled in the heat.
The grand piano thankfully looks fine.
Her timing seemed particularly meet
though this month’s heating bill will be a crime.

Our sanctuary saved by happenstance—
or providence is something more than chance.


LXXXI.

A modern culture clash we rarely name
is how we celebrate our spouse’s birth.
I once assumed all birthdays were the same
with cards and cakes and gifts of certain worth.

But many couples whom I’ve spoken with
consist of one who doesn’t celebrate.
The wife may hold a party, kin and kith,
but husband never will reciprocate.

This prejudice, it seems, is firmly fixed.
You cannot force or make your spouse to care.
But there’s a life-hack you can here affix
which holds to ev’ry couple ev’rywhere:

Each holiday they let you take a hike
just buy yourself whatever you would like.