Old Scratch

They say, here in New England, the devil, Old Scratch himself,

still roams these ancient woods, old growth, deep and dark,

on his cloven hooves, his bearded ram’s head searching,

horns reaching skyward, and his broad axe hefted, hewing

the trees he seeks, the ones on which a name is carved,

a deal signed long ago, signed in blood and bark, the debt of a soul

due now, deals for rich rewards made in our desperation,

a low point, when life was dragging us much too soon to the grave,

a tree now fallen and a soul redeemed and gone to hell’s burning fires;

And the witches, too, moonlit in a forest clearing, dancing, chanting,

preying upon the village, wild women, Salem’s Sisters,

their coven music, the songs that lure our children to them, are carried

among the trees and into our ears, airy, barely audible, but clearly heard.

Their now-collected herbs and concoctions are left to brew in a cauldron

black with age, an elixir, a potion, a poison, eye of newt, toe

of a toad, a fiery dragon’s breath to hatch the evil contained within,

a spell to suck out the very breaths of the children drawing

to themselves an immortality of youth and beauty, time and magic;

And the skeletons rise from their graves this one night, soul-less,

a hallowed eve of fear and fright, graves that cannot hold them in, torn

asunder, their shrieks and screams raised, too, piercing the night air

suddenly turned colder, and we wrap our arms around us; shrieks and screams

that rattle our window panes and the sashes we’ve pulled tight, rattling

us, too, lying here trembling, their deep moans grieving their troubled

pasts, the evil they dealt in, the deals they made, deals called-in in the felling

of a tree deep in the ancient woods, their names carved into its trunk,

Old Scratch come back to reclaim another soul, a debt repaid.

 

And a single pumpkin, lit from within, grinning, watches and waits.

 

So on a windy night in autumn, the storms dark and fierce,

we listen for the falling of a tree, a crash of thunder, flash

of lightening, a resounding thud that startles us awake,

catches us up short, and we question, deep in our souls, does this tree

fall for us, payment of a debt made long ago in our youth, unbelieving

and fearing nothing, wild and ambitious and cocky, brash and unafraid;

but old age makes us remember being young, wondering if perhaps those

Puritan ancestors really did know that truth about the devil and warned us,

though, we didn’t heed their words in our search for wealth and fame, riches

beyond belief, bought at a price, paid for with our souls, now summoned

at the felling of a tree, Old Scratch much alive in New England’s ancient woods. 

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Neverland

Second star to the right and straight on to morning,

a secret place of lost boys and other dreamers, grand adventures, and

stories, that’s where you’ll find me most days, perched

in a tree, attentive, ready to leap down and take flight,

just a sprinkling of pixie dust to set me free, Peter’s home,

where dreams are born, and time is never planned; and should

you look for me, it’s not on any chart, no X to mark the spot;

you must find it with your heart, in the imagination, returning

again to childhood delight and wonder, a scary world, perhaps,

just keep an open mind, and remember - you have been warned –

once you find your way there, you can never, never grow old,

stuck forever in a childish world of dreams and fantasy, faith

and trust, pixie dust, a treasure if you stay there, more precious than gold;

just think of lovely things and your heart will fly on wing,

for that, my friend, is where you’ll find me, Neverland,

second star to the right and straight on to morning.

The Elders

And the Elders gathered together

at the altar of the golden arches

at society’s edge to solve the world’s ills

and ailments over a cup of coffee

and, perhaps, an egg McMuffin;

or maybe just to remember the good

old days of youth and growing older,

now that we can laugh at ourselves,

what we were, and what we have become.