Winter Solstice (2025)

Light your candle, a fire within you ablaze, to warm

the days ahead, longer days and the dark of night

shrinking behind us, to warm the earth and all

who rest within her, renewing our spirits,

our souls, a hope for the goodness of light

to settle around us, for better days ahead,

growth and change, a hope for humanity

and this old earth sustaining us in need now of earth’s

beauty and goodness, comfort and faith found in the silence

of this new day, this new year, this new season

dawning, chasing the sun and the light of our souls,

our very being renewed, refreshed, a candle lit,

a fire within ablaze, warmth, renewal, and hope.

A Christmas Poem (2025)

Like the river of my hometown winding

towards the sea and the oceans beyond,

mile upon mile through Christmas forests

and the small holiday towns of Maine,

the memories of Christmas’s past are long,

wending their way through the chasms

of remembrance, nostalgia creeping forward:

 

Gram’s house, the old farmhouse on the hill, an extended

family of aunts and uncles and cousins, and a little boy of 3,

maybe 4, standing by the Christmas tree, fleece-lined corduroy

trousers held up by suspenders, pant legs rolled up, room for growth,

growing into clothes too big, soon enough, and a flannel shirt, the little

sister, a baby still, a mom close by, and an older brother, my brother,

the sounds and smells of dinner approaching, clinking of glassware

and flatware and serving dishes heavily placed, steaming with Christmas,

the hubbub of chairs scraped across the floor, and the scramble

of cousins for their places at the children’s table, paper plates and cups,

no fine China of adults, children separated from aunts and uncles

and older cousins, earning their coveted spots among the grown-ups,

and dinner done, the dishes, too, the chairs moved to the living room,

as we huddle near the tree, a small pine, lights aglow and tinsel gleaming;

 

this tradition of family Christmas and gift exchange is somehow lost now

to age and death and growing up, children into adults, moving away,

inheriting a custom gone in time, but captured here, always in our memories,

remembered again this Christmas and shared once more, today:

Christmas returning to Gram’s house, the old farmhouse, an extended

family of aunts and uncles and cousins, and a little boy of 3,

 maybe 4, a little boy grown now, remembering Christmas.

Spiders, Snakes, and Things that go Bump in the Night

             The Spider

 

In the corner of my room, a spider hangs

mid-descent, wearily watching and cautious,

yet less afraid of me, than I of him.

 

            The Snake

 

The snake, perhaps, is getting a bad rap,

silently slithering about, as he does,

and that forked tongue tasting the air, tasting us,

a devil given form, a curse of biblical proportions,

easy to dislike, easy to fear.

 

      Things that go Bump in the Night

 

Things that go bump in the night come

from under the bed, the back of the closet,

in between the walls, and nobody knows

what they are, only what we believe them to be,

the reality of those things bumping about in the night.

First Snow (2025)

The first snow and winter has begun,

and with it the cold and the bundling up,

the shoveling and plowing and blowing of snow,

cold hands and fingers, shivering, the work of winter

against the elements, and so we complain, as I am,

bundled warm and trudging down my driveway,

shovel in hand, a long, winding path through the woods,

to clear the remains of the local plow pushing aside

what fell earlier, pushing it into our driveways,

boulders of crusty snow scraped off the road

blocking my leaving, should I have to leave, want

to leave, but the tracks ahead of me, crossing, are not

man-made, no shoveled path, no rugged boot treads,

but the small paws of a fox, canine prints

coming out from my woods and along my drive,

and back into the woods on the other side,

into the snowfall, falling still, reminding me

of the silent beauty of winter, of living here

in the woods, shared, entwined, coexisting,

nature and us, part of a larger world called home.

Growing Old

Growing old gracefully isn’t a pirouette

or an elegant jeté displayed across the stages

of life, nor a double axel, a salchow, or a lutz

on a frozen theater, no oohing and aahing,

no applause; it is, rather, the beauty of one foot

in front of the other, a pause to bend down,

groaning, perhaps, to pick up a penny

or a soft rose petal, fallen, the air still fresh,

or pungent even, nature’s decay fertilizing

and returning darkness back to light and life,

the sunshine warm on our faces or the cool mist

of rain, an ocean breeze blowing, a salt spray’s spritzing,

the sound of the surf pounding, a gull squawking overhead,

a songbird singing unseen, a trill, a peeping, a greeting;

growing old gracefully is walking by a mirror,

and, smiling, recognizing ourselves reflected.

The Gig

The last note sounded, a long tone sustained, descrescendo’d,

and the dance ends, the dancers leaving and the band packing

up our stands and lights, mutes and music and horns, and I begin

my own long ride north to home in silence and darkness,

the dance tunes lingering in my head fading away to quietude.

And on my radio now, a classical station, Bach and Vivaldi,

something Baroque, Handel or Telemann, an unknown composer

from another era, an orchestra, a soloist from today, driving out

the pulse of a jazz drummer pushing and the upper register of brass,

loud above the staff, reduced to strings and bows, eloquent,

calming, multi-speaker stereo taking me in, enclosing me in music.

 

The city lights and traffic rushing by are left behind, and the road

advances into the darkness, lit only by my high beams, interrupted

by the sleepy little towns asleep now, unaware of my passing through,

and a rare car approaching, overtaking me, here in the concert hall

of my car, auto pilot, cruise control, carrying me north, carrying me home.

Six Short Poems in November

1.) Perhaps, 

he does live here,

this one called god,

this place called here,

as good as any other.

 **********

2.) Zoo Animals 

After darkness descends,

zoo animals roam

behind our eyelids,

closed and fluttering,

grazing on our dreams.

 **********

3.) On a breeze, 

Leaves

      stumbling

            across

                  my yard.

 **********

4.) Insomnia 

Sleep won’t come

nor the words repeated

to put into rhyme

and lull me to sleep.

 **********

5). Lay vs. Lie

- a love poem – 

Lay your body down

     and, lying there,

          remember falling

               in love.

 **********

6.) Card Shark 

The digital sound of cards shuffling and laid out

does not beat the feel of cards fluttering against your fingers,

a slight breeze stirring, and the tapping of cards back together,

the tap-tap of the deck against the table, nor the slap of cards dealt out,

thrown out from the deck, a quick deal around the table, nor the satisfaction

of cards strewn about in the frustration of losing, raining down across the room.

One Earth, One World

The fox and now 2 deer, squirrels, still,

and the unseen wildlife roam this space

we share, call home, in the early dark

descending in autumn’s changing time;

 

we hear each other, see traces, glowing

eyes, a yip, a grunt, the rustle of leaves

and brush, the bark of my own dogs,

too domestic to give chase, alerting me

and them, no warning, just acknowledgment,

we are here, bound together, readying

ourselves, all of us, thriving, surviving,

facing the winter ahead, the cold and snow,

the dark and lean times, clear skies

and the smell of humanity near us,

hazy smoke and the roar of engines;

 

slow progress advancing, finding our way,

making our way to an unknown distant

future, as one, man and beast, one earth,

one world, nurtured, sustained, enduring.

Jasmine (from "The Princess Series")

She is but a nameless, character-less player,

a mere prop called “the princess,” the Sultan’s

daughter, like her mother, we assume, awaiting

a prince, per the custom of the day, sold to the highest

bidder, 40 basins of jewels, 80 slaves, black and white,

a conjuring by a genie in a lamp, stolen by trickery

and used to win her hand, an idle boy unworthy of her

made worthy in this story of Aladdin, a Chinese tale

told, 1001 Nights: boy gets girls, boy loses girl (and lamp),

boy gets girl (and lamp) back, and they live happily

and in peace, a replacement for the Sultan in succession.

 

Hardly the Disney tale of an Arabian night in Agrabah,

the fable told of Jasmine, princess wanting more than custom,

a stronger character, a stronger woman wanting a life

of her own, breaking tradition, century old customs,

the right to choose whom she will love, whom she

will marry, prince or street-rat, to choose the life she wants

to live, a whole new world of choices to be made,

a magic carpet to take her away, she, Jasmine,

to a dazzling place she never knew, soaring, tumbling,

freewheeling through an endless diamond sky,

happily-ever-after!

 

And the genie? Very little to do with it,

in this the story of Jasmine. 

[Untitled]

Standing out in the rain this morning with my coffee,

tucked as best I could under the eaves, an occasional

drip off the roof finding my mug or the top of my head,

the mist blown against my face, the playful sound of rain

splashing and bubbling in the pools now forming in my yard.

 

It is peaceful here, though, as it always is with the rain, the drip

and droplet falling into itself, puddling, that steady yet arhythmic

beat of raindrops drumming softly around me, the earthen smell

of autumn, wet leaves, musk and must, pungent and earthy, the lake,

even, rising to the moment, its mirrored surface shattered by the storm;

 

and, too, the old memory recalled of a yellow slicker and rubber

boots splashing in the puddles of my youth, in the puddles of age.

Dreams

Dreams grow where they are nurtured,

given the magic to become reality

in children’s play, their dreams acted out,

and coming true.

Harvest Moon

The Harvest Moon carries her golden light

into the darkness, illuminating in shades

of gray and shadow what lies hidden beyond us,

what we cannot see in the night’s obscurity,

that hush and rustle of footfalls through fallen

leaves and the hoo-hoot of a distant owl, echoing,

hiding also me from the small fox that steps

into my yard; that golden light, perhaps, hides us all

in a cloak of shadows, readying us for the unknown

path we choose through the seasons beyond.

Leaves

The crunch of autumn under my feet, the leaves

turned from green to red and gold, fallen now,

dry and windblown and strewn along the path

I tread, across my yard and into tomorrow.

Come, take my hand

and lead us back to Camelot,

to Logres and Arthur, Britain’s king, Britain’s legend,

its round table and its knights, chivalric men of honor

and justice, sworn to protect the helpless, these spiritual

and moral men of character, dutybound, might, even, for right.

 

For the King is the land, is the people, symbiotic,

interconnected, all three one thriving together, but …

disrupt one, one off, one in sickness, a ruler tainted,

selfish and greedy, calling himself mighty, powerful,

all knowing now, but morally failing, forgetting his place

in this triad, shattering a sacred bond; or the land laid bare,

a wasteland, infertile, nothing flourishing, flora nor fauna,

but sludge and smog, smoke and fire, nature blighted, ravaged;

the people, too, famine and turmoil, an emptiness of spirit,

lost and wandering, uncaring, careless, hate-filled,

defiled, a sickness; and the healing question is yet unasked,

all for the lack of a pure heart questing for an answer

to restore a king, restore Logres, and humanity.

 

Lead us back to Camelot, Britain’s king, and chivalrous

knights, to begin, perhaps, our own quest for the Grail,

for the restorative and healing power of that holy chalice,

regenerative and life sustaining, lured as we are towards

wholeness and healing, purified, reconciled, transformed.

 

And the question we ask now of the Grail, the Grail question asked:

“Whom does the Grail serve? What ails you, ails us?”

and the healing begins.

Mabon's Arrival

Mabon’s arrival, the second harvest

of fruit and vegetable, of abundance,

declaring the new season, summer

into fall, into autumn, into the dark

months ahead, a giving of thanks

and a sharing of ourselves and the fruits

of our lives, sustaining us, balanced

this one day, lightness and darkness

shaking hands in passing, equally day

and equally night, journeying toward

winter, a closing in and shutting out

of the cold and darkness of our being,

an introspection, an accounting,

tallying up the changes of our lives

against the certainty of renewal, of growth

amidst the dormancy of winter,

to begin again, like the seeds

clamoring toward the sunlight,

blossoming, creating wonder and beauty.

---------------------

Mabon: “Also referred to as Harvest Home, the Feast of the Ingathering, and Meán Fómhair. Mabon is the second celebration of the harvest, a ritual of thanksgiving for the fruits of the earth, and a recognition of the need to share them to secure the blessings of the Goddess and the God during the coming winter months. One of the eight major annual sabbats or festivals. At Mabon, day and night are in equal balance. It is a time to offer gratitude for the blessings of the harvest and also to begin to prepare for turning inward. Making dishes with apples, squash and pumpkins as part of ritual celebration is customary.”

Recognized by: Pagan, Wiccan, Druid

Autumn's Equinox

Fall’s Equinox is fast approaching,

and the Summer’s Triangle slowly retreats,

replaced again by Autumn’s Celestial Sea, a change

of seasons and the movement of constellations

through the heavens, the Lyre, the Eagle, the Swan

descending, giving rise to Pegasus, Perseus,

and Cassiopeia; the Wingèd Horse,

the Hero, and Vanity’s beauty ushered in,

a tale of betrayal and rescue and love,

happily-ever-after in the northern sky,

the gods immortalized in the stars.

Untitled

A distant calliope plays in the recesses

of my memory, that shrill whistle of music

that accompanies the horses around

and around on a carousel carrying you.

Under a cloak of darkness and dim light

the foxes cross my yard and sit outside my window,

calling out in their silence, “Pay attention,

be present, this moment, now,” a message carried

otherworldly, a transformative journey back to our wild

and feral selves, the fox within, seeking still ourselves.

A Poem Not on the Foxes Passing Through my Yard Late in the Evening, not Exactly!

Like us living here, the foxes, in their rambling,

their lone roaming, solitary roving about,

are seeking what they need to survive, to get by,

things lacking these lean years of drought and unkindness,

a lack of space, their space, our space, dwindling, a lack

of kith and kind, socially distant, dying off, divided, a lack

of sustenance, too costly, in short supply, irreplaceable, those things

we need beyond hearth and home to sustain us, lost perchance

by progress regressed, just wandering as we do, as we must,

seeking them out, now, and finding them lacking, still, more,

taking what we can and, perhaps, sadly, calling it enough. 

Waking from my Nap

The mourning doves are softly cooing

outside my window, feasting on the seeds

shared from above by the smaller birds,

the chickadee and nuthatch, sparrow and finch,

sunflower seeds dropped from the feeders I keep filled,  

just to watch them and hear their songs,

their stories, dreams, and visions.

The Owl

An owl calls out into the night sky,

the distant “who cooks for you”

of the Barred Owl living here

at the lake, where I live,

this space we share, she and I,

her voice, now, a truth cried out

in the darkness, connecting us;

“good night, my friend,”

and to you, too, the same.

The Dragon Awakens

The dragon, sleeping now, awakens

and spreads wide his leathered wings

to fly again across the western sky,

igniting the sunset into a blaze of yellow

and orange, vermillion’s red, a sailor’s delight.

Sleeping Beauty

(Part of the Princess Series of Poems)

Beware Maleficent, ancient fairy uninvited,  

affronted for the lack of a golden plate, so angry,

so petty, as to cast her spell upon the royal infant,

blonde of hair and fair of skin, a curse

come due on her birthday, newly 17,

at the prick of a spindle’s needle, drawing blood.

Look instead to the last fairy, last gift bestowed,

powerless to undo a spell cast, but powerful enough

to change death to a deep sleep, one hundred

years and a first kiss, awoken by a handsome Prince,

determined, fighting thorns and, perhaps, a fiery dragon,

evil itself, seeking truth, seeking nothing but you, Aurora,

Princess, the sleeping beauty, and finding love. 

Fortuitous

A late summer night, humid, sleep

not coming, the minutes hastening

into the early morning hours;

 

an owl calls out, and the loon,

and the sun’s dawning

is a faint glow against a dark sky.

Touch (5 Haiku)

That first touch, fingers

trace a soft face, newly born,

and now, wholly yours;

 

and a head cradled,

whisps of down, senses tickled,

light, fresh, a life held;

 

the soft kiss of lips

pressed to tiny fingers’ tips

reaching out for touch;

 

The grasp, then, of fingers

clutching yours, a brief touch gone

in letting go, time, too;

 

and the rivulet

of tears, wet and warm, streaming,

time’s touch remem’bring.

The Glen

A good story is a lantern, a fire in the dark, a whisper of home when home is far away. Hold it close, and it will light your way.

 

Victoria Beata, Tales of the Glen

Oh, to live now in the Glen,

where the neighbors are Mouse

and Cat and Owl and Rabbit, busy

with their books and baking and gardens,

new beginnings, to share their scones

and tea and biscuits, and mine with them,

as we do in the Glen that always was, always is,

sharing, too, our tales and stories and our lives,

together, Best Beloved, as it should be,

in the company of all things good and quiet.

 

The Glen will be waiting for you, you know. … It always is. And so am I.

Mouse, Goodnight, Tales from the Glen

 

78 / 10

 

https://www.victoriabeata.com/

Fireflies

Fireflies can’t be silenced,

announcing themselves,

signaling, those tiny lights

blinking on, blinking off, blinking

outside my window, gazing out

and trying to sleep,

trying to forget:

I am reminded, again,

that light cannot be silenced.

The Sound of Stillness

The Fairies went from the world, dear,
Because man’s heart grew cold:
And only the eyes of children see
What’s hidden from the old.

Kathleen Foyle

 

The ethereal sound of stillness, perhaps

drowned out by the tinnitus of our own lives,

is a blessing upon us who pause and listen

and discern one from the other, hearing

the soft voices of Faeries, Pixies, Elf and Sprite,

the wee folk, the good people of the Faerie realm

born of our imagination and brought to life,

still waiting at the edge of our dreams,

connecting us again to everything,

reconnecting us to ourselves and to that world

we have created, that world, too,

in which we still believe.

 

“I really want [to believe in Faeries] … because we are battered by adulthood—by taxes, by loss, by laundry, by nine to five, be deceit and distrust, by the crushing desire to be thin, wealthy, successful, popular, happy, in love. All the while, we are walking on a planet that is disintegrating around us.”

Faery Tale, by Signe Pike

I Remember

* A Narrative List Poem in no special order *

 

1)  Halletts Drug store, the glass topped display tables, and certificates for free ice cream from the Dentist, a good checkup, and an older me in the new store scooping ice cream to fill a certificate given, redeemed, and all the free ice cream I could eat, then, in a 5-hour shift, Eddy True, and the sweeping skill I never mastered, push broom at the ready, to meet his inspection, his watchful eye, long gone now, Halletts, Mr. True, and Homemade/Hallett’s made ice cream, gone the way of time marching forward, onward,  coffee ice cream and chocolate sauce, French vanilla, ice cream sodas and a chocolate milk shake, gone now, a Cherry Coke on ice;

 

2) The First Baptist Church, much changed now, Washington and Elm streets, and the ancient hymns, The Old Rugged Cross, Bless Be the Ties that Bind, Great is Thy Faithfulness, Blessed Assurance, sung from the church hymnal in the family pew on the left side of the church, family and grandparents, Sunday School and Vacation Bible School, Youth Group and PAX, a self formed group of guys from the church at Jay’s house, singing the songs we knew, Chuck at the piano, singing later, rebelliously, in the adult choir and ringing the Sunday morning church bell, benefits of growing up, sneaking up through the steeple clock to the cupola at the top, signing our names there, a great view of home, river town on the Kennebec, breaking the rules, a rule we sensed Jesus might have broken, just for the view, a curious teen, Jesus Himself, growing up in a Baptist church in a little town, changed but not too changed, same small community, growing, changing, but yet unchanged ;

 

3) All the schools I attended, still there, West Bath Elementary, No Pre-K, No Kindergarten for me, straight into the first grade, Mrs. DePalmer, and chocolate milk at morning break, air raid drills, and Carol Savage, love’s first stirrings, the long walk to school, me & siblings picking up Jack and Joan and Kenny and Jim, in reverse on the trip home, gone a year for 5th grade, a year in Massachusetts, a break from Bath schools, then home again and into Fisher School, Mr. Pond, the “ruler,” my flag football career ended by a bout of pneumonia, and the book he was reading aloud to us, never hearing the end, how the mystery was solved, and Bath Junior High, no middle school for us, first teen love, first teen kiss, a whole different education in itself, and the transition to Morse High, 1969, old friends and new, still friends, forever friends, girl friends, band and MOHIBA, the Pit and Prom … and graduation into the adult world, bidding youth goodbye, bittersweetness, leaving Bath and staying away, thirty years gone;

 

4) Downtown, the head shop and wavey waterbeds, the glass pipes I knew nothing about, then, Frosty’s donuts, Grants and Senters, JJ Newberry’s, and the trams for cash payments and change, a rickety track clattering, fascinating us, the town Clock bearing “Halletts Drug Store” emblazoned, still standing, still ticking off the minutes of life lived there, the “Y” and the library, first library card, and the bank, “my bank,” though never much money there for me, Povich’s Store, white bucks for band, scout uniforms, and the new Halletts on the corner, Front and Center Streets joining, Halletts Made Ice Cream and the Greyhound bus stop, not that I ever went anywhere, but to the water front and the Carlton Bridge crossing into Woolwich, over and back above the BIW, dreaming of far off places, Reid State Park and Popham Beach, the DQ, the Opera House--first movie? “Old Yellar--across from Gediman’s and the dry cleaners where Dad got his shirts pressed and folded and ready for church on Sunday, and the old barbershop, gone now, too, an outing with Dad, the smell of Barbasol, the stropping of a razor, and the sound of scissors cutting hair, the whine of clippers, and the conversations, the laughter of men on a Saturday morning;

 

5) And beyond, long bike rides to Phippsburg and Judy, Goddards Pond on a Saturday night, the Lovers’ Retreat Road paralleling the 8th fairway, tobogganing and the long dash down to and across the swamp, over and over, wet mittens and lost hats, lost loves, ice skating on Whiskeag Pond, holding hands and a long blue scarf trailing, Steve’s VW bug, a midnight trip to Richmond, - 70s “after Prom” - joy riding, band trips and band concerts, bus ride shenanigans, football games, basketball games, pep band, winning or not mattered then, our teams cheered on, home and away, away only to return as I do now, coming home just to remember, to relive once more those places tucked away into memory, that place I call home, the Kennebec River running through it, running through our veins, our remembrances, our very lives, the Kennebec River carrying us away and bringing us home again.

 

Ariel

(Part of the Princess Series of Poems)

She sits immortal on a rock forever in Langeline Quay,

gazing forward to the sea, the human world behind her,

cast in bronze, a statue caught mid-transformation, no longer

mermaid, nor terra’d creation on two legs, seeking a love

she cannot have, this young girl of fabled lore without voice,

a legend, a myth, a Disney Princess played out contrarily,

no princely rescue, no happily ever after, now transfigured,

a daughter of the air, condemned to provide cooling breezes

to a hot global world, three hundred years of servitude,

unable ever to return to the mermaid realm under the sea,

unable still to confess her love to her prince betrothed

to another in his own confusion, condemned himself,

his true love lost in her silence.

Vicissitude

A summer night, too hot for sleep

and comfort; our campfire burns down

to ash and ember, black and red, glowing;

and a wisp of smoke rises, a slow curl climbing

toward a scrim of sky, an obscured backlight

fading, dimming to darkness, now starlit,

preparing us for summer’s performance

played out on an Elysium stage of stars and moon,

well rehearsed, this formidable cast of players,

an entertainment meant to amuse and enlighten.

Lost

In a world of lost peace

and a lost hope ensuing,

the one thing we must not lose

is ourselves, nor each other.

Protest Song

At ten, or maybe twelve, sometime around then,

we discovered that the world was not coming to an end

as perhaps we expected, despite the cold war with Russia

with one finger on “the button” to annihilate us many times over,

even as our own finger was on “the button” on this side,

many times over, annihilation by mushroom cloud;

and despite the “drills” to protect ourselves from “the bomb,”

little human balls crouched and tucked under our desks,

or body to body in rows and columns in the hallways, our hands

clasped over our little heads, or maybe a bomb shelter in the backyard,

whatever good it would do; and despite the hot war brought

into our living rooms, black and white images of destruction and death,

weapons rattling and bombs raining down, and bodies, our bodies,

carried on stretchers to waiting choppers, despite the growing

list of casualties, POWs, MIAs, grieving families, young men awaiting

the draft, their number to come up, looking for deferments, a way out,

making plans to go to Canada, anywhere, remembering friends

returned in flag draped caskets or missing limbs, more than limbs,

these living dead bearing the scars and nightmares of time spent

in Southeast Asia’s hell, Vietnam, Laos, Cambodia, young people

returning with their demons, awaiting retribution, salvation,

and the peace that comes with death, penance paid; and despite

the revolution, the demonstrations against “the man,” the war,

injustice, our civil rights taken, individual freedoms withheld, beaten

and jailed, singing our protests songs, still sung, still blowing in the wind,

the flowers still gone; “oh say, can you see,” when we couldn’t see, can’t see,

not clearly, even now, wondering still if the promises of peace and community,

harmony and understanding, one humanity, are ever going to be fulfilled,

equality, justice, freedom, democracy; and today, grown older,

not too old to forget being ten or twelve, every age since, and still

not seeing an end nor even a new beginning, a new world coming,

a new voice, a new morning, clear and sweet and free, coming in peace:

where have all the flowers gone? long time passing? long time ago?

Gone, now, perhaps the way of childhood, innocence taken, innocence lost;

and still the question, when will we ever learn? When will we ever learn!