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[MistletoeAngelMagic]

(Share any of your poems/lyrics here, serious or silly, happy or sad, free-verse or blank-verse, etc.!

Here's one of mine to jump-start this thread! This poem I wrote was inspired by how many of us cynically restrict wide consciousness of being environmentally conscious to one specific birthday per year, and that to claim only one day is "Earth Day" is truly apostasy; a desertion from our faith and principles to constantly care for all God has provided us with, and therefore I chose to post this poem the day after Earth Day to further the point that we must always make an effort to be ecologically-conscious.

Earth Day is truly everyday in my heart, and may we strive to make it so! )

*

*

Apostasy (Earth Day Is Everyday)
By: Noah Eaton
4/23/07

“In the beginning,
God created the heavens,
and the Earth.”,
the debate reels on,
how He did so,
how long it took Him,
whether or not He used a paintbrush,
and if He did,
did He paint with Van Dyke brown,
and did he use Phthalo or Prussian blue,
but the Bible makes clear,
that God is the Creator,
that “the earth is the Lord’s,
and everything in it,
the world,
and all who live in it;
for He founded it upon the seas,
and established it upon the waters.”…..

…that God owns the Earth,
by virtue of creating it…

…His involvement in this world’s Creation,
goes beyond the spiking horse itself,
for “he is before all things,
and by him all things consist.”
“upholding all things by the word of his power”,
“things in heaven and on earth,
visible and invisible,
whether thrones or powers or rulers or authorities;
all things were created by Him,
and for Him.”

He went through all the trouble for a purpose,
so that “the heavens declare the glory of God;
the skies proclaim the work of his hands.”,
letting “everything that has breath praise the Lord.”,
“for since the creation of the world God’s invisible qualities,
his eternal power and divine nature,
have been clearly seen,
being understood from what has been made,
so that men are without excuse”…..

…..that’s where we come in,
that we are special being made in God’s image,
yet we are still intimately linked to His creation,
thus He has given us a mandate to be stewards,
stewards of this Earth,
offered the responsibility to care for His creation,
as He had placed Adam in the Garden of Eden,
“to dress it and to keep it.”,
you may also say,
the legacy of Noah’s flood,
may be the original Endangered Species Act…..

…..when God is involved,
anything is truly possible,
look at Elisha’s spring in Jericho,
where water used to be undrinkable,
useless in irrigating crops,
and added a sifting of salt into the water,
explaining "This is what the Lord says:
'I have healed this water.
Never again will it cause death,
or make the land unproductive'".
and to this day,
4,500 liters of fresh water bubble up,
from under the ground in Jericho,
every single minute,
proving resilient as a sparkling oasis,
of the desert,
proving that God is the same,
yesterday, today, and forever,
and that perhaps,
there are other Elishas among us…..

…..what happened to that covenant,
you can say it began with sin,
where sin began with Adam,
and because of this sin,
“the creation was subjected to frustration”,
by the one who has sinned,
“in hope that the creation itself,
will be liberated from its bondage to decay.”…..

…..where “there is no faithfulness,
no love,
no acknowledgement of God in the land,
there is only cursing,
lying,
and murder,
stealing and adultery.”,
reminding us we can’t be misled to believe,
He will not judge this dear world for its sin,
which only further encourages exploitation,
of His creation…..

…..makes you think about,
when God spoke to the children of Israel,
asking that they can grow and harvest crops,
for six years,
but “in the seventh year shall be a Sabbath,
of solemn rest for the land,
a sabbath unto the LORD;
thou shalt neither sow thy field,
nor prune thy vineyard.”
warning them not offering that land rest,
would result in the land not yielding crops,
that “all the time that it lies desolate,
the land will have the rest it did not have,
during the sabbaths you lived in it”…..

…..perhaps that’s why we’re experiencing,
desertification,
global warming,
extinct and endangered species…..
…..because of our sins,
“a curse consumes the earth;
its people must bear their guilt.”…..

…..Mother Nature IS worried,
man CAN hurt her,
though we hold faith,
that God and Mother Nature work,
in benevolent, mysterious ways,
that her womb consists,
of all the sacred remedies,
and healing secrets of our living Earth,
this world isn’t like “Ferngully: The Last Rainforest”,
where sprites,
and a bat voiced by Robin Williams,
will somehow stop all the world’s deforestation,
convince all lumberjacks and timber companies,
that the clear-cutting of old growth forests,
ruins the native habitat of thousands of species,
leaving the area deficient of natural minerals…..

…..I’m an optimist,
but not in the sense,
of that 1988 Talking Heads single,
“(Nothing But) Flowers”,
where in some post-apocalyptic world,
all parking lots will become oases,
all Pizza Huts will become covered by daisies,
and discount stores will become cornfields,
but rather in the sense,
that when the question is asked,
“Will the individual choose to acknowledge his Creator,
and be reconciled to Him?”,
we will again practice the ministry of reconciliation,
as many of us righteously believe,
in the second greatest commandment,
that we must love our neighbors as ourselves,
and when we hear time and time again in the news,
about benzene levels causing increased asthma rates,
just because some factories ignored emissions caps,
or about hundreds of thousands dying of cancer in India,
just because of poor oversight and denial at Bhopal,
we express genuine emotions of alarm and grief…..

…..yes,
this earth has been through the wringer alright,
ice ages,
tsunamis,
Chernobyl,
Exxon-Valdez,
George W. Bush,
our Congress since 1976,
etc.
over the course,
of approximately 4,600,000,000 years…..

…..but the real test here,
is understanding our present time,
purifying our hearts before our Creator,
that though it is said we have the right,
to “fill the earth and subdue it”,
it doesn’t mean literally,
selling two sparrows for a halfpenny,
that He in fact set rules for bird protection,
telling the Israelites,
should they come across a bird’s nest,
with the mother sitting upon her young or eggs,
they were to let the mother go,
where Jesus said He’s aware of every small bird,
that falls to the ground,
of every young raven crying for food…..

…..we should care,
for to believe Earth Day only comes but once a year,
is apostasy;
to tend the Earth should be a perennial state of mind,
engineered by active faith,
rather than passive belief…

*

*

Sincerely,
Noah Eaton[/i]

[discovolante]

Beulahland

where's moustache man i ask
why she asks back
i want to punch him in the mouth, that's why
be civil she says
i'll be civil, i'll be civil all over his face

puccini blares out of the stereo
it was ragtime a few minutes ago
and when we came in it was wolfmother

the baked busboy on waiter duty
refills my root beer and asks
if she wants another bloody mary
i say no for her
i know her limits better than she does

the buttonfaced polka-dot dress
shorthair waitress cleans off a table
an overweight woman pays her check

fuck you, ethan, i wanted that refilled
no i say, no, you've got to bike home
can't you carry me?
i'm as drunk as you are
whatever she says, whatever

puccini wraps up his sonata
the waiter with dreads taps his fingers
outside the wind is blowing harder than ever

[discovolante]

(667th view iirc)

anyway, I've still got it. I wrote a ton of poetry today including one of my only rhyming poems, and it's in iambic TETRAMETER. I'm still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I wrote a poem that has been used maybe only a handful of times before.

candle weeps wax

candle weeps wax
and ceilingbeam smacks
of shadows and moonlight
an umbrage's axe
wade through the twilight
they'll put up a fight
and all your defenses
will fall from their height
bombarding your senses
what knowledge dispenses
can never relieve you
from luminous fences
i will believe you
we'll do what we have to
but walk past this stage
and your fate you'll fall into
you can't turn the page
it's stuck there with age
so live in this now
and your past i'll assuage
follow your vow
we'll clap, take a bow
it's never for naught
if you mean it - and how
the night is distraught
the stairs are pulled taut
and though you ascend
you can't 'scape the thought
that never's the end
tomorrow's your friend
you can't wait a second
if promises mend
and promises beckon
forever, you reckon
through cinnabar blaze
your lifelines are fecund
avert your fine gaze
to the stairs of your ways
you know them quite well
as ascendency's dais
and down to the dell
and upwards as well
if heaven is higher
i'll see you in hell.

[MistletoeAngelMagic]

(Here's the first part of a mega-epic poem I've been writing, depicting an anonymous young adult brother and sister's eccentric experiences staying at a bed and breakfast, LOL!

I personally have never minded bed and breakfasts, but my parents have always had irrational anxieties about them, which inspired this write in the first place, along with all the stereotypical perceptions of bed and breakfasts on television, LOL!

So here's Part I, and hope it's not too much of an eyesore for all y'all, LOL! I'm not exactly sure when Part II will be posted, as the thing about epic poems is that they often just write themselves by the spur of each moment, and you never know which direction they'll move in unless you're on the spot writing them, LOL!)

*

       

Inn 'N Out
(Part I: Breathing It All Inn)
By: Noah Eaton
7/3/07

Oh, have I got a story for you that’s truly pure gold,
way back when I was just twenty eight and a half years old,
road trippin’ with my sister all across the USA,
oh, I’ve got so many to share, but this one takes the cake.

So the story begins when we were scrolling the FM,
enduring the hardship of a Richard Marx three-song set,
at last I reached for the dial during “Right Here Waiting”,
turned it, and said, “Oh my God, he rocks so soft it’s grating!”

My sister said, “There’s nothing but country and Rush Limbaugh,
unless you want to listen to Christian rock ‘til you drop!”
“Christian rock, ha!” I retorted, “there’s an oxymoron,
just like “True Lies”, Hot Ice®, jumbo shrimp and strawberry blondes!”

“Well, there’s surely abundant poverty on these airwaves,”
she said as she applied a little lip gloss to her face,
then we heard the radio jockey say, “Coming up next,
we’ve got Dan Fodelberg, here on WTON!”

We both shrieked in fright and my sister raced for the dial,
by then the odometer had read twelve-thousand miles,
driving northward through Virginia with seldom intervals,
to Cleveland, Ohio for the Whistle Pull Festival.

She said, “Hey, why are we going to that fair anyway,
it’s people pulling whistles, they need a life!” she harangued.
I crossed my arms and said, “I just don’t know you anymore,
I’ve hoarded antique nautical whistles since I was four!

Hey, we’ll have a blast, we’ll blow whistles until we go deaf,
I’ll even teach you how to do it in the tenor clef!”
She sighed and said, “At least it beats the Worlds Largest Cured Ham,
or the National Jousting Hall of Fame, that was a laugh!”

       

Watching the road, I said, “God, there’s so many frickin' trucks,
add a Pig-Pen, Rubber Duck and a chartreuse microbus,
and mercy sakes alive, we’ve got ourselves a convoy!”
She said, “Yeah, you already said that thrice in Illinois!”

My sister then said, “Hey, where are we staying for the night?”
I said, “I told you, I’m more of that spontaneous type,
who likes to drive and land someplace we’ve never been before,
we are being guided by fate, fate wants us to explore!”

“But it’s six o’clock,” she said, “we’ve been driving half the day,
and that Stuckey’s pecan log roll gave me a tummy ache!”
“Hey, don’t diss those pecan log rolls!” I said with inflection,
“Stuckey’s success speaks for itself, cooking up confections!”

“Brother, I’m tired,” she replied, “let’s just call it a day,
now can we please just take a break and find a place to stay?”
“Oh, alright,” I uttered reluctantly, conjecturing:
(“Guess my dad’s sense of adventure only passed on to me!”)

I kept my eyes peeled for lodgings along the interstate,
a La Quinta, a Ramada, maybe a Super Eight,
but every one was packed full, up and down I-81,
even each Motel Six was swarming with traveling nuns.

“Wait,” said my sister, “I think you just missed a Travelodge!”
And I said, “Nonsense, that cheeky Roaming Gnome must be dodged,
I mean, sure, he’s got a cute accent and seems affable,
and the fact he Tivos “Supernanny” is laughable.

Yet, the logic of his commercials make no sense to me,
I mean, their whole point is to denounce travel myths, you see,
like it’s cheaper booking airfare and hotels separately,
which he debunked and contended it as ‘Bullhonkery!’

But c’mon now, are we supposed to take his word for it,
when he doesn’t even know how to plug appliances,
made here in America in European sockets,
despite attempting in the same ad to debunk that myth?

That’s like someone telling you, ‘Put your life savings in this,
oh, did I mention Enron is an ethical business?’
Doesn’t that rampant incorrectness of the second point,
completely kill the credibility of the first point?”

And she said, “Hey, the Gettysburg Address was just a page
and that was about a war, I get the point that you’ve made.
By the way, it is Travelocity, not Travelodge,
you got the two confused somehow, now we’ve missed it, by God!”

I said, “Errrr…..well….anyway, it doesn’t really matter,
I’m sure they have their beds made by Mongolian Tatars…….
(Look, there’s a bed and breakfast just a half a mile ahead,”)
she intervened, “how ‘bout we stop at this lil’ quaint homestead?”

And I said, “Sure, that place seems nice!” as we approached the inn,
cozied in the Blue Ridge Mountains miles outside Staunton,
we saw the inn was named “Tulgey Woods” by its greeting sign,
sheltered by rows of golden aspens and yellow buckeyes.

We pulled up and parked in the B&B’s front parking space,
admiring the flower garden and lawn gnome display,
it had large sunny windows and quaint gingerbread highlights,
painted mauve with dark green doors, a fairy tale come to life.

She said, “Wow, with a brook below this house and a stable,
this would be a spitting image of ‘Anne of Green Gables’!”
I said, “Hey, this place might have a dress code, so just in case,
hurry and dye your hair red and form some long glossy braids!”

My sister chuckled and said, “Stop it!” affectionately,
I joshed, “Just looking after you!” and she giggled gently,
so we grabbed our belongings and toddled up the front deck,
I named, “The White Way of Delight!” with Anne stuck in my head.

So we followed the deck up to the front door of the inn,
with two tote bags and a leftover Toddle House omelet,
from the Waffle House we stopped for breakfast back in Pine Bluff,
that I couldn’t eat earlier because I got too stuffed.

She said, “You still have that, it’s been in the trunk for hours!”
I said, “Yeah, I was way too full to have it devoured,
besides, my hash browns were served scattered, smothered and covered,
and there were raisins in my toast, I was undercover!”

She rolled her eyes and smiled as I took an eager bite,
then I saw her apply some make-up so she’ll look real nice,
so I rang the front doorbell, which sounded like a songbird,
and heard the clatter of high heels the moment it was heard.

The innkeeper opened the door and smiled pleasantly,
saying, “Greetings, dear guests, my name is Valerie McGee,
and I am the innkeeper and owner of Tulgey Woods,
now let me take your bags as every comely hostess should!”

She was just four feet tall with the perfume of candied figs,
and had the resemblance of Henry Waxman with a wig,
she sported Oliver Goldsmith butterfly sunglasses,
and yellow teeth stained with a life’s supply of molasses.

       

She had amber tresses draping down her legs and beyond,
and wore a Mobius Dress, endlessly looping her bod,
as she carried our bags inside, we saw that she wore,
banana leaf shoes by Stine Heilmann as she graced the floor.

We stepped inside and admired the lodge’s ambiance,
resounding with a theme of Victorian renaissance,
the living room and stairway had Brazilian cherry floors,
and the kitchen was made of oak with plenty food in store.

Each wall was plastered with flower wallpaper with sage trim,
and every window was draped with Battenberg lace curtains,
the guest room floor was covered with a Mashad Persian rug,
and the mahogany burl sleigh bed sofa looks so snug.

Even the guest bathroom had yellow poplar wainscoting,
as well as terry cloth robes that really got me gloating,
with an Italian quarry tile floor that felt so smooth,
and a fragrant freesia incense that so blithely soothes.

The dining room had a Waterford crystal chandelier,
it seemed the backyard had everything but a belvedere,
with a wicker gazebo, a rose-trellised Amish swing,
a small lawn and gardens full of oriental lilies.

The interior was highlighted with a fireplace,
and stained glass windows that gave rooms shimmering interplay,
the kitchen was packed with heirloom china and canisters,
and the winding staircase had a burnished oak banister.

Yeah, I know what you must be thinking at this present time,
“How do you know so much about B&B’s at first sight?”
The truth is I know jack squat, truly not by a long sight,
but I did stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night!”

Don’t tell Valerie I said that, anyway, shall we sprawl,
I’ve still got unfinished business in the reception hall,
lest we forget, I haven’t yet been accommodated,
so let us get settled in, for we’ve patiently waited.

I asked, “Do you have any rooms available tonight?”
She said, “Yes, we most certainly do,” in a tone forthright,
“how about room number eleven, named the ‘Twas Brillig’?”
The mentioning of the room’s name gave my sister goose skin.

But I said, “What’s the room like?” in deep curiosity.
She said, “The ‘Twas Brillig’ is quite a luxurious suite!
This room features two queen-sized beds with antique brass headboards,
topped with matching handmade quilts that will keep you snug and warm.

The room also includes Sheridan cherry furniture,
a private bath with a clawfoot tub and power shower,
an end table with a skirted hurricane table lamp,
and a dressing alcove with a walk-in closet intact.

It has that tucked-away-from-the-world-and-its-cares feeling,
I recommend it to all my guests, it’s quite appealing.
So…would you like to go ahead and book this room?” she asked,
“Yes,” I said, “I like what I hear, how much is that in cash?”

“I charge at a rate of eighty dollars per night!” she said,
“Alright,” I affirmed, “say, do you happen to accept checks?”
“No,” she made clear, “I run on a cash-only policy!”
I nodded and pulled out my wallet to pay Valerie.

Then I noticed my sister tugging at my arm with fright,
she said, “Please don’t put the Cheshire Cat in my dreams tonight!”
And I hushed, “Sis, you’re overreacting, it’ll be fine,
believe me, I went through this phase too, and I’ve turned out fine!

I explained to Valerie, “Sorry, she has been afraid,
of the Cheshire Cat since she saw that film in second grade!
For years she couldn’t drink a cup of tea or play croquet,
even stand on her head in PE……..but she’ll be okay!”

       

She said, “Yeah, we get a lot of that around these here parts,
saying they can’t tell his grin or the crescent moon apart.
Why, I recall reading E.T.A Hoffman’s “Der Sandmann”,
for months I feared I’d lose my eyes and that I’d lose my dad!”

I nodded gently and placed on the counter four twenties,
she placed them in the register and turned to us in glee,
saying, “I’d like to welcome you to Tulgey Woods, dear friends,
where you’ll come as strangers, but you’ll become friends by the end!

Let me take this moment to offer you some history.
This B&B was constructed in 1883,
by an antique doll craftsman named Heinrich von Schoenhut,
who built this house from scratch to house his family and mutts.

Schoenhut was a wealthy man, well-respected also,
in fact he has a doll museum down in Nomini Grove,
was president of the Yancey Mills Doll Society,
and developed doll conventions over in Fairview Beach.

By 1918, Heinrich’s house became a dental school,
in 1930, the site of a community pool,
in 1933, it became a fresh bakery,
by 1943, it was a muffler shop I think.

Then in 1944, it became a framing store,
in 1947, a pet store named Diefendorf’s,
in 1949, home to another dental school,
followed the same year by another community pool.

Finally in 1960, it was renovated,
when the Historical Chapter thought it venerated,
in 1973, I purchased this property,
and since then Tulgey Woods remains to the eyes a true feast!”

I saw a cat bounce up onto Valerie’s countertop.
I said, “Looks like the felines chased those mutts to the bus stop!”
She said, “Yes, I have fifteen cats to keep me company,
this one is Walter Mitty, my Wee Willy Watchkitty!

The rest should be up shortly, they’re catnapping in the den,
when you’re here you’ll see them lollygag time and time again.
Why I saw Count Pounce last Tuesday hopping on the washer,
you should have seen him, he was tappin’ like Dianne Walker!

Now let me tell you of this inn’s many amenities.
Breakfast is served on the sun porch at dawn every morning,
complete with a macédoine of fruits and roasted coffees,
and preserves made fresh from our gardens, ready to eat.

All our breads and pastries are baked in our ovens,
the main course varies from day to day ’cuz the chef has whims,
favorites include our made-from-scratch blueberry biscuits,
clafouti with nectarines and lemon-currant muffins.

In the guest room we have an 1880 pump organ,
completely restored that we’ve named the Daniel Morgan,
if you happen to enjoy tickling the ivories,
don’t hesitate to play, you might form a society.

Upon request we have kits for sowing and badminton,
my brother loves to play that game, you may say he’s smitten,
we also love to play bocheeball tourneys on the lawn,
and a small library for those slightly more withdrawn.

Say, you’re in luck, tonight’s our monthly murder mystery,
so come on down and join us, it’ll be a revelry,
think of it as “Clue” with more spoof and spontaneity,
which you’ll be acting out and everything you do pulls strings.

If we can assist you in making other special plans,
including fresh flowers and fruit baskets on your behalf,
please ask, as it is our desire to help you have,
the best visit possible and we’re pleased to lend a hand.

Let me take this moment to inform you of some ground rules.
Smoking is not permitted in the inn, that may sound cruel,
but we are aware of the dangers of second-hand smoke,
therefore, don’t even think about it, this is not a joke.

Next up, each room reservation is non-refundable,
nor for emergencies or things beyond our control,
finally, and this is the most important one of all,
check-out time’s at eleven, so you best be on the ball.

That’s all for now, I sincerely hope you enjoy your stay,
you’ll find ‘Twas Brillig’ on your right once you climb the staircase!”
My sister said, “Wow, her speech knocked the wind right out of me,
let’s head up to our room now, I just can’t wait and see!”

       

*

Sincerely,
Noah Eaton

[Tyrgannus]

Crimson water flows
Blind loyalty sacrificed
And yet no peace comes


That's a haiku for you.

[zeppy_gorrila]

sumtiimez i turn up da music, lyk mebbe sum lynkyn park, lymp byzkyt or my chymycyl romynce, and jes lissen 2 whuteva they r saing
then the etyrnyl flaymez ryze up w/in me and i fyl payn no mor.

[ChilliumBromide]

taht waz dep maan

[pantsu]

sumtiimez i turn up da music, lyk mebbe sum lynkyn park, lymp byzkyt or my chymycyl romynce, and jes lissen 2 whuteva they r saing
then the etyrnyl flaymez ryze up w/in me and i fyl payn no mor.

 :cry:

[MistletoeAngelMagic]

   

Inn 'N Out
(Part II: Taking It Inn Stride)
By: Noah Eaton
7/10/07

So me and my sister skedaddled toward the stairway,
following the oak banister up to the balustrade,
providing a fantastic view up from the second floor,
of the Shenandoah Valley and the Bullpasture Gorge.

We walked into our room, with our bags by the door,
kicking off our shoes to feel the spotless cherry floors,
we stopped and looked around and about all across the suite,
from the grain-painted wardrobe to the bakelite vanity.

Indeed it had those queen-sized beds with antique brass headboards,
topped with matching handmade quilts that will keep us snug and warm,
it had an 1880’s Sheridan cherry drawer,
and a maple commode stacked with old hat boxes galore.

It had flower wallpaper and skylights over the beds,
an album collection replete with barbershop quartets,
a yellow birch bookshelf chockablock with Maud Hart Lovelace,
and vintage Maxfield Parrish art hung all over the place.

A Bokhara spread across the floor near the fireplace,
all the curtains were made of Armenian needlelace,
in the corner of the room sat a Queen Anne wingback blue,
to relax and solve Sudoku puzzles all afternoon.

“I’m going to check out the bathroom!” I confirmed with verve,
eager to test out that power shower that we reserved,
so I walked in, flung open that shower curtain with pride,
but then the next thing I saw scared me stupid with surprise.

There, bathing in the clawfoot tub was an eccentric chap,
wearing nothing but a fruity Carmen Miranda hat,
reciting in pig Latin an ode to his retainer,
with the George Hamilton tan and pale eyes of John Boehner.

       

The towel rack was bedizened with raw, plump Cornish hens,
the stranger soaking one in a way I can’t comprehend.
We both shouted simultaneously in utter fright,
my sister rushed in to see if everything was alright.

“Who are you,” I yelled, “what are you doing in our tub?”
He replied, “Oh, nothing really, just preparing the grub.
The meat tastes best when tenderized for hours at a time,
and the sink’s been acting up, so, I simply improvised!”

My sister covered her mouth as though she was gonna puke,
while the stranger played a little ditty on his flute,
Valerie hurried in, overhearing the noise upstairs,
apparently startled by the random state of affairs.

“Holy hippies hob nobbin’ with hobgoblins heckling,
helpless human hemoglobins, what the heck’s happening?
Have we not had this talk fourteen times already this week,
you’re scaring our guests, now get dressed immediately!”

The stranger grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist,
then waddled out the room with his perpetually tan face.
“I do apologize for any inconvenience,”
Valerie turned to us and said in a tone lenient.

“That was my nephew in the tub, Tuckasegee McFlea,
he’s a bit odd and preternatural as you can see,
but he’s also a charming boy behind those hooded eyes,
he just needs some boundaries and structure I would surmise.

Anyway, we’ll be serving Cornish hens at suppertime,
so let me just take these and we hope to see you tonight!”
She gathered up the Cornish hens and placed them in a pot,
and zipped quickly out of the room just like a scalded dog.

“Well, that was unexpected,” my sister said all haughty,
“he strikes me as a larger-than-life Bob Pinciotti!”
“Can’t be any more outlandish than what’s in the closet,”
I said, “let’s check it out, wonder what they have got in it!”

So we headed over to the closet by the bookshelf,
to see what was lurking behind there in and of itself,
we twisted the doorknob and casually opened the door,
only to get lily-livered and scared stiff to the core.

Lurching upon every shelf were echelons of antique dolls,
cuddled up close together in their conniving cabal,
staring at us with their lifeless eyes that belong on sharks,
missing fingers, flakes off their lips and faces numb and stark.

       

There must have been two hundred of them, of all discretions,
masking their intrigue with their wide-eyed “who, me?” expressions,
there were Beltons, Tete Jumeaus, and Bahr & Proschilds,
Madame Alexanders and oddities all compiled.

We shuddered with fright, sweating bullets, standing like statues,
involuntarily trembling at the doll’s milieu,
I felt like caterwauling but I had lost all my breath,
and my lips got numb thinking of this lovely room of death.

“Holy Dixie’s Dainty Dewdrops,” I finally had squeaked,
“Jane Withers would kill to have this camaraderie!
This collection’s got everything but Charlie McCarthy,
Lord knows we don’t need another one of his repartees!”

“Why don’t we shed a little light on this situation?”,
my sister said as we looked around with trepidation.
She reached for the light switch hanging in the closet’s corner,
trying to brave the enhanced, illuminating horror.

“This must be Schoenhut’s collection that he left behind,
this is surely worth millions!” my sister hypothesized.
“Don’t touch any of them,” I said, “we don’t know where they’ve been!”
“Duly noted!” my sister replied, as we searched again.

“My, there’s something very Ligotti-ish about these dolls.”
I said as curiosity conflicted with the pall.
“Hey, back when Aunt Rae went to Fort Wright College in Spokane,
he used to tell me stories all the time that made me crack!

He said the college was crowded with flibbertigibbets,
who claim they’ve seen ghosts, banshees and haunted doll exhibits,
anyway, it was in-between the main cemetery,
and a smaller World War I kirkyard near the armory!

And so half of the Victorian style buildings there,
have these stories associated with them and their heirs,
and the most famous and terrifying one of them all,
involves the doll room in the museum, where the ghastly squall.

It’s on the university’s third floor, as I recall,
containing about five hundred, maybe more antique dolls,
it’s said that whatever’s in there loathes having the door shut,
so a sturdy Yale keeps the door open no matter what.

The contents of that room are constantly disorganized,
like those coffins in Barbados or the nastiest pig sty,
I’d bet Steven King dropped by to examine that shocker,
prior to writing the doll scene in ‘The Tommyknockers‘.

So Aunt Rae shared these stories when she would pay a visit,
recollecting every smidgen of those haunting myths,
ergo, I’ve been terrified of antique dolls ever since,
they’ll always be the bane of my existence!” I evinced.

“Tell me ‘bout it,” my sister said, “when I was six years old,
I had this terrible nightmare that left me feeling cold!
In it I was being chased around the whole neighborhood,
by a preternaturally fast old woman for good.

I could never see her, I just knew she was on my tail,
always right behind me, like a train that can’t be derailed,
so I eventually ran down this narrow flight of stairs,
into a gift shop basement to elude her grave despair.

So I hid behind this bookcase, but since I’m pretty tall,
it only partially concealed me, and there in the hall,
I heard the old lady talk with the owner of the shop,
who said she saw no one come in but let her look some more.

She said she had a doll room and invited her right in,
I heard her shuffle into the room where I was hidden,
slowly making her way to the bookcase where I was at,
with no lights on, incarcerated in the cold, pitch black.

I was terrified she would hear my breathing in the room,
or I would accidentally sneeze inhaling her perfume,
finally she reached the bookcase and stretched her arm out wide,
running her frail fingers through my hair and feeling them slide.

And then she says, “Golly, that’s a very realistic doll!”
Then she walked away, pacing back toward the entrance hall,
by then, the dream ended, and I woke up soaked in cold sweat,
that day I sold all my Troll dolls to my best friend Yvette!”

“Preternaturally fast old woman…..scary indeed,
reminds me of that old woman scuttling the ceiling,
in that ‘Exorcist’ sequel ‘Legion’!” I said soberly,
making final wincing glimpses at the menagerie.

“Oh dear Lord, look at that one!” I said, pointing to the right,
at a doll with lots of kitschy make-up and crude highlights,
“that looks just like Tammy Faye Baker, post-PTL Club,
that’s it, I can’t look at anymore, I’ve seen quite enough!”

We hastily closed the closet shut and sighed with relief,
vowing never again to even dare another peek,
so me and my sister sat down on the end of a bed,
contemplating, “Thank God that’s over, what should we do next?”

“Hey, let’s kick back and listen to some barbershop quartets…”,
I suggested, thumbing through all the albums and cassettes,
“…..let’s see…..they’ve got the Four Tiptoes…..the Bartlesville Barflies,
they’ve even got the Be Sharps, wow, now that’s quite a surprise!”

“No thanks,” my sister replied, “I’m not really in the mood,
to hear ‘Wait ‘Til The Sun Shines, Nellie’ twice in a blue moon!”
“Alright,” I said, “well…..hmmmm…..we can always play a board game,
they’ve got Merry Milkman, 4-Cyte, even Mystery Date!”

       

“Hey, I remember when I was three and Uncle Mort played,
for hours with our dad that Chiclet’s Gum Village game,”
my sister said, “alas, I feel a bit burned out right now,
but later I’ll play you in Quick Wit, once this day winds down!”

“Ohhhh, you’re on,” I answered back, with pride gleaming in my eyes,
“…..you know, despite the dolls, the cats, the Cornish Hen Surprise,
and the innkeeper’s odd nephew…..this place isn’t half bad!”
Then suddenly we heard something scamper from our bath.

I heard my sister utter soberly: “Is that…….a rat?”
I sat speechless, hearing squeaking and wood being chipped at,
and then we saw racing up the stairs and into the room,
all fifteen of Valerie’s cats, on a hot pursuit.

The rat ran out the bathroom and into the doll closet,
with all the cats following hot on its trail double quick,
gathering around the closet, forming a pyramid,
with Walter Mitty on top, giving the handle a twist.

The closet opened wide and the cats made their offensive,
taking care of the rat, with some doll damage extensive,
then the cats sprinted out the door like Speedy Gonzales,
the minute they got their prize, pouncing with spunk and solace.

There, all over the floor, laid some scattered doll’s heads and limbs,
although most were unharmed, our room looked eerie and grim,
having become a junkyard for two dozen doll victims,
all of them coincidentally the creepiest ones.

“That’s it,” I said, “we must leave this place immediately!”
“Right,” said my sister with sarcasm, “and where will we sleep?”
“I don’t know…..Tijuana…..or the Dutch side of St. Marteen?”
I quipped back as I grabbed my bag and stole a fountain pen.
 
“Look,” my sister said, “I’m tired and want to settle down!”
“Sister,” I replied, “there might even be rodeo clowns.
Okay, our room looks like St. Louis Cemetery,
and I don’t want to eat Cornish hen or ‘rat’atouille!”

“Point well taken,” my sister replied, “but nevertheless,
how are we going to escape anyway? We’re their guests!”
“Why, just rush past them, of course, couldn’t be simpler than that,
this isn’t rocket silence here, c’mon, let’s take a stand!”

“Brother,” she evinced, “I’m afraid that isn’t an option,”
standing guarding the door with crossed arms and booming gumption.
“You must understand there is a haunted superstition,
that one will have bad luck if trying to escape an inn.

Besides, if they catch us, they’ll clamp onto us like leeches,
taunting us with their stomach-churning chit-chat and speeches,
expecting you to answer a hundred probing questions,
about how tall you are, relationships and confessions.

So unless you’re up to talking endlessly with those folks,
we must stay out of sight, and dare not having them provoked!”
I stood there speechless, in hopelessness, with my mouth agape,
being reduced to streams of tears, realizing no escape.

“You’re right,” I said timidly, then interjected: “We’re doomed!”
Then my sister hugged me and said, “I know you feel entombed,
but this is just one night, I promise this will blow over,
and come eleven tomorrow, we will break like a bird!”

I sighed and then said, “Alright!” in a dour concession,
sliding into one of my hysterical depressions,
adding, “With just a Waldorf Salad and some German guests,
this would be the real-life ‘Fawlty Towers’ I would guess!”

So we looked at the Westertoren clock to check the time,
by then my sister said the time was 7:29.
“My God, it’s early,” I said, “yet, I want to hit the hay,
wake me up when it’s all over, I’m calling it a day!”

“Yeah,” she said, “I almost never go to bed this early,
as it goes against everything we young people believe,
but in this rare case, I’m willing to make an exception,
after all that travel and that quite awkward reception!”

“It’s settled; Quick Wits will be postponed on account of rain,
metaphorical rain, that is!” I said with a straight face.
So we crawled into our beds beneath the handmade quilts,
hearing from the ground floor grotesque laughter and music lilt.

“My God, what’s happening down there?” I said, rolling my eyes.
“…that monthly murder mystery doesn’t begin ’til nine!”
“Must be cocktail hour,” my sister said with certitude,
“wow, they sure have their drinks early here, is there a full moon?”

“No, it’s in its first quarter,” I said, sighing deeply,
“bet they’re hosting a seminar on Scientology,
or some local chapter of the John Birch Society,
all I am thinking right now is ‘God Bless Sobriety!’”
 
So we turned off the lights and tried to get some beauty sleep,
but I kept staring at the ceiling fan anxiously,
saying, “I’ve always been afraid of sleeping underneath,
a ceiling fan, with the fear that it would collapse on me!”

My sister shook her head and turned her body on its side,
resting in the fetal position, telling me, “Good night!”
“Good night!” I said to my sister, pulling out my earplugs,
because, frankly, my sister snores, leaving each victim stunned.

   

*

Sincerely,
Noah Eaton