The Star-Gazer

Thanks to a little nudge from my dear friend Andrea, I wrote a poem yesterday to go along with James Hance's magnificent painting of Luna. I find it delightful that he happens to have chosen my two favorite characters to paint first. Still very eager to see the rest of this series!

The Star-Gazer

Luminous Luna, wrapped up in wonder,
Gazes at gemstones that sparkle in space.
She’s never needed a wand to fall under
This spell of resplendence that brightens her face.

Inky and vast is the void far above her.
Still, as she joins the celestial dance,
Endless connections form figures that hover
In fresh constellations that gaily entrance.

Mystery rests like a shawl on her shoulders;
Nothing unknown is a peril to fear.
Darkest despair is unable to hold her;
Facing the grim, she knows light lingers near.

Some will insist that she couldn’t be stranger;
Different, indeed, is the sight of her soul,
Finding delight in the midst of each danger,
Seeing through sorrow a spirit made whole.

Cheered by the hare that is ever inside her,
Shining its hope through her numinous eyes,
Limpidly, Luna lets foolishness guide her.
Would that the rest of the world were so wise!

Hagrid's Hands

I've been trying to get myself back into poetry-writing mode. Here's one I wrote yesterday, inspired by James Hance's exquisite portrait of Hagrid holding an infant Harry.

Hagrid's Hands

His hands are huge and roughly worn
By ceaseless care for wondrous things
From hippogriff with mighty wings
To iridescent unicorn.

He’s shrugged off scorn for clumsy gaffes,
For addled wits and massive frame,
And felt the sting of misplaced blame,
But through the pain, still Hagrid laughs.

He laughs because the love he bears
Leaks out in heaping bursts of mirth
That heal the heart and shake the earth.
The night shines with the light he shares.

But sorrow mingles with his joy
And fills his mind with cloudy fears.
His gentle eyes fill up with tears
While handing off this baby boy.

A splashy droplet makes a mark
Upon the sleeping infant’s nose.
For just a moment, moisture glows,
Then fades away into the dark.

The lightning scar on Harry’s head
Will one day drive his hero’s quest.
When evil puts him to the test,
He’ll show that good prevails instead.

Perhaps this tear’s a tiny gift
To cradle him through his neglect,
A bit of love to recollect
When Harry’s soul could use a lift.

With heaving sighs, the giant stands,
A tender glimmer in his eye.
The time has come to say goodbye,
But Harry’s safe in Hagrid’s hands.

Imagining Walter Blythe's Piper Poem

When I read Rilla of Ingleside, the eighth installment in the Anne of Green Gables series, I found myself very curious about The Piper, a poem her son Walter writes while serving as a soldier during World War I.  L. M. Montgomery never reproduces it for us, though I see that there is an upcoming volume that includes poetry from both Anne and Walter, which makes me wonder whether she might have written the poem at some point.  A bit of investigating told me that she intended it as a tip of the hat to In Flanders Fields, one of the most famous poems to come out of World War I, so when I tried my hand at stepping into Walter's head, that was my model.

The Piper

The Piper calls with dulcet strains
That echo over hills and plains.
He beckons, through a dreamy mist,
And stalwart hearts cannot resist
The song that seeps into our veins.

Upon his path, the crimson stains
Lie undiminished by the rains
Of ages, yet we must enlist;
The Piper calls.

Our struggles are but labor pains,
The price that Providence ordains;
A new world dawns as we persist.
To those we left, whose arms we've missed,
The great and longer task remains.
The Piper calls!

An Abandoned Bird and a Friendly Cat Head South

I recently read Patrick McDonnell's South, a tender tale of a cat who helps a lost bird find its migrating flock.  The book doesn't have any words, nor does it need them.  But I couldn't resist writing a bit about it myself.  Here's a little accompanying poem I wrote.

South

As autumn dies, the last leaf falls.
Migration calls; the first bird flies.
A silent flap, a hopeful tune.
As one, they rise into the skies.

And yet below, a straggler wakes.
Of all mistakes, the lowest blow.
So far from June, a chilly trap
With miles to go 'midst leaves and snow.

A furry friend at once draws near.
This cat will cheerfully attend
To every need with gentle care
'Til journey's end lies 'round the bend.

Their kinship shelters, strengthens both.
He keeps the oath. Clear as a bell,
Song fills the air. The bird takes heed.
But first, farewell. What tales he'll tell!

I'm Proud to Call Myself a Fan of Second Banana McMahon

Windfall

I always hoped he'd show up at my door,
Balloons behind his back, a check in hand.
When I had picked my jaw up off the floor,
I'd say a hearty thanks to Ed McMahon.

Alas, the sweepstakes never went my way,
And yet his riches surely spread to me.
A laugh was all the price I had to pay
For hefty doses of hilarity.

The banter that he bartered with his friend,
The one and only Johnny, was a prize,
And even when the program reached its end,
He resolutely stayed before our eyes.

When searching for a star or raising dough
For Jerry and his kids both young and old,
His class was on display throughout the show,
And in his jokes I found comedic gold.

So though I still am not a millionaire,
I'm grateful for the treasures he dispersed.
Ed always played the second, but his flair
Assured he'll be remembered as the first.

An Ode to "OxiClean Guy" Billy Mays

I'm a night owl, so I was all too familiar with the exuberant Billy Mays. Whenever my brother comes home from college for a couple of days, we fully expect to spend some time in his company and three o'clock in the morning. Though he caused me to wear down my mute button, I will miss his enthusiasm.

Billy the Bellower

In moments when I should have been in bed,
I'd stir upon the couch with bleary gaze.
As brightly booming cheers alighted on my ears,
I'd shake a startled fist at Billy Mays.

No matter what the bearded vendor said,
He shouted with the fervor of a fan.
This infomercial prince forever made me wince,
And yet I couldn't help but love the man.

I wondered if he ever simply spoke.
Was every meal with him a loud affair
Most likely to begin with his expansive grin
As Billy gushed about the silverware?

"He should be my alarm clock," I would joke,
For who could sleep through his effusive pitch
When he proclaimed, "Kaboom!" or sterilized a room
With household magic that could wow a witch?

He was so fond of adding, "Wait! There's more!"
For him, I've little doubt that this was true.
More twenty-dollar toys, more ordinary joys,
More decent, life-affirming work to do.

When I am stuck with some distasteful chore,
I don't intend to bow to lethargy.
I'll chuckle as I scrub my scum-encrusted tub,
Recalling Billy bellowing at me.

Sympathy for the Snake

Taken from a poetry prompt about being an outsider...

Sympathy for the Snake

When Harry was a boy of only ten,
He joined his aunt and uncle at the zoo.
He'd never even heard of Hogwarts then;
Neglect was all the orphaned wizard knew.

So when he saw the snake behind the glass,
His pity penetrated to the bone.
He too was trapped, a creature to harass,
A being both imprisoned and alone.

In later years, the serpent's specter loomed,
And Harry fought a battle deep within.
The Boy Who Lived refused to be consumed
By deadly pride, the mark of Slytherin.

But as the final confrontation neared,
He once again found cause for empathy.
The Slytherin he most despised and feared
Had grown up disregarded.  So had he.

Thus Harry, seeing how destructive zeal
Could follow from egregious childhood aches,
Became the one to help the Houses heal:
The Gryffindor who sympathized with snakes.

An Ode to My Favorite Easy Reader Lovebirds, Mr. Putter and Mrs. Teaberry

A couple years ago, I discovered the Mr. Putter and Tabby series by Cynthia Rylant.  Since then, I've read every book starring the kind, elderly Mr. Putter and his creaky cat.  They're beautiful stories.  They also happen to be incredibly romantic, as most of the stories also feature his next-door neighbor, Mrs. Teaberry, who's a bit feistier than Mr. Putter but every bit as lovable.  Their friendship is purely platonic on the page, and yet their love for one another is so genuine, it's hard to deny the possibility of a long-term courtship.  Inspired by my musings on this subject with fellow enthusiast Beth, I concocted this little poem that imagines Mr. Putter awaiting the response to a love letter to his neighbor that concludes with a crucial question...

Mr. Putter and Tabby Send the Note
Mr. Putter, all aflutter
As he scraped a pat of butter
On his toasted English muffin,
Muttered, "Tabby, it's a tough one."

Pensive chewing.  Plaintive mewing.
What was Mr. Putter doing?
Tabby sensed, with tail a-twitchin',
Trouble brewing in the kitchen.

Forehead wrinkled, Putter sprinkled
Sugar in his tea and crinkled
Up his paper as he wondered
If she'd think he'd badly blundered.

Hesitation.  Dread.  Frustration.
Such a bold interrogation
From an insecure romancer.
Had she read it?  Would she answer?

Doorbell ringing.  Angels singing.
Putter pondered fiercely flinging
Arms around her, so enchanting -
But beheld her bulldog, panting.

Good Zeke flopping down and dropping
Daisies with a dainty topping:
One note bearing just three letters.
Putter floating, flushing redder.

What a blessing!  No more guessing. 
Love confessed with "Y-E-S"-ing.
Over to her porch he ambled,
Giddy with his gutsy gamble.

There sat merry Ms Teaberry,
Neighbor, friend and sanctuary,
Beaming like a lighthouse beacon.
Putter's knees began to weaken.

Tabby purring.  Zeke's tail whirring.
Putter's dancing eyes were blurring.
He could manage just a mumble.
"Yes?" he ventured, stooped and humble.

"Yes," his seated sweetheart greeted.
With a kiss, her task completed,
Ms Teaberry all but shouted,
"How could you have ever doubted?"

Unhinging Hagrid

I have always been cursed with a very, shall we say, weak constitution. I've gotten carsick on the way to the post office before - and that's four blocks away. So I think I know just what Hagrid is going through when he boards that cart with Harry, and I'm guessing that he dreads having to make the trip to Gringotts whenever the need arises. I wouldn't want to go on that roller coaster either...

Unhinging Hagrid
Hagrid could handle a blast-ended skrewt -
Actually thought that the buggers were cute.
He never worried about getting germs
While he was digging for fresh flobberworms.

Norbert the dragon had lived in his hut.
He'd gently coddled a three-headed mutt.
Hagrid was puzzled by others' alarm,
Wondering why no one else saw their charm.

Big, hairy spiders excited to eat
Wandering students? He thought they were sweet.
No living creature, no matter how grim,
Bothered, befuddled or terrified him.

Yet Hagrid shivered as he slowly neared
Gringotts, for this place held something he feared.
No sword-like teeth and no fiery breath
Made Hagrid's face turn the color of death.

No killer claws haunted him as he stopped,
Clutching his stomach, which fluttered and flopped.
No spiky spine and no peaked pinchers loomed.
Still, Hagrid walked like a man who was doomed.

Once in the bank, as he silently shook,
Poor Hagrid followed the goblin Griphook,
Dreading the journey he knew would soon start.
Hagrid, unhinged by a rickety cart.

Vernon's Dream

Poor Vernon was having a very bad day in The Boy Who Lived. Here, I imagine him chalking it all up to a bad dream, until he can't deny it anymore...

Vernon's Dream

The most bizarre, disturbing dream
Assaulted me last night.
I thought, "It must be something that I ate."
What else could make the city teem
With sights that caused such fright
And left my mind in such a frenzied state?

It started when I saw the cat.
An ordinary beast,
Except... Since when do cats know how to read?
Well, what was I to make of that?
I didn't have the least
Intention of remaining. No, indeed!

I hurried on away from there,
But then what did I see?
A bunch of dodgy, closely clustered blokes
With scandalously unkempt hair -
Some just as old as me! -
All loitering about in colored cloaks.

And then, the lowest blow of all!
A fellow, barking mad,
Insulted me, I think; what did he say?
Ah, yes. The ruddy rotter called
Me "Muggle". Then he had
The gall to hug me! What a dreadful day...

The evening news reported birds
Were swarming in a host
Of wicked wings and evil beaks and claws.
To top it off, I know I heard
The name that I hate most:
The Potters, my degenerate in-laws.

Such fear I'd never felt before,
But still it didn't turn
Me inside-out or make me quail and quake
Until I opened my front door
And was distressed to learn
That all that time, I had been wide awake.

The Waltz

It's such a tiny, throwaway moment, but I love the dream that Harry has in OotP of Professor Sprout and Neville dancing with each other while Professor McGonagall plays the bagpipes, so I couldn't resist writing about it...

The Waltz
The scene exists only within Harry's dream.
No others will see this event,
And that is a shame, for the three of them seem
Completely serene and content.

Pomona, the kind-hearted lover of plants,
And Neville, the student who shines
In each of her classes, are locked in a dance
As graceful as blossoming vines.

In daylight, the teacher would find it bizarre
To waltz with a pupil like this,
But here in the vision, by light of a star,
They're caught in a whirlwind of bliss.

Minerva stands by in an emerald gown,
And, giving her bagpipes a squeeze,
She sways to their music, displaying no frown,
Her locks flying loose in the breeze.

It's only a snapshot that dims with the dawn,
Yet he'll return once in a while.
In silvery slumber, he'll stumble upon
The dancers and piper and smile.

Silly Hair

Here is a silly poem about Bill's silly hair. Incidentally, I wonder if the shaggy hair and the fang were a bit of sly foreshadowing about his werewolf encounter...

Silly Hair

"Your hair is getting silly, dear,"
Said Molly to her son,
"And now that I have got you here...
Well, something must be done."

Bill snatched the scraggly strands away
And flashed a patient smile.
He said, "No thanks, Mum. Not today.
I'll keep it long a while."

"I like it," Ginny stoutly said.
"Your earring's wicked too."
"We'll get ours next," chimed George and Fred.
"We can now, thanks to you."

"Oh, no, you don't," chastised their mum.
"One problem at a time!
And, honestly, a fang? How come?"
Bill shrugged, "It's not a crime."

The rest of them seemed to agree,
So Molly held her tongue,
Recalling how it was to be
So frivolous and young.

But as the evening sky turned black
Around the Weasley lair,
She plotted a surprise attack
Upon his silly hair.

The Chudley Cannons

I find it endearing that Ron is such an ardent fan of the Bad News Bears of Quidditch. Here's my hunch as to why he's so devoted to the Chudley Cannons...

The Chudley Cannons
The Chudley Cannons are my team.
All right, they're not too fast;
They're clumsy clunkers, and they seem
To always come in last.

Those fellas often fail in flight.
They falter; they don't zoom.
I'm not too sure they learned the right
Technique to mount a broom.

They're quite adept at messing up.
Alas! That's nothing new;
They haven't won a single cup
Since 1892.

And yet when they embrace the air,
I let my faith take hold.
Their robes, as blazing as my hair,
Contain a hint of gold.

I understand just how it is
To regularly lose,
To feel like a substandard wiz,
To crave another's shoes.

But somewhere in me, buried deep,
Resides a champion,
So I won't sit around and weep
About where I have been.

I think I'd rather look ahead,
Imagining a day
When Weasley is the king instead.
I'll disregard dismay.

The Chudley Cannons are my team.
That's just as it should be,
For if they can achieve their dream,
There might be hope for me.

The Importance of Being Sockful

I was killing time on Facebook the other night, and I decided to doodle on my brother's page, eventually settling on a sketch of a rather Jerry Garcia-looking Dumbledore accompanied by the words "Socks. Don't leave home without them." This got me thinking about that "Wear Sunscreen" speech that was so popular when I graduated from high school in '99. Evidently there are no graduation ceremonies at Hogwarts, but there's the big end-of-the-school-year feast, so I figure that's a good time for Dumbledore to have delivered this little address...

The Importance of Being Sockful
Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs,
Gryffindors and Slytherins,
Kindly lend your eyes. Incline your ears.
Though I'm sure you've had enough
Of this old man's blithering,
Listen, youngsters; listen, seventh-years.

Don't forget to always keep
Fresh supplies of socks on hand:
Fleece or cotton, checkered, striped or plain.
Study hard, and you will reap
Rich rewards. Don't ever stand
Idly by as someone causes pain.

When your potion-making's done,
Please be sure to scourgify;
Keep your cauldron free of slime and ooze.
Love and laugh. Don't flee from fun.
Never fight the urge to cry.
Destiny is something that you choose.

Whether you are Muggle-born
Or a Pure-Blood through and through,
Show respect to everyone you meet.
Seek out friends when you're forlorn.
Look at beans before you chew
Lest an earwax flavor mar your treat.

Do not dabble in Dark Arts.
Thank the elves who cook your meals.
Know the time for lumos and for nox.
Brains are grand, but so are hearts;
Worthy is the one who feels.
Most of all, though, trust me on the socks.

Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes

I just couldn't leave poor George with that despairing poem I wrote right after I finished the book. So here's another one that imagines him a little while later, having reopened the joke shop with Ron at his side...

Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes
I've had a chance to grieve now. While I will always mourn
The loss of the companion I had since I was born,
The passing of a brother I cherished from the womb,
I'm not prepared to join him. I won't embrace the tomb.

The shop doors have reopened. I'm back to telling jokes
And sharing mirth and mischief with merry-making folks.
They nosh our nosebleed nougats and crunch canary creams;
They slip into the bliss of our patented daydreams.

They set off wildfire whiz-bangs, which still leave Filch in tears,
Crash whispered conversations with stretchy, dangling ears,
Dissolve into the darkness with powder from Peru
And, causing consternation, distribute U-No-Poo.

I laugh as I imagine the censure in Fred's face
On learning Ickle Ronniekins works here in his place.
He's got a head for business; we're raking in the dough.
I sometimes think that we were too hard on him, you know.

The world is now more peaceful, and happiness can reign.
It's nice to think I aid in assuaging people's pain.
Although my twin has left me, he isn't really gone;
Through Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, his memory lives on.

The Snape-Shaped Hole

Shortly after I finished reading Deathly Hallows, I exchanged a series of Facebook comments about the book with my brother's friend Sara, and she told me, in the purposely vague language of one trying to avoid spilling spoilers in a place where friends who've not yet read the book might see them, that her favorite line in the book contained the phrase "Snape-shaped hole". I laughingly agreed to the comedic value of that sentence, but as I turned the words over in my mind, an idea took hold, rooted in the final stanza. Ah, poor Severus...

The Snape-Shaped Hole

"Our headmaster has departed," seethed Minerva as she started
To devise a plan of action, and Pomona gawked in dread
Past the shards that had been scattered when the classroom window shattered,
Leaving one large Snape-shaped hole that marked where Severus had fled.

As the batlike form retreated, Harry's task, not yet completed,
Loomed, and so he pushed disgust at Snape's maleficence away,
Too intent upon destroying diadems to let annoying -
Make that downright evil - Slytherins distract him from the fray.

When he neared the crown he hunted, he was once again confronted
By antagonists whose irksome ways had plagued his months at school,
But his days of Seeking Snitches - chasing wizards, racing witches -
Served him well, and while astride his broomstick, he maintained his cool.

His audacity diminished when, mid-frolic, Fred was finished;
Now it seemed the world was wildly spinning out of his control.
Then, a flash! He spied Nagini, and the sallow-featured meanie
Filled his mind as Tom decided he had found a Snape-shaped hole.

So he journeyed through the willow, saw his teacher's terror billow
And - when Riddle had deserted, deaf to Severus's cries -
Although powerless to save him, took the silver strands he gave him,
Then, accepting his request, looked down into his dimming eyes.

Cast-off memories swirled thickly, and they lapped upon him quickly.
Rapt, he watched his aunt and mother and a boy inclined to lurk
In the shadows who, observing Lily, found her most deserving
Of a Hogwarts education, though his fawning didn't work.

Still, in time their friendship flowered, and Snape hungrily devoured
Every flicker of affection in the lovely Lily's smile.
But her righteous rage erupted as he slowly was corrupted,
And he choked upon the pleas for pardon burning him like bile.

Harry goggled, disbelieving, at the Snape who quavered, grieving
For the woman he had worshipped since he first beheld her face.
Then, with comprehension dawning, he resolved to heal the yawning
Snape-shaped hole that drove a hatred that was painful to erase.

He absorbed his raw emotion and the depth of his devotion.
As Snape sealed a solemn promise to Professor Dumbledore,
Harry's soul was stitched together, freshened like a phoenix feather.
He'd detested Snape for seven years; he didn't anymore.

He relinquished all his rancor, for his mum had been Snape's anchor,
And for her sake, he'd protected Lily's son year after year.
Snape, who'd long declined to show it, hadn't wanted him to know it,
But this peek into the Pensieve made his ardor crystal clear.

Severus's motivation fueled a somber conversation
Whose grim contents fell on Harry's ears and seared him to the bone.
There was no use in denying he must conquer Tom by dying,
And his heartbeat was a death knell as he soldiered on alone.

To his consciousness, unbidden, sprang a wish for what lay hidden
In the golden orb he'd caught while streaking through an azure sky.
He drew strength from the selected saviors who he resurrected,
With the Snape-shaped hole obscured as Harry steeled himself to die.

No Patronus charm could guard him from the sorcerer who'd scarred him.
Harry didn't even raise his wand; he welcomed the green light.
Then the woods around him vanished, and he realized he'd banished
Riddle's feeble fragment of a soul when he refused to fight.

Albus, palpably contented that his doom had been prevented
By the blood of she who'd thrown herself into its icy jaws,
Claimed a Snape-shaped hole existed still, so he forsook the misted
Station's comfort, tensing under Mrs. Malfoy's piercing claws.

With Narcissa's bold deception, Tom awaited his reception
As the worthy ruler over all. He jeered as Hagrid wept,
Bearing his beloved Harry - such a bitter load to carry! -
And the giant roared at centaurs for the distance they had kept.

Now his nemesis was bragging and his comrades' hopes were sagging,
And Minerva rent the darkness with a horrifying sound.
Then the sword that had gone missing came to Neville, and the hissing
Of Nagini sputtered, silenced as her body hit the ground.

In the chaos reigning after, he heard Bella's final laughter,
And he shielded her attacker from the overlord now bent
On avenging his apostle. Though his enemy was hostile,
Harry calmly stood and offered him the option to repent.

"Snape was never yours," he told him. He felt confidence enfold him
As he wondered how the wrath-encrusted Riddle would respond.
"I'd advise you," he suggested, "try for some remorse. I bested
Draco Malfoy. I'm the rightful master of the Elder Wand."

Riddle sneered and strove to harm him, but, attempting to disarm him,
He perceived the curse rebounding just before Tom's death occurred.
As euphoria descended, Harry knew the war had ended,
And insightful Luna granted him the peace that he preferred.

Passing corpses bruised and bloody, Harry ventured to the study
Where he sought the sage instructor he'd regarded as a god.
Now he recollected faintly that he wasn't quite so saintly:
Albus Dumbledore was human; Albus Dumbledore was flawed.

Once, that knowledge had been crippling, but, sustained by reverence rippling
Through his spirit, he apprised his beaming mentor of his plan
To restore the wand that brought him to the point where what he'd taught him
Was enough to mold this orphan boy at last into a man.

It was right that this headmaster who'd prepped Harry for disaster,
Gifting gentle words of wisdom, ruminate with Harry first,
But as he, Ron and Hermione left, there might have been a tiny
Reconciliation with the one of whom he'd thought the worst.

Just a hint of green eyes blazing with respect as they were gazing
On the portrait of brave Severus, who'd helped him reach his goal,
Would, with eloquent perfection, have sufficed for the connection,
But alas! Inside the office was a gaping Snape-shaped hole.