Justine
The night sky, velvet dark, outré,
Like the windscreen of a cosmic car did play
Quick intermittent flashes, like the rain
At high velocity that turns to spray:
Fleeting shooting stars cascade
Across the firmament to quickly fade,
Too short a span of time to take
In full what majesty had been displayed.
I felt her power when dawn became the day.
The raucous laughter of her heart betrayed
Any pretense of the subterfuge; away
It gave all intentions for her play,
Her merry, boisterous, Red Parade,
In an eternally autumnal hedge arcade
Serving as her citadel to keep at bay
The wild, rampaging forces of the Hirscharmee.
“Avant! The Holy High Hell Goblin Queen,
Empress of the Visible and Sights Unseen,
Defender of the Blade and Evergreen,
Protector of the Frogs and Toads that Dream ,
Destroyer of the Lawns and Putting Greens,
High Priestess of the Glove and Sewing Machine,
Commander of the Host and Kid’s Auxiliary,
Archmaster of the Month of Halloween…”
So declared a voice quite clear and clean,
And punctuated by the tambourines,
Ten million titles, bold and flattering.
Before I saw her face or glamorous mien
Her voice had filled my heart with gasoline
And tossed a flaming torch that burned obscene,
An immolation worthy of her majesty,
A towering triumphal pyre to light the scene.
Then I felt the stress of her regard
Helpless as a pretty beetle in a jar
Before the gaze of beings from afar.
Her face, the space behind a door ajar
That opened to the center of a star.
The power of the Goblin, no bane or ward
can hold back. Powerless to hold my guard
I slipped, heavy as a pebble in a tarn.
She laughed and pranced, her regal garb
Flowed round her like the spinning yarn
told when deep in cups, jocund canard
constructed by an impish cackling bard.
She touched my hair, she touched my arm,
She made me incandescent, left me charmed,
Dumb and prostrate on her hunting ground,
An Aktaion at mercy of her hounds.
Her raiment was a thing of leaves,
Her petaled crown, her amber greaves,
Her aspen gown with golden seams,
Her gloves of lead and charnel dreams,
Her spear and shield of haunted eves,
Her bow and arrows, fletched and stringed
With parts from eldritch things that screamed
And piped like demon kettle steam.
I felt myself asunder torn
And gazed upon a world reborn
A blasphemy of noise and forms
Still inchoate, and stirring storms
But just as I was sure forlorn
Rang out a toot upon a horn!
Helas! I’d daydreamed deep into the morn,
My face, not even proper shorn…
“Hey dude! Fancy seeing you ‘round here!
Been readin’ what you wrote this year.
It’s pretty good – but man, those deer
Keep crossing at the fishing weir,
Fuck up my garden, can’t keep clear!
These dang old dogs just flee in fear…
Next time they bring themselves ‘round here
I’ll cut ‘em with my garden shears.”
She hugged me and she twirled away,
Marched off, and on her merry way
Toward the village on the market day,
Pups making effort to keep apace
And pilgrimed to their sporting place.
Full in the mist, she left no trace
Of her ostentatious, bold array,
But left her mark with her arete.