The Witch's Hat

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

“To me, a witch is a woman that is capable of letting her intuition take hold of her actions, that communes with her environment, that isn't afraid of facing challenges.” - Paulo Coelho

“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.” – W. B. Yeats

“Our life is what our thoughts make it.” - Marcus Aurelius

Now, as a child in the 1950’s one of the places I loved to visit, along with other kids on the street in Gillingham, Kent where we lived, was a park playground that had a Witch’s Hat roundabout, so-called for its conical shape;  it was banned in the 1980’’s on Health & Safety grounds. I

A favourite ride for children across the UK, a new ‘safer’ version of The Witch’s Hat can now be found at Wicksteed Park in Kettering.                                                   

                                                      Photo (c1950's) taken from the Internet

THE WITCH’S HAT

Singing on a witch’s hat,
eagerly scratching our initials,
to show we were here,
winging clouds and sailing seas, 
hoots of laughter driving
all four winds, magic of childhood
in the blood

Other roundabouts to try,
at world fairs no less likely to work 
their magic, but leaving us
feeling foolish, even taking fright 
at (eventually) sussing out  
its secrets, fuelling mind-body-spirit
with self-doubt

Round and round, again, 
only vaguely aware of killing time
in the wake of successes,
failures, safe houses letting us down,
disillusionment set to move in
till kinder life forces inspired to revisit
the witch’s hat

Midnight, owls in full flight
sounding out various human senses
even as they sleep,
winging happy memories, breathing
new life into mind-body-spirit,
an inspired motivation all but restored
in the blood

High noon, heart-and soul
a new dynamic, working its magic 
on us, having us engage
with hoots of owls as coos of doves
for clues to making the best
of past-present-futures as last seen sat 
on a witch’s hat

R. N. Taber, 2022

A Seasonal Magic

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[Update August 4th 2018: This poem was written before the effects of climate change began to make themselves well and truly felt...as during this, one of the hottest summers on record worldwide, Even so, every season in our lives is reflected one way or another in nature. In the latter, the keyword is renewal so, yes, I have no fear of death; pain, though, that is something else altogether.]

Some years ago,  I confided to friend (always an inspiration) on his 80th birthday that I sometimes felt scared of growing old. The lively 80 year-old in question told me not to worry. ‘Me, I think of myself as a tree going through its seasons, time after time, every one different and each, in its own way, as magical as any that have gone before,’ he said with a wry grin. .

‘What about winter?’ I asked sceptically.  

‘Time to enjoy a good rest and conserve our energy for whatever (or whoever) may be just around the next corner,’ came the unhesitating reply.

‘What if there’s no one and nothing?’ I persisted.

My elderly friend threw back his head and roared. ‘Well, if you’re that much of a pessimist it’s probably no more than you deserve.’

We both laughed, and I have never feared growing old since.

 (Image taken for the Internet)

A SEASONAL MAGIC

Often, as spring is fading,

I spot a face in clouds I know well,

as sure as a late lark working

the magic of its ages-old spell

Often, as summer is fading,

I hear a voice in my ears I know well,

as sure as a fine rain seducing

the trees with its ages-old spell

Often, as autumn is fading,

I feel caresses on my skin I know well,

as sure as a fair wind rising

to Earth Mother’s ages-old spell

Often, as winter is falling,

I surrender to an embrace I know well,

as sure as home fires reworking

what passes for an ages-old spell

Where a season’s colours fading

like the dream we knew only too well,

other lovers are discovering

the magic of its ages-old spell

[From: Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Book, 2012]

The Dancing Snowmen

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Today’s post appears on both blogs. After all, weren’t we all children once, we adults who should be pulling together to make the world a kinder, safer, better place for children everywhere?

Now, they say we discard the whimsy and magic of childhood once we grow up and start making our way in the real world.

Oh, yes? And what do ‘they’ know...?

(Image from the Internet)

THE DANCING SNOWMEN

I was rudely awakened 

one Christmas Eve by the rapid beating

of my heart and a tugging

at one frayed, striped pyjama sleeve,

but there was no one there,

no one at all, and then I heard someone

calling my name, ran to the window

and looked up into the sky

where snow was falling, moon blinking

between cotton wool clouds,

but no sign of Santa

so it couldn’t have been him getting

up to his old tricks

I looked down on the garden,

could not believe my eyes, the snowmen

dancing there, carrot noses

like the glow of old coal fires, chestnuts

where eyes should be,

lips reminding me of scarlet ribbons

I first heard tell of in a song

played on the radio only yesterday,

while on their heads

the snowmen wore hats of all shapes

and sizes, the sort

found in an attic. Me, I was already

lost in the magic

I shinned down a drainpipe,

didn’t feel cold at all, soon jigging away

at the Snowmen’s Ball,

a passing owl hooting its approval,

Man in the Moon

showing his face now and then, torchlight

in a steady, sleety rain,

looking for Santa, last seen heading...

(could be for my room)

so I’m saying goodbye to my new friends

returning, oh, so quickly

to where everyone’s favourite story ends

and its magic begins

Where childhood innocence dead and gone,

the dancing snowmen live on...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011