Wood Sprites
Background graphic and this one are the
copyrighted work of
Brian Froud
Please visit his website to view and purchase
his enchanted artwork.
It is twilight and the sun is slipping
into its nightdress,
yawning across these woods.
Wood Sprites whispering
we are the
beings of lightness.
Whippoorwills answering yes,
but, we see
you, hear you, none the less.
They who are like Feathers, barely there yet,
revealed
within the contours of the fading, waning light,
Etched and
enfolded in the advancing night ...
Wood Sprites!
Shapes, Half
cast in shadow and shade,
where they hide, reside all day.
Wrapped in the amber, sun burnt, haze.
They leap to life, uncoiling
from malaise
to frantic and amazing
and are in turn amazed.
Autumn Fairy by
Anne Stokes
Click on her name to visit her website.
Autumn their harvest
time,
ritual time ...
The Solstice Gathering.
These sprightly
folks,
faces with many moods,
smatterings of smirk and whiles,
half smiles and crinkly, wrinkly laugh lines, crows feet.
HA, HA, HA ... hilarious,
laughter is their favorite treat.
Bitter sweet.
They sigh and repeat their giggles, chuckling too.
"We sees you all, we teases you all,
in our own
kind of wood honed voodoo."
Wood sprites slumber in morning light
nodding in and out, only half awake.
Lost in their own daydreams and
illusions,
the stories they star in and create.
Vague by day,
defined by night.
They come alive to all their senses
at this
hour, Twilight.
The blue is deepening, streaking across the heavens,
azure fading into dusk.
The breeze
has stopped playing hide and seek
and has hushed and calmed itself.
It stops to ask us if we are sleepy,
waiting for its arms to rock
us.
Or does it mock us, for our need to rest, to dream?
Woodland critters no longer scampering, hurrying on.
They
have dragged weary feet along
looking for a place to night time nap.
Crawling into tree trunks, branches, caves,
Mother Nature's lap.
Crickets are heard to begin their song
and the owl has settled
on his favorite branch.
Awaiting the Moon's sweet providence,
given half a chance they would sing
their song acapella
all night long just for him.
Ah! But, wait, listen harder, hear!
See, looking over there, it begins.
It is the Dance of
Twilight and her spirits.
Some chanting, some whistling.
Their own
music made in their own sacred way.
A mix of what they know
and what they'd like to say.
The Wood Sprites, and Wood Nymphs are coming,
slipping out from their branches, their limbs,
over their bogs, stepping out of their logs,
homes of leaves and vines and twigs.
The
Magic of the Forest is speaking.
calling the Wood Elves, Pixies and Sprigs.
Mischievous, mirthful merriment on
their minds
but walking that ever constant line
between frolic and
mean.
These sprites cross back and forth
and fall sometimes,
somewhere,
some place in between.
Yes, that is who they are too,
shades of what they might have been.
This graphic, the Spriggins is by
Brian Froud
click on his name to visit his web site.
Lookout ye' Trolls for
these creatures
and the Spriggans among them.
They are the designated
ones
the rock throwers, bashers,
face smashers of the Trolls.
Trolls who bring mayhem and madness
to the woods, the marshes
the mangled and the marred,
the undertow, the crow.
It is the
Solstice Eve, Halloween
and all who believe
are here gathering
around the outer banks,
amidst the ranks of the mysterious
and
the observer.
Where Pumpkin smashing is about to begin
everyone
tastes its squish and squash.
.
Innards gobbled up and down,
drinking droughts of sap and maple syrup too.
Mugs of amber rich
and brown
rolled up pancakes dipped
in its goodness for dessert.
They dance in wild abandonment.
Spilling their gooey cups, as
they prance to
The Solstice Twilight Dance.
The Grigs are sent
to find the Trolls
who are to be punished for carving up the
trees,
wounding their spirits,
their wood sprites and stealing souls.
For all these offenses they will pay the Toll
of these Nature
breaking Trolls,
Their
groans and grunts of they will .
Soon to be faceless on this day.
Hallowed EVE!
Grigs drag trolls kicking, screaming to the circle
of stones.
Doom and gloom.
This graphic, the Spriggins is by
Brian Froud
click on his name to visit his web site.
The Spriggans make ready to smash their
faces
into the jagged rocks, with hopes of breaking nose bones.
Crushing them then to pumpkin pulp,
mash.
Troll'ses with curling frenetic toe'ses.
They
rise up screaming "we got's no faces.
We's no longer of
the trollkin races."
And burying their heads in their hands
they
stumble out of the circle.
No more big eyes to stare and gap
as
they rip and tear at startled prey
their hands to busy holding heads
unable to see, forever blind.
They once unkind, now and of that kind
dwell within their own hell, troll agony.
A nightmare, no more faces,
just pumpkin pulp traces.
Wood sprites always win in the end.
Trolls must learn the hard way
to stay out of their way
and
to
never hurt the trees or woods
if they want to live happily ever
after,
if but
they could.
Yet, such is there lot to stupidly do,
what troll
hearts do,
until the Wood Sprites come
and they to do,
what wood
sprites do
on Solstice Eve,
punish the defilers of the woods and
trees.
Ravens fly, crows do too,
caw-caw cawing,
baying with the
banshees at the moon.
The crickets tune drowns in every ones chants.
Goblins come to watch too and join in the dance.
Wood Sprites at
the height
and depth of their two sides,
both light and dark.
Merry, mean, and all that rests just somewhere,
out of reach and
in between.
Wood Sprites in their ritual time.
Twilight Dancing,
Troll face smashing,
it's no crime, its just deserts,
like trick
or treats, its Halloween!
By Lady LaMythica
March 29,
2000
Lady LaMythica,
a.ka. Linda A Copp © 2000-2020
Copyright Linda A Copp a.k.a. Lady
LaMythica 2000 to 2020©
The music you are listening to is
John Engelmann's "Deep
Blue"
Or Click on John's name to go to
his website!
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Linda A. Copp
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