July 6th, 2001

It was a sky that spoke of witches-
on brooms,
or dancing around caldrons.
The bright, full moon that illuminated the edges
of the darkest clouds
could be felt, more than seen.
And, tasting the air, you would swear by the flavor
of red leaves and first frost-
or by the scratching of wool on your arms
that the calendar lied when it said
most of July still lay before you.

These are the nights of the summers of the North
and when the clouds roll away
you are bathed in the glow of countless tiny lights-
some with wings, others set in their place in the firmament.
You look to the sky and know,
without doubt,
that the same sky that spoke of witches
on brooms or dancing around caldrons
is now speaking of you.
And one summer, on one night
in the North,
surrounded by stars and fireflies,
you find your place in Eternity.




-Elise Tisdale

Hi Elise,

You've truly captured a quite magical night here in your poem; and you are to be commended for both a fine job of sharing it through your words, as well as having held on to and nurtured your "inner child" enabling you to be so in touch with the magic! Are you sure it wasn't July 5th, as that's my birthday and I'd like to think such magic was in the air then, also (of course it was, right?)?

Namaste,
Jazzy

Elise,
truely a magical mystical fun night. You've captured it!
good job!

Mary...aka Ladybug

Hi Elise.
This touched me strangely deep enough to stop reading for a few seconds as a very dear friend of mine always used to address me as "the witch" in his letters. Of course this has nothing to do with your..hmmm...indeed fine impressionistic poem. I specially loved the sneeky calendar-line. May I ask where exactly you live if it's that cold there in June? Fargo?
siren.

Sorry. July.
siren

Thanks for your feedback. I'm glad people seem to like this one. When I wrote it, I thought it was one of my better ones, but then I fell into that awful rut of once I finish something I start to hate it and feel like I could do a thousand times better. My best friend does the same thing with her art work and we commiserate about it. Anyway, I'm from a little town in Maine, and usually by July it is pretty warm, but you do get those odd chilly nights that require you to pull out a sweater and turn on the heat in your car...

Hi, I am on a many years long hunt for the poems "Old Man Mountain" and "The Bells of San Gabriel" (sp?) If you have any idea who these are by or where I might find them, please let me know.