Winter’s child is awakened by cold and dazzling frost

She stirs, then rises, finding earth’s glory thus embossed

With icy drops of dewy white encapsulated by the cold

Winter's whimsy spreads wide, greeted by a joyful soul.

❄

She hums a merry tune of the new seasonal delights

Immerses in the frosted spirals, marveling at the sight

She beckons the crisp cold air, breathing of its magic

The season enraptures her heart in beauty most ecstatic.

❄

She dances and she frolics, a wispy fairy on the lawn

A frosted rose in winter, enchantment visualized at dawn,

No words can do her justice as she moves and sways

The allure of her rime riddled rhythm, bids winter stay.

❄

Frost begins to melt at visions of the fair, winter child

Emboldened by her receipt, it dares dally to visit for a while,

In reply, the wind whips about, whispering through the trees,

“Happy Winter, Child of Mine, this day is yours to seize”.

Winter’s harsh breath steals across the land so vast

In chilling whispers beckoning beneath an icy blast

Frost harkens back life and death in one fell swoop

A new season strikes to conquer in a winning coup.

A red burst beyond upon a tree branch signals a call

As it breaks free of frost, holding fast to a fading fall

Its color looms stark against the white and snowy dew

Seeking instinctive survival in the icy, wintry view.

Frost covers nature's allure to blend the two seasons -

Edge of fall’s demise meets winter’s birth, finding reason

To propel change found in dewy frost and bitter cold,

A well-executed web spun within creation’s fickle mold.

Cynthia Calder, 11.18.24

My sweet Coco was much like a feline deity, born from ancient days of Egyptian glory. His beauty, elegance, and massive ability to love surpassed boundaries, leaving their mark in a connection beyond the norm. I always swore he was smarter than any human I knew. Somehow, he could convey his needs and thoughts in a telepathic way that amazed even me. Coco and I had a deal: whoever went first needed to return and visit the other. He has remained true in this promise, visiting in my dreams when least expected. Needless to say, the reunions are achingly bittersweet.

I have always been fascinated by F. Scott Fitzgerald - and with his clearly detailed preoccupation of love, clearly demonstrated in his works. Herein lies a fictionalized account of Fitzgerald's possible musings on just such a topic.

*“I'm not sentimental--I'm as romantic as you are. The idea, you know,

is that the sentimental person thinks things will last--the romantic

person has a desperate confidence that they won't.”

― F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise*

Mariposa was seated at a small, round table in the Café Secretos in Tarragona, Spain, patiently awaiting the arrival of her date. Tarragona, though somewhat small, was a busy city nonetheless due to the bullfights. It was entirely possible Santiago had been delayed by unforeseen events since he was employed by El Arena Tarraco where the bullring was housed. Looking toward the door but not seeing Santiago, Mariposa reassured herself he would arrive very soon. He had promised, after all, tonight would be a new beginning and a very special night. Even though the two had known each other for a year now, previously having met through mutual friends, this evening would be their first date.

Mariposa drank from her glass of Sangria, enjoying its blend of rich, fragrant wines embodied with hints of fruit and aromatic spices. Despite steadily sipping of the wine's essence as she waited, she was unable to quell the butterflies floating about in her stomach. The anticipation to see Santiago only seemed to grow by the minute. She looked forward to whatever an evening spent with him might bring. Love....or el amor....was a splendid feeling.

A bit nervously, Mariposa glanced about the dimly lit room, her attention focusing on the wall to the right. On it hung a beautiful painting of a brave torero or bullfighter. A vibrant, red cape draped the torero’s arm, seeming to sway with motion despite the stillness of the artwork. The artist had accurately captured the bull’s furious eyes as he poised on the precipice of an attack, his horns thrust forward. The painting was so lifelike, a shiver ran down the length of Mariposa’s spine. Quickly, she diverted her eyes, finding refuge in an uninteresting map of Tarragona covering the left wall. She had never much cared for the bullfights despite their popularity and found even such renditions of their brutality revolting.

Drinking from the Sangria, her attention was drawn to two men who sat conversing at another table in the corner. They drank from beautifully etched crystal glasses filled with the Green Fairy or Absinthe. While no law had been passed outlawing the liquor like in Paris, the milky green alcohol was still considered by many to be taboo, its effects strong and unpredictable. One gentleman was handsome, tall, and blonde-haired, while the other was shorter, stockier, had dark hair, and wore a mustache. Whatever the two men discussed, it was obvious to any who observed their conversation was heated. Eventually, the stockier gentleman rose in haste, clearly agitated. His chair thudded as it fell to the floor as he abruptly vacated the café.

A bit surprised by their public disagreement, Mariposa quickly looked away, again hoping to see Santiago coming through the doors. Such was not the case. Curious, she glanced back at the lone remaining gentleman. The man locked eyes with her, gave a charming smile, and shrugged his shoulders. When she somewhat timidly returned his smile, he rose, straightened the overturned chair, and then picked up his drink before leisurely heading her way.

“May I sit for a bit, señorita? I fear my friend has unexpectedly left me all alone, and I find myself in need of companionship,” he flashed a charming smile and not waiting for her answer, he took a seat at her table.

Mariposa was surprised yet again by the man’s boldness but did not wish to rouse a scene. “Sí,” she reluctantly agreed but then quickly added, “Please know, however, my date will arrive very soon, señor.”

“He’s a lucky man - your date, my dear,” the tall, slender man said as he settled himself more comfortably. “By the way, the name's Scott,” he said with a brilliant smile. Mariposa was sure such a handsome face and charming smile had impressed many a woman wherever this man traveled.

“Buenas noches, Scott. My name is Mariposa,” she said, introducing herself.

“So, Mariposa, are you waiting for your sweetheart - tu novio?” he asked. It was obvious from the man’s voice he was American.

“Oh, no – I mean sí!” Mariposa blushed as she answered him with a shy smile. “But this will be our first date, señor.”

Silence reigned for a long moment as the man seated before her returned her gaze, as though studying every nuance or look in her dark eyes. In the background, lovely strains of a Spanish guitar filled the air, enhancing the silence of the moment and the next words the man spoke.

With exerted concentration, the handsome gentleman began, “Ah, but el amor is so very splendid and beautiful when it’s young, is it not, Mariposa? Even still, as time passes, it so often becomes such a damning element that leads our lives.” His glorious smile dimmed. “I should know, you see,” he added as he held, holding up his left hand so she could see the ring, which indicated he was married. He shook his head and pushed loose strands of falling blonde hair back. “At best, you can’t live with love, and you can’t bear to live without it either.” His handsome smile returned, albeit a bit ruefully, with the last declaration.

Mariposa was uncertain how to respond. Who was this American and why did he have such a dismal view of love? El amor or love was a wonderfully captivating emotion. More so, why was this man inclined to share his personal, sad reflection of love with her? It was obvious he’d drunk far too much. Mariposa surmised such was most likely the reason he and his friend had argued. Mayhap it was a subject of love about which they had argued.

“Señor,” she began, but the man immediately held up his hand, interrupting.

“Please, I insist you call me Scott, my dear,” he said, his blue eyes entreating in his supplication.

“Scott,” she said hesitantly. “Perhaps you’ve had a bit too much to drink.” Mariposa looked around the room nervously, as though she were doing something illegal. “Isn’t this drink… this absinthe…era muy mala, sí, Señor” Mariposa whispered as she pointed at the milky, green drink on the table in front of him, indicating the drink was very bad for any who drank of it. She would never dare to drink of the dangerous, green drink.

Scott rose his glass, staring in wonder at the green drink it held. “But my sweet, young señorita, did you not know such intense and glorious pleasures are derived from the depths of the dangerous and the forbidden?”

Mariposa blushed at his words and quickly changed the subject. “Where is your wife tonight, señor…Scott?” she corrected herself.

The man gave another rueful smile. “I fear she finds her glorious pleasures in the forbidden as well, but unfortunately, just not with me,” he sighed. Mariposa felt it embodied an immeasurable depth of regret and unrequited love. Scott continued, “Alas, my wife has scampered off in an unknown direction with her friends in hopes of more exciting times. She grows weary of intense, heated discussions betwixt my friend and I - as you have just witnessed.”

“I see,” Mariposa said, genuinely feeling compassion for this man and his misfortunes in friendship and love.

“But do you, Mariposa? Do you really, really see?” Scott asked, watching her and awaiting an answer.

Not sure how to respond, Mariposa once again steered the conversation in a new direction. “Why are you in Tarragona, Scott? You’re not from here, but do you work here?” she asked.

“Si, Tarragona is a lovely city, its sea so inspiring and relaxing. I am visiting my dearest friend while attempting to write my novel, my dear – at least on good days. On bad days, like today, I drink more than I should and also argue more than I should with my friend." He laughed before taking a drink of absinthe again before continuing. "I suppose one could say that I tend to drink - and argue – all too frequently.”

“Oh! You are a writer! ¡Que interesante! It must be so interesting to be a writer. Por favor…..please tell me what your novel is about.” Mariposa was genuinely interested.

Scott smiled his beautiful smile and nonchalantly leaned back, obviously pleased by her keen interest. “Well, should I tell you, my sweet? It’s a topic we’ve discussed this very night and about which I’ve argued with my best friend. You see, I love writing about love. Do you not find it ironic, considering the poor view of el amor I’ve been painting?”

Mariposa nodded. Indeed, she did find it ironic. How strange such a man – with such a disparaging view of love - would choose to write books about it. Then again, el amor was a wonderful topic, discussed by many scholars and artists throughout the years.

“Please allow me to explain a bit, my pretty Spanish butterfly,” Scott said, his elbow casually propped on the table as he stared intently at Mariposa. “I write about el amor, my dear, because I cannot help but do so. I fear I am a hopeless romantic who refuses to give up on achieving love’s wondrous bounties in my life.” He relaxed in the chair as he drank from his drink again before continuing. “I have a prevailing need to know and understand love, to have it fill me to the depths of my being. I crave love with a passion, with an intense need extending beyond food.” He picked up his nearly empty glass and waved it in the air. “And believe it or not, sweet Mariposa, I crave el amor more than I crave even this foolish poison.”

Scott emptied his remaining drink before adding, “Hope for such things springs eternal, does it not?”

Before Mariposa could respond, however, he rose, declaring it was time for yet another drink before making his way to the bar. She watched as he ordered another glass of absinthe, wondering how much he could actually drink before he succumbed to the heavy drink’s effect. While Scott lingered at the bar, Santiago entered the café, immediately finding and joining Mariposa at her table.

Mariposa rose, sweetly kissing Santiago’s cheek. The smile she gave assured him she was pleased beyond measure to see him.

“I am so sorry I’m late, querida. I was detained at work,” Santiago said.

Mariposa smiled. “No es una problema. It is not a problem - you are here now, and I am so happy to see you, Santiago.”

The two were so focused on each other they failed to see Scott approach the table. Pausing, he interrupted the two, taking a moment to introduce himself to Mariposa’s newly arrived date. In his hand, he held a fresh drink of absinthe.

“I see tu novio – or rather, your amigo or your friend - has arrived,” Scott said, giving Santiago a smile and extending his hand in greeting.

“I fear my companion left unexpectedly, and since I was a bit lonely, señor, I insisted Mariposa keep me company until you arrived. We enjoyed a very interesting conversation on the question of love. I may very well have bored her with my recitations and earnest opinions.” Scott laughed with his words.

Santiago’s brow rose in surprise, but nonplussed, Scott continued. “I shared my secrets with your lovely Mariposa for you see, I am a hopeless romantic. I truly believe el amor will win the day for all. Do you not agree, señor?" But Scott didn't await Santiago's response. "Ah, I can see from the way you look at this delicate and beautiful Spanish butterfly, this may well be true.” Suddenly, Scott gave a gracious bow and with the utmost sincerity, he added, “I pray el amor will triumph in your lives for it is most easy to discern it’s already an eager bud on the precipice of a full and beautiful blossom.”

Just like that, as suddenly as he had appeared at their table, Scott was gone, heading back to his own table. The friend with whom he’d argued earlier had returned and waited for Scott to rejoin him. As Scott neared the table, his friend rose. The two men hugged and laughed as they patted each other's back. Resuming their seats, they began another intense conversation.

Mariposa nervously turned to Santiago. The look on his face was not what she had expected. Instead of anger or even irritation, Santiago watched in her in wide-eyed amazement.

“Santiago, por favor,” she began. “Please. I did not know how to tell him to leave after he sat at my table. He began to talk about such serious things like love, and I found him to be such a sad man, always hoping and searching for love.”

Santiago continued to stare in disbelief. “Mariposa, do you not know who that señor is?” he asked, clearly amazed Mariposa appeared none the wiser.

“No,” she shrugged. “He said his name is Scott, and I know he’s an American, but…...”

“Querida, he is none other than the famous American writer, F. Scott Fitzgerald – and, he’s now sitting with Ernest Hemingway, another famous American writer. The two are well known throughout Tarragona for their carousing ways and heated conversations. They drink nothing but absinthe and champagne all day and night – or so the story goes,” Santiago said as he eyed the two men with open curiosity.

“F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway? No, I do not know who they are, but Scott did say he is a writer.” Mariposa watched the two men seated across the room, a new view of Scott taking root. She needed to buy one of his books just to see how he wrote about el amor. She may be wrong, but she was sure his writing would prove to be encantador - or ever so lovely.

Mariposa glanced at Santiago and with conviction, she said, “Famous American writer or no, I’d much rather be sitting here with you, Santiago. Together we will enjoy beautiful night.”

Santiago picked up Mariposa's hand and kissed it sweetly. “And I would rather be with you, querida. Still,” his brows rose as he added, “not just anyone can say that they met F. Scott Fitzgerald and discussed love on their very first date! Maybe you should write about this famous encounter, Mariposa.”

“No, I don’t think so. I will leave the writing to the two experts,” she said. The couple laughed as they began their first night of many shared nights ahead.

As though borne from a moment of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s most profoundly prophetic words, a lifetime of deep, abiding love and long years together was in the stars for Mariposa and Santiago. And who can really say for sure? Perhaps it was all because of one hopeless romantic’s words, spoken on a fateful night so long ago, this couple’s love triumphed to such beautiful heights precisely as predicted. Regardless, there is little to no doubt F. Scott Fitzgerald would have been immensely pleased, even though a wee bit envious, too, of the love discovered by these two over the course of long lives spent as one.

*“They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.”

― F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise*

Cynthia Calder, 11.22.24

A crisp frost creeps over land in winter’s first

Early morning movement one December dawn

Falling on flowers, like sleeping lovers entangled

Wrapped in the ice of morning like chilled pawns

They find no warmth of revival beside the other,

Caught in the veil betwixt life and winter's charm.

Unaware, they sleep as lovers seldom do

Dreaming dreams of sun and fresh-kissed dew

Within the morning light, they shine as one

From effects of dew and winter's frost anew

Emboldened by the moon's revolving dance,

Discarded flowers lay where they were strew.

Flowers intertwined on a frosty, wind-chilled day

In a display of untold depths, they seek to invade

Youth’s fading light, forever bound in visions of

Frozen flowers lingering 'midst winter’s shade

To silently signal the dawn of day's new birth

Within the substantiality of beauty well weighed.

In a gathering of souls who recognized and sang to mine

I heard echoes of ages long past and words supremely divine.

Whispers of shared secrets ’til then remained undivulged

But in a glimpse of perceived awareness were firmly nudged

Toward a well-honed life able to shed its own sustaining light

Amidst wiser old souls glimmering far brighter in the night.

Picture Courtesy of Jenikmichal, Pixabay

Cynthia Calder, 11.02.24

Double, Double Toil and Trouble

The spoon’s encased in gnarly knuckles

Something's cooking – you ready to eat?

Promise the gamey taste can’t be beat.

The witch cackles and it lingers all around

Shivers run up and down at the sound

Steam rises from the huge, coal black pot

Holy hell – please don't say this is your lot.

“Come hither, dearie,” a crooked finger begs.

Fear invades, there’s no sensation in your legs.

“You’ll not feel a thing,” she says and cackles.

“You’re more plump and juicy than the apples.”

Eyes wide, you shake with fear and stumble back

You don’t want to be this old hag’s midnight snack

Your mouth opens wide to produce a scream -

Then you wake – thank God it’s but a dream.

Staggering, you head to the kitchen for a wee drink

Cause the old hag managed to take you to hell's brink;

The door swings wide - you can’t mask your surprise,

There stands the wicked witch in her insatiable guise.

Fated lovers pause

’Midst moonlight's painted glow -

Star scattered skies and

Dual moons mirrored,

Hunting twin souls afar -

Two hearts, one beat -

Over deserts and destined pathways,

Mountains, seas, and skies,

Submitting to the moon's direction

Draped in love's fateful guise.

As though entwined, two hearts

Leap to the beckoned echoes

Of a hunter's moonlight,

Quivering, glowing, gleaming

As flower petals fall,

Stretching far over skies

That seek only to divide.

Twin souls and twin hearts

Find the intersecting solace,

Crisscrossing and aligning

'Neath one fated moon,

As they answer love's

Destined, gallant call.

Cynthia Calder, 10.17.24

There was one rule: don’t open the door.

It was mandated by her brother, Xander – and temptation incarnate for Dahlia.

Xander was odd, and he'd become prone to outbursts – red flags much like the red door. Today, however, he’d be gone, so Dahlia moved toward the door. The house was hers - she had every right to open it.

The doorknob twisted in her hand. A growl. What the bloody….. The door opened, and Dahlia was assailed by noxious odor as eyes focused on a crazed reflection - herself.

One thought invaded: it’s ourselves we should fear most……

"Love is a magic ray emitted from the burning core of the soul and illuminating the surrounding earth. It enables us to perceive life as a beautiful dream between one awakening and another." Kahlil Gibran

....

Two lovers, kindred in spirit, though separated, speak to one another across the vast realms of parallel worlds.....

I can see you! Though first hidden in the depths of my mind, you now linger on the wind.

Echoes of a lover, for lack of anything more, this is the best residual image I can send.

I long to know you, hold you, breathe in your scent beneath the glorious, sun-filled sky.

Until then, I’ll send clouds of my love billowing overhead, so you'll know I tell no lie.

But shall we, two linked souls, ever truly meet, perhaps on the edge of the ocean’s shore?

If hope manifests and bestows kindness, then yes, our two worlds will open the doors.

Despite your kind words, formidable despair steps into my heart, evolving only to invade.

Don’t let fear overcome what you’re aware of, nor should you doubt the love you crave.

You speak words of encouragement, but tell me: is it what your heart truly knows?

I believe we two souls, like twin stars in two galaxies, do exist; we are not faux.

In the sun, you’ve made me glow with a smile. Shall I send my love to you on its rays?

No need, my sweet, for I'm already wrapped snugly in your love's overwhelming array.

Separate souls, two lives, two beings are we - though we're apart, our hearts beat as one.

Despite the vast distance in parallel planes, one day, together our time will be spun.

When that celebrated day arrives, I’ll clasp you tight in a moment most divine.

And then, like our love, we two, ever twain, shall coexist in a world so sublime.