WINTERFEST
In the cold dead of the winter
when numb, cheerless spirits darken
there a celebration beckons
just inside the vast Great Hall.
While about them, as they enter
thunderous winds resound a warning,
Armed with candles, love, and laughter
They don't hear the threat at all.
With the invitation spoken,
"May I lead you through the darkness?"
Joined as one, they gather closely
to remember what was past.
Flame to flame, the light grows brighter
with each telling of the story
of how bleak and dark beginnings
can, with love, become recast.
Such a gift for soul and body,
is this once a yearly feastday
when in celebration, Helpers from
Above and all Below;
Find communion in the promises
that ever will connect them
And security in secret vows
made many years ago.
Happy music fills the chamber
Smiling couples waltz in answer.
In a quiet corner, lovers
steal a moment for their own.
Games of chance or games of skill
beguile all children's eager nature.
Casks of wine and tables laden
do, for meager months, atone.
One by one, the candles dim; and
cozy sleeping chambers beckon.
Faces happy with renewal,
Stomachs full and spirits fed.
Drifting, each one to the other
as the final hour closes
There a farewell must be given
Before stealing off to bed.
Hand in hand, all come together,
an encircled benediction.
In remembrance of the coming Spring,
of winter's fury spent.
As twin oaken doors stood sentry
against the wind's forlorn entreaty,
so the music of this family soothed
the winter's sad lament.
*****************************
OCTOBER GIFT
A frosty air formed autumn's breath.
The sky, a bright October blue.
The leafy trees, in season's flame,
waved welcome with each sundry hue.
As many children, strangely dressed
emerged unseen to see the park.
Squinty-eyed, they faced the sun
as eyes conformed to light from dark.
Samantha, in an idle mood,
and lazy with the sun's caress,
preferred to lie on warming grass
enjoying autumn's wondrous dress.
White clouds adrift in azure seas
seemed herald for this perfect morn.
The playful leaves, red, orange, and gold,
Danced with the wind, aloft, skyborne.
The thoughtful child, while peaceful there
and grateful for the grand display,
Felt rising grief, unbidden,
dim the brilliance of this autumn day.
For down Below, few colors reached.
A sacrifice felt just by one
who only could imagine
flaming colors dancing in the sun.
He'd never seen the fiery maple
blaze against a frame of sky.
Or piled the colors just enough
to scatter them and watch them fly.
"October's gift to me," she thought,
"has beauty far too rich to keep.
So I'll gather up a portion
and deliver it when he's asleep."
"So when he wakens he will find
the first thing that his eyes will see
will be the gift of autumn's color
from October, and from me."
The next morn found him staring
at the middle of his chamber room.
Where, like a dream his eyes drank in
A blaze of colors full in bloom.
For by his bed, all brightly lit,
a tree unlike he'd ever seen.
Not maple, oak or walnut,
but a cross of something in between.
Somehow, a simple piece of wood
was carved into a trunk-like shape -
and many colored branches
were attached with yards of string, and tape.
And all around the bottom
many candles served as morning sun.
So Vincent could see easily
What nature's timely paint had done.
And all the while, Samantha peeked,
clandestine in her hiding place.
And though he uttered not a word,
She saw the wonder on his face.
She could not know his keener sense
had recognized her muffled laugh.
"Oh, sweet Samantha", Vincent thought,
"How pure your love on my behalf."
The children knew his "journal time"
was private, an unspoken law;
So when he opened up his pen,
she watched in rapt delight and awe.
Just before he closed his journal,
in ceremony of the ages,
He chose the brightest colored leaf
and pressed her love between the pages.
The moment hung in silence-
Each with love's assurance, heart-to-heart.
She learned that day a timeless truth -
the magic simple gifts impart.
October, 1994
*****************************
BELOW
One by one throughout the years
escaping cruel abuse or tears,
by some sweet chance they drift Below
to find warm welcome full bestowed.
Where hearts soon heal and spirits soar,
as memories fade of life before.
Below is mystery, faith, and dreams.
A world within a world it seems;
Where depthless, nameless rivers run,
and walls grant light without the sun.
Vast chambers where the winds begin
that hint not at the love within.
Each soul, a song of life unwound,
finds haven in this underground.
A young boy, mute, and fair of face,
forgotten by the human race
finds voice, and talent as a scout
of things the topside world throws out.
A mother lost and broken hearted
grieves for a child too soon departed.
Too blind, at first, to comprehend
how orphaned children could help mend
all broken hearts, both hers and theirs.
She mothers now, in answered prayers.
As nurse, companion, teacher; she's
a bedrock of tranquility.
One loving son, by birth's decree
maintains a father's legacy
of chattering pipes whose voice convey
if friend or foe be on their way.
The Tap, a language all its own,
that's only by the tunnellers known.
Strong and stout with ruddy face,
And lacking in some social grace,
is he in whom is manifest
true loving courage within his breast.
A master with a spice or hen,
he finds his joy in feeding men.
A woman of the friendless dark,
a lone, mysterious matriarch.
Eyes, cloudy as a sunless day,
behold the hidden entranceways
to whereabouts most only guess
do lie in our subconsciousness.
One native son, a dreamer born,
by nature was this family's thorn.
Completely insuppressible
his ache so inexpressible
to see and taste the things Above
He left for worlds yet unheard of.
In twenty years he came back home;
All questions asked, all pathways flown;
He'd never found men's wealth or fame
but riches in a father's name.
One quick to temper, quick to laugh
earned, by his love, his epitaph.
He sacrificed for tender friends,
their love a depth to comprehend.
What memory do we herewith render?
Devoted brother, friend, defender.
An artist with her colorbrush
stood painting in the silent hush
of smooth walled tunnels; capturing
each tunnel tale as it took wing.
Forever chronicled in stone,
their history, thusly kept, is known.
Disgusted with man's ignorance
He left it all behind, perchance
to genesis a new beginning;
Where truth and love set dull souls singing.
Where nourished minds learned brotherhood,
and children saw and understood
to look for good in everyone,
and no one lived or died alone.
He made all family with each other
and was known lovingly as "Father".
Great music, art, and literature
became his tender signature.
And yet, his fate held something more,
A son, adopted, to adore.
A different child, a race unique,
With noble face and body sleek.
The love between them palpable,
Through wrath and pain, unconquerable.
A miracle this son and father
Each one a student of the other.
One dark and magic wintry night,
A babe was found in rags wrapped tight;
As if to hide and not to warm
that tiny, unconventional form.
Leonine features patterned his face,
His frame defined immeasurable grace.
Yet, man's blind fear of the unknown
doomed him to die, a babe, alone.
But brought Below, his countenance
was seen as blessed circumstance.
A father's claim bestowed birthright;
With loving care, his soul took flight.
A gentle scholar he became
Despite shadows he could not tame.
A dual nature he endures
One guardian- and one saboteur.
A fragile balance ever fought,
With every ounce of courage bought.
Fiercely protecting life and limb
of all who love and shelter him.
The truest of these lives Above
The proof of purest, deepest love.
A silent bond two souls entwine,
His life, a vow lived - "I am thine."
His presence secret miracle
A love complete, a spirit full.
Her darkest night her deepest sea
of blessed serendipity.
Deep union forged, two saviors found,
one to the other. Fate had crowned
her princess to her tunnel prince.
Her life and heart ere' faithful since.
Enduring much, their lives two psalms -
of whatever happens, whatever comes.
A father and his foundling son
the symbols of a victory won.
Both rudder and an anchor be
to the entire community -
The father steers, the son secures,
With fortune's kiss, their world endures.
May, 1994
*************************************
WINTER'S TALE
Father, Father, would you please
tell us of that winter freeze
when our Vincent once was found
and brought to you all tightly bound,
wrapped in ragged, dirty cloth.
You bathed him, clothed him, fed him broth.
Entranced, you gazed upon his face
beholding strength, yet humble grace.
This babe, not needing map or chart,
had found his home within your heart.
He cried for three straight days, you said,
and you were worried; then the thread
of sweet relief as lullabies
from "Father" finally closed his eyes.
"My son", you whispered, staking claim,
and there both lives forever changed.
And in his bundled, dreamless sleep,
with terror stilled, contentment deep,
a wee, clawed hand wrapped round your thumb
Rewarding thus your soothing hum.
And so we sit, our hearts enthralled,
Imagining our Vincent - small.
The one that Fate had set adrift
instead, bestowed on us a gift.
That tiny bundle in the snow
began the magic here Below.
And, Father, there's just one more thing,
We never knew that you could sing...
January 12, 1995
************************************
FATHER'S GRACE
This is my tomb, you once complained
while pacing, pacing to and fro
I could but understand the pain
that darkened you here far Below.
A sunrise lived by others' words
brings faint and hollow sympathy
and only through a grate is heard
the Masters' graceful melodies.
What words have I to bid this gone,
to soothe your grievous yearning heart
you know not what you have, my son,
and what it means to be apart.
Into a dream have you been born
how men are meant by God to be
your soul was carved by truths timeworn
by those who love as family.
Above, small men their way have lost
their soul a bitter price to pay
ahead, ahead, at any cost
Above, alone at end of day
They leave the treasure that you seek,
(to walk unhindered by disgrace)
in search of "tombs" of which you speak
in search of love, and simple grace.
The peace upon us has brought tears
along the way. Yet, there's a spark
I've seen from you these many years
that light forever conquers dark.
You yearn for sunlit life and love
perhaps you'll never this outgrow;
but, while you ache to go Above
Up there, some ache to live Below.
April 13, 1994
***********************************
CLOTHES-MINDED
You're not caught in a squall
as you walk down the hall.
It's just Vincent a'scurryin' by.
What's so strange, as he goes,
He is changing his clothes!
In mid stride! In the blink of an eye!
How amazing to know
he's so able to show
such dexterity while on the run.
Wearing that, wearing this -
he finds nothing amiss
with five changes of clothes 'fore he's done.
Don't get hit by a boot
when he's in hot pursuit.
You'd be wise to step smartly aside.
Or you'll find your head dressed
with a low flying vest
or a brown leather belt, double wide.
So when Hurricane Vincent
runs past you insistent
on constantly changing his clothes,
Why not take a chance?
Try sneaking a glance
and you might be rewarded...who knows?
January 16, 1995
***********************************
NIGHT LIGHT
It causes some wonder, I'm forced to admit,
to see the park's tunnel so brilliantly lit.
I'd think that one hungry, or frightened, or cold
Would call that soft beacon a sight to behold.
It offers warm safety from foes or bad weather -
A place that might promise escape altogether.
The park has its patrons long into the night,
So why doesn't anyone check out this light?
Perhaps all the writers thought Vincent's persuasions
Would certainly scare off unwanted invasions.
These tunnels are home and they should appear cozy,
But how does one deal with the folks who'd get nosy?
Well, with WSOD I am happy to know
That no one will notice that beckoning glow!
I'll secretly smile at the message it sends -
It lights the way home to dear family and friends.
March, 1995
******************************
MARY'S BLANKET OF MANY COLORS
I saved this just for you, she said,
from when you were a boy.
Because this simple blanket gave you
such a special joy.
You never slept without it
and you dragged it through your day;
It was such a part of you
I could not throw the thing away.
For I came to understand, my dear,
the reasons for such love-
It had all the many colors
of the world you missed above.
For me, this simple knitted yarn
my job that must be done -
became for you the green of grass,
the yellow bright of sun.
The reds were rosy cardinals,
The blues your distant sky -
The purples dainty violets
The orange your butterfly.
And since I found it just today
in some forgotten chest -
You'll find it on your bed again
All cleaned and nicely pressed.
You may be grown, but dreams don't die -
So on some sleepless night,
Let this quilt of many colors
rouse again a child's delight.
June 19, 1995
************************************
FIRST SADNESS
Since I can offer you no choice
you must pretend you never heard
the note of longing in my voice,
Beneath the light and casual word.
And make-believe you do not see
The tremor of my fingertips-
And looking quietly up at me
Forgo the promise of my lips.
May 20, 1994
************************************
VINCENT'S SIMPLE THINGS
All lovely things are simple things
No matter what they are -
The sweep of birds uplifting wings,
the shining of a star,
the fragrance of a violet
the gentle drift of rain
the smile I love and can't forget
the peace that follows pain.
My chamber flushed with candlelight
and books stacked row on row -
a haven of simplicity
to warm me here Below.
An antique chest for yesterdays,
The Mouse-found cups for tea,
The music of the pipes 'oer head,
The way you look at me.
This is the fabric of my dreams,
whose slender patterns trace
Content across your life and mine -
with sure and simple grace.
***********************************
CHILDREN'S HOUR
It may be a fable, a poem, or a novel
It could be a soft allegory.
No matter the choice, there is nothing quite like it
When Vincent is telling a story.
"Oh, Vincent, please tell us of Ichabod Crane-
Of King Arthur, or Helen of Troy.
Oh, how can we choose between Kipling or Twain
There are so many tales to enjoy!"
"I know," mumured Vincent, "I seem to remember
this problem from when I was small.
In Father's snug lap I would list my requests
But there just wasn't time for them all."
"Well, what was your favorite," they clamored to know,
"Did he tell you of knighthood and duty?"
"Oh, no," Vincent smiled, "'twas a story of hope -
'Bout the love of a beast and his beauty."
The room became still as Samantha requested,
"I think that's what we'd like to hear."
"Ah,", Vincent responded, "that's just what I thought.
I'm ready - you all gather near."
So this voice of a thousand ages recites
to a sea of enchanted, young faces.
Eyes may be attentive but spirits fly free
As he takes them to faraway places.
Tonight it's a castle, a magical rose-
Tomorrow is anyone's guess...
But I have a feeling whatever's requested,
Will meet with a gently said, "yes."
September 30, 1995
***********************************
TUNNELCON III - A NEWCOMER'S PERSPECTIVE
As a newcomer to B and B
I had qualms of the sights I would see,
"Will I fit in?" I feared.
Are they strange? Are they weird?
I decided to play it low-key.
I got in to Las Vegas quite late
and I barely had met my roommate.
But she seemed rather normal
and with me quite informal
But the con was still up for debate.
Friday morning we all sauntered in
and I looked round the room with chagrin.
There were people in fur
And an emcee called Myhr
who had a cat-face where his should have been.
Then I muttered a rueful refrain..
and was looking to board the next plane.
But as it wore on,
I relaxed, whereupon
Pleasure silenced all need to complain.
Many strangers I soon had befriended.
As my earlier fears were amended.
To love Beauty and Beast
With no fear in the least...
How happy I was I attended!
Just for once, there were no looks askance
at my chatter on love and romance.
conversations insistent
on Catherine and Vincent
with no warning required in advance!
Art and zines filled a room wall to wall.
Cash in hand, I prepared for the haul.
It soon became clear
that bankruptcy was near.
But who cared? I was having a ball.
There was Edward and David and David
Who, it seems, had as much fun as we did.
to our questions, assenting
and for Peds AIDS, hell-benting
on getting that vital high bid.
We then gathered on Saturday night
To break bread over shared candlelight
It was so Winterfestive -
so highly suggestive
of how all different souls may unite.
For a moment, Above joined Below
As two couples, their faces aglow,
Blessed their babes with a naming.
In essence, a claiming
To family they'll never outgrow.
I'll admit that at first I felt mulish
My reception to babe-naming, coolish.
Then I thought, with persuasion,
It's a tunnel occasion...
And my previous doubts seemed quite foolish.
Well, by Sunday I had to admit
I was not at all eager to quit.
Hugs goodbye, letters vowed,
Friendships firmly endowed,
I found peace in a family close-knit.
Well it's over, this tunnelcon three
an entirely new ordeal for me.
What I saw! What I heard!
Can't believe it occurred!
California? Most definitely.
July, 1994
***********************************
Con-zeimer's Disease
(or, Where Am I and Who are All These People in Fur?)
What day is this? I'm in what state?
I'm sorry, what's your name?
Forgive me, but the fact
that I've not slept much is to blame.
It came on rather suddenly,
a few hours post arrival-
Soon stammering, my common sense
was struggling for survival.
Before the con, my mind was clear -
Safe in "non-con" reality.
It's "contime" now - so who snuck in
and switched my personality?
My memory is completely shot,
My manners need reschooling...
A bib would come in handy -
(well, you see, I have this drooling...)
I usually pride myself on names
but lately it's been tricky -
Wouldn't you agree Ann?
I mean, Julie...sorry, Vicky...
Don't let me hurt your feelings
for I mean no insult by it.
I've heard some sleep would help with this
Perhaps I ought to try it.
But not tonight; for that is when,
in our delicious torment,
we'll hold our nightly conference -
The "Anatomy of Vincent".
It's raunchy, yes, it's gutter talk.
We're shameless in our vision -
Tonight's key theme, "does It or not?"
We can't make a decision...
It's Sunday night, I'm fading fast -
Non-sequiturs abound...
My eyes are glued together
and my head's begun to pound.
My voice has gotten whiney,
I could laugh or I could sob -
I'm now the current poster child
for anything macabre.
My story's sad, my story's true,
So heed my admonitions -
Prepare to lose your heart and mind
at B&B conventions.
August, 1995
****************************
SPICE OF LIFE
It's said of wonders, there are seven
in all the world from sea to sea.
Yet there's another, undiscovered,
Found in William's special tea.
His secret blend, this heaven's nectar,
soothes away life's cares and woe.
It seems dear William's part magician,
weaving comfort spells Below.
For sometimes, one can feel quite churlish,
blind to all well-meant advice.
The world may fail, but not this cup
of fragrant herbs, and hints of spice.
It's now ingrained as family habit,
sending out a urgent plea -
"Feeling blue and nothing's working...
Please - a cup of William's tea! "
This burly cook, their wonder worker,
quietly goes about his day.
Feeding more than empty stomachs,
Loving more than words can say.
Peg McNabb
1994
*****************************
Hands
These hands are my hands," Catherine said,
as silent, grieving tears
remembered silken skin that bled
in distant youthful years.
"There is no shame in what you did,
confused by youthful fire.
It strikes more oft than not amid
such innocent desire.
I want you now to look at me
beyond your shame and fear -
and understand I do not see
a monster standing here.
I see a man of gentle birth
a man of noble mind.
With heart and soul of far more worth
than any of our kind.
I see a man whose life has paid
far more than he deserves -
and will pay on, I am afraid,
no matter what occurs -
Unless you hear the tender truth
Unless I make you see,
that life's too short to spend on youth,
Tis not your destiny.
These hands of yours were meant for love
I've felt your gentle touch.
And hope that you will take hereof
The love I feel so much."
Peg McNabb
February, 1996
*******************************
Dawn
Perhaps it was the moonlight there
a silver web of fragile thread,
which wove its way throughout her hair
and spilled in waves across her bed.
Perhaps it was two sleep-closed eyes
that watched a happy dream unfold,
or just the steady fall and rise
of sleepy breaths that made me bold.
But just tonight, I could not bear
the distance sleep provided her.
I could not think of anywhere
I'd rather be than next to her.
Night's friendly dark, afforded thus,
instilled an unfamiliar nerve,
At last I could imagine us
Surrender to what we deserve.
The balcony seemed then a place
too far away, an agony -
I knew I had to touch her face,
to gather close the world to me.
The balcony doors then opened wide,
as if we were of one accord.
In moments, I lay by her side
Next to the woman I adored.
She turns in dreamy silence while
her body spoons up close to me
And through our bond, I feel her smile
In quiet contentment peacefully.
She's so serene,, I do not stir
to keep the magic while I can.
Full soon the time will come to learn
Just what it is to be a man.
The night spans out before me now
content to wait until the dawn.
Until that time, I'll stroke her brow
and wait for her. She slumbers on.
Peg McNabb
February, '96
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
About the Author
Peg McNabb lives in Nashville, Tennessee with her 15 year old
daughter and has a 18 year old son who lives with his father.
Peg has been a fan of Beauty and the Beast since 1994 having
discovered the show during the Beauty and the Beast Valentine's
Day Marathon on the Sci Fi Channel. The show provided an
invisible hand-up out of an emotional "quagmire" that she was in
at the time and she considered it a godsend. Then, a few days
later, the poetry started to pour out. She had never written
poetry before, much less RHYMING poetry, but quickly became
hopelessly hooked on the whole creative process. She has a few
other poems that aren't online that have shown up in zines
(Beyond Beginnings II by Linda Barth) or they are being held for
future publication.
One of Peg's major projects is maintaining and updating The
Beauty and the Beast Directory, a 225 page hard copy publication
filled with addresses, fan responses about the show, and other
goodies. She is currently in the process of updating for the
second edition due out July, 1997, adding 1200 new names and 175+
e-mail addresses. If you are interested in being in the
Directory or obtaining one, please contact Peg at
mcnabbp@ctrvax.vanderbilt.edu or write her at her snail mail
address at 8074 Regency Drive, Nashville, TN 37221.
(I HIGHLY recommend buying one of these Directories. I honestly
could not live without mine! - BeastFan)