Dream Cabin in the Woods

Dawn breaks on the cabin blanketed in brilliant unbroken snow. Sea of white clasping emerald conifer gems. A blank slate for us to fill with whatever takes our fancy.

Playing like kids in the snow until we’re hot, cold and rosy.
Peeling off the isolating layers. Waking the embers from their dozing.
Snuggling close to the fire. Exploring each other’s lust.

Free to live a shared fantasy. As winter night falls, silvery moonlight plays on skin. Wolves howling passions release sing. Soaring counterpoint to the warmth within.

As two heart’s find safe rest in the dream cabin in the woods. 


Inspired by a comment about snow as blank paper, another comment about seeking new paths, daring to dream new dreams. The winter vistas I’m surrounded with, and the image at The Sunday muse #145.

It’s been mostly poetry lately so I felt like writing prose and flash fiction. Choosing the 100 word length.


Tomten Wonders – A Golden Shovel Poem Inspired by Viktor Rydberg, 10 December

©Jonas Norén

Holy Midwinter Night
Your long dark cold is hard
Lonely stars sparkle and shimmer
Dream dust glimmer on all sleeping
In house and barn, the dog in the lonely yard
Lending light to inky night, hours deep
Think toiling late into midnight hours

Vigil kept by the Moon
Bathed in her silver boon, as she wanders her silent whir
Midwinter night, when the snow glows white
painting on pine and fir
Inky shadows and bright light, as snow glows white
Shimmering stars on roof thatch
All dreaming, only Tomten keeps watch

In the snowy night all is silent
Gaia sleeping is
White blanket over wood and plain
Hiding all life
Snug in barrows, as out there
All is still, all is frozen

Slowly from afar only
The murmur of the waterfall
Dreamt as much as heard
Winters death as slow soughing

To thrumming of deep meaning Tomten listens,
half awake and half in a dream
Midwinter Night’s eternal seem
Giving visions to hear
The ebb and flow, life’s echo, of the eternal time stream

Tomten wonders,
from where life came and where it’s going
Tomten wonders,
if Gods or humans where the source
of where the world is is flowing


I had a different vision. But the influence of Tomten was undeniable. And I felt the kind, caring gaze of the farmwifes of my childhood. Living in just that type of isolated farm. Learning me old folktales mostly forgot.
They would have smiled at my folly. Hugged me. And told me, if I put myself in the attention of the unseen, I’d best be willing to pay my due.
So, I sent a message via my muse that all I wanted was to share the wonder of Midwinter, to give Tomten his chance to deep brooding and rest. Without all those Lutheran work ethic lessons.

The poem is a Golden Shovel. The last words of each line are, in order, words from a line or lines taken, another poem. For my piece I choose the first and the penultimate verse of Tomten by Viktor Rydberg. I started with translating them, since I found no translation I thought good enough. Below you’ll find those two verses.

Midwinternight’s cold is hard
Stars sparkle and shimmer
All sleeping in the lonely yard
Deep into midnight hours
The Moon wanders her silent whir
The snow glows white on pine and fir
Snow glows white on roof thatch
Only tomten keeps watch

Silent is wood and plain, all
life out there is frozen
From afar only the waterfall
Heard as slow soughing
Tomten listens, and half in a dream
seem to hear the eternal time stream
Wonders, where it’s going
Wonders, where the source is flowing

©Viktor Rydberg, first published in 1881. Translated by RedCat

Notes on the text

After untold hours reading I decided to keep the Swedish word Tomte. Even Astrid Lindgrens prose version from 1961 is titled “The Tomten”.
Simply because there is no equivalent in English. Tomten is neither gnome, goblin, elf or Robin Goodfellow as in this old translation. Tomten might be mischievous or outright revengeful if treated badly. But mostly he was seen as part of the place, a valued knowledgeable farmer, a paragon of Lutheran work ethics.

Today we see Tomten with a red cap, but Tomten of old was not so garishly dressed – then everyone would have seen him all the time.
The poems second verse start with – “Stands there so gray by the barn door, gray against the white drift”

There is also the word Nisse, which today is much conflated with Santa’s Elves.
Anyhow, a Nisse was so to speak, never the Tomte in charge on a farm, at least in Sweden.

Also linking to Open Link #280 – LIVE! at dVerse.

Searching For A Way – 8 December

Photo by Nikhlesh Tyagi from Pexels

Searching for a way
For the right words to say
I long for the dawn of a new day

Searching for a new life
Passionate, loving, without strife
Filled with strobing nightlife
Abundant wildlife

Searching for a new dream
Asking guidance of a moonbeam
For the path where creativity teem


Right now life feels small, cold and lonely for many, and for me. So I tried for some hope, light and life in today’s Advent Calendar poem.

The midwinter darkness has felt exte oppressive lately. The unseasonable warmth keeps the skies grey and foggy rather than the crisp, nipping, sunny air the season should have (unless there’s snowfall of course).
Today I read that the instruments in Stockholm and several other cities have measured ZERO sunhours in December.

So a warming climate makes the winter darkness more oppressive, by denying us the few hours of sunlight, robbing us off the white cover, starving us from reflected moonlight. A full moon can make a clear snowy December night brighter than an overcast December midday.

Some days I have hope for a new spring, perhaps next summer without a pandemic looming. A world coming together on the pandemic and the climate.
Other days, when the sun has not been seen for more than a week. I feel cold desolation, touch deprivation and failing hope. A world gone to smoking cinders, cascading ecological disaster, all ending in an egotistic whimper.

Not knowing to hope or despair, over the fact that the human race has its destiny in its own hands.

The road might be long and windy,
but with will and intention
we can make the journey the point,
not an unforeseeable future goal.

The Sea is Gray

Photo by Ray Bilcliff from Pexels

The sea is gray and foaming at the tips, in the late November gale.
The wind tries to push me over the embankment, into the chilling,
killing waters.

Like a leaf blow about, my feelings flutter.
Cold and gray isolation. Touch deprivation.

Can one soul, separated apart, weather coming winter storm alone?

The wind turns northly
Clear, sharp, turning the air stark
Cold, dark winter falls

© RedCat

Written for tonight’s Haibun challenge over at dVerse.

Boreas – The North Wind

© RedCat

The north wind
Fall haze dissipates

Turns to fog
Life giver

Turns to snow
Morphs to ice
Stars proclaiming winter

Pattering of leaves
Swirling in the wind

Glittering like jewels
Sparkling as diamonds

Sharp in the gusts
Cutting skin



Beware storms that heralds winter
Wind chills
Gales blisters
Winter storms kills

Nest beneath
Dark and snow

Reflect what will have to go

Nurture to bud in spring

New life to bloom within

© RedCat

I took a walk earlier today, just to experience the weather turning, temperatures dropped more than ten degrees Celsius in less than an hour. The first taste of winter. As I walked I half composed this piece in my head, while wondering if I could somehow fit it to tonight’s dVerse prompt.

Whole body lusts

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Living alone through the long dark winter
No friendly hugs, even considered
Suffered untouched through the long dark cold
Warm thoughts alone keeps from withering old
Cuddly wishes through the long cold season
Sublimed into ache, into dreams of sexual completion

Light slowly returning after long dark winter
Friendship shows up, unexpected encounter
Eyes connect after eons alone
Soul rings in rising libido tones
Skin on skin, open floodgates in heart
Embraced again, all composure fall apart

Spring sun warms after long lonely moons
Vision breaks of languid sensual afternoons
Hand teasing all the right places
Lips leaving fiery passion traces
Desire shines clear to minds eye
Whole body lusts for a lover between my thighs


Photo by Rakicevic Nenad on Pexels.com

Memories of snow and ice


Swirling flakes
Sussuration of snow
Gently blanketing

Winter forest
Branches snap and crack
Snowladen bowers

Cold sunrise
Sun glittering on drifts and icicles
Gentle hush

Kaleidoscope day
Children laughing and tumbling
Snow play

Frozen lakes
Deep reverberating boom shifts
Nature slumbers

Deep drifts
Harbouring returning light and life
Awaiting spring thaw


Written for weekly challenge: SOLASTALGIA – Vanishing Homelands at earthweal.

I tried to imagine myself telling great-grandchildren about my snow filled childhood winters. I’m quite sure we haven’t had the last white winter, that photo is only four years old, but if we don’t change our ways, the snow-less pitch-dark winter of 2020 will be the norm.

Pansarbjørne visitor

Image Source

Silver light
Shining, sparkling, revealing
Human wreckage, no future

Deepest winter
Searching, roaring, defending
Come to save kindred

Old home
Warming, thawing, changing
Polar bears place lost

Without hope
Hurting, starving, dying
Mourning lost ice life

Different world
Snowing, freezing, theming
Without thinking destroying ape

Deepest winter
Warning, thawing, changing
Mourning lost ice life


Written to the beautiful image from Sunday Muse # 94. I really wanted to write something with a little hope in it, but that seems so hard right now.

Then for some reason, one particular bear came to mind. And I tried to imagine him or one of his Pansarbjørne-kin to come and rescue our polar bears.

Also I’ve been practicing writing didactic Cinquains and ended up by trying my hand at a Garland cinquain.

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