Ten p.m. drapery of fog

Mere inches ahead

In an obscured backyard

Now unfamiliar territory

Feeling freaked

And not reassured

By my dogs’ growls

Peering through concealing mist

Goliath-sized creature

Wings slowly lifting

Smudging the sky

I close my eyes

As it ascends into the dense ceiling

Almost hearing the futile pounding

Of the waning crescent

On its stubborn Impenetrability

Dogs begin a low protest

Crescendoing into a shattering howl

Live Oaks dwarfed

By what can only be

A dragon in the fog …


© 2017 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)

Image:  The Mist Dragon, Andre Ma, Deviant Art



Never use these words, says Gran

Only in dire emergency

She says in the Romani chib:

“Open the door to Arcana”

In my dazed state

The word eludes me

English tangles with

Two family dialects

Kalderash and Sinte

So I come up with Piro Hudar Arcane

Will have to do


I walk to the edge of the fog

Gran said, Doesn’t matter what country or town

The fog is yours

Three times turn

What’s your favorite number?



Chant shtar times for protection

Her voice fades


Early, early in morning

Galbi—gold—in ears and wrists

Step over the vaporous border

Turning, holding

Bal, mutra, shungar, rat

Lock of my still long silver crown

Secret fluids contained inside

Blood of my ancestors

All long ago died


Am I wasting this one chance

Do I really need help

Gran’s voice again

Call help, look up

And listen

See who comes

Here is a coin

Keep it forever

Bring it into the fire

Of the ending of one

Beginning of the next


When do I need help

Who do I call

You will know, said Gran

No, so overwhelmed

Do I use for love or money?

Do I use for health or happiness?

You will know


This misty morning

I think I know

I think I need to not save it

But the doubt

Stuff Gran never explained

Me wondering if half of it

Was made-up shit

To scare, impress

An autistic granddaughter

Whose only power

Was make believe


Falling back on my

Four familiar friends

Phu, Paj, Haburo, Rat

Earth, Water, Air, Fire

How can it be

Do I truly see

Or is it senility

Through the haze appears

A crow-faced man

Holding a stringed instrument

Courier and a harp


Open the door to arcana


You summoned me

Said he

My honesty wins

I don’t know why I’m here

I don’t know what to do

I do

Let me do the rest

I know

I know all


Misty morning wrapping me

Like the finest silken shawl

I take a deep breath

Close my eyes

See images unknown

To modern tech screens

Hear music unheard

On hides, ivory or fine animal strings

Smell powerful spices

Swirling around my face

Taste prehistoric water

In a state of unbelievable grace

Feeling, feeling

What’s been missing

What has hidden from me

My chaotic decades

Now moving out of the mist


How important was it all?

Asks he

Do you see?


Why did I wait so long to know

How different life could go


Only you have the power of you…


© 2017 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)

IMAGE: Richmond Park Photos



Double fog curtain


Emanating from roadside marshes


Winding around the dips and curves

Of the gray matter

Rumored to contain

The seat of the soul

Yet a slave to

The delicate heart

Misty comfort, though

A hidden place to go

Inside and out

Pull over, just stop

Can’t see where to drive

Pretense no longer needed

Not driving anywhere anyway

Not thinking anything real

Just drifting in the embrace

Of my new-found friend,



© 2016 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)

IMAGE; Morning moon & sun in the fog




What could be lonelier than

Driving in the rain and fog

Alone in the dark mist

Where’s my home

I’m all alone

Endlessly I drive

Peering through the foggy glass

No lights man-made

Nothing celestial can

Break through the dark mist

Alone on this endless road

Wishing to be bored at home



But safe

Trees looming over me

As I creakily

Move through the dark mist

Jurassic fears

That a blinding auto appears

Coming toward me

Further cutting off visibility

On and on

The road has grown

The road I love

The freedom road

Away from home

Where’s my home

I’m all alone…

© 2015 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)


Midnight dreams invite the wanderer

To tread a confusing landscape

Yet each step is somehow safe

Although nothing compares to

Dawn dreams, waking dreams

Where we weave through fog

Precariously stepping

Into a familiar landscape of

Greens, browns and a touch of red

Beauty in sleeping safely

Beauty in cognizant danger

Trancing through life’s illusions…

© 2014 ViataMaja, Poezija

Image: My wildflowers in fog