Motherbird proclaims
Dandelion de LaRue the winner of The Poet,
in the year 2010
Dreaming Back the World
The talking heads who
Would destroy the magic
Lived inside my mind
Too long
They sneered at paper tigers
Other charms I had
To ward off evil demons
While I slept.
And all the dragons
Turned back into windmills. There
Was no writing
On my paper sword.
The dragons took their fire
When they went away.
It’s hard to love or hate
The cold bleak structures
Littering the landscape
In their place.
We paint the colors
In ourselves.
And King Tut’s throne
I saw
Was really just the carcass
Of a long forgotten tree
With paint
And shelf life that would
Make a Twinkie proud.
And I myself became
A case, a vote, consumer
Human resource
Number on a census page,
And paid my taxes
Right on time
Stuck in limbo
Squashed between
Some other lonesome robots.
But now, I want to see
The iridescent spirits
Play among the leaves
And weeds of summer.
I want to see the
Snail trails sparkle
On the morning grass
And think they’re beautiful.
I want to feel again
some scorching heats and
Passions, exiles
Banished long ago
By common sense and logic.
I want those trolls
To get back under bridges.
I want to be
A person once again
And climb the beanstalks
Rage at giants
And believe that
Dog spit makes it better.
I must pack up
Those dreary demons
Logic, and his
Henchman Fact
Stick them back into
Their books and close
Their closets, two locks,
Maybe three
And only I
Possess the key.
And now, from down
Another road
I see the Tiger
Beckons me, and
Elves smile welcome
As I peek around that
Ancient corner in my mind.
I know I can reenter
Once again
The magic wondrous place
That knows no chemistry
Where I can think
and dream the world.
This Puzzle Piece of Mine
This puzzle piece of mine,
shape-shifting, amorphous creature
hazy outlines gliding
smoothly through the dust
amoeboid, relaxed
until I try to squeeze it
into some enchanting spot.
This one looks right
I say, a stopping place
to stay awhile
but soon I find
a tiny edge, a
corner out of sync
it doesn’t fit at all
I must move on.
So am I not
a puzzle piece?
Nor nut nor bolt
nor nail to hold and work
the mechanisms
of this world?
Am I a fly
avoiding happy ointments,
a dragonfly perhaps
skimming surfaces but
never diving in.
The other day
I saw the looming Buddhas
far above, unmoving, serious
and thought that
they are cold too cold.
I do not care
to go there nor
the places of the saints,
their clouds or kingdoms
in the sky away from
warmth, vitality.
I do not envy them
nor those who yearn
to be there too.
We travelers and other
tourists to this realm
walking watching
looking into other people’s
windows, those who have a spot
to look out from.
I wonder what its like, sometimes
to see from inside out.
Ask me not
about my home
so long ago.
I only saw it from
the second balcony.
I never understood that place
why those people thought
those thoughts. I only knew
they’d never let me
find my way.
I met instead
some grinning jester
weaving in and out
amongst the crowds,
whispering “what if?
what if?” He
hinted at the
endless possibilities
his laughter and
his rubber face
daring me to look offstage
to find another road.
“Gurus only tell you
someone else’s journey
someone else’s quest,”
the jester said
his eyes alight.
“They cannot know
what’s there for you.
It’s time for open eyes
to see what props and
characters appear, what
visions emanate.
Your way begins
in every place,
in every time.”
and so I left
so long ago
before my glue had set.
I see the jester
now and then
and other wandering souls.
We smile and nod
and talk awhile
and go on
down the road.
Originally published in 2010 at our sister site Motherbird.com
Painting rochefort-s-escape by Manet