Dandelion De La Rue

Arrival of the Dreaded Body Snatchers by Dandelion Del La Rue

by
alice in wonderland

alice in wonderland

Arrival of the Dreaded Body Snatchers

The Body Snatchers
Have arrived
And won. I see around me
Countless plants
In human guise,
Giant philodendrons
Everywhere, attached to
Little boxes
Little brain supports
Staring into
Gizmos
Mesmerized
Zombified
Plantified.
What would Alice say?
Boringer and boringer
Perhaps.

What if Alice
Had an ipad
Instead of a boring book
With no pictures
Or conversations.
She wouldn’t have seen
The rabbit
Or fallen down the
Rabbit hole
Or drank from the drink me bottle
Or nibbled on the
Magic mushroom.
She might have
Thought, the roses were really red.
Wikipedia would have said so,
And she wouldn’t have
Noticed the cards
Running to and fro
With sloshing buckets
Of crimson paint.
She wouldn’t have heard
The wisdom falling from the
grinning lips of Cheshire cats
And caterpillars.
And Dorothy, of course,
Could have googled maps
And got to Kansas by the
Shortest superhighway.
She never would have
Met the scarecrow, or the
Lion, or heard
The munchkins sing.
She wouldn’t know
That she could melt a witch
Or dance on yellow brick roads.
She never would
Have stopped to smell
The poppies.

I’d rather be
An old human
Than a young
Philodendron.
I’m glad that I was young
Before the body snatchers
Came.

Dreaming Back the World and other poems by Dandelion De La Rue

by
Dreaming back the world

Dreaming back the worldMotherbird 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

Letting Go Poem by Daisy Sidewinder

by

I dreamed I must

let go of you, the

man I loved

with so much turbulence

and still love now

sometimes

on lonely, bluesy nights

It was as if

your soul crawled

from its sooty cave

into the light

and speaking softly

unaccustomed

these long decades

to honest speech

blinded for a moment

by long-forgotten beauty

the forest greens

beyond the field

dark and warm

amidst the sunlit

prairie grass in which

we stood.

It’s too late you

say it’s far too late

vague shapes behind

me walking talking

slow and serious

a little too impersonal

say he is right

it is too late

there will be no

reprieve.

But no, I will not

listen, I have hope

to fix your ailing liver

sweep away the virus

rearrange the neurons

in your brain with

Keep Out signs for

your addictions

and band aids

many band aids

for the pains

of your existence.

There is no hope

no hope at all

the voices say

and you agree

and look away.

You can fight

this I tell you

I will argue

your case before a

judge, St. Peter himself,

and a jury

of twelve strong angels

good and true

and we will win

I say, for I will be

so eloquent

to make the angels cry.

No no, you shake your head

no no the voices echo

those unseen figures

pacing close behind me

a little out of focus

always behind me

no matter how I

turn to try to face them.

I think you see them

and the distant forest

I see that you are

like one half asleep

and half aware

not ready yet

to run across the grass

and plunge into the trees.

You are much younger

here, the you who

lives inside

your shell of pain.

I cannot ask

that you would

stay inside

the crusted cave of

your design.

The roof becomes

too heavy with the

weight of your collections

and the uninvited bats

and barnacles of

life and age.

I fear I recognize

some barnacles and cobwebs

there, remnants of those

days of you and I

accidently forgotten or cast off

of course, I never meant

to darken your windows.

I had the best intentions.

My heart says stay

please stay

don’t brush away

the cobwebs of

our life together

grimy and heavy

as they may seem to you.

I sometimes shine

those cobwebs lovingly

and patch them up

with crazy glue.

My soul says run

into the woods

with joy, be free.

But none of this

is really up to me.

via Wordplay Poetry Blog » Blog Archive » Letting Go of Jim Poem by Daisy Sidewinder.

Mermaid Poem by Dandelion De La Rue

by

Mermaids were often featured in the decoration of Medieval churches, particularly in the British Isles. Often shown holding a comb and mirror, mermaids not only embodied the sins of pride and vanity, but were also often used to represent the sin of lust. Images of mermaids holding a fish or starfish were used to represent a Christian soul that had been lost to the deadly sin of lust, and were placed in churches to warn churchgoers not to be seduced by such evils

I immediately thought of J. Alfred Prufrock and how sorry he was because he didn’t think the mermaids would sing to him, well, of course not, he was too careful. So I wrote this poem. I’m not sure its publishable because Prufrock and Zorba aren’t household words anymore. Prufrock always reminded me of one of my grandfathers.

 

For the Love of the Merpeople

 

The mermaids sang

to lusty Zorba

I am sure, but not to

Prufrock, so he said,

he of tiny

dibs and dabs

of life, drizzled on

his plate with tiny

spoons.

 

Did he regret

what he had missed?

I think he did.

I see him sadly

staring at the waves,

hoping for

a second chance,

but fearing,

ever fearing,

nearly everything.

 

I see so

many Prufrocks

on the news,

they’re so afraid

of getting hurt

and so afraid

of life without

insurance.

 

But those who

guzzle life

from gallon jugs,

I think the

mermaids love them.