These are the Unicorn Days
Carved in gold and diamonds
from the mountains,
Molded in solid water
from the fairies’ well
Sang in choruses
by daffodils leaning on the feathered wings
of night eastern winds,
Claimed by a broken chunk of heart
that knows no sparse amounts
of Love…
Clustered green of untamed grasses
and feral blossoming storms
in the souls of plum flowers
Rage
until the fields breathe
the 100 names for Spring
and become
The Unicorn’s envy…
Art by Vincent van Gogh.
APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
–T.S.Eliot, The Waste Land
Art by Wolfgang Harms.
My secret castle
lies in Spring
at the corner
of vernal vicious winds…
Surrounded by lilacs
and violets blue
Prolonged in the hue
of abstaining pink…
Faces and rivers
smile in the sun
Patience is nowhere to be found
as ethereal blooms
Expect the moons
to ignite from early
copper twilights…
Lilacs are the surreal kisses
of Spring
Clinging like stardust
to butterflies’ wings.
They color the dark
wink to the larks
And wait for the bees
to appease…
Written for and at the suggestion of Marie – mariewilliams53.wordpress.com.
Art by Sergey Tutunov.
Multiple facets
of benevolence, friendship and kindness
have been engraved
on my heart
whose green veins tremble
with happiness and delight
at seeing, reading and admiring
your exquisite words-of-art and flowing imagery
Here…
………………………………………………………………………
Your minds drew letters
Upon my soul
I will wear them always
To humble and subdue
All the shimmers of the world.
This is my modest “payment” for the beauty and joy you have given me through knowing you and your beautiful art and my “currency” in thanking you for reading, appreciating and sharing my words.
Happy World Poetry Day!
Art – Magic realism by Christian Schloe.
Buried moon, buried moon
Who to talk about at noon
When dreams are plundered by light
And powdered in gold and charcoal dust.
Crescent fairies are sad in the rouse
and at falter to surmise
the scanty slumbering traces
that led stupors into trenches.
The owners of the light
Do not know its might
and the pleasure of the sun
to astound and burn above…
Buried moon, buried moon
I want you soon
As to play my feral dreams
around the all surviving tunes!
Art – Buried Moon by Edmund Dulac.
You are better than unicorns
and moonshine combined.
You are better than gossamer
and fireflies entwined.
Make sure to notice
the collateral beauty
of dreaming and dreading,
wishing and fearing,
abysses and mountains,
venom and honey
in a kiss
that numbs
and talks to my heart
about the color of a feeling.
Art by Helen Flockhart.
Iulia Halatz
She says: “Be the one who cares, make words so disruptive that they create new worlds, hopes and dreams. Even if we are unhappy dinosaurs and find shelter in an Iron Tale or ruminate about feeling too much, whilst declaring colorless apparel, we should take power and strength from our stories.”
Her published poems can be found in The Sudden Denouement Anthology Volume I.
The sun also rises
The fields also green
The stories are told
and hold
hearts in hands.
We survive and desire
The Moon to be ours
The Dreams to dawn true
The Time to stand and wait still
for sorrows to burn
in hollow trees
whose dead leaves endure
to give birth
To daffodils…
Art – Dusk by Jodie Muir.
We are all unhappy people feeding on shines of never-ending stories of happier people around. Are we? Are they?
We are being consumed and trampled over over and over again.
After careful consideration and many well-built walls and some exquisite moats I declare that happiness does not rest with (other) people. Happiness starts with just US.
Yes, people create magic with a mere smile on a windy, bleak, hopeless morning that speeds away with every bit of light. Yet we are tired of being sunned over and then led into a haze of misunderstandings and apprehension…
Still we are totally unhappy and utterly happy in our own world. After bitter disappointments with the people I hold dearest, I place my every happiness in my carefully crafted dome.
“Suffering is one very long moment. We cannot divide it by seasons.” – Oscar Wilde
I divide my happiness by seasons and I season my dome with everything I love and feels warm to the heart. In the aftermath of winter I put my glorious bike trips in the cold into odes to spring – my poems about the coming of the Sun, the ladybirds and the folstitia…One can never write too many invisible stories about spring and hunt too many lilacs.
I have there my beautiful early mornings drenched in autumn rains and also in beautiful snippets of music.
I have there the fairy tale books I read on cold, misty and pointless winter evenings… I have there my every expectation towards spring like a dull root waiting for warmth and birdsong to make it come out into the crude light again.
I can do whatever, I can solve everything, people can blow all their freezing-cold thoughts all over me, still they cannot steal my glow, they can merely break some windows, because I am protected by all of these small beauties awaiting me under my dome.
They say pennies are the mother of pounds. Small, insignificant pleasures like the new moon or a beautiful flower are the mother of happiness.
First you’ve got to see the moon to be over the moon.
Art by Rob Gonsalves.
White, blue or
crimson clear
of desperate clouds
in stirring thoughts of nights
Coalescing
in the dark
that matters not
among the larks
of mighty Spring
which sunned and bloomed
with every drop of wind…
Art by Daniel F.Gerhartz.
Your fire sieves stardust
on my lips.
It embraces and protects
like clouds a fragile autumn morning.
It ignites and flickers and burns
until the world becomes
You and me
and the wind in the trees.
Art by Gustave Caillebotte (1848-1894).