Posts Tagged ‘Elf’

Perhaps my only true loves
Are those that are inanimate,
Or are animated soley by my
Magical imagination.
They love me like a god –
I give them life, they give me
Love without strings attached.
They could attach their strings
If they ate from that forbidden fruit
That Adam and Eve partook of.
But that is the difference
Between mankind and animals,
Plants, minerals, Elves, Dwarves, and Faeries.
We know we do wrong – we still do it.
Some barrier was broken and we keep on breaking,
We made god to subtly blame for our position.
(We call him Satan)
We told him to forgive us because
It wasn’t in our own power
To forgive ourselves for evolving.
We are now the chosen species of the planet
And, collectively, we all want to go home.
So these inanimate things I animate,
Infusing them with imagination and belief.
I can believe in them because it was I
Who made them real in the first place.
God didn’t make me; I made him
Just like I make a dream a reality,
A story my existence, and item alive
And bounding to and fro with innocent excitement.

I
I love you most
when you are sleeping
and around the corner
I am peeping,
shadow in the box of light
that falls from the living room;
I hear the rain is coming soon
from the whish of the wind
‘round the corner of the front porch
lifting the edges of your hair
while you sleep tight.

II
time alone, quiet and silent
a peaceful drizzle outside
and a long nap under my belt
is good for a busy soul,
bustling with errands:
remember the value of free time,
lazy time: laziness is an
art form that can be productive
in its own sense — money
is not everything.

III
the Elves are gone.
it is the Age of Man;
can we continue
pointing arrows
at everyone
until there is
nothing left?

By Yellow Moonlight

Posted: April 17, 1993 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

I commissioned a cloak
black but lined with elf-eyes
to be able to stand still
in the graveyards I wished to wander.

The wind confers in my ears
then tugs like awkward bridesmaids at my hem
making parachute ripples in the fabric
while I ignore them, another statue
in this washed out moonlight
a faint yellow as watercolored flowers
licking the moss strands on the headstones of each buried poet.

Warm air flows, heat from the decaying memories
leaking from these toothy beds,
mixes the night air into molasses
thick and slow to breathe, supportive
of standing still in the mild curiosities
of the wind’s ivy tendrils.

It was a time of Dragon’s fire;
Twas then the souls of Kings were born
From darkness, fear of Demon’s ire
There rose a hope for those forlorn.
The simple men whose lives were led
With doors barred shut and fires high:
Those women who did fear to tread
After the dark had seized the sky:
These common folk, no sorc’rous king
Did bring the Magic to the World,
But not in Swords or Magic Rings,
But in the form of boys and girls,
Who, taught the strength of father’s might,
And told the lore of mother’s art,
Grew tall and strong against the night,
Grew wise and bold and good of heart.
This plaque which no one sees the same,
Is said to be a craft of Elves
To whom the tricks of Magic came
With ease; it is one of their spells.
Yet others call it Dwarvish make,
Their skill with metal’s not unknown,
But who had such the time to take
And sink this plaque in fireplace stone?
It took not Dwarf or Elf to cheer
The Hearth, the heart of every room,
It is the men and women here
Who saved us all from Demon’s doom.

Sleep
Dreams
White picket fences
Knights of the Round Table
Picturesque cottages
By a blooming pasture
With a lake some distance away
Away over a patchwork quilt
Of grass and poppies
And lilies and daffodils
And snapdragons and
Dandylions and petunias
And myriads of colored flowers
Like a living rainbow.
A silver-maned unicorn
Prances through the colorful sea
With an Elf princess on her back
Wading towards an unknown goal.
Shall she stoop to kiss a frog?
At the edge of the sparkling lake,
Unicorn as guardian, companion, friend
An entire land
Filled with knights and maidens
And emerald cities and Cheshire cats
And evil witches and giant beanstalks
Nottingham castles, Tom Sawyer’s clubhouse,
Sleeping beauties and handsome princes
A land whose boundaries are imagination
And not worldly restrictions and rules
Every land is different
Unique to that person
And this is what
Dreams
Are made of