The Magnificent

My Memory

Pulling a little old red wagon
Filled with horses and with dragons
All singing so unforgettably
In the rabbit hole of my memory.
In these forests are treasured trees
Where I climbed and scraped my knees.
Gnarled roots cover the ground,
Over which I tripped and skipped around,
Losing all sense and inhibition,
I let loose imagination,
And made up my own creations
To build with me a secret nation,
Where we lived peacefully and enjoyably
In the rabbit hole of my memory.

Bright Wings

Dancing through the meadows
A fairy child goes,
Her eyes alight with carefree joy,
Her bright wings flutter and glow,
And quickly does she spin.
Whimsical and melancholy
Is she as her bright wings
Carry her away.
Away, away,
Into the wind
The fairy child dances,
Her bright wings sparkling.
Away into a dappled forest
Layered with loam and leaves.
Among the twisted trees she floats
Upon her winsome wings.
Dear sweet small fairy child,
With her happy eyes and curly hair,
Skipping carelessly thought the green,
Bright wings fluttering, fast and fair.

Untitled No. 18

Captive wings inside a soul
Sing the songs and tales of old.
Where to search, for what to look.
Beneath the floor, behind the books,
For the mightily needed key
To set the captive winged soul free,
To fly on fire to the sky,
To light the clouds in darkest night.
To take the hidden paths before,
And sing the songs and tales and lore
Of the greatest lords and kings
Who never a captive bound with things
That hurt the heart or marred the hands,
Or captured any untold lands.
The kings and lords who, in their might,
Took in the poor and those in flight,
Who strived to be the kind and just
In whom their people could place their trust.
These tales and songs of kings who’ve passed
Will be retold and made to last,
Kept alive by set-free souls
Who fly on wings of purest gold.

The Magnificent

Dreams made up of filament,
Bright with fairy pigment,
Wings fly made of gossamer,
Yet all is but a figment
Of my creeping imagination
And it’s proved with validation
That this strange infatuation
Has nothing to do with insanity,
Yet at the same time is insane.
Filament and pigment,
Gossamer and figment.
Intelligence without a shine
Is like a body with no mind,
And my mind could be defined
As nothing that could be confined
Or captured, yet would stay the same
And change without the world
Ever knowing that I knew
Of the green and of the blue
Hidden ‘neath the ocean’s waves,
And above the starry haze.
Here I stand, and here I gaze
Up to heaven, and its maze
Of magnificence.

©The Wild Poesy, 2012-2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

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The Magnificent

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