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

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

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