When Silence is the Only Option by Daisy Sidewinder


When Silence is the Only Option

Sometimes words
are useless creatures –
unable to express
the anger
and anguish at
The deaths of
sacred illusions,
illusions made foolish
by time.
If it wasn’t
your illusion
you can’t sincerely
mourn its passing
or empathize with those
who watch with sorrow
as it morphs into a
dirty cobweb in a corner
of your memory.
And the Truth?
What of that?
Where is it?
Perhaps you think you know.
Or perhaps one day
your truths will
drift away
and you will mourn them,
and bury them
without honors.
And you will have no words

Wonderland in a Tree Poem by Dandelion De La Rue

Wonderland in a Tree Poem
Painting by Khchao Touch

Wonderland in a Tree

Escaping Druidlike
into the tree
a light filled hollow
opening up,
warm and beckoning.

So Alice stands
before it, waiting
for the warmth,
hair growing into the earth
in perfect ringlets
in harmony, matching the tree
her arms open
hugging air
healing by the light
and belonging there.

Healing from
the evil queens
and silly cards
who paint the roses red
thinking nature
should match the wallpaper.

Healing from
the Prozak addled masses
who no longer think
or just no longer care.

Healing from
the pain, the sneers,
of those who think
that kindness is a weakness.

Healing from
arrogant science
which would deny
and criticize
the wisdom of the natural world.

Healing from
the frenzied bringers of
religions and advice
who shout with dedication
that only they
are privy to the truth.

Alice knows better,
she listens to the tree,
it told her so
and teaches her to blend
into the real reality.

Invincible Invisible Roots by Dandelion De La Rue

Invincible Invisible Roots

Invincible Invisible Roots

Childhood roots are gone
dug up and burned,
fuel for factory farms
killed by herbicides and
pesticides, chemicals and
Lysol sanitized
after death.
I listen to the music of their kin
and hear the beauty
that was thrown away
in frenzied sightless
rush for progress
drab and ugly progress.

But roots are tougher
than I knew
and with me yet
wherever my wandering feet
may find themselves.
We’ll never see
our birthplace and
tears and anger
won’t change that.

Today my roots are here and there
in every place that I have been,
invisible tendrils waving from
my heels
leaving bits in other soil
I take them with me

Porch Swing by Dandelion De La Rue

Porch swing life in
some other place
moon humming happy
bugs playing fiddles
pies cooling
by the window

Down the road awhile
in smokey midnight bars
torchy songs low and thick
red lipstick eyes closed
songs for someone gone
a long long time

Outside slow motion
wakes the blood
sends foggy feet
to the magic house
yellow glow windows
Strong souls there,
souls so big
they never die.

Dreamstreet Man
drew that door
then walked through it.
You don’t know
he said
who’s the dream
and who’s the dreamer.

The air’s the same
The air’s the same.
It’s the same good
honeysuckle air.

I am the clown by Dandelion de La Rue


I am the clown

On the red bicycle

Riding through the foggy streets

Blaring my little horn

Laughing wildly, madly

at all the


And absurdities.

And the reverent quests

For self-importance.

The clown can also

watch the dance,

The struts and strides

And smiling well dressed

Charms of those who

Claim to know Reality.

And when it gets too Serious

He can jump up shouting,

His red nose on his face

And orange hair and big white mouth

Permanently smiling

And he can shout

But it’s absurd! It’s all just

So absurd!

And ride his bicycle away.

Arrival of the Dreaded Body Snatchers by Dandelion Del La Rue

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
What would Alice say?
Boringer and boringer

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
I’m glad that I was young
Before the body snatchers

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

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