‘Faery Dust Anarchy’ and Other Poetry by Jim Dunlap The Society October 13, 2013 Beauty, Culture, Poetry Faery Dust Anarchy With winds awhistling through the trees and air sprites dancing on the breeze, you’ll hear the pipes from Éirinn’s lands – mayhap a leprechaun might sneeze at swirling faery dust – like bees that swarm in clouds of floating strands. Minutest drops of molten gold soon fill the air a thousand fold – and glittering, these tiny specks may whisk you high and break your hold on gravity – these tiny flecks may still your breath till you grow cold. Will O’ the Wisp, slight airborne grams dance to the tunes of faery bands – and when it’s done you’ll fall asleep while counting reams of golden sheep. The Pulchritude of a “Will O’ the Wisp” Beauty cannot be nailed or pinned down, or even defined as restrictive at all. It can flash by, erasing an ugly frown, or lift you up when life’s begun to pall. It can come on a breeze chill and crisp, or shine through a pane with morning sun. Sometimes evanescent, a will ‘o the wisp, it can pass like a frantic hare on the run. Yet it does have a salient quality: it can brighten the most tragic of lives, turn cold dread to pure frivolity, or surprise in the hardy way it survives– despite life’s cruel attempts to subdue it– clasp it to heart and you’ll never rue it. L’Agneau et le papillon* Like tiny jewels they flutter by, brightening many a dreary day– on a time I saw a butterfly perched on the nose of a lamb at play. Stock-still stood this tiny sheep, fair cross-eyed as he strove to see, this small blue marvel; not one peep he made–so enthralled was he. I stood entranced to watch the show, and wondered what the lamb would do when the butterfly would rise and go– and when at last the insect flew the lamb stood dumbly, legs akimbo; then he bucked in feisty play and gaily gamboled on his way. * The lamb and the butterfly Bon Soir au Château de Chillon Isolated on an island it sits. Le Château de Chillon subtly preens, former dank dungeon of dark cells and pits. A maudlin gloom closes in these bleak scenes. Some say the castle’s haunted, but seeing phantasmagoric phantoms, history leans backward recalling primal forests, fleeing soldiers, marching armies, bronze age men encamped upon this very site, their being frozen by the mists of time; every glen and outcrop of stone belies the bright flame that burnishes these walls bereft of sin, of sunset etching palattes’ hues, acclaim from a myriad of hosts … chronicled fame. All the While and all the When If leaves in summer failed to fade, they’d garner nary an accolade when autumn brushed the hills and dales, and Jack Frost whistled storms and gales. Ice Kings would genuflect in awe, while vainly winter’s storms would claw, and flowers withering would fold in anguish from the bitter cold – yet all the while and all the when the earth would tuck its bowers in, embellishing this brilliant scene with landscapes swathed in Irish green. Jim Dunlap’s poetry has been published in print and online in the United States, England, France, India, Australia, Switzerland and New Zealand, over 90 publications, including Potpourri, Candelabrum, Plainsongs and the Paris/Atlantic. He is an Admin Controller for www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes. He was the co-editor of Sonnetto Poesia and was newsletter editor for seven years with the Des Moines Area Writers’ Network. He’s been in the Writer’s Digest top 100 in unrhymed and rhymed verse and the literary short story. Featured Image: “Will o’ the Wisp” by Arthur Hughes Related Post ‘Saint Agnes’ by Bruce Wren This evening of your festive day I pray _Oh Agnes, little model of the pure, _Oh girl with smiling eyes, and faith so sure: They won for ... Tell the world:FacebookTwitterTumblrPinterestRedditLinkedInEmail Leave a Reply Cancel Reply Your email address will not be published.CommentName* Email* Website Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email. This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.