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/
Featured Image: “Will o’ the Wisp” by Arthur Hughes
