Blooms of hair, shimmers and starlight,
Face of dream, gathers in lighted loom,
Wakes of morn, spotty forest fawn, child
To magi moon, maid of golden orchards,
Of faraway seas, world opened vastness,
Temptress of foreign fruits and the giving
Sun, where blue, blood oranges old, ripen,
The dark vines grape of ancient olive, red
Lamb and wine.

What enchanted lands are you made of?
Where the diving seas of dolphin, sponge
And whirlpool weave, wherein Gods must
Have loved and making you, left this earth
In beauty and peace, burnished with dream.

Water nymph, you are the gentle wind
Bursting the daisy, your eyes, are bells
Of blue echinacea spiriting the light—
Echoing sound which water makes, ring
The laureled forest leaves in cathedrals
Newly sprung of pews, meadows, spark,
The dance of bees, who trace your honey
Scent in combs of ambrosia and sunshine.
The miraculous waters are floored under
Your white, lily petals of feet, your nests
Of hair are embracing tendrils of the wild
Grape, wine and sweet, long forgetfulness.
Maid of the wood, daughter to the moon;
Are you of Elysium or temptress of doom?

In the mercy caul of night,
Where time is frail as memory,
In the technicolor film of ocean salt,
With eyes of yearn and mute wonders,
There, I saw you once more.
We walked through the rushes green
Of warmth, broke into dreams dawning
Meadows of casting light, where winged
Creatures, colourful as we, lilting in midair
Spiraled, drifting through the gleaming
Thoroughfares of endless Mays, of tingle
And flame, where once before, we found
Ourselves at the misty plateaus reflection
Of star shine and flight, nary silhouetted,
Yet, framed in the snow melted tarns
Of golden, glorious, Olympus.

The water moves in the wind
while the sun fairies dance gracefully over top.
Never removing their sparkling feet.
Mrs. Sun applause's in their performance.

Watching by the sandy shore
I find my head sitting atop a rock
over viewing a similar view
on a day of wondering minds losing themselves in blindful bliss.

A pair of hands entwined, walk down a path
where they end up at a pair of eyes awaking.

Removing myself from that day,
I am sorry for always getting lost.
Loosing myself in memories that are by now
long forgotten.

I am sorry for not being able to move.
Like a boulder, I will soon be covered under sea.
A fool on the other side of the world
unable to even throw a stone.
And all I can do is remember the forgotten.

My story ends of sparkle,
Hands, winding me in fable
The dark lines of her lashing eyes
Are burning rings, shear ice,
Covering the lost ponds of spring,
To see her in the ripening fields
Is to know the myriad colours
Of flowers, wild with loneliness,
She is always numbering the days,
Always on parade, hair, with out end,
Tresses trailing the wind.

Under azure skies—
Fuzz of bees and lavender,
Blue REM's of heaven.

Garden floor partners,
Windy colours silently dance,
  .  .  .  Butterflies and birds.

Wheels of wind, snow drifts,
Robes of highest order sway,
  .  .  .  Tibetan plateau.

Woman,
Why do you visit so seldom, and plant things
In my fallen over garden, lavender and thyme,
Only to leave, but not
To tend?

Woman,
Take my sorrow and turn down the moon,
Plaster the sun in golden dress and spill
The ground with buttons
Of flower.

Woman,
Why does your face haunt me in dreams,
Your voice, play as in the spirit well that sings,
Drops forth, the moving waters
Into being?

Woman,
Take my open hands and travel with me,
Beyond the ninth wave, to the lost island
Of Hy-Brasil, and we will long live,
Wondrous as poetry.

is it strange that i believe in supernatural things
       like fairies
                                wild creatures that cant be found
or looked for
          they appear when and if they want to
                                              living separate
with nothing to do
     with humans
                                      mischievous things
                                                           that never die
of common illnesses
      i do believe that fairies
                                                                   could
be possible
                           because there's nothing
      to prove anything

                                                                                                              and you're far to
                                                                                                              otherworldly
                                                                                                              to be a simple
                                                                                                              human
                                                                                                              like me

Little sprites— giants,
Bumble bee and lupine spree,
  .  .  .  Colourful tall tales.

The faery forest glimmered
Beneath an ivory moon,
The silver grasses shimmered
Against a faery tune.

Beneath the silken silence
The crystal branches slept,
And dreaming thro’ the dew-fall
The cold white blossoms wept.