I’m chocolate kisses in mid air
Lillies get stuck in my licorice hair
Not a beauty by American standards
But I intrigue courters and enchanters
I like to fancy myself a purple poet
Though my muse is often stoic
He dangles ideas above my head
Just out of reach making me beg
For one hint at greatness in a night
A song a poem the world’s delight
But I’m stuck in maroon mediocrity
Sailing to blue moon from black sea
Beating their wings hard against the wind
stars spring out soft, then slowly rescind
Unwinding their colors round fur line trees
the world as we know it falls at their knees;
Supernatural scents permeating the air
diffusing their magic with charm and with flare
Utopian eyes that wander then mirror
cool crystal waters that cloak and transmit her
Down in the orchard a butterfly sprite
with emerald wings to gage through the night
They dance and they flutter on wings of slow butter
hovering gentle to hither and skitter
inside a dominion of archmage enchanters.
A carpet of flowers surrounded by magic and dew,
slow sip aromas of chamomile essence & feverfew.
What image does the word magic conjure up,
a prestidigitator or mystic spell?
Some say sorcery always needs a backup;
for wizards are tricksters with something to sell,
pretending to master the secrets of Hell.
Though illusionists' tricks deceive the eye,
hidden mirrors can't make real disappear.
They claim to levitate and seemingly fly;
honing their art for another grand premiere,
hawking their autographs as a souvenir.
Enchanters can enchant susceptible souls,
into believing their magic is real.
By exploiting reality's hidden holes,
they can manipulate how you think and feel;
turning ordinary into surreal.
Seemingly achieving the impossible;
magic and miracles share similar traits.
Both stretch the boundaries of what's possible,
contrary to what reality mandates;
and both have sparked philosophical debates./center>
Nocturnal glowing,
from firefly enchanters;
like a magic dream ...
I love watching their light dance,
among my garden flowers !
_____________________
March 12, 2022
Poetry/Tanka/Firefly Dance
Copyright Protected, 03-1439-301-12
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, Firefly Tanka
sponsor, JCB Brul, Judged 03/16/2022
First Place
GIT THEE BEHIND ME SATAN-
All my soul within me pitching
Git thee behind me Satan
All my soul within me ditching
Only this and a shepherdess
Much I not marveled the mystic exorcist
Git thee behind me Satan
My mind always strays to enchanters
Much I not marveled this splendid priestess
I discovered the alchemists
And its eyes have all the witching
Git thee behind me Satan
The whipsaw witchery whipsawing
And so I screamed, 'Is that a theologian?'
Enchantress - enchantress - enchantress!
Suddenly, I heard some magicking
God forbid
The occult smiled
God and I proclaim...Git thee behind me Satan
Demons cries and flees
Gods children and angels singing
Git thee behind me Satan
8/9/20
written word by James Edward Lee Sr. 2020 ©
A pen rests unreservedly in my lips
Another embraced behind my ear
A ream of paper at peace on my lap
And ink smudges consume my fingers
/
My perception beyond physicality
Mystical enchanters in chorus
Momentaneous fantasies in flesh
And the artistry streams
/
In a foxtrot my pen whirls
Across the ballroom of parchment
Virginal ink smears
And the gala commences
/
Unbeknownst of my environs
Enveloped passionately within my illusions
Adventures given essence
And pressed into a colloquy
/
Not infamous is my name
Nor are my narrations published
But a dream I live for
And a tale to be told
The pleasing sun of the evenings cool,
Nauseating the pores of skin deep down,
With absorbing cool-headed passion,
For the earthly pastime, friendship.
Aging mud-stained aroma of cold waters,
Mingled with a pinch of sweat and toil,
Pouring forth splashes, the sparkles of joy.
For the body and the tired mind.
I know thee not, nor thy meditation,
For service to another, then another,
Or the truth in the virtues
Of your scorn for the uncultured.
The pangs of unethical hunger in us,
Often cling to the distorted and the ugly;
Remaking life livable? again anew;
Within the lures of youthful freedom.
Aren’t we enchanters of the worse kind,
Erecting the dreamers choices,
In another world, into another’s horizon.
Life then is a shame and silence, becomes truth.
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