Using words (always a challenge) from the Poetic Words list at flipside records and writing tools d.i.y. list (very cool–check for yourself) at naming constellations, I present an odd little poetic tale.
And never, since the middle summer’s spring,
when dying tree roots whispered endearments
into their pillow books of litterleaf,
embroidered with white mycelia and
intricately illuminated with black shoelace,
never, since we grasped those seeds, double-blind,
To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind
about ripe earthstars unhoused from their universal veil
now burst in expectant anxiety, until passion spores,
culturing our nightly fairy-ring in joyous coral constellations,
But with thy brawls thou hast disturb’d our sport.
Your German merlin garrisons devotion’s amateur stipe,
drowning it in righteous oysters and dark, gilled mandate stews,
which unpalatable, thicken the very air in humid constraint.
Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain,
hark the merlin’s screams of fungus unbefitting,
straw housed yearnings without root or trellis
abated with raptor eye and talon, heed them and
As in revenge, have suck’d up from the sea
jellied regret and lobster shackles, and still
deeming thus inadequate chastisement, they breathe bitter,
Contagious fogs; which, falling in the land,
infect each ancestral cell until
stirring memory to lachrymose psychedelia,
Hath every pelting river made so proud,
so impassable an azure cataract
between our hearts, migraine deepening,
until only a merlin ascending regards
That they have overborne their continents.
(Italicized lines are from A Midsummer Nights Dream Act 2 Scene 1)
Sharing this older poem at the imaginary garden with real toads for Shakespeare’s birthday prompt.