Heroism, Apart

The most eccentric characters may be
sleepwalkers through the digital experience
(a quick spiritual, physical fix
a bitter pill
the music of machine dreams)

A life spent on the external world
feels metallic

Imagine what it must be like without words

Reawaken something heroic:
begin a new story
take your dreams.

-

THE END of my Collage Journal, MOONBEAM DREAMS.

Facing the World

I can be a dreamer, but today I
face the things I dread:
the heart
and
the fist.

We are travelers in search of
starry nights,
some great adventure
in the lamplight.

Lost Lures: A Disillusionment in Three Parts

Only three collage poems remain from my Moonbeam Dreams journal! Enjoy this one:


The world is full of magical places:
mist-veiled
sacred ground
caught between good and evil.
-
If I could retreat
and be alone
but not isolated
And be alone
without sacrificing,
I would.
-
I've lost the magic lure
of the kingdoms
of my imagination.

sketch sketch sketch sketch...

... ... ... ... ... Where the tree grows... ... ... ... ... ...and where the wind blows. ... ... ... ...



A few of my old sketches that seem to capture today, too. Enjoy! -Dianne

Elements of Enchantment

Dabble in alchemy and initiation;
behold, the beast changes shape!
Watch tiny tadpoles morph into
full-sized frog princes.

Elements of enchantment:
a new blood moon,
that wand from the black isles,
a dash of coriander,
hydra-headed luck.

Simple relics evoke
her parallel self,
the alchemist in the shadows.

Bedecked with crystals,
kissing the demons,
never knowing
they are
devious angels.

... and you said,
"Conjure their dark sides.
Embrace the chaos."

It's the lively taste of
moments that counts.

Moonscape

Set in a dream world
of nightmares and hallowed heroes,
there is a glazed moonscape of wonder,
bursting the extraordinary
out of the mundane.

It used to be a recurring dream,
beckoning me to the straits of memory.
Such architecture and atmosphere
has lured shamans, explorers, and adventurers.
It's been bottled up:
passion taken form,
a figure standing in the hollow
sanctuary for the captivated.

Bound by a tie others know not:
purpose and destiny.

Wrap it around you.

I crave you,
body and soul.
The rest is silence,
a question of despair
marking the hours
forevermore.

A Doll in Bute Park

In Chicago, this April is still almost-spring: snow piles still cling to building crevices, crocuses uncoil just to have epic winds and low-30s temps bombard them. Winter has come, and it is not yet ready to go. For whatever reason, this in-between atmosphere is taking me back to one drizzly fall morning in Cardiff, now many years past.

I am walking in Bute Park over damp orange leaves and green, green grass. An early-morning mix of mist and fog jumbles the corners of my sight; only a lonely jogger joins me here. The planted, tamed trees rebel, their roots jutting up through orange and emerald foliage to kiss the wet, lichened stones. It is a gray day, of the almost-white sort, the type of day when restlessness broils up through my veins, itchy.

In a book in my bag, I have a little woman.

Home printed vintage pictures are my bookmarks du jour.

Today, I think, she belongs here, in this park, out of the closed-in world of unread pages: the hooded doll venturing into the drizzle.