The Wilderness
October 8, 2020

Wild?
It is but civil.
Scattered trees whose nails are painted in rose buds and thorns
Waving inside the lofty breath of rushed and waited wind.
Quiet, its weathered lids, canopies above
your quick-flirting eyes.
And you,
You cannot woo it, even should you try.
For it is the wild that drowns unmerciful structures.
It doe not speak through electrical wires and erect thumbs;
Nor does deal in self-devouring gold.
Crowned in the mirth of a quintessential performance,
It’s self-invigorated
As the rivers do not mind you, or me.
Above we see mere clutter, but below,
Below its all one grand parade.
Organized, processions of apple roots, warm clay and leaves, as emerald as eyes,
journeying to drink beneath sun-bathing water lilies.
This rivers skin, reflective and teary eyed, like bottled wine drunk on light,
it absorbs EVERYTHING.
And this,
THIS is my wilderness!
Mad, its barks reveals its pouting veins buried beneath wrinkled moss.
Its ceremonial quirks, and exiled sounds,
They twirl and turn and take me.
Somehow transforming corrosive syllables into brilliant, soundless, swishing waves.
Here, one has not a choice but to listen & behave.








What Crones Up Crows Drown
September 27, 2018
And though his bones they have bled into oat, ash & dust, his stories, quite blahsensical, they shall ever never rust.
Whilst parliamentary principles perabulated in his head, he laid upon his pillow, solving problematic proverbs in his bed.
Swashbuckling tales wrapped in a small trim blue skirt as she holds a ‘drink me’ bottle beginning the flirt.
Algebraic equations tunneling the mind, make it difficult for her to follow that big bunny’s behind.
And since I am no neologist, dreaming in ratios and gold, I can understand what the Jabberwocky’s point was in being told.
Oh and ahhhh the joy in those frabjous words interlocking the tounge with the mind as it does.
Confounding it all is.
This world’s upside down.
You’ll find that man who claims to be of scripture filled with Mach·i·a·vel·li·an sound.
And that human who won’t work, it’s only because it left its soul in the hurt;
something those pecking birds feast upon in deserts.
But fear thee not and believe in thy all,
for a Tureen of soup may cure the fall.
And if ye shan’t believe in thy might, I suggest you take an absence from this thing you call sight.
Go ahead, be brilliantly bold, as blind as a blissful old bat,
fill your belly with the stars till its round, fruitful and fat.
Go on twaddle twinkle, trip towards your leave;
as it’s won’t be quite difficult in more than six impossible things to believe.
-Magnolia
Acrylic on canvas ♡
( © 2018 Magnolia HL )
What is Bliss?
September 14, 2018
What Is Bliss?