For those who participated in the haiku challenge over the weekend, I just want you to know the results are still coming. I’ll make a post as soon as I’m able.
For this week’s prompt, write a magical poem. There are many varieties of magic: good magic, black magic, Harry Potter magic, the magic within our hearts, magical realism, etc. Find a bit of magic and work it into a poem.
Here’s my attempt:
“Substitiary Locomotion”
There are times I wish I could
conjure a spell to make my pen write,
my computer type, and my words
edit themselves while I sleep at night.
*****
Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer
Check out my other blog–loaded with advice about the writing life: My Name Is Not Bob.
Love the self-editing words, Robert. I can’t find a definition of “substitiary” anywhere – can anyone tell me what it means?
Correct me if I’m wrong, Robert, but did you mean “Substitutionary Locomotion”?
Anyway, I think you just brewed a poem for most, if not all, of us
Great concoction!
I think you’re right, unless he coins his own terms, like some of us poets like to make our own magic by doing!
Bewitched
Child of the sixties, no wonder we fantasize
of twitching our noses and putting to rest
all those nagging duties, those tedious chores.
Sink full of dishes? Twitch! And we retire
to the drawing room for sherry and cigars.
Bag of papers to grade by Monday noon?
Wiggle! Wiggle! Curl up on the couch
with a good book. Tax deadline near?
Abrcadabra! Sit instead and draft a long,
newsy letter to a faraway friend. Gifts
wait unwrapped, hidden under the bed,
in the back of the closet. Apply the finger
to the tip of my nose and Bam! Under
the tree, beribboned and tagged. Surely
Darren—either of them—couldn’t object.
Mere mortals need magic this time of year.
Me too, Nancy. I always wanted to be Samantha. I love your poem.
Me too!
I also wanted to be Samantha, can’t tell you how many hours I spent trying to learn how to twitch my nose. Nicely done.
Add me to the list of Samantha-wanna-bes! Thanks for the memories!
any old genie would be fine with me, especially a masseuse one
Love the poem, Nancy.
Christmas Magic
stop and go
prowling for parking
pushing and
shoving and
waiting in infernal lines
It’s Christmas Magic?
hide and seek
keeping things hidden
cutting and
taping and
putting on ribbon and bows
It’s Christmas Magic?
wife and kids
unwrapping their gifts
ooohing and
aaahing and
beaming smiles on their faces
It’s Christmas Magic!
Magic, indeed! Seems you shop well!
Nice one.
STIRRED, NOT SHAKEN
She hears my whispers, words
with a power to hurt and heal,
revealing a side of me no one
has ever seen. Her keen eye
tries to envision the motion
full of desire; a devotion to the
emotion that grips her gently
as she mentally responds to the
incantation I present. These words
are meant to arouse her sensibilities,
and she freely seizes them; freezes
them to thaw her later when my words
escape her memory. Each morning
without warning, she tenses at the mention
of each word, as if she’s never heard them
before. From sound asleep to wide awake,
each quiver and quake takes her
to the place where my heart await hers.
It lures her into her day and stirs her to be
the woman she has kept hidden.
Every magic utterance; each good morning
leaves her unshaken. It’s taken this long to feel loved.
Stirring.
Thanks a.paige. Emotions do churn with a magic all their own.
Wow! Who needs an alarm clock with that kind of wake-up?
“The magic of a voice on the road”
The timelessness of
Tony Bennett
causes space
to fold in upon itself.
The road moves,
bending itself
to his voice
and the miles,
which normally
crawl,
leap
and home
soon swims into view
but the engine
remains on
until the man
is finished.
Always. A fine tribute.
A better description, I can’t think of. Great job, as per usual. Moskowitz
I did the same thing listening to Gene Autry’s “Here Comes Santa Claus” the other day…loved listening to an old classic after too many grandmas getting run over by reindeer.
Nicely captured sentiment!
Smooth, Jerry.
“Enchantment”
I don’t know how
you do that thing
you do when you sing to me that
song you sing,
but when you do,
the stars in my eyes grow wings
and diamonds chime like a choir
of silver hand bells and the oceans
bubble with pearls and roses
and snowflakes flutter from the sky like glitter
and I am charmed
by the musical jewels floating upon the wind.
Enchanting!
Fiery Incantations.
A smile thrown
dispels the scowls.
A shoulder to lean on
soothes the cries.
An ear lent
eases much burdens.
An extra hand
extends further.
An extra mile
reaches farther.
A warm embrace
thaws the ice.
A kind word
waters the soul.
A heart offered
stirs the spirit.
A life shared,
heaven rains,
magic reigns.
This is beautiful.
Yes, what Buddah said. Beautiful.
Me three!
A Magical Life
We breathe in
We breathe out
We repeat
Over and over
Automatically
It’s magic
We see
We hear
We speak
We feel
Effortlessly
It’s magic
We love
We lust
We loathe
We hate
Uncontrollably
It’s magic
We move
We react
We flinch
We jump
Instantaneously
It’s magic
We conceive
We are born
We live
We die
Unconditionally
It’s magic
We wonder
We ponder
We theorize
We are mesmerized
Inexplicably
By the Magician
You’re right, Earl. Just breathing is pretty magical.
Magic Bottle
for a penny
take a chance
for a dollar, taste
some mystery your mother
never knew, and grandma
dreamed without a name.
close your eyes
hold out your hand and know
the universe up close. you,
miss braids and ribbons, will you? you sir
care to try? or
are you cautious: the son
who gets the father’s farm, gets up
every day at fifty before dawn to cold,
manure, the slops, the chopping wood
or will you take a chance.
In my hand I hold a bottle.
In the bottle is a box, carved
from a mermaid’s baby tooth, and inlaid
with a rubiayat in gold, a spell of forty stanzas.
What the box holds,
no one living knows,
but when you touch the bottle in the morning
you can hear the stars,
and when you touch it in the afternoon
the tides flow through your bones.
the sun is setting
for a dollar, take it in your hands, and tell
me it was not a bargain.
Magically written. I enjoyed this poem immensely.
Gorgeous!
It has a musical tone.
This is wonderful.
Beautiful images.
Magic
Beats spinning round like music out of my radio.
Spins, lyrics around the air waves
As a butterfly flaps her wings
Chaos
Theory
Nice Butterfly Effect!
Beautiful Lorenz Attractor!
Bravo!
ONE NIGHT
It shines with the luster of mid-day; the new-fallen snow
blankets and comforts, distorting sugar plum visions
and caviar dreams. It seems that fewer believe,
deceived by the commercial cravings, and saving
all vile animus for me. But I persist as history proves
that love conquers; gladdening hearts and imparting
a wisdom born of the wishes that this season brings.
It rings like a jingle bell, swelling my heart with pride
as my ride begins. It is in this one night that flight
becomes instantaneous; an extemporaneous motion
over oceans and fields. And it yields abundance
of goodwill that annually brings me to this place.
Every face, new and old is told of my legend;
mention me to a child and wild dreams become reality.
I’m a big deal in their eyes, and as sure as reindeer fly,
I’m determined to travel as swiftly as the spirit can take me
to make me complete the journey before dawns first rays.
At least that’s the way it plays in my mind and I find in the moonlight
the magic that one night can hold. And even should you be so bold
as to not believe, I will still leave a little token
in hopes that any broken trust between us mends.
It sends me back every December; I’m not hard to remember.
I am Santa Claus
Perfect, Walt.
Thanks Nancy. Slightly flawed, not perfect.
Ahhh…what I was waiting for, Walt. It’s like a Christmas present – I’ve treasured all of them. Thank you for “ONE NIGHT” and again for “I am Santa Claus”.
Willy, a comment from you one the Santa pieces is a gift I cherish every poem, each year. There’s a second below.
WOW ! You’ve convinced me !
I’m glad. I won’t rest until every one’s convinced.
Ho! Ho! Ho!
Ho! Ho! Ho! Indeed, but does Paula believe?
“sugar plum visions and caviar dreams” – You Must be SANTA!
Whatever
Whatever causes a surly deer hunter
to set aside his rifle, rise and put on a Santa suit,
beard and boots, no padding necessary this year;
Whatever leads him to the mirror where he
adds some rouge to his cheeks and practices
his belly laugh, gravely with age and eggnog;
Whatever hoists that bag of toys on his shoulder
and sends him to the shelter and soup kitchen
on Christmas eve while his family gathers at home—
That’s magic!
Yes, it is! He sounds like a fine man.
Yep, it is magic.
Couldn’t agree more!
Thanks, friends.
THIS IS NOT MAGIC
I can’t explain how I do it
and when I try, I can only point you
to the canvas: there is speech which keeps
refusing to exit through lips and tongue
and insists on taking its form
as colored chansons upon a blank face –
or sometimes, it manifests as
antiphons and hymns praising God and creation,
turning lyric into brushstroke and landing
in rainbows on the canvas. Secular or
sacred, sainted or profane – it doesn’t
seem to matter: the gift gives itself up
as a dance of color, brushstroke, and light
to call unvoiced words into being.
You call it magic? You marvel
that a man who cannot force his lips
to form spoken words,
to utter what you call language,
can howl and thrash like an insane shaman
and slam his soul against canvas, leaving the imprints
as pictures of a landscape you never knew
or had forgotten; or how he
gently chains hallelujahs end to end and lets the
resplendent pageant be born onto a blank sheet; or how
fingers under incantation can play jazz
like heliotropes, jade, and indigo love. But
let me tell you this: within the seat of each one’s soul is
an invocation to communicate, to become
mirror and window, voice and instrument,
verse and refrain. Mine has merely chosen
to channel itself into the visual.
Please understand one thing:
I am not magical, not a savant.
I am just a man throwing his colored speech to turn blank paper
into the tableaus which form themselves in my mind
and soul. And understand that while
I cannot mold my lips around vowel and consonant to tell you
how much I love you
or this world,
or this entire existence connected together
by spirit, double helix, and wormhole, I can
keep showing you the canvases: so keep
watching. And if you do, you will eventually
understand me.
Is and Is Not
It’s chemistry and kitchen-craft really—
the butter and eggs, the sugar and spice,
the oven heated, the sprinkles and
toppers waiting, nuts and fruit optional.
Not magic, chemistry.
Decorated and cooled,
a boxful of temptation
requiring stealth before dinnertime,
the melting magic of love
baked right in, taste buds rising
like cats to the petting crumbs,
ingesting Christmas, hugged
from the inside out,
now that’s
magic.
love and magic all baked into one. Yum!
MMMMM! I love this one, Jane.
Thanks, ladies. You can tell what I’ve been up to lately, hm?
Christmas Magic
No matter where my faith wanders,
down what less trodden path,
Christmas remains separate,
unchanging, the home of true magic.
At Christmas, I believe in everything,
in angels and miracles, in Dickens and
ghosts, in hope for the world, and in goodness
beyond measure. As someone once said,
some stories are so true, even if they’re not true,
they’re true.
I love this – the untrue truth is just an amazing insight.
Oh yes, so true…
I like this.
~TIRELESS MAGIC~
Ember cloak,
Night begins lifting
Its darkened veil.
Indigo sky unfolds
Layer by layer,
Lightened to fullness;
Morning has taken flight.
Dawning from of old
Yet tireless in beauty.
This is beautiful, Hannah, I like this a lot.
Why thank you, Happy!! I appreciate that!
Poet’s Blessing
Mood as light as angels kisses
Hope on butterfly wings
Sweet ideas as tinkling bells
Rhythm of dancing dreams
Wishing you a magical muse
Inspiration as morning song
and whispering wishes
Words skipping along like fairies
in gossamer dresses
Wishing you a magical muse
Hope shining as glittering stars
Rhymes like lilting laughter
Encouragement as sparkling dew
Happy ever-afters
Wishing you a magical muse
Sweeeeeeet !!
Now this is magical!
A WALK IN THE OLD CEMETERY
I take a path I never noticed before, beyond
the marble angel. Summer’s last leaves
shiver on bare boughs. I come upon a plain
wooden marker – no name or dates –
with a horseshoe nailed into weathered oak.
An iron horseshoe, old-fashioned. I rub
my fingers over its rusted curves.
And abruptly I hear hoof-beats, muffled
then closer. Along the winding path,
a small bay horse pulls a trap – is this
the 19th century? – past marker after marker,
then stops not far from where I stand.
A bonneted lady steps out of the carriage.
Dressed all in black, bundled against the cold.
She doesn’t seem to see me. Dissonances
of wind in the last hanging leaves, as if
a machete sliced them from the trees.
Whirl of dead oak leaves in air, this sudden
wind on a chilly December afternoon.
The way fate slices father, sister, husband
or beau from a coming Christmas Eve?
What brings her here? A raven’s sudden
croak becomes a gavel-fall, a summons.
What brought me here?
The lady gathers her long skirt and steps
back into the trap; lifts the reins.
The little horse resumes his path. What
magic – or is it just imagination? –
that chooses to bring these spirits as if
onto a stage, and then doesn’t tell their story?
I love the detail of this and the simple fact that imagination is magic. Whenever genealogy doesn’t provide the story, we fill in the gaps, no? I enjoyed reading this, Taylor.
Make a Little Magic
He came out of nowhere
No one in town had ever seen him before
Nor has anyone seem him since
And many have been looking for him
To thank him for what he did
For this little town
You see
The town was in a quandary
Torn between political correctness
And the reality of the season
A reality that they had celebrated
Since the town became a town
But, as of late they had backed off
In order not to offend
And please everyone
Yet everyone was not pleased
Until recently
It was Christmas Eve
A time for the townspeople to gather
As tradition would have it
But the count was down once more
Even from last year’s low
Barely a quarter of the townsfolk
Showed up for the occasion
Barely a quarter of them
Cared anymore
Nevertheless
The town square was brightly lit
With the Holiday Tree in the center
Non-religious holiday music was playing
Softly over the downtown speaker system
Selected by the town council
So many unfamiliar tunes
Generically uninspiring
Lacking in spirit
Or seasonal joy
Then out of nowhere
The man controlling the music
Ran into the square declaring
That when he returned from the restroom
He found he had been locked out of the booth
By a man he had never seen before
A man that just smiled and waved
As he looked through the musical selections
From the box marked “DO NOT PLAY”
The mayor took off running
Several from the town council
Hot on his heels as they raced
To the sound booth to investigate
When suddenly they froze in their tracks
As the speakers cracked into silence
And the lights in the town square
Turned quickly to pitch black
Leaving the townspeople dumbfounded
Yet quite intrigued
Then through the dark silence
A voice boldly announced
That just in case they’d forgotten
Christmas was tomorrow
Then the voice faded away
As quickly as it had arrived
But the darkness remained
And the people stood still
Then ever so softly
Music could be heard
Softly at first
A very familiar old carol
Grew gradually louder as
The people started singing along
In three-part harmony
Appropriately selected
“Silent Night” broke the silence
Carol after carol rang loudly
As the sound engulfed the square
And spilled out throughout the small town
Still in the blackness of the moment
The people sang with every song
Harmonious melodies offered up
Glorifying the Reason for the Season
Glorifying the Christ Child
Glorifying God
The carols continued
The man in the booth at the controls
Not one protest was raised as
The joy of the people flowed
Even through the darkness
The Spirit of Christmas was present
And the people rejoiced
Then as suddenly as it started
The music abruptly stopped
Silence consumed the town square
Accompanied by the darkness of night
Silence that seemed endless
Although only a minute or two
Silence broken only by the murmurings
Of the wondering townspeople
As they waited
“BONG” rang the clock tower bell
“BONG” it rang once again
“BONG” it repeated ten more times
For it was now after midnight
No longer Christmas Eve
But, now Christmas Day
Where had the time gone
Gradually the lights began to come on
First the street lights
Then the decorations
And the people were amazed
Because somehow in the darkness
The town square had filled
As the entire town had come out
Beckoned by the hymns of holiness
Drawn by the melodies of truth
Lead by the Spirit of Christmas
United by the call of Christ
To praise His holy birth
Then one last song began to play
One last tribute to the Child
A hymn of hope for the people
A commemoration to the truth
The reality of Christmas Day
“Joy to the World” rang out
And the people rejoiced
Then the speakers fell silent
The mayor walked hurriedly to the control booth
Only to find it vacant and unlocked
The mystery man was nowhere to be seen
The box marked “DO NOT PLAY” lay empty
Music once banned still loaded at the ready
The town council members stood outside
As the mayor took the microphone and
Wished everyone “A very Merry Christmas to all”
Hit the “Shuffle” button
And locked the door on his way out
Incan’t-ation
Today
I can’t spell
or conjure
conjugation
or hex these ex-
pressions onto
hesitant page,
cannot charm
nor disarm
syllable,
flick my quilled
magic wand
into willable phrase.
Instead,
sleighted by
sorceress
(sorcer-less?)
muse,
I wait.
Oy! Again with the “I’ve Got No Muse” theme, so how do you explain this? Well done, again, DeLightful. – Moskowitz
Yes. My point exactly. My only inspiration is the lack of therein, this tired and weary theme.
But thanks, my friend. You do boost the “spirits.”
But still you make magic, De!!
ALWAYS.
InDEeed, magical.
…sigh…
(I really shouldn’t be reading because I have yet to write…my “muse” must be off playing with yours! Yet YOURS left some magic in you!)
I think hers kidnaps ours and combines them into one mega-muse. Well done as always.
and DElicious!
Oh yes, you can!
And I wish I could magically make this poem one of mine!
Great job, De!
Dispirited soul,
Lifted with a touch, a word.
True love’s magic gift.
Hello everyone! Here’s my ‘magical transformation’ moment.
Ten days until Christmas*,
We’ve put up the tree,
It’s hopelessly crooked…
Oh boy, did we try –
It just wouldn’t do it,
It wouldn’t stand straight.
Let’s put on the music,
Let’s string those lights,
Let’s add decorations…
Oh, look at it now!
With just a few touches
It’s not a bad tree.
Ten days until Christmas,
We’ve got our tree,
It’s gracefully leaning -
Our ‘Torre di Pisa’…
Oh, isn’t it magic?
May peace be with you.
*until Christmas Eve, to be precise
Thank you!
There’s No Magic
There’s no magic,
just unknown things
scientists haven’t wrangled into
submission yet,
and until they do
I’ll take my place among the
primitives
who stand in awe of
the perfection of a rose
the tingling of sugar
the impulse to move to music
the massive silent afterglow of orgasm
and I will enjoy them
all the more
for their untamed mystery.
Amen brother.
That’s what I call magic! ^_^
!!!
ahh…..
Always one of my favorites, Buddah. Well-captured magic here!
Beautiful, B.
I love an “untamed mystery.” Thanks, Buddah.
Yes! There is no explaining these magic wands!
Casting Horoscopes
Prophesies conjured
by Moon’s high tides,
appears amid superstition’s alchemy,
sortilege presaged
on subtle shades
of Moon tides.
What man knows
the hour of his birth?
Ejected from inner space,
we emerge,
naked and squealing
into stranger’s embrace.
Margaret Fieland
Could not resist the ol’ trite sword and sorcery yarn.
Damn, but dragon hide is sturdy stuff,
My lance broken, horse dead or run off.
My shield was busted by a swipe of tail,
Helmet went flying and left arm broken.
Our foolishly brave troop is down to me plus three.
All hiding and rethinking our chivalrous vows.
Two have died from swipes of massive claws,
Three roasted in fiery breath, one ingested I fear.
Sitting here with my back against this boulder,
Wondering how in the hell to get out of this mess,
Pledging that the monastery will be my destination;
Damsels can stay in distress, the dragon keep his gold.
What’s this? A newcomer to our futility. Oh Joy!
Much help, I am sure, this old man trudging up the hill;
Stooped against the slope, leaning mightily on his staff,
Clothed in oversized robes and wide brimmed hat.
Halfway up the hill, just below my hiding place,
He is greeted by the dragon’s challenging roar.
Stopping, as if mildly distracted by a butterfly,
He looks from under his hat and strokes his beard.
I hear the now familiar mighty beating of dragon wings,
The old man seems unperturbed, as if studying the event.
Another roar accompanies feeling the heat of belched fire;
Much like seeing the executioners axe, I cannot look away.
Suddenly straightening with unexpected speed and strength,
He thrust his staff forward as the fire engulfs him….
What?! I saw it but do not believe! The dragon’s fire parted,
Passed him by on sides and above; not a singed hair in his beard.
There is a new tone now to the dragon’s cry; rage maybe? Fear?
The sorcerer takes a step forward, staff held high in right hand,
Steely eyed he begins raising the left as he starts chanting,
A white, glowing globe begins to form in his upheld hand.
Continuing his mumbling as he slowly takes two more steps,
Coming even with my spot as the globe grows and swirls.
Beating wings are deafening now as he thrust left hand forward,
Launching his magic at his monstrous, unsuspecting foe.
A brilliant, blinding explosion of light and a piecing scream….
I awake to his gentle hand on my arm; ‘Is it over? Is it dead?’
He smiles and shakes his head. ‘No, one does not kill a dragon.
You just have to convince it that it is time for it to move on.’
He stands and takes up his staff, a helpless old man once more,
And makes his way down the hill, carefully avoiding the rocks.
My remaining companions gather round and watch him go,
All somewhat surprised that he left us the damsel and the gold.
I love it, Mark! Ah, the old D&D days… ^_^
not trite at all!
Mark, alas, you’ve inspired me:
A Tale of a Poor Knight and an Old Horse
A man rode out one two-moon night
to win a magic sword.
He rode a horse consumed by blight.
Twas all he could afford.
His clothing, all was soiled and worn
and filled with many holes.
The folks he passed heaped him with scorn
and pelted him with rolls.
His horse was soon quite out of breath
It stopped beneath a tree.
It said, “I feel quite near to death.
Please, master, set me free.”
The man then heaved humongous sighs
and shook a shaggy head.
He felt a measure of surprise
to see his horse fall dead.
“Alas,” he said, “it’s much too late
for me to set you free.
I’m much too tired, at any rate,
to dig beneath this tree.”
And so our knight meandered home,
and still without a sword
“because”, he said, “it’s hard to roam
with what I can afford.”
Margaret Fieland
Love it!
Perfect counterpoint!
I promise I’ll think of a better title for this, at some point.
…
Sin, Skin, Sky
We lay on the roof’s frozen black asphalt
when the sky peels away. Like an old peach
slips its skin; like a table flecked with salt.
Two-note coven, gazing upward: and each
in fingerless gloves and thin coats, who can
win the sky. Peel away like an old peach
and you drip topaz-water, grow slick: and
the sky does just that. We can’t grasp hold of
(in fingerless gloves) its thin coats. Who can?
We simple witches merely clasp cold love,
round each other’s palms. Ring out the long night:
the sky does. Just that, we can’t grasp hold of
her bruised face, steel-wool blue, Phosphoric white
like dream fire. We curl it into pillars
round each other. Psalms ring out the long night,
saying, tonight is for small-time killers,
who lay on the roof’s frozen black asphalt
and dream fire. We curl it in. Two pillars
slip their skins, leave a table flecked with salt.
“Two pillars/slip their skin..”
Joseph, I want to live in your brain for just, like, two minutes. Seriously. Wow.
Is there room in there for me???
Wow. Just…wow.
How do you grasp the sky?
Love this.
-Nicole
Musical Magic
“Do You Believe in Magic?
Lovin’ Spoonful 1960’s
Magic of music surrounds you
in seasonal sounds,
Spring’s patter of soft rain
Summer’ seagulls squawking
Fall’s leaves crunching underfoot
Magic of music surrounds you
inside your head,
magic mushrooms to Miles Davis
LSD to Etta James
magical mystery tour
led by the Beatles
reach of Springsteen
into your mind.
Every song your absorb,
pulls from your soul,
secrets, like a rabbit
from a hat.
No jingles no singles no razzamatazz
Gimme a double shot of that old fashioned jazz
Mingus on the groove, Ella’s doin’ scat
Charlie’s blowin’ trumpet, I like it like that !
LOVE these, both!!
Tripletriplicity
Came Calle Berry’s night, fairies runnin’ free
From April’s last chill came a haunting melody
Hard driving reels set the pub’s beat
Bobblin’ heads and quick tapping feet
Came up for air, time to catch a quick breath
When all the strings broke nearly scared me to death
A pair of smudge sticks, made of hemlock and blackthorn
Sprang the sneak attack against the butter spirit’s scorn
Free reign to wreak havoc on a poor mortal soul
Time to question the so-called good neighbors role
Beware the Grey man’s grasp, old boneless himself
Or you’ll need to be rescued by the great iron elf !
Miraculous Moments
An unfolding flower,
a drowsy young child,
a late summer shower,
a spring sweet and mild.
The blue sky above me
a cloud skidding by,
or maybe just simply
that bumblebees fly.
The gold of a haystack,
the red of a fox tail,
evening sky: blue-black,
the silky gray of a whale.
These things are miraculous
but so every-day
that most folks don’t see them
in a miraculous way.
Diana Terrill Clark
I keep coming back to this one. I like the flow, the simplicity and “that bumblebees fly.” Plus, I often think lately that too much is passing me by. Well done.
Oh, Diana, my mother would have loved this one. She believed fervently in seeing the simplest of things as miracle. You captured this so well and also sent me on a little trip down memory lane with my mom. Thanks.
So far, this is my favorite sentiment of the prompt. Beautifully penned as well.
Wow, thank you so much! I do believe in simple, every-day magic, and am grateful for your notice! ^_^ My best regards to your Mom, Jane; my great-grandma would’ve liked this one too.
Perfection! Love these everyday “magical,” things! Among the most magical in my humble opinion!
Mine too, Hannah! Thank you. ^_^
SESANTA
(Another Santa Sestina)
Up on the house tops I stop, The man in red
heads down another chimney. All the imagery you believe,
will not deceive if you keep an open heart.
And for their part, the reindeer dance and prance above.
and our labor of love continues. For it is the Magic of Christmas.
And from the North Pole to the Panama Isthmus, I, Santa
accept the mantle of the season, pleasing the way only Santa
can. This is my quest; the best promise ever read:
“To be a lasting symbol of the love this magical Christmas
time brings. All I ask is that you believe.
When you hear a jingle faintly up above,
know that I have seen the goodness in your heart.
And nestled in that and every heart
is the pulse of a true Santa,
this man whose reindeer fly to near and far up above.
If you truly feel the love, and you were bred
to be giving and compassionate, I believe
that you can be an Ambassador of Christmas.
We reach a little deeper at Christmas,
for it is within the fullness of our hearts
that we can find some magic in which to believe.
One needn’t be a jolly bearded Santa
to achieve it. If you believe it and look good in red,
it is said you will be blessed from above.
Up on the house tops, there above
the chimney I float in my red coat and enough Christmas
to fill your stockings and tread
softly with love and joy in my heart,
working the magic any good Santa
would to make you believe.
Do you? Do you believe?
Do you believe in my reindeer up above?
Do you believe in all that I, Santa
presents to the world each and every Christmas?
And will you carry that Christmas magic in your heart
as long as your blood flows bright red?
I only wear red so it would be easy for you to believe,
that I place a good and loving heart above material wealth.
Without Christmas, I would be at a loss. I am Santa Claus.
I believe, I believe, I believe in you !!
How could one NOT believe!
I guess that answers my earlier question.
I’m clapping, clapping, cl…oh, no, that was for Tinker Bell, wasn’t it?
YAY! Another one for my special treasure chest. Thanks, yet again, Walt.
Seduced by a Prince
Twelve thousand souls chanted his name
Clapped, stomped their feet, hollered
The arena’s lights dimmed, went out
The place went crazy, the lights came on
The faithful, if possible, went crazier
Stomped louder, everyone on their feet
Started dancing in the aisles to canned music
As the lights continued to dim, go out, go back on …
Finally – almost an hour after stated start time,
Came a surreal rumbling from all the speakers –
At least as loud as something offered up
By Mother Nature – it came from the bowels of the earth
Deafening—and on the overhead screens
The symbol — for the artist formerly known as—
Glowed lilac—six storeys high—shot through
With lightning bolts; they glimmered off and on
Rhythmically
Insanity ruled in the building as the strobes flared on
Stroking the crowd, streaking them rainbow coloured
Talk about whipping folks to a frenzy
This sorcerer knows his stuff – let the bass rumbling
Go on just long enough
Finally back-up singers floated onto the stage
other band members as if by magic, appeared too
When people were beside themselves with anticipation,
He was just
There
And then over everything, very recognizable bars
of one of his most famous songs
Filled the arena to a roar of approval…
Instructions from the magician
To party and “go crazy”
Hardly needed a response
But the crowd boomed
Its agreement
Enthusiastically
For a mesmerizing two and a half hours
The enchanter played to the enchanted
Leading them up and down
The charts and years
Until four encores – or
Was it five … he had them
Ending with chanting:
“This is the best party ever”
“This is the best party ever”
And it was…
I’ve been to a few of those !!!
The Secret of Magic
Talismans,
Incantations, and
Potions hold
No power,
Ancient rites just meaningless
Attempts at control.
True magic,
That rare, potent force,
Only comes
From within;
Faith and belief — conduits
To the possible
Sophia Rose
She points,
squeals, and her
eyes light up,
dimples emerge,
hands shoot up,
chubby legs pump —
and all at the sight of me.
I pick her up, she
leans in
to Eskimo kiss
eyes on mine,
full-faced smile –
for what does she know
of decorum?
Captivating innocence
and abandon,
bordering on the miraculous –
liberating, invigorating tenderness,
transporting routine to sublime.
Awwwww….!
In no hurry for grand kids, but I am sure they are MAGICAL!
A winsome and winning poem, Marie.
Thanks, all! Yep, she’s a keeper!
So sweet! The real magic of life!
Thanks Colette!
This makes me tear, happy tears of the joy of children and innocence! You captured this so well, my friend!! <3
WALT: I BELIEVE!
MAGICAL THINKING
My nephew the magician has
a trick specific to seven year-old
wizards: as he waves his plastic
wand, he shuts his eyes and
believes his momentary blindness
renders unseen the shining coin
slipping into the obvious secret
pocket, masks his slow-motion
sleight-of-hand that sprouts
the silk flowers from his sleeve,
but we wink with him and
Oh and Ah like it’s Cana, because
who hasn’t worked a long
July day, then stooped to the
garden hose expecting water
yet the cold, clear fountain,
finer than wine, rushed over
our tongues and we closed
our eyes in sweet surprise?
Piper Magic
In the reel of the pipes
there lives a muse both mythical
and magical. Scots a’fore me,
most celebrated for their wile,
bring mirth to a worn and tired soul.
Any toll life may have visited upon you,
dissipates in the loving tones of kith and kin.
And within the notes played soulfully,
a transformation occurs. Within the heart it stirs
and love is aroused in the pitch and timber.
A prestidigitation in sound, musical and magical.
I do like the pipes. Especially the dirges, Taps and Amazing Grace. By no means an aficionado, but do like the sound. Good read, thanks.
Och laddie – ’tis a fine thing indeed …
Magic
A rabbit out of a hat is not magic,
unless you honestly can’t remember
putting the damn thing in there.
A good card trick never hurt anyone.
People seem to like confirming
that hands are quicker than brains.
I have never sawed a lady in half,
but I have wished to be the lady
many times. Below the waist,
everything is more troublesome,
less magical, than we were all led
to believe in school buses of yore.
This is a really interesting and vivid take on the prompt. I really like it.
Thanks! It took a disturbing turn, but I was not feeling particularly magical today.
the disturbing is part of what i like… it’s like the old view of magic, the mix of bright and dark – i think that the allusion is what works here.
Great take on the prompt.
I’m chuckling. This is fantastic and, sadly, too true. Those damned bus gossips ruined so many lives. Ha!
wOw!!! This is some powerful magic! Well-stated.
Sorry- it’s clumsy. Still working out an idea.
Magic
Nestling in thick pink and white
arches a waxy spaceship
disgorges beaked , green eyeballs.
Into the water, they dive.
Begin, new lotus.
I like it (and not just because you liked mine). Vivid and strange imagery.
thank you! lotuses have always freaked me out a little, so i figured it was time to try to expel the fear from my brain
It’s Magic
You can sketch pictures,
a pencil’s
provided.
If you pull the gray slate up
poof! all is erased.
It’s like the white board,
words written
with a black
magic marker are erased
with a sleight of hand.
A favorite toy, made right here in Ohio.
ditto – thanks for the memory
Wish I could get my kids to put down the video controllers and give those a try! They were so fun!
How Can There Be No Such Thing As Magic When Everything Is Magic?
All day it’s back and forth
but by the time you reach the end
and run out of rose petals who can remember what you were counting?
Who has time for magical realism
when the dishes keep piling up,
three years without an exclamation and then
poof! they’re everywhere! in hints and smiles,
even in pie! and I think we all can fly!
and where was I?
Sometimes when I put my hand over my lips
and the hour glass turns over in my scar,
I don’t know what it is I’m trying not to say.
My muse is a tiny dog
and I am a ceramic blue jay he stares at
and wonders about, licks to see if it’s real.
Who doesn’t?
Try and decipher that one without a prestige.
They make it sound so simple, even put it
right there on the first page:
to reach beyond the confines of realism,
poof! we’re all in the same place again.
Magic used to be crushing a small bird to death
just as you swoosh the curtain and presto, another bird,
and they say this life isn’t magic
but I have already died twice
and didn’t feel a thing?
“to reach beyond the confines of realism” – I think you’ve done that here Mike – this enigmatic (at least to my puzzled mind) left me smiling and breathless … cool
Thanks very much!
A few separate thoughts on magic….
Fairy wing brushes her neck as unicorned hooves tremble the
soft sponged earth lit clear drenched in luminous shimmer of moon-day
breathed syllables float soft as showered chestnut blossoms settling in poem
messages from Everland….
~
He stands as the world spins around him
blurring colors in melted sounds all heard
clear and distinct. – loudest the small voice
pierces core of innermost ear…raw with
mumbled jumbling one singular word
Clear
Inexplicable
He stands as the world spins around him
flinging coupled notes into sonataed crescendo
as a jug head one minces ”Retard” in C Major”
repeatedly…..
He spins …
-
Now you see it
Now you don’t
Said Uncle Hymie
Pulling endless coins
From my ears
While Aunt yelled
Don’t!
-
He conjured The Magician Set
a wand, a long black swirly cape
one silk top hat, glitter in a glass jar
The box materialized there under
new sock stacks. red Santa pajamas
A dented box – one end taped
Torn open to reveal
The wand – drooped
plastic cape unswirlable stiff
Glitter gone
Unknown
~
Give me your cackling crone and mumbly spell
Kneel down to a hope drained child – watch eyes light and well
Transformed as you simply say ” it will be better I can tell”
Make something happen go further still
Become the magic itself – as moon follows sun you will
~
Four-year-old-raped murdered Kaitlin
rises from her shallow fifteen-year grave
and tenderly brushes the dirt from her high arched foot
with graceful nineteen- year- old manicured fingers
Wow. Each is beautiful. The last one is SO disturbing – this is the kind of thing that I think of when I think of ghosts, and you put it into words…
Thank you Ina …. Regarding the last: I have a series of Kaitlin poems on my blog … she appeared right before last November’s PAD and last night for the first time a glimmer of her almost grown
wow Pearl … as always you honour Kaitlin in significant ways; how nice you brought her alive and maturing beautifully for Christmas(oddly, I don’t find this scary, just heart-breaking)and I love that it’s the crone who kneels down to “a hope drained child” A lovely, intriguing set of magical poems.
Yes, I agree.
Thanks Sharon , I felt same way about Kaitlin enjoyed seeing her as a graceful young woman and moved by your comment re the crone and child… Soooo appreciate all these kind words … Thanks Marie for your agreement
….hope to have some delicious magical time to read and comment today!
For A Goddaughter and Her New Protector
There’s magic in a wedding,
Big Fat Greek, or otherwise.
There’s mystery as well,
to the old folks, no surprise.
There’s uncles and aunts,
cousins distant and close,
nieces, nephews and yia yia’s,
parents and brothers the most
important of all, midst the din and
the joy, a small touch of madness,
make no mistake, there’s
also great gladness.
There’s magic in a wedding,
most would say it’s from love,
some believe it more mystical,
a mother smiling from above.
There’s laughter and smiles,
the start of life anew,
so fresh, full of heart,
perfect hopes for the two
now made one in a way
only magic could bring.
For their future, to their promise,
we pray and we sing.
There’s magic in a wedding,
we’ve all played our part
so abracadabra and shazam,
here’s to Raina and Art.
Very cool! I hope you showed the happy couple your poem in their honor!
indeed…framed…particularly special, she’s a Badger
the cauldron bubbles
my husband tries to get out
I push him under
This is very impressive – eerie, satisfying, delineating a whole character, a relationship, and a pair of lives, in a few words,
Thanks ina.
EUGENE
I’se yousta swoon fer Alice the Goon,
an Wimpy owes me millions.
Brutus makes me knuckles sore
an Geisel’s outs there chillin.
Poop-deck Pappy pooped his pants
the ways me Swee’ Pea duz,
an Olive Oyl me bony goil,
she loves me jusk becuz.
I makes her squeak and squeal,
whens me ship comes into port,
who needs dem tiny blue pills
whens to spinach I’se resorts.
Wit me trusky Jeep heres at me sides,
wit magical ways about him,
Eugene discappears and hides
whens I has me way with him.
A squink eyed sailor needs loves, see?
You’d drives a Jeep ifs yous was me!
EL. OH. EL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Especially like
an Olive Oyl me bony goil,
she loves me jusk becuz.
You stayed brilliantly in character throughout. A keeper!
Very cute!
Static Magic
His were the fingers of spectacular delight,
magic spilling from them, humming and crackling
like cellophane paper that’s twisted
around hardboiled peppermint sweets.
Everything he touched fell under his spell.
Hair-raising showers of sparks that squiggled
and wiggled in arcs across the air. Snapping
and biting like an ankle-high dog on attack.
A touch, a snap, a bite and a bark,
those fingers of his, charged full of shocks
whenever his polyester socks danced
up a storm on his icy-blue, rayon carpet.
Meadow in the Morning
Surrounded by greenery,
I walk under subdued light
and listen to hushed sounds
of early day,
and ease myself
into the morning at hand.
Such luminosity,
this greenery shimmers like a dream,
while I wonder
how such beauty came to be.
Shale ledges
overlooking a babbling stream
speak of the land’s history
while I take a solitary walk,
but never alone
while surrounded by timeless mystery.
So peaceful! The Magical Meadow!
~ Magical Madness ~
Psychology in reverse –
the magic of a curse –
tell me what I cannot do
and I’ll do whatever I can do
to do what I “cannot” do!
Magic is the curse
of psychology in reverse!
Pingback: haiku magic « echoes from the silence
Presto Chango
One more now draped over
with the finest woven cloth.
Left there in the darkness
to be ravaged by the moth.
No cedar bark to stave off
hostile visitors nor pests.
No magic wands are waving
in the hands of welcome guests.
Covered in the shroud
bring on the blade to slice in two.
Silencing the crowd there
on the day that you may rue.
Ripping off the linen
now reveals a hollow face.
Presto chango being chanted
as it echoes in that place.
Blink your eyes in unison
and you have missed the hand.
So much swifter is the journey
through the air than over land.
Contemplate, consider cause
and effect of illusion.
Whisper a sweet memory.
Draw one last conclusion.
By Michael Grove
transported in time ~
not by magical machine
but by memory
2011-12-15
P. Wanken
Magic
Everything holds everything together.
We will never understand the scope of it -
our brains can never take in the sheer
size of a galaxy, how all that black space
can condense into suns and turn on itself,
how a cosmic hub holds cosmic spokes
and waltzes through infinity.
How our world, that living thing,
cuts ellipses around the same star
and never flies off like a doomed rock
into oblivion. How we are just far enough
from it to survive, how we were cooked in a stew
till we wriggled free and discovered ourselves.
How diverse we are – dragonflies and carp,
raccoons and emus, mushrooms and sequoias.
How some of us became wonderful and terrible,
could love and destroy and build and hate.
How I am the only one seeing through these eyes,
and you are the only one seeing through yours,
how we dance and fight and laugh and conspire,
how the synapses fire in our brains and tell us
what galaxies and sequoias are, even if we
never completely understand, and all the while
we move like little galaxies through our universe,
our cells held together with miraculous glue,
the molecules, the atoms, the subatomic.
That’s what I meant to say!
Thanks for saying it so clearly, Bruce.
Decided to take another swipe at this prompt, ended up with a series of haiku. Enjoy!
The Magic of Mom
I.
A mother’s magic
Can transform skinned knees and tears
With only a kiss.
II.
Kitchen sorceress
Conjuring tempting meals from
Her meager pantry.
III.
Dishes washed. Laundry
Folded. Mysteriously
The house cleaned itself!
IV.
Tooth Fairy, Santa,
The magic of childhood made
Possible by Mom.
V.
A magic potion
Able to cure any ills:
Mother’s chicken soup.
VI.
Her mystic wisdom
Proves the old adage is true:
Mother does know best.
VII.
Immortality:
The one magical power
Mothers just don’t have.
Oldie
Real people, not cardboard figures,
Working their black and white magic,
Living their imperfect lives,
Filled with overbearing loneliness,
Loving, and breathing, and dying,
Destroying themselves,
And rising from ashes.
Oh, the forgotten glory
Of watching a good movie.
LOVE old movies!! Was just thinking about Casablanca this afternoon! Nice one, Happy!
Thank you, Hannah! I watched ‘The Hustler’ (1961) for the first time yesterday. I cannot remember when I last saw a movie that good.
I’ll have to check this one out too, thanks Happy!
~BETTER THAN GOLD~
When I close my eyes I can see them still
So many snowflakes taken on the wind.
The ungraspable things of this life
Like laughter, the scent of the sea
The long and loving look in your eyes,
I hold them all in an immaterial place.
Softly, I sense them in my heart.
It is that which brings to fruition;
Magic,
Love.
Wish I’d made more magical time for reading and comments!! What I did get to read has been sticking with me all week! Much enjoyed! Happy writing and holiday smiles to ALL!
BELIEVE
You call it magic.
I call it faith; a belief that says
no matter what, you’re on board.
You can afford to extend your hand,
for in the grand scheme of things
the feeling this season brings
soothes your soul. The main goal
of every man, woman and child
is to hold the love in their hearts.
It always starts with love. A love of life,
a love of fellow man, a love unconditional
that positions you to do great things.
Peace on earth in goodwill and love;
the Magic of Christmas, a treasure trove.
You call it magic.I call it faith.
I am Santa Claus, if you believe.
Weave magic
Weft of elements
I pull my hands
elements, called, caress
the fingers. I shed off
anger let fire go.
I float and cast away
air, swim and
let water flow away.
Rooted in earth
I reach, pull
tones of amber from
the ground below,
healing green, woven
into a
rooted life.
I look up and
watch elements
weave magic.
Megan
where the soul moves
come in this room
and all but now
stays at the door
back needs its stretch
spine wants the floor
feet have to move
come in this place
and all but self
stays out the door
heart loves its speed
blood sweet in flux
my meat, the beat
here in this place
where what’s not me
stays at the door
up go these arms
sound from the lungs
whirl of we two
through this good place
and what’s not me
stays out the door
talk of our steps
gets the junk out
oil for our lives
here in this room
all’s here and now
here in the door
you, you and i
dance two by none
love move trove true
this is our place
and all by we
stays at the door
WHAT MAGIC BE THIS?
I thought of you, and you appeared, silently.
I wondered about you, and you answered, softly.
I joked with you, and you laughed, sweetly.
I feared aloud for you, and you inhaled, sharply.
I blinked, and you dissapeared, suddenly.
So much for my proofreading skills: make that “disappeared”. : >(
Petronila
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
(for my mother who first told me)
light-skinned mestizo beauty,
–part currandera
–part chilote witch
Petronila treated both victim & entity
as honored guest in her home,
with homespun chants & spells,
prayers & candle magick,
botanicals, amulets, and charms
–parsley for fertility
–nettle to banish
–a little rosemary for protection
–jasmine for true love
and a pinch of slippery elm to quelch gossip.
tormented then celebrated
then persecuted time over again,
Petronila tired of the flip-flop games and put
into motion the following hex:
that by man’s ravenous appetite for progress
one plant species become extinct every year
along with the knowledge which shamans
have passed down for generations.
And we’ve been paying for it ever since.
© 2011 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
Mystical magic
remains wretchedly absent
despite willful wait
Your kisses are hypnotic brands of
magic realism that blend the surreal
with a sensuality of seduction and evanescence,
your lips bewitching my senses in mystical
enchantment of numinous desire.
Your whispers of passion and pleasure
are the mantic prayers that rise up
to the hedonistic god in hermetic
incantations, heated sound waves
that travel over my body in undulating
quivers sufficed only where your hands
wander with mystical mastery and exploit.
I fall under your bawdy spell in willing
surrender to the raunchy beguilement
that forever holds me captive in your arms.