A new tack was taken for this poem: the illustrations were created first, before the poem was written; then, the illustrations were described to make the poem, providing for perfect illustrations of the words.


Here the markers to signal the faint path—
The Persian flask and two green fairy lamps,
Flanked by petunias, whose sums grant the math.

From green to blue her chameleon clothes change,
While she factors in Victorian pots,
Her blue-blond hair ever more rearranged.

The vase and the flagon winked straight away,
She now back to blond, sporting lighter clothes,
As she passes through the magical archway.

A bridge appears where there was none before,
On an extra green leaf morning newly born,
Spanning the gap between the river shores.

Down by its side is a mossy green log,
And just beyond, the rushing waterfalls,
And day lilies to herald summer’s slog.

Here more lamps, and swans, on a forest walk,
Past an old mansion, toward sunlit uplands,
After the pure pond and its reedy stalks.

A brick-paved turn in the enchanted woods
Brings forth leafy stone gardens, in dim light,
For minty refreshments, and other goods.

Stony steps lead upward, and there she poses,
For all the woodland’s hidden eyes to see,
Flaring wide her wings, and standing tip-toed.

More falls call and so she walks, rock to rock,
Cooling off in the water’s splashy spray,
On her wondrous journey that has no clock.

She lays by the side of the moving pool,
Looking closely at the swirling wavelets,
Oft catching sight of a sparkling jewel.

Next, of all things, sits a wonderland girl,
With a large hat, holding a big red egg,
On the other side of the whirling swirl.

Now with orchid wings, she sits near the stream,
Amid the moss and the caressing mists,
Lost in time, while wandering through daydreams.

Within the rocks a lime green cave was carved,
Where jewels and a golden vase were stored,
With the urn that Keats’ wrote an ode upon.

There an elf’s house, in a haunting face tree,
And more lanterns to guide one through the deeps,
All laid out with the words of poetry.

Here another woodsy home—a mushroom hut,
With a pumpkin and stools set for sitting.
She outstretches her arms, welcoming the night.

Another house, built into a sturdy tree,
Has two young fairies kneeling on the lawn,
Near the large stones set in the greenery.

Night falls, greeted by elemental tree-men
Guarding a massive face trunk just beyond;
Yet unworldly lights still shine in the glen.

Green and bluish magic glows light the way,
While angel sparks draw the traveler on,
Through the warm mid-summer’s night, come what may.

On warm-hearted ground, under stone-cold sky,
Her carried waving lantern’s light reveals
A kindred soul, set to sleep in a cup.

She finds a glowing abode to sleep in,
In sojourn with two other wanderers,
Pleasantly tired—waiting for dreams to begin.

She dreams of comets in the starry night,
From the wellspring of visions sparked so bright—
Phantasms ranging among all the sights.

Up at dawn, she runs with its orbed glow-balls,
The sun racing behind her to catch up,
She off again in her world without walls.

The morning mists and clouds diffuse the sun,
As there she stands, wondering at cattails,
Her band of blue sporting its blonding run.

The warmth surrounds her, and so she lays,
On the purple-eyed grass, near the rippling pond,
Deep in reverie of the newborn day.

She drinks the dews from the flowers before the day
Can heat and evaporate the vapors away,
Gaining this light sustenance, as fairies may.

She flies through the grasses, around a tree,
As an angel atop a mushroom point the way,
Leaving smoky swirls and vapor trails freed.

Here the deep and preternatural forest,
Its primeval splendor undisturbed,
The place where angels breathed into man’s breath.

Here a stream that she will make an ocean,
Through her growing small, by quickly shrinking,
To ride the waves and crests with emotion.

Butterfly wings sail her rounded leaf boat,
That has a flattened splinter for a seat,
With a twig-vined rudder to keep afloat.

From the overflowing wellspring of joy,
Passion and desire, they drink elixir,
Deep, and wetting through and through, o’er noise.

Wanded fairies three share a wide tree stump,
In the wooded green of all greens ne’er seen,
Where winter’s scene is ev’r summer trumped.

Perpetual roses spring to one’s hand,
And all around, in the secret garden’s bower,
Where one’s romantic dreams come true as planned.

Oh, kiss me, dear, and lift me from the grass,
And twirl me up and above, in love’s whirl,
Unto the heights, where most joyous times pass.

In the unknown castle, she wines and dines,
Then steps out, onto the balcony ledge,
Noting the water-falled lake and the pines.

Her odyssey continues, past a well,
On slate stones, to where giant flowers sprout,
Through deep, enchanted lands, where beauty swells.

Oh dear, there’s talk of a young ‘naughty’,
But it wasn’t that really, specifically,
But that the fae was not enough naughty!

Two lithe and barely dressed fairlings introduce
Butterflies to the blossoming flowers sown,
So that thus they help them to reproduce.

If it ev’r gets too hot, the fairies shrink,
And then find refuge under a flower’s shade,
And there find droplets of dew to drink.

Under a corolla, the crystal ball
Of marble is read, to get the weather
And the future, which is why they never fall.

In the landscaped gardens, the cardinal bathes,
While all the colors mix and shift the gaze,
As a statue with a ball in the air plays.

A lantern’s clue turns her purple-violet,
Expands her wings, and reverses the scene,
Erasing a few objects here and there.

The half-good, half-bad guardian says “Stop!”,
That “It is the Queen’s Magic Mountain Land.”
Yet she relents and waves the beauty through.

A pause, while her own butterfly self sprouts,
In a flutter-by, then alights on her hand,
As they rest on a stone arch bridge o’er a stream.

Up the mountain, on a purple brick path,
As walking into thin air, with only
Grasses between one and the lands below.

The red-haired queen welcomes the traveler,
“Come; you walk the road that all must enjoy.
What do you seek of your passage, my dear?”

“I seek the here and now, nothing more.”
“And so you have done well in arriving here.
We have a grand festival going fore.”

Fairies dance and fly, on the mountain top,
To celebrate not anything at all,
But that of being, living, and moving—lots.

Singers range and stand atop elven huts,
On mushrooming stools, belting out the hits,
For all to hear and the dancers to follow.

The faeries bathe in a pond of potions,
Insuring their skins to be everlasting,
Pure and deep—providing beauty’s notions.

Many naked swim, to better their selves purify,
In this land where timeless beings beautify,
Where ideals flourish, high in the sky.

Into the glacial lake is the special plunge,
For here is the purest water known on Earth,
The liquid that washes mortal worries away.

Evening bells ring in parties and social talk,
Lit by lanterns hanging from the branches,
Where they walk the talk and talk the walk.

An enchantress juggles the moon, in rhyme,
Sitting on a rock in the magical land,
Where lilacs and daisies grow at the same time.

At the stairs to sleep, a ballet is performed,
On the grass, with plenty of footed point,
With jazz, tap, lyrical, and other forms.

They ready for sleep in warm cave portals
That have green and leafy floors, to cushion
Their night’s restings, along with flower petals.

The nightmare and her foal are both banished
To the brightest parts of night, where they all
Can but learn and grow from the wisdom of a child.

Now the aches and pains of the day can be
Swept away, on this greensward at night,
Infused by the light of eternity.

Our life traveler basks in the moonlight,
Preparing for the flight of weariness,
Through the subconscious, restorative might.

The full moon brings its light to the night,
And to the sea, on the waves at the shore,
Dimming even the watchtower’s giant light.

Others head for the well of sleep and delight,
On the phosphorescent soft grasses’ pillows,
Here in the fabulous land of good and right.

“I bid you rest under the stars and the moon,”
Says the Queen, “to all of you in-between,
As sleep’s circles close in to let you swoon.”

Dawn brightens the lake while the skies are yet purple,
And washes over one with that feeling
That a new day has just begun its fun.

They welcome the birds, who are already up,
Rising to the glow of the east, from sleep,
In the glorious half-light of twilight dawn.

She flies down the mountainside—a dream’s truth,
Over ponds and grasses grown from the valley
Fertile from the rivulets sown by the mountain.

Up and over, through the misty vapors,
She wings, into the here and now of this day,
In which everything is possible.

The slopes level into meadows of bouquets,
As quickly she rambles, through rock and field,
Becoming and joining with every living thing.

The flowers roll unto a village in Utopia,
On a stream, where a young lady stands firm,
Upon a green grass platform jutting out.

And another, near an opening in tree,
With wooden planks seeming to walk by,
All under the rays of the sun’s majesty.

There’s a lively playground of shroom stools,
Amid rocks, plants, flowers, grasses, and trees,
For those in recess from the fairy schools.

At the base of the falls, she meets a water nymph,
With webbed feet fins and scaled legs,
But otherwise a fairy though and through.

And twins, sitting, amid scattered leaves,
Who are early autumn fairies ‘leaving’.
Oh how does the summer pass so quickly by?

Within a week, the leaves flutter down more,
As a butterfly faerie sits against a tree,
In the presence of the main autumn fairy.

A broomer next appears, sweeping a patio,
With every tree about her scene being orange,
Which is an even brighter color in FairyLande.

Finally, home and heart, in her little shack.
Did I get where I wished to go? she thought.
Yes; it was the journey, not the destination.