To Karen Benke, Tresjka Capell, Cora, Berkelie, Brecken, Kiara, Kimberly, Holland, Aunika, Talia, Mom, and especially Maylee.

                      -Flick Vanilly

We walked through the gardens

Strolling contentedly, perfectly lost

We traded the naivety for better worlds

Along with the shattering-horrible

We do not regret it

Inside

Nothing,

Venting the

Inside-flaming

Spirals of

Indifferent fury,

Being seen by

Long and long rows

Every judgement

If twenty birds could never fly

The music then could never die

The moonlight dances on the roof

And then it gives you Ida’s truth

To hold in a palm for more than a blink

Like a fleeing butterfly’s perfect wink

Periwinkle sky

Unknown to all but heaven

Loving humankind

Lucky

Inside my heart is a lazy river in September, shrinking into the seafoam’s passage of love. Inside my heart is the beautiful choking fog of friendship over the forbidden lakes of the past. Inside my heart is a luminous secret of deepest mist, swirling around plastic sea stars. Inside my heart is the heart of a tiny owl, thrumming like an overfed car. Inside my heart is the beautiful gem of my imagination, guarded jealously by sixteen wannabe crows. Inside my heart is the tallest boot’s tearfall, dropping on the head of a pet wooden palm tree and the silent drums of the falling moon. Inside my heart is an old sway-leaf’s rising note, calling down the biggest spark in the eyes of the hidden princess.

I can write with blue logs of miracles

I can write with the suns of roaring obvious

I can write with my blush-dreams of silly wonderings

I can write with the migrating gargoyles of the inevitable

I can write with love

When a peacock tail sounds like an Indian flute

And a hymn looks like a checkerboard

A compass pointing north smells like cardamom

And an ocean-spray smell looks like blobs of gooey green

The snap of a rubber band smells like fresh limes
Satin tastes like chalky salt

And the taste of honeysuckle sounds like a cat

Begin at the boulder where the squirrels sing

Tunnel to Genieland bridge

Swim upstream until you see crystal

Shoot up into the log house

Watch out for greenshine toadstools

Dance softly past the giantess’ collection

Erase all trace of the Austrian Waltz

Find the tall palace-organ 

Dig through the calm well

Dive down Janga Well

Kick the left wall 13 times for luck

Keep your mind on your feet

Soon you will see the key

That will free the words  

Last night, I decided to spin into the air. And while I spun upward, I took care to keep my toes on white-marmalade and whale-waltz. I was pleasantly surprised by meeting a large pink buffalo, who by helping me learn the clarinet, turned me into a slinking wolf. As I darted forward, howling to midair, I decided to become the soul of a mountain. And later, a proud whisper-hawk. I kept beginning to understand, and as I flew up the spiraling ramp past kangaroo-bungalows, I got to the exact middle. But as soon as I became a bell-dancer and played the summit song in the orchestra, a wall-twist made me tumble back down into me, where I rub my eyes and see that this me-sifting dream is only one of my new colors.

Falling off a bike

Not evil, blushing

My sister’s birthstone 

Sharp and soft, warm and cool

Flies entombed

Memories of giants

Sun goes down

It falls off trees into your brain

In a confused continental blur

Jealous of no one 

Spread across home

Sun’s guardian 

Fish leap up waterfalls 

Cool shade on the octopus

Calm draining from oceans to sunshine

Will I break, or will

Imperfection bring

Nullifying sadness 

Down on the

Outside 

Waiting

Songbirds crowing

Kiss from skies below

Yell to heaven for

Little miracles 

Alike to birds

Rarely here

King of cloud-worlds

Spiraling castles

All children running indoors

Not me, will you stay?

Drifting

The hour when crystals twinkle down

And calm blows all the little jewels home

The hour when trees blush brighter

And the crispest winds are blown

The hour when a wish could change a fairy

And the horizon cradles symphonies

It’s the time to look out at the haze of lark and timesong

And wonder why the sun falls off the breeze

Start at the place the low clouds are blue

Settle the colors into silver skis

Ask the musty giggles to show you where to climb

Turn around and watch for the triangular pharaoh

Flip over the sign that says “to earthspring”

Beware the marble train

Proceed to the black roses

Swim to the soaring quartz 

The way home

Little fallen stars

Ever skittering around

Always beautiful

Fallen

Poetry is an almond that strolls past chubby sands. Poetry istwiggy keys in a satiny keyhole you cannot open. Poetry is a triangle, sent by the salmon-blue trees. Poetry is a palace rolling past the shatter-hot diggers. Poetry is a vulture’s business, working to guard a silent statue crystallizing into an emu-seer, with green secrets behind comet eyes.

If sun-green tigers dance the waves,

Why do you drop the lava shine?

If the wind rustles the trees, 

Then who speaks?

I can write with the lightning-truth of soft hands

I can write with rainbow prismatic plots of persimmons

I can write with fuchsia happiness in the shape of fire

Sunstream 

Dancing, slowing, relaxing down

Settling on 

A world fresh with rain

No voice, no life, yet loving.

Seven is a misty crane flying gracefully through seven stars. Seven is a hieroglyph that interprets into seven crowns on the sun. Seven is a rainstorm with seven thunderbolts.

My voice is a sparkling sword, beautiful and frightening. My soul is a curve of light, side-winding in a maze towards reason. My mind is a braid of a thousand types of wisdom. My imagination is a house of crystal-wood, perfect all through with a big crack. And my heart is granite shell around love-dance of fire.

Her hair is sunlight in a cave, muted and dusty with hope. Her nature-eyes open wide, marbles with green hearts. When she walks, it sounds like splashes from coconuts at the beach. Whenever I hug her, the world expands.

The rain presses like a mother falcon. As sunbeams pour down, it’s like chameleons rippling yellow-shine. The mountain’s heart dives and sheds sparks of sleet. Flames whirl amazingly fast, flipping and spinning, and I feel that Mother feels that skies should dance.

It sparkles bright, famous in rarity.

Only his majesty

Can call it his home.

Marching bands and orchestras

Fold it into longing song

The sun’s rays.

She lives on a continent of poetry. She listens quietly to a dragonfly’s refrain and hears samurai speak of people dancing with golden deer. She ends the trance of the world and shows you how to listen and look. She shows you fireflies and before you know it, you stop to listen to wind. She often sits in mint green and listens to the wind drag the flower petals.

You hold these words

Without you

The sun could not come

The moon would never be full

Mountain slopes would relax 

Indigo thunder would shatter

Green would no longer smell so fresh

Sunbeams would turn away

My poem would fade to pale yellow

The flocks would go

What would happen to this world I make

Without you

There’s the hour that light whirls away the red

And the liquid stars drain through our fingers

It’s the hour that waterfalls reverse

And gold leaks from the orchestra-lands

The hour when old dreams sleep tight beneath the sun

And nobody remembers the bad things

Just watching the tangerine cloudshine

The hour when you pour out the folded wind in an endless spiral

Down into the musty pyramid 

And suddenly ancient knowledge flows through our joined minds

Tree

Pure wisdom

Twisting into

Grief-brown swirls of

Omniscience

Many hearts knit together

Twining their arms around 

Serenity