Two Poems by Linda Sparks

 

The Magic Woods

 

Wending my way through the wispy fog of dreams

Wondering if this moment is everything as it seems.

Am I lost in the miasma of the wood and fire

That ring of dancing fairies that surely will inspire?

Have I gone mad in the excitement of the light

Transpiring nocturnal magic into wondrous night?

Or have I become mad in a world forgotten and lost

Swallowed by modern haste at an outrageous cost?

They have warned me to keep to the path at all times

And never ever sing those songs or those alluring rhymes.

But I hear the songs of the wood and the magic of those

Who have slumbered long and deep and now they arose.

Must I fear what I see in that magical dancing ring

Or shall I open my throat and allow my voice to sing?

And do these feet of mine now move and patterns weave?

Casting aside my bitter sorrows and all that I grieve?

Have I cast aside my roles as daughter, mother, wife?

And now I have touched the magic and a prism of life?

Where glorious shards of light touch my deepest place

Giving horror and bitterness an opportunity to erase?

You may call them pixies, fairies or beings of light.

You may even shiver and cry with unbidden fright.

But they are here to bring peace to all who ask

As it is their duty, their joy, their sacred task.

And I am one of the blessed to find my way

To this path that is never seen by light of day.

There is magic if only we care to see

Which shall ever bring peace to you and me.

And now, I bid you dance with your heart

And those you have lost will never part.

They’ll embrace you by the fairy fire of old

And warm your body and soul and ease the cold.

And if you care to pretend it is a dream and not real

Then the secrets are sacred and you will never reveal.

And you shall glitter in the magic of this night

Until the awakening dawn returns with the light.

 

 

Death of a Poet

 

The streets are milling with the herds of worker bees

A man chopping flora and fauna and everything he sees,

As they low and moan through their petulant lives

Cursing their mothers and fathers and their wives.

Are they but mindless fauna caring little for words of light?

Thinking only of moving ever closer to that restless night?

Locked in the routine of hard labor, and tedium of day

Rarely finding gentle moments to ease and play.

He stands upon the center square and opens a book

Yet the crowd sneers and does not even take a look.

He is not bright and flashy and they do not care.

He could be far away or almost anywhere.

He has come to deliver words of thoughts so kind

Hoping to ignite a greater fire in someone’s mind.

But they care little for the gift he offers now

As they move mindlessly like an ignorant cow.

They are locked into a world of fury and fast pace

Leaving very little room for joy and words of grace.

He begins to speak in the voice of an ancient one

Living and breathing under the ominous sun.

Offering hope and a choice of ethereal light

To help disperse the abysmal and endless night.

A pistol has been raised as a child take aim

Believing this is undoubtedly a video game.

Although only minimal inspiring words have been read,

Streets are bloodied, a heart is pierced and a poet is dead.

 

Linda Sparks is a poet and author who has several books published and has been published internationally. She prefers writing about the darkness and discovering what rises when she pokes this abyss.