With winds awhistling through the trees
and air sprites dancing on the breeze,
you'll hear the pipes from Éirinn’s lands -
mayhap a leprechaun might sneeze
at swirling faery dust - like bees
that swarm in clouds of floating strands.
Minutest drops of molten gold
soon fill the air a thousand fold -
and glittering, these tiny specks
may whisk you high and break your hold
on gravity - these tiny flecks
may still your breath till you grow cold.
Will O’ the Wisp, slight airborne grams
dance to the tunes of faerie bands -
and when it’s done you’ll fall asleep
while counting reams of golden sheep.
Nary an Accolade
If leaves in summer failed to fade,
they'd garner nary an accolade
when autumn brushed the hills and dales,
and Jack Frost whistled storms and gales.
Ice Kings would genuflect in awe,
while vainly winter's storms would claw,
and flowers withering would fold
in anguish from the bitter cold -
yet all the while and all the when
the earth would tuck its bowers in,
embellishing this brilliant scene
with landscapes swathed in Irish green.
Bon Soir au Château de Chillon
Isolated on an island it sits:
Le Château de Chillon quite subtly preens,
former dark dungeon of dank cells and pits.
Maudlin gloom closes in these tainted scenes.
Some say the castle’s haunted, imbuing
phantasmagoric phantoms; history* leans
back toward murky primal forests, fleeting
glimpses of helmed Crusaders, bronze age men
encamped on this very site, their being
frozen by the mists of time; every hillock
and outcrop of stone embellishes flame
burnishing these walls, seeming to mock
sunset, whose beauteous hues, whose frame
personates this stone-mortar haughty dame.
A Hard Sell is the Villanelle
Of all the forms I’m wont to peruse,
the villanelle is the dastardly worst--
they're still, after the sonnet, the one I most use.
Sometimes writing them gives me the blues;
I only write them if I’m vilely coerced--
of all the forms I’m wont to peruse ...
they don’t lend themselves to idle shmooze,
or incite me to write with fiery thirst--
but after the sonnet, the one I most use,
and the villanelle is least loved by my muse,
while no doubt foolish--I still plunge headfirst--
of all the forms I’m wont to peruse--
in contests, they usually help me to loose.
Sometimes I even feel that I’m cursed--
but after the sonnet, the one I most use
is the villanelle. I suffer many a bruise
with the villanelle; though I’m well versed--
in all the forms I’m wont to peruse,
they’re, after the sonnet, the one I most use.
Jim Dunlap was born in Keokuk, Iowa, Jan. 3, 1945. He is a poet who has been published extensively in American small press magazines, in England, France, India, Australia, New Zealand, and online in Switzerland, England, Australia, New Zealand, and overall in many U.S. journals.
Jim is currently a Controller on Poetry Life & Times’ Facebook page, is a seven year past Newsletter Editor for the Des Moines Area Writers' Network, Book Editor for The New Pleiades Poetry Anthology (Ottawa, Ontario, Canada/ Las Vegas, NV, USA), co-author (with 5 others) of Five Gates of Poetry, author of "Entwined In Wonder" (by himself), and co-author (with 3 others), of The MysticEast Poetry Anthology (India). co-Editor of Sonnetto Poesia, and he has been published in over 90 publications, including Potpourri (Prairie Village Kansas), Candelabrum (Wisbeck, England), Mobius, the Paris/ Atlantic (Paris, France), Plainsongs (Nebraska), and online in Poetry Life and Times, Poetry Repair Shop, theHyperTexts.com and many others. He has been in the Writer's Digest top 100 in 3 categories, rhymed verse, unrhymed verse and the literary short story. He is listed in the Marquis Who's Who In America, the Marquis Who's Who In The World, and in the Directory of American Poets and Fiction Writers which is a publication of Poets and Writers Magazine.