Unicorn Poems

What she said, Old

Stay then.
I will not tell them of you
of diamond lilacs dappling your flanks
I will never mention
the snow on your skin
your mane like flowers
falling under the trees
No-one will know
You rested here
horn tilted to the ground
and when you go,
your hoof prints will be
covered or I'll cleave them
so folk say,
'It must have been a deer!'
I'll tell them that's what it was
and leave some milk
each day, for your passing.

What she said, Young

When the owl drifted by
And told me, all the seas of the moon
reflected in its eyes
I could have sailed them myself
 knowing it had to be true
I went to find you
and lit a candle in my window
To tell my best friend where I had gone.
I had no such friend,
but did it anyway
cos it's part of the charm.
 You were near, so near
when dandelion heads scattered,
and the barnshades breathed in.
The river stopped singing
And so did I.
All those stars in the woods
 I always knew you were there
And who cares if things break and fail
As long as you are in the world?

Happy

Happy about that last poem. It feels like it is about me, about my life.

Wrote it in the dark.

Right now poems are turning up as little vignettes in my head, vivid scenes like memories. In some cases they are memories.

I undergo very powerful dream states, always have done, even while awake. If I see something in my mind's eye, it is usually clear and quite distinct. The difference between such sights and the real world remains very evident to me, but I stay mindful, because varying forms of psychosis are not unknown to the family. Explanations and terms like 'psychic' enable reassurance and pattern making, and enable some form of acceptance, even a sense of usefulness. However they also come with a lot of expectation and baggage, most of it negative. I don't think I should have to be useful. I'm not a product.

The truth is, I don't know what it is. But I am very glad that my brain works this way.
Come to think of it, there's a lot that makes me smile right now.