Mad About You

imaginarygarden Of Angels and Monsters Imagined By

“We all go a little mad sometimes.” – Psycho

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What strange potion slipped between my lips
and warmed my blood to the marrow
or did a Gloxinia’s nectar poison an arrow
that slid so painlessly into my placid heart
stirred a fire within my breast, took my breath,
soon as my eyes beheld yours. Or is it merely
that we all go a little mad sometimes? And if
this be madness then let it rage in frenzied,
fanatical, foolish waves of fascination. For I
adore this madness of which I am mad.


The Monarch

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mindlovesmisery Saturday’s Mix with Teresa
Welcome to Saturday’s Mix. I will be hosting every Saturday throughout the summer while Bastet is taking a break. Today, I thought we’d look at Emily Dickinson. Known for her unusual similes and metaphors, she can be rather cryptic to read. For example, she wrote this poem: Who would guess she’s actually describing a hummingbird?
A Route of Evanescence,
With a revolving Wheel–
A Resonance of Emerald
A Rush of Cochineal–
And every Blossom on the Bush
Adjusts it’s tumbled Head–
The Mail from Tunis—probably,
An easy Morning’s Ride–

A flitter of honey colored velvet
A flutter of dainty angel wings
Dipping in a hundred trumpets
Sipping the ambrosial nectar
Joy expressed in silence
No song, no trill, no hum
Just the lovely cadence
of color, dance and sun.


Mountain Mama

Paul Whitener (1911-1959) Blue Ridge Mountains @1950, Watercolor


Towering mountains of blue hue
look down on the hollows and hills
with love and pride, with mother’s eyes.
Nestled in her lap like bairns
the village reclines in her arms.


ImaginaryToads  Artistic Interpretations with Margaret – Small Town Inspiration…

Welcome to Artistic Interpretations!  I am often excited and and often anticipate for months a visit to well known museums such as the Art Institute of Chicago or the Metropolitan Museum of Art, but I recently visited The Hickory Museum of Art, a small town in North Carolina not far from where I live, and was reminded what a joy it is to include these gems on my calendar as well.


My Hope

imaginarygarden Hope and the Places That Heal You  Imagined By
“Not so much a place as nature itself”

Hope is found in the little things
flower pushing between two stones
a rose beginning to unfurl

calves suckling at their mother’s teat
lambs gamboling in greening fields
a spider’s web sparkly with dew

knolls of Ravishing daffodils
skies so blue the heart rejoices
after the grey of stormy clouds

Trees swaying, waving at the sky
the way the grasses bend and bow
yet rise back in graceful triumph

marigold seeds, cones of the pine
samaras of the maple trees
and all living things that reseed

give me hope as I cope with fear
it’s a seed dormant in the heart
that endures though storms are dreadful.


* Going out of town to a funeral, will respond to everyone tomorrow.



Recipe of Kids

imaginary garden Celebrating Children’s Poetry Imagined By


What are little boys made of?
Bugs and slugs and shoulder shrugs
skinned shins from climbing trees
sunburned nose and stubbed big toes
and dreams of sailing the sea.

Make believe, dungarees, discoveries,
spit in your eye and double dare tries.
Bubble gum, playing the drums, crumbs
in the bed, snow sleds, wagon red,
and dreams of allie, allie, all’s in free.

What are little girls made of?
The same darn things.
That’s what little girls are made of.


, s


Dad Humor

The Twiglet  A kiss on the porch


I sat at breakfast with a moony grin
a kiss last night on the porch.
Dad harrumphs, “Did you hear that
strange noise last night?”
“Noise, Dad?”

It sounded like a cow pulling her leg
out of deep mud. Red to the gills I said,
“Dad, you took all the romance out
of my first kiss.”  And he sat at the
table with a satisfied grin.


Message to Winter

The Twiglets  A rattling winter


The little girl ran
to grandma’s room
as the storm grew bolder,
“I’m scared,” she said,
and snuggled neath the covers.
“Don’t be afraid, little one,
it’s just old North Wind
rattling winter’s bones
letting him know
he’s stayed too long.




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MizQuickly A thing is what it is.


No eyes to see
no mouth to speak
no ears to hear
no will to go
on your own
but led by every puff of air
you are nothing but
dust and moisture
condensation above the earth
light refraction
of sailor’s delight or warning.
Human whimsy insists
in giving you emotion –
angry, brooding turbulence or
gay sherbert colored swathes,
and by the time we see you
the sun is already gone.