Yellow Butterflies


yellow butterflies 2



The only cure is madness.



Yellow butterflies that come and go,

Appearing in the night like specks of light,

Phantoms from above, perhaps below,

Maybe the Other Side, the Summer Lands,

The Golden World, the place

With no end where all is well and

Shakespeare dances with Morgan la Fey,

Camelot is real and the planet stopped

Moving on April 1st, 1912.

Titanic did not sink.

No archduke died. There was no atom

Bomb falling from Japanese skies,

No Korea divided, no Vietnam,

No guerrilla in Latina American jungles,

No economic break down,

No taking Wall Street,

No Aleppo turned to carcass,

No murder in Caracas,

No toddlers face down

On a Turkish beach.


They come and go from my mind,

These yellow butterflies.

The yank me away from the thickness

Of my bad dark. No velvety

Night for lovers to kiss under,

My bad darkness. No cosy,

Warm, mother’s womb.

It is more like tar, sticky mud, quick sand.

Sucking me, drinking me, sweeping away all

The beauty from the world.

And they come, my yellow butterflies.

Hook me, pull me, save me,

As they chant my name,

And remind me of the tea party

At the foot of the Everest.

And I know that they

Cannot be real.

And I know that butterflies

Cannot possible speak my name.

And I know I will never make it

In time to the meeting at Everest.

But I hold on to them, just the same,

To yellow butterflies, my golden feys.

I shall send my apologies tomorrow.

And reschedule the party

For another day.


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