Dream Suite and Sour

• Child dream

Soft and warm
Alone but with you
riding furrow and troughs
on an ocean placid embracing nurturing
As it is so it has always been
so it always will be.

• Man dream

Stubble and sinew
Making his claim
Setting his aim
He puts a stake in the ground
rising then falling then rising again
And dying a little each time
Dying and then rising again.

• Woman dream

Irrepressible, she draws near
And I am well confined-
Free, but only subtly
To dispute her but not refute her
My course is always altered by her approach.

• Anxious dream

I know it is wrong
My choice
my face
my place…
And in that way I am so shaken
And I wake to find the pain
Still resonates
And tests its way throughout my day
A pill or prayed will not decrease
And only time will give release?

• Day dream

A thought releases random views
Following an unknown muse
A collage of memories untold
Castles in the sky unfold
A loose stitch pulled the nap unraveled
A passage welcomed yet untraveled
A word , a notion, a memory
A sketch, a twist on yet to be
These travels evoke a passive smile
This reverie may reconcile.

• Morning dream

We are epic
The grand triumph
The challenge met
The sweet repast
The thoughtless get
And still you give me one more chance
To rise and toil
To sing to dance
And trod upon
This sacred ground
To engage in prayer
To issue sound
To sup a breath
And blink an eye
To live this life
With one more try.


• Wishful dream

The fool and the beggar met one day
And shared a thought each in their way
And spoke of what they’d like to see
And longed for a brief fantasy
For burdens taken from their door
For comfort‘s gift they did implore
And knew that these they would not see
But pleasured in such company.

• Walking Dream

A solitary man walks on a woodland trail
He has a moderate pace
Although it appears there is no clear destination
He stops to look upon the ground-
A leaf, a stick, some secret trace,
Has drawn him to this time this place?
And then he wanders to the side
And sits down on a fallen trunk
And gazes off to perhaps regard
A distant, private landscape.

• Dying Dream

I will not know until my day
My turn I’ll take
My pass away
I've hints that previewed deaths arrival
I’ve seen the struggle for soul survival…
And when the moment surely comes
Under yet determined circumstance
One wish I have for that fine day
I’d like it to be a gentle dance…

Wishful Dream

The fool and the beggar met one day
And shared a thought each in their way
And spoke of what they’d like to see
And longed for a brief fantasy
For burdens taken from their door
For comfort‘s gift they did implore
And knew that these they would not see
But pleasured in such company.

A Wash

New Years Day
In the morning gray
I am doing a wash
Best to start out clean.

The rest are sleeping it seems
Keeping their thought to themselves in their dreams,
Internals.

The birds come, chickadees,
And celebrate their luck
In a feast at the feeder.
The New Year comes for them
Everyday,
When they fly
Free to feed.
It falls to me the task of giving them thoughts.
As they keep their own
To themselves.

I drift in a moment,
Loosely contrived,
To the ledger of my year
And years,
And guilt-full,
Think about what has been
And yet might be.
I don’t revel in this thinking.
I’d rather keep my thoughts
From myself.
Yet I have been doing some house cleaning
Of late
Of a sort,
Throwing away
Giving away
Putting away
Accumulations
Which lead to inevitable ruminations.


And there I find things and places and people
Steadfasts,
Who are my favorites.
They brighten my days
And illuminate my dreams.
Each brings a tear.
And there too
Hidden in shadows and on front pages
Are things and places and people
Who darken my thoughts,
And cause me in public
And in private
To rail
And cringe.
They threaten.
Each brings a fear.
And I regret that I have not done more
Or at least done better…

Chickadee, I plea
Please explain your simplicity
And if you can
Reveal to me
Just one small thing
That makes you free.

And perhaps, instead
In days ahead
As a new point of view
A prayer, a plea
Drawn from these
The histories,
That I may not become awash
In painful doubt
And agonizing second thought,
But let it be
A wash
On this new day
And try the Chickadee way.
To celebrate
Without too much thought,
To be clean
And free,
And so self-taught.

Midnight Confessions

The door bell has been ringing since 1978. Not constantly, not consistently, but ringing, usually sometime between 2:00 and 4:00 AM. Late at night. It’s the ding-dong ring, so I know to check the front door. Usually, since I have been chimed out of my sleep, I rub my eyes, look at the clock, and then wait. If it really rang, the ringer will surely ring again. Right? So I wait and wonder. But it is a challenge, since my brain-state is at some wacky wave length that implores, “go back to sleep.” Sometimes, so I can eventually go back to sleep, I get up out of bed and prowl the house, peeking behind doors, looking in closets, checking in the tub. Hide and go seek. What would I do if someone was there?! And why would they ring the bell before they came inside? Hmm…There is little logic to all this…and fewer viable explanations… But I can’t sleep until I get the all clear signal. So far, so clear. And as I drift off, I wonder, why do I dream this? It’s my brain, so why the adolescent pranks?

Maybe this was some sort of practice, a warm-up to parenthood.
For some time I had teenage boys. They go out: When will they come in? There has been a designated time established to return, but we seem to only use it as a guideline, not a deadline. So I half-sleep, drifting restlessly, like an ancient ancestor, peering into the dark over the dying coals; waiting for the creatures of the night. I listen for the car turning off the main road. I listen for the turn of the knob. I don’t want to hear the doorbell; no, no, no! No neighbor, no officer, no, no, no! Those bell-ringers only appear to tell me to come get them (trouble) or where they are (bigger trouble.) Thinking back I wonder if I really slept at all…
Then there was a period of time when ex-boyfriends or ex-husbands would occasionally show up. (OK, I didn’t choose wisely…) Usually these sad-sacks, these beer goggled rear view mirror-ed looking late night lotharios wanted a do-over with their ex, my femme de soir. Not a pleasant moment at any time of day, but especially vexing in the wee hours. Rules of deportment, it seems, change after mid-night. After mid-night, we let it all hang out…

Speaking of wee hours…there is a dance that is done, in more recent years, only after midnight. The tinkle-dance dance (is that onomatopee-ah?), the shuffle little boys do when they have waited too long, might be the antecedent. This dance is done with eyes closed, goose-bumpy skin, and bare feet. The ruiner of reverie. It is a sliding shamble, running a gauntlet of dropped and abandoned items; shoes, belts, books, etc., the human detritus of the waking hours. Heaven forbid someone has altered the course, moved a chair.
Poor, poor, pinky toe!
Yes, gone are the days of sweet slumber.
Welcome sweat slumber,
Grinding teeth,
Thrashing in a bed with uncompromising pillows.
Dreams that jump-start anxiety,
PMs that come from a bottle.
Sleep-
Do not ring my midnight bell
I care not what you have to sell,
Please wake me only if you bear
The elixir that might take me there.

Sensibilities

Would it offend your sensibilities
(And would that be so bad?)
If at this late date the proclamation
Would boldly state
That there are periods of scheduled randomness
And that one could place a winning bet on the seemingly unpredictable?
How can you be so certain that there are times of uncertainty?
Are unplanned events, well, planned; well-planned?
And does the fact that there is so much more
Make you lock and bolt the door
Or piss you off
Even more?

Quiet Spectacle

There is a quiet spectacle going on
In the background wheels churn the highway pavement sand rattling roadside leaves
The sound strikes a harmony with the near-distant drone of the refrigerator chilling the bones of the beast
The radiator punctuates this opus with contractive metallic claps and expansive off-beat rolls
A Christmas tree is swooning some and hanging low are Santa and his entourage of bells and balls stretching like a glass-blown cat
The lights themselves pulse and flicker radiating photons just moments short of going super-nova
Portals swing on throaty hinges everything is on the move and can be clearly seen by moving even slower, much slower
It is a quiet spectacle relatively positively