Category: dreams

Works inspired by dream work

The Fire Dance

Thrum-thrum-thrum –
I awaken with a start –
heart pounding,
intense heat stifling –

flames shooting
ceiling high form
a ring around my bed,
as if dancing –

I am frozen, mute.
Is this death?

Distorted faces
leer through fiery curls –
like ancient tribal masks –
menacing, angry

the distinct sound of voices
penetrates the fire’s roar
and too frightened to respond,
I succumb to unconsciousness.

A hallucination, the doctor deduces –
an adolescent’s overactive imagination…

till, child no more, I gather
with other women,
and a drum –
thrum-thrum-thrum

and darkness pulls me back –
to the centre of the ring –
flames, and faces, and voices

only now, I am no longer afraid –
release my soul to the dance.

(Written for the dVerse pub where Victoria is hosting with the prompt: fire.)

Dreams Do Come True

Mermaids have the best of life,
she’d tell anyone who’d listen –
castles deep on ocean’s floor,
and watery skies that glisten

I’d give up all my earthly wealth
for a lifetime of Poseidon’s riches –
swap my legs for fins, if I could be
a royal princess among the fishes.

Once upon a moonbeam
her simple wish took hold
climbed up to the milky way
and watched the stars unfold

She wants to be immortal,
Night whispered to the Moon,
to live a fairytale existence,
without suffering or gloom.

The Great Orb nodded in consent
and turned her face upon the asker –
granted her gills, tiara and jewels,
then encapsulated her in plaster.

(Lillian is hosting at dVerse tonight and asks us to start a poem with “Once upon a…”.  I have to confess I had no luck starting that way, but I did put it in the middle.  I’m also linking up with Willow Poetry’s challenge: What Do You See?

Photo courtesy of Hélène from Willow Poetry.)

Sleep is For Other

I toil in the dreamtime
like a night manager
in a hotel without walls,
catering to clientele –
whose needs, so diverse,
rattle the rows of beds –

settling disputes and
encouraging discretion
and succeeding only
in waking exhausted.

I am like a keeper in
a hostile hostel –
trying to find a key
when there are no
doors to unlock.

(Inspired by sleepless nights and erratic dreaming, and submitted for Sammi Cox’s Weekend Writing Prompt – unlock.  Featured image is titled “Self-Portrait with Colours” although my son says it looks more like a LSD trip – I didn’t ask. Alternate title:  “I am Slowly Going Crazy”, lol.)

Of Wings

Winged things
are meant to fly,
like birds, and planes,
and dragonflies…
angels…

I had dreams once –
winged creatures
who soared
limitless skies…
free…

Until fear –
a cruel master –
caged my heart,
clipped my spirit…
broken…

Age and loss
turned the page,
locks illusions
unravelled…
escape…

Vulnerable,
I walk, remember
wings, lift my face
to inclement  weather…
fly…

(Written in response to Willow Poetry’s weekly challenge:  What do you See?)

Interior Motives

Mother lives in me –
her hopes and fears
now embodied
in my choices,
this guilt borne
of her suffering…

and her mother –
who laboured often
with unwelcome toil,
her only respite
widowhood –
it’s her legacy
I bear.

Potential –
who once appeared
with all the radiant
charm of youth,
exists within, also,
although our connection –
drowned out by the banter
of those gone before –
lacks substance.

I remember how
we used to sing –
hearts joyful,
full of daring.

How even in the face
of rigidity, we raised
our voices, dreamed

Now, both distracted –
I, shaking off fragments
of Mother’s hapless life,
extracting splinters
of a grandmother
destined to woe;

potential,
glances away,
forlorn as
a forgotten child,
pouting.

Love, Like Shoes

If searching for love
was like shopping for shoes,
I’d fixate on the simplest
of finds, choosing practicality
over fashion flair.

My preference is for earthy,
unassuming: plain is fine
as long as the structure
gives me room to breath –
no grasping too tight.

If I shopped for love,
like I do for shoes,
I’d ignore those pushy
sales lines, opt instead
for a supportive sole,

settle for guaranteed comfort
over flashy heels, can’t bear
the instability of pedestals,
love flattery like most,
but need to feel grounded.

No doubt I’d question
my selection, offer it up
to my children for feedback
be mocked, dissuaded,
put it back and search anew,

discover futility in my seeking,
realize that I need new love
like I need new shoes –
only a foolish indulgence
for a woman who lives in bed.

(This poem, inspired by a dream, was penned when I was still bed bound, two years ago.  Hope it made you smile.  If you found yourself on the hunt for love, what would you look for?

p.s. my husband fits the criteria still, lol.)

Complexity of Freedom

Freedom is four hundred and fifty square feet of moveable tin, wheeling down the highway, destination unknown.  It is long walks through exotic forests, where focus lasts only as long as it takes to capture an image.  It is the privilege of sleeping and waking according to whim, routine an estranged concept.  It is the breeding ground for creativity – passion unleashed – and it is tainted by the hue of loneliness, the stark awareness that ties are strained, and those left behind feel abandoned.

Freedom’s highway calls –
hearts follow, passions flow, flee
guilt’s far-reaching pull.

(Written for DVerse’s Halibun Monday:  Complexity of Freedom prompt.)