Category: dreams

Dream Interpretation: Teacup

A teacup is a social thing –
fits neatly in matching saucer,
requires raising of pinky finger,
prescribed by social etiquette.

Should it break or, heaven forbid,
spill – its fragile, china composure
spewing hot trails on white linens,
then disgrace could be the theme

which only matters if Victorian
protocols are the priority – perhaps
it’s time to question antiquated
expectations and purchase a mug.

(NaPoWriMo challenge today is to offer dream interpretation for a specific symbol.  I’m afraid I might overdo this exercise, as I find it quite fun – so just ignore further posts on the subject.)

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Shoebox Dreams

A simple shoebox, repurposed
with plastered images of dreams –
paper affirmations of aspirations –
shelved and forgotten, its contents

snapshots, faded and torn, remnants
of another time, a different future –
captured when potential was prime
and possibility untainted by illness

this one was retirement – a supposed
celebration – but note how the colour
has drained, the cracks obliterating
pride of accomplishment; and notice

how this one crumbles to the touch –
the fragments dissipating even as
my life has dissipated, the image
lost before memory resurfaces, so

much loss when circumstance dictates
direction, overpowers will, and plans
like snowflakes, vanish in the heat
of reality – pain and insult burning

but wait – this one looks promising –
the edges only slightly torn, the image
discernible – could it be that there is
hope yet – a future author I might be?

That’s the thing about times to come,
we fill them with imaginings, and pray,
our hope, like balloons set free in a sea
of unforeseen challenges, and seldom

does the end result reflect projected
plotting, and yet, there is power in
the dreaming, and so I’ll replace the old
with new photographs to store away.

(Today’s NaPoWriMo challenge asks us to consider future.)

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Talk To Me Of Horses

Talk to me of horses,
the young man says,
thin locks of blonde matted
on a sweaty brow, flashes of blue
that fade as eyes succumb
to weariness, the constant
whoosh, whoosh of respirator.

Talk to me of horses;
the world is losing its grip
and I have no cares for
the weather or car mechanics,
but I dream of horses
and I am feeling so emotional,
help me understand.

So I come to his bedside,
wait for moments of lucidity
ponder the implications
of his questions, wrestle with
my own inadequacies –
I am merely student here.

And we discuss horses –
the power of their bodies,
their beauty and grace,
their relationship to people –
decide they are ferrymen
transporting souls across worlds –
an explanation that satisfies, then

I am seeing things, he strains
embarrassed even in these final hours
to describe what seems inconceivable –
between sleep and awake – figures grey
and frightening that hover
over my bed like body snatchers…

A chills runs over me, as if icy
fingers have caressed my skin,
and I shudder despite myself,
scramble to maintain calm,
wonder aloud if it is not just fear
projecting grey into light –
clouding his vision.

My timing is off the next day,
arrive too late to see him pass,
find his mother waiting to receive me,
with a message from her son, my kin,
says that it makes no sense to her,
but he assured her I’d understand.

“You were right about the visions,”
he’d said; “there was nothing to fear.”

I smile through my sorrow –
ever the teacher that one,
now dead at twenty-one –

“Oh, and one more thing – could you
talk to me of horses.”

(Today’s prompt for NaPoWriMo is to write about the mysterious and magical.  This poem is dedicated to my cousin Tyler, whose aspirations were to be a physicist, but for whom life had another fate.  He taught me so much.)

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Wasted Time

It’s Monday again –
days passing through
my hands like sand,
no receptacle in which
to catch the granules –
why this sense of urgency?

In high school, I played hooky
wiped away the hours in empty
places, sought answers for
questions I could not articulate,
chased dust while others formulated
dreams – how is this any different?

Am I not just recreating the pattern,
painting over efforts with adult hues,
donning the pretence of self-importance
while occupied with vapid tasks – time
continues to slip by, and what have I
to show for it other than incessant panic?

Feverish

Sleep comes in great fistfuls
will not let me shake it
tosses me in seas of dreams –

a first love, teenage antics,
a mother’s toil – I am pulled
under, tossed like a rag-doll

a soft breeze like a mindful
caretaker, caresses my skin
reassures me with her lulling

sweetness, forgives negligence
of household chores, promises
all can wait; I succumb again

 

 

 

 

Devilish Young Men

Young men are pursuing me,
in my dreams, I am too old
and wily not to recognize
the evil of this intent

wonder if I’m being stalked
by a stroke, or worse –
I wake up, overheated
fling the bedclothes off

as if they are the offending
infiltrators, dismayed to see
how little I have slept, knowing
that the relief will now pass me by

Young men possess a virility
redundant in my life – sexuality
long ago sacrificed on the altar of cancer –
their presence is disconcerting at best

stirring up old emotions, luring me
into nostalgic memories – trickery, I say
to think that masculinity would entertain
intimacy with a mad old hag like me.

(The Daily Post prompt:  entertain.
Image:  Daily Mail)

When Fantasy Usurps Reality

Vacationing, she says, is vital –
wants her children to experience
game-packed adventure, excess
non-stop fun – anything to evade

this place, this longing, this subterfuge

Dreams of the spotlight of celebrity,
wealth, she thinks, would be freeing,
they’d buy location, nest in opulence,
court sanity, breakthrough the pain

this place, this longing, this subterfuge

Fame, temporary as the aurora borealis,
blinds her – cannot bear the inclusiveness
of normalcy, offspring bursting their halos,
unknowns tied to origin – escape is hope

this place, this longing, this subterfuge

She is tired of small talk, of exaggerated
tales of children’s exploits readily falling
off mothers’ tongues, women whose
vibrancy depends on husbands’ return

this place, this longing, this subterfuge

Considers herself a non-resident,
a temporary guest, consumed,
questioning – views the contest
as overly manipulated, is lost in

this place, this longing, this subterfuge.

(Image: findingjackie.com)

Martyr’s Lament and Superwoman’s Dark Side

MARTYR’S LAMENT

I woke before dawn and drove
through blinding snowstorms for you.

I was lost, but without faltering,
I altered course, and when
I could drive no further, I set out
on foot, navigating treacherous
snow and ice, risking my life,
pushing forward against all odds
for you.

So that you could get where you
need to be; so that you
can succeed: I risk
it all for you.

And all the while,
I keep you by my side,
so that you will be safe,
so that I can ensure
your arrival.

But I grow weary,
and my body just will not go on,
and all I ask is that we rest for a while,
so that I can catch my breath.

But you, you walk away –
no hesitation in your step,
no looking back –
and when you do stop to wait
it is too late

a barrier has grown between us:
an eight-foot, chain-link fence
separating me from protecting you,
and you look at me with that gaze
of exasperation as if to say:
I should have done it on my own.

Wait! I say, Wait!
This wall may seem insurmountable,
but I can do it!  I can do it;
just give me time.  I’ll climb
to the top; it’ll be easy –
you’ll see…

Don’t walk away.
Give me one more chance
to prove my love for you

I do it all for you.

SUPERWOMAN’S DARK SIDE

fine-cut crystal, silver and gold
sparkle and entice –
the table is laid
for guest aplenty

savory aromas conjure visions
of sumptuous gravy,
delectable roast,
crisp-cooked vegetables,
and decadent desserts

she’d stop to admire her handiwork
but the children, tired and hungry
bored with the waiting,
tug at her hem

Waiting.
It is her strength.
Prepare, prepare –
then wait.

invitees will arrive shortly,
noisily – full of their days,
faintly aware of the backdrop,
happy to have left their babies

and they’ll sit and be served
and remark on the deliciousness
and gobble up seconds
then push back chairs
and wander off for a kip
or a smoke

and she’ll linger a moment
picking at her congealed gravy-covered mash
unconsciously dabbing at a red wine stain
marvelling that she’d accomplished it all
once again
without bitching
without protesting
a trooper till the end

What’s that you say?
She’s sounding a bit like the martyr?

Oh no, you’ve found her out;
Superwoman has a dark side.

(Martyr’s Lament and Superwoman’s Dark Side were originally posted in December of 2014, and have been edited here.  They are personal favourites as they emerged from my dreams and marked an aha moment in my own journey.  Hope they made you smile.)

 

 

 

Sleeping Alone

Sleeping alone –
so intrusive –
a child born of
so many intentions
awash in a trail
of barricades

I cope, cook up
breezes, strike
wet ground,
stuff myself
to satiate
the onslaught

ground rapidly
shifting –
Earth Mother
exerting presence –
too stubborn,
I turn away

Look for
God, but my
cup keeps moving –
I am unreachable,
charmed by
a broken tale

aimless,
oppositional,
overwhelmed –
cry out but
absence holds
no listeners

need adhesive
to fix this urgency –
a peerless torrent –
if only I could simplify
these wounds
find a stopgap

emotion
bubbles up
overflows
manifests
external turmoil
replaying sorrow

sleep offers
no repair
alone
tormented
by the issue
at hand.

(Image: blogs.voanews.com)

Flirting With Success

I have dallied with success
mingled with the scent of
expensive coiffures, swooned
to the physicality of well-fitted
suits, oozing polished confidence

eyes that penetrate the core
of my desire, arouse a feral
vitality, make me squirm like
a school girl dreaming of her
first crush’s kiss, too old now

for such foolishness, besides
I am married to impotence
have long ago committed to
the fruitlessness of outcomes
suppressed futile yearnings

Oh, but I am not immune
to flights of fancy – virility
freezes over but does not
die out – imagination stirs
flesh warming to power’s

promising caress, how I
would unleash this secret
explode with potential, if
I still bore the vivacity of
youth, could do it all over.

(Image: Pinterest)