Works inspired by dream work
Inside
intentions
defined by
authority
restricted by
accessibility
budgets
reason
no room
for bohemian
attitudes
heart
allure
of mystery
spontaneity
luxuriating
expansive
ideologies
dreams
effusive
rationality
dictates
decisive
response
A rowboat is a useful thing,
to get from a to b, but should
you dream you are stranded
with only one oar,
in a cesspool of sharks,
then I’d say you are hardly
equipped to handle the situation,
but don’t bail –
all you can do is hang on
and wait for the cavalry
(or better yet, Coast Guard).
Remember, save the rowboat
for romantic sunset cruise –
along the shore is best –
or an afternoon of fishing;
better to travel in deeper waters
with a more fitting vessel.
(There, I think I am done. Â The NaPoWriMo challenge today is to write a dream interpretation for one or more objects listed, which wades into my interest zone. Â I’ll leave the audience alone now.)
A hammer is a driving thing,
as in driving home a point –
a moniker my husband bear’s
to depict his tenacious fight.
There’s hammer hold, and
hitting the nail on the head,
and “If I had a hammer” –
testimony to its symbolism.
A hammer, much like character,
is innocuous on its own, requires
willingness to wield, and practice
to perfect, but can be very useful.
A tool – not in the derogatory sense,
unless a dream assailant carries on
a relentless pursuit – a part of self
intent on breaking through walls.
So, should you dream of hammer –
not the M.C. kind – then ask yourself
these questions: Â Am I on point, or
are my efforts actually constructive?
(Kind of like me with this NaPoWriMo exercise, lol.)
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. Â I’m afraid I might overdo this exercise, as I find it quite fun – so just ignore further posts on the subject.)
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.)
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. Â This poem is dedicated to my cousin Tyler, whose aspirations were to be a physicist, but for whom life had another fate. Â He taught me so much.)
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?
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
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:Â entertain.
Image:Â Daily Mail)
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)
