dream work – One Woman's Quest

Glue

Glue, she mutters, massive locks
of blonde hair, piled atop her head
mysteriously held in place despite
the breeziness of her top-down sports.

Not even the wind can undo her,
I marvel at the glint of gold
at her neck, the sparkle of a rock
as she waves, free-wheeling by

What does this woman know that
I don’t; how has she kept it all
together – the years refusing to
drag her down, always riding high?

Glue, echoes the young mother,
from the doorway of her two-story
mansion, children running amuck,
her life, like her bright red sweater

ostentatious, showy – no amount
of material possessions, no career
or besotted husband can blot out
the turmoil churning within.

Glue? I question the dubious advice;
caught off guard by the bluntness,
unprepared to accept guidance
from those I’ve judged so harshly.

What can these women, so far
removed my disabled existence,
know of my plight, understand
about my needs – my failings?

Glue, mumbles a forlorn figure
once a mighty director, a mentor
a man who saved me from myself
his shadow self weak and distraught

Down and out, proclaims the mother,
shaking her head in disapproval,
Sold out, quips the blonde snapping
her bejeweled fingers; I am stunned

had not anticipated such a source
of strength to have fallen so deeply –
disillusioned are we both, broken
by heartlessness, lost in apathy.

Glue, I’ll run it by my doctor, maybe
there is something to it – can’t be
worse than the molasses coursing
through my veins – is adhesive

enough to bond together fragments
cease the rattling of this mind –
give me the backbone to recognize
myself in all and apply forgiveness?

(Ever in pursuit of new understanding of my dreams, this poem is a companion to the change of perspective piece written on One Woman’s Quest II.)

(Note: Inspiration for my poetry is derived from the Dreamtime. Occasionally, a nightmare will evoke the creation of a short story. A recent nightmare continues to haunt me, so I have attempted both forms of literature to garner new meaning. The poem follows and the prose version can be seen here. Which form offers more insights I wonder? objectivity in the form of comments appreciated.

Nightmare: A Poem

Melancholy hovers, haunts,
fed by isolation, taunts
threads of sanity.

Darkness, incomplete,
reveals movement –
trickery of light?

Fear’s grip renders
motionless its victim
serenity shattered

Logic has no tolerance
for the undefined,
ghosts off-limits

Is disease the culprit,
inflammation upsetting
equilibrium, a mind aflame?

The veil between worlds
is flimsy, unhinged, shifts
awareness now peaked

I know you are there!
Show yourself!
Stillness.

Madness threatening,
pleas gather insistence
Come forward – be known!

These are merely games
one reality pit against
another, neither winning

A feminine figure emerges –
her presence emitting an aura
of alarm, indicates a window

Two figures, cloaked in black
towering shadows stalking
live prey, the scent of vulnerability

The ego withdraws, seeks
cover, cannot stop the onslaught
of monsters emerging from walls

Delusion, one last prayer for sanity
but the floorboards recede, reveal
skeletons, there is no escape

Business Venture

Victim, whose season is always Autumn,
bloodied tears like fallen leaves trailing;
and Martyr, for whom worship and self-
sacrifice is a dietary requirement; propose
to venture into retail ownership – recreating

a former failed attempt; believing that if
you build it (again) they will come, as Ego
has promised. “Well, it worked for that
Kevin guy,” Victim agrees; Martyr’s eyes
shine with adoration and eager anticipation.

Spirit says: Let it rest. Leave the past
where it belongs; there is a time for
everything and with patience your
future will reveal itself. No need to
grasp; learn from failure and move on.

But Victim is headstrong, has something
to prove, believes her finest moments
are in the past, is certain she can change
it all if given another a chance, and Martyr
well, she goes along willingly, has faith…

They’ll serve the public, create a niche
that no one can ignore, save the world
with each item they sell, market health
and cure-alls, and invite miracles to
grace their square footage and forget

about reality, and bills, and licenses –
refuse to let overheads dictate downfalls,
convinced they are divinely guided,see
evidence in the motley crowds drawn
to their recycled vision, scheme to find

a new location, mooch off the unsuspecting;
Victim swearing not to repeat old patterns,
Martyr offering up her life, her family, to save
the dream – It will be okay, Ego says; It will be
okay, Victim echoes; It will be okay, Martyr beams.

Spirit emits a silent sigh, has watched this
carousel ride for some time now, has a strong
inclination as to where this road will end, yet
knows that lessons can only be offered, and
perspective only gained through release.

Resort

If only life were a resort –
catered to meals, bed maids
who shuffle out of sight so as
to not disturb the illusion

that life is magical, comfort
a finger snap away; I’d refrain
from interaction, recognizing
celebrity amidst the guests –

imagine the surprise if one
should notice me: this fragile
ego pressured by the praise
would gush volumes, convince

me of genuine interest, ignore
glazed eyes, fail to appreciate
the bombs of emotion spewing
from my war-tattered mouth –

insights always come too late
to save me: my words, like drugs,
an excessive expense; my soul,
undervalued, strewn across

computer screens; I am Paris Hilton
regretting the exposure, trying to
keep afloat in a sea of superstitious
idiosyncrasies – an artist’s bane –

an acrobat, needing to balance
performance with observation,
resorting to bouts of self-
deprivation – no vacation here.

(Image: www.extravaganzi.com)

Midnight Caller

Who is at my door,
at nighttime prowls?

Temporary is this stopover;
bravado attempting vision –

fear limits perspective
and I’ve been called –

what emergency exists
that sets my heart throbbing;

why is it so difficult to breathe?

Is it angel or devil that seeks
entrance, pierces the darkness;

I am present – would prefer sleep
(more clarity in dreaming), need

to devise a plan for safety, try
to connect, believe this intrusion

answers my aching, unyielding soul.

(Image: nightmare-aisle.tmblr.com)

Discombobulated

Conceding ability to focus,
yearning for a cause; tired
of sticking myself out, only
to be brought down; stilted

by this life, sick of taking
second best – No, I’m not
holding up – never the early
bird; or king shit – sagging

like breasts hitting thighs;
always showing up single,
slightly used, ripe for easy
pick up, dubious covers –

have rooms full of history,
would otherwise be retiring,
but unless God has some
secret passage, Heaven

only tortures me; a magnet
for worries – my problems
have more vision than I do –
once carefree, now I pray for

responsibility exit; wouldn’t
recognize Mr. Right if he
came in unannounced, seem
to cherish would be enemies

(not related, at least), store
intentions behind lollygagging
pursuits, rationalize guest
appearances from control;

seek support from transients,
am obligated to any protecter –
(affairs please apply within) – am,
as I said, conceding ability to…

(Image: www.fluentu.com)

Seeking Home

My father’s kingdom his castle;
I inherited his strife, witnessed
years of control and submission
felt used, undervalued, robbed;

Was overinvolved responsibly,
misunderstood the nature of his
anguish, drew attention to myself
interpreting his pain as personal.

Our Father’s mansion (no place
for inanimate objects) nurtures
wisdom, recalls neglect, reflects
on life choices, lack of wholeness.

I am called Home, lifted from
introspection regurgitating
old stories, see the youthful
exaggeration, adult immaturity

have a lot to learn – like a child
throwing a tantrum – emotional,
disappointed, destructive – hurt,
lacking constructive perspective;

need to dwell in a house without
walls, free from guilt of neglected
obligations, wounding relieved
by the light of a greater purpose.

(Image: www.themainewire.com)

Goldfish Reflections

I’m a freshwater gal,
prefer murky, stagnant
pools to the onrush
of rapids, currents

annoy me, challenge
my delicate body,
content to feed off
lanky foliage, swim

in dim-lit passages;
fear it was the flash
of gold, or glimpse
of a mermaid tail

that first attracted
man, compelled him
to trap then breed me
artificially – in glass

houses, distorted
worlds colliding with
my sensitivity, absent
safe havens for retreat.

Worldly now, tossed
into constructs called
ponds – added rocks,
footbridges or lily pads

do not deceive me –
cellular memory is
not to be quieted, I
dream of night skies,

and morning dew, and
sun baking the water’s
surface, of diversity,
schools and families

cannot tolerate this
one-flush destiny,
need space to be –
not an illusion of

recognize my captivity
for what it is – concrete
walls cannot define me;
the wild, the free burns

deep – thousand years
of containment has not
defiled my DNA, and I
will remember long after

that final plunge, in
reincarnation may not
be so forgiving – no
longer a timid fish.

(image: http://animals.mom.me/goldfish-live-4748.html)

Blogging Confidential

Find comfort amongst bloggers,
witness the birth of writers,
misplace my own purpose, fallen

gather ideas, maintain my shame;
I am a fictional character, having
miscarried my own story, declined

into dirt – dangerous; energy limited,
no stores to drive me, never really
known a home where peace dwells,

where brilliance is nurtured, worn
down with beatings, ascribed to
independence too young, immature

chose boisterousness over gentleness,
became a second/third-hand wife,
parent, place last behind responsibility.

beat myself up now over my stupidity,
lack of credibility, an obligatory failure –
any wisdom preserved redundant.

Stop already! This is but a one-sided
tale coloured by shame – change the
lens, multiple stories await birthing

find comfort amongst bloggers,
witness the growth of writers,
recognize the shared experience.

Ancestral Rot

British roots define
particular brand of
peculiarity – shared
claustrophobia –

fear of closeness;
need to lie down,
separate myself,
am married now

childless dreams
dust; I am cook,
cleaner – project
sparkle where dirt

still lingers, losing
rationality, not quite
catching on; want
to send flowers,

honour passings
but soul wounds,
unbandaged, gape –
hunger to be free.

(Image: www.apa.org)

Tag: dream work