Tag: dream work

Grateful Pause (Paws)

img2

I’ve been a grumpy lion,
lashing out in pain –
punctured shell smarting
by an objectionable barb.

I am a prideful feline,
with a formidable roar –
an offensive defense,
intended to intimidate.

Even so, you ventured near
and in a single act of good,
disarmed my furious outrage,
calmed this bellowing beast.

Like a mouse, you quietly,
with understated grace,
gestured with such kindness
I withdrew all complaint.

You restored my faith in beauty,
revived a nostalgic sense of bliss,
offered possibilities, sweet and
restorative;  soothed my soul.

And not, I have noted, without
self-sacrifice on your part;
I am not so egocentric
to have missed the cross you bear.

Your gentle demeanour prevailing
over my abhorrent rant,
is a worth a million thank you’s
to a wounded-heart cat, like me.

Chasing Mermaids

Impulse use to drive my plunges
unrestrained confidence propelling
fortuitous dives – unknown waters
an adventure to be conquered.

Even when anxiety came along
stalked the shoreline in horror,
assured of catastrophe (or worse),
I”d hold my breath and submerge.

Doubt would follow determination,
buoyed by adversity, swimming
forcefully, commanding adaptation –
I’d find my mermaid’s breath.

Motherhood brought restraint
called forth sensibility and caution,
replaced whimsy with practicality
shed the iridescent tail.

I only dig in dirt now –
ground my offspring to earthly
forays, forbid capriciousness,
convince myself I’m solid.

Absentminded burrowing –
(corners of compulsion)
reveal abandoned passages –
old waterways exhumed.

Proclaimed pragmatism falters;
spontaneity descends,  transforms
I am nymph again – free floating
Neptune’s daughter resuscitated.

Spider Woman

Noiselessly, I meander
industry my motivation
slipping through cracks
undaunted by darkness.

I skitter and hop,
avoiding detection
wary of the fear-frenzied,
not wanting to displease

(my thick-bodied hairy-ness
tends to invoke repulsion;
my weak and spindly legs
beget sweats and tremors

I am the stuff of legend –
the black widowed
man-killing, horror queen
with venomous fangs.)

Tragically misunderstood
by overblown accusations,
overlooking the deficiency of size
and the precariousness of my being.

(Sure, I’ve been known to
eat a husband or two,
but who can blame me,
I carry the children alone.)

I am a weaver of tales –
I spew silken threads
whose poetic intertwining
produces the perfect trap

enchanting artistry
of undeniable beauty –
carefully construed tapestries
to ensnare the unsuspecting.

I am not a flesh eater.
I turn my prey to liquid
devour their essence
live off their emotions.

Vulnerability propels
constant motion
I’ve been crushed,
brushed aside, exiled

(sometimes swallowed alive;
it’s a hazard of life –
the unfortunate outcome
of dropping into open mouths.)

My strength is in the telling,
gossamer fibers of truth
spewed from the belly
of this decided ugliness.

I am, in fact, a warrrioress
capturing and annihilating –
through patience and deliberation-
impertinent pestilence.

 

*Note:  this poem is inspired by a series of dreams, in which spiders were the central symbol.  See Dream Along With Me

A Sorry State

Stubbornly, I follow
my desires and motivations
over the edge,  humbly
rediscovering
my sorry limitations.

Calling home, hoping
for a sensible response –
reliable, clear-headed –
(I should know better –
no one like that exists
where I come from).

Miss Vanity and Ms. Martyr
come to the rescue, with
Perfect baby, Spirited baby
and the Despondent One
in tow, along with
adolescent Asperger,
awkwardly incapable
of social intercourse.

Doubtful of their intentions,
certain of their impracticability
and suspicious of neglect
I pull back, angered,
threatening to exert independence;
I don’t need anybody
least of all, you people.

Miss Selfless smiles reassuringly
gesturing for my compliance –
she has everything under control
there is room for everybody –
I climb on board –
surprisingly comforted,
conceding assumptions.

I am embarrassed by my situation,
in need of repair…
Approach cautiously, I warn
it’s a steep state of decline.
My stories, exposed, overlap,
piles of debris cluttering
where hope should dwell.
This is not a place for children,
or the pure of heart.

I feel trapped, but don’t express it.
Ms Forever Up and Miss I’ll Pray For You
smile as if to say:
Don’t worry, Silly,
we’ll clean this up in no time.
And look after the babies?
And look after the babies.

Weariness begs me to surrender,
trust these dubious cons –
too overwhelmed and overcome
to care, resigned to repeat
the drama of the past –
fearing this is my lot.

Dissatisfaction niggles
Don’t give up –
there is more to aspire to
a greater dream to dream
give it time, give it time
and quit driving yourself
beyond the confines
of this current state
of dis-able-ment.

Fleeting Libido

Crazy catches me –
semi-conscious/ zoned out –
body slams me,
hot mouth pressed on mine
suppressing objection
(as if I’d object)
working my juices
my mind overboard
passion flaming

I forget
who I am
where I am
yesterdays
tomorrow

Modesty intervenes
compelling flight –
flesh torn from flesh
prematurely –
this seduction,
taunting me in youth,
surprisingly vital still

I forget
who I am
where I am
yesterdays
tomorrow

Breathless,
heart palpitating
loins throbbing…
abandoned again.
It was only a ghost
a spectre from the past
mocking me –
false ecstasy.

(Linked to dVerse pub where desire and sexuality are on the board tonight.)

Oh, To Dream

I dream of waking before the dawn,
preparing for my day with proficiency,
professionally preened and on the go.

In reality, I see the early light of day
through an insomnia-induced haze,
or miss it altogether, unable to rise.

I will carelessly tie my hair back,
and moan at my image, forgoing cosmetics –
no one will see me, after all.

If I dress, it will be for comfort,
elasticized waistline compensating for swelling,
soft fabrics to soothe the burning aches.

In my dream it is the first day of school,
and I am excited and anxious,
caught up in the camaraderie of the moment.

I awake to the resounding silence of solitude,
no schedules await me, no colleagues
exchanging pleasantries, communal conspiracy absent.

I will pace myself, shuffling
between bed and simple tasks,
a cup of tea, maybe some writing.

I drive in my dream, a shiny red car
in which I glide through the streets
and park with the pride of knowing it awaits.

Its been years since I’ve felt the freedom
and independence of self-chauffeuring,
reliant on the more able-bodied, sharply cognizant.

It’s a rare occasion that rouses me from
this compelled complacency, enough
to venture into the hyper-stimulating world.

Disability has closed around me,
limiting experience, restricting imagination,
until I dream – and am whole again.

A Room of My Own

” I have a recurring image in my dreams of a house with two floors that I have either forgotten about or abandoned. Both have separate staircases, and while others are aware of the one set of stairs, the other is only known by me,” I tell my therapist. “I get the irony of having two stories hovering over me,” I add. “But haven’t really worked with it. The one floor has many bedrooms and bathrooms and feels overwhelming.”

“What’s on the other floor?”

“A single room, like an attic, that sits at the front of the house. A room with a view,” I joke.

“What’s in the room?”

“A lot of cobwebs, as if I haven’t been there for a long time, and only two pieces of furniture. I think that it represents my spiritual connection – a kind of sacred sanctuary that I have neglected.”

“I think that should be your homework,” she advises me. “Decide what you want to do with that room – create a visual of a room that brings you peace or whatever else you need to maintain equilibrium. I think its’ especially important at this time.”

It’s not that I disagree with her, but I find this exercise difficult. Born fifth of six children, I have seldom experienced a room of my own. Even after I left home, I had roommates, or husbands, then children, and the focus has been on compromise or pleasing others. What would a room of my own look like?

I picture myself back in the dream, in the room with many cobwebs, and in my mind’s eye that’s where I begin: cleaning away the cobwebs. I would paint the walls lavender, I decide: a soft, comforting colour, reminding me to be tender with myself. And I’d have three windows – one facing forward and two on the sides to create a cross breeze, so the wind would always blow and the thoughts that normally crowd my mind could follow the wind. And I’d have crisp, white lace curtains, to add a touch of delicacy to the room. There would be no window looking back.

One of the pieces of furniture is an old cedar chest that once belonged to my mother – her original hope chest. Battered on the outside from years of use and being moved frequently, the chest’s cedar interior remains pristine – aromatic and well-constructed. It reminds me of a time when I believed in magic and mystery – childhood fantasies of what the chest contained; although my mother always reassured it held nothing fancy, I liked to imagine otherwise.

The other item in the room is a Bentwood rocking chair. “Rocking is a comforting motion,” my therapist reminded me, “something mothers do with their babies.” “I still like to rock,” I agree. Why a Bentwood, I wonder?

Like my mother’s hope chest, my Bentwood rocker was the first thing I brought into a marital home. It symbolized my wishes for a cozy home life, and the children that would follow – a woman’s hopes and dreams. Why are they in this room? Is the dream telling me that it is important to hang on to one’s dreams – or at least one’s values? So much has happened throughout the years that I wonder if that’s possible. How many times does a woman get knocked down before she stops believing that family, harmony, and peace can exist?

I’ll trust my dream source and keep these two pieces of furniture. What else does this room need? Music, I instantly think, I need a source of music, and not just my cellphone playlist – I will not have a cellphone here – that’s for certain. No wi-fi either. I’ll need a word processor, and if I need to look something up, well I can go return to the life of electronics by leaving my room.

If I’m going to write here, I’ll need a desk, or one of those lounging sofas so that I can sit comfortably while I compose. Shelves for books, too, so I can surround myself with inspiration.

An easel. I’d like an easel. Not that I’ve painted in a very long time, but maybe I could dabble – it’s something I always wanted to learn to do. Sketch books, of course, and art supplies. I wouldn’t restrain myself. This is my room, after all.
I would need art on the walls – water colours of beautiful landscapes, or seascapes – or maybe works of my own creation – making sure the view out my
window is always a beautiful one.

A view. Whose heart doesn’t yearn for a view? I’d have a big old willow tree, constantly reminding me of long ago summers, whiling away lazy days in on the uppermost branches. And water too – although my cravings fluctuate from the laughing chorus of a trickling stream, to the lulling waves of the ocean – water is a must. No roads, or buildings. Just green as far as the eye can see, or fields of wildflowers – nature at its best.

I’m enjoying this exercise. Even as I write this, I can feel the tension in my mind easing, and the possibilities singing inside me. A place of peace, of sanity, and restoration. A safe place where I can explore my creativity or just sit and soak in the beauty and tranquility. A place where time stands still and there are no disruptions. A kind of heaven.

Next step: Who would invite in this room with me? Hmm, more contemplation needed.

What would your room look like?

Death Threat

“Viewers are cautioned that this next report contains images that may be disturbing to some.”

Naturally, I turn toward the television to see what all the fuss is about.  Photos of a crime scene where two women have been brutally stabbed to death are plastered across the screen along with images of the hotel they had been staying in and the victims themselves.

“Uh, Ric,” I manage to utter before sheer terror takes over me.  Not only are we staying in the same hotel, but the two women are occupying the same room we had originally been assigned.  When we’d arrived, just days before, and found there had been a double booking, we gracefully offered to move rooms.  What if we hadn’t?  Suddenly, I feel deadly cold.

“Maybe you should stay at the farm tonight instead,” Thor suggests.  The ‘farm’ is a small rural property we have purchased for our retirement.  As the house needs repairs, we decided to take a vacation at this nearby resort in the meantime.  Ric has to return home on business overnight, which means I will be on my own.

“No, the report says the police have a suspect in mind – a drifter who has been seen loitering in the nearby town.  The farm is too isolated.  I’ll be safer here with people around.”

Somehow, in the deep middle of the night, isolation feels more pronounced.  From where I lie I can see the outline of the door to our room and try to reassure myself that the deadbolt will hold.  I pray the double sliding doors in the adjacent room are secured enough to prevent an intruder.  I must fall asleep at some point, because when I awaken it is morning.

Relief floods me.  Daylight brings a return to normalcy, sanity.  All is well.

I have a quick wash and throw on some clothes, deciding to catch breakfast in the restaurant.  This suite we are staying in has two rooms – the bedroom, which is accessed from the outside, and a living/dining/kitchenette area, which is accessed by the pool area of the resort.  A short hallway with a bathroom separates the two living spaces.  It isn’t until I pass through into the kitchen area that I notice the intruder and I stop short.

Standing well over six feet tall, he is a giant of a man, with a disfigured face and scarred hands.  Like a rabbit, I freeze, assessing the situation.  In my mind, I picture the exits, both locked as far as I know.  How long has he been here?  Do I have time to unbolt the door before he’d catch me?

As if reading my mind, he flashes a pass key.  He works here, I realize.  Remain calm, I counsel myself.

“Am I going to die?”  I ask willing my voice to remain steady.  “Because if I am, do you mind if I have one more cup of tea.  Tea is my favourite thing?  Could you allow me that?” An element of surprise is my only hope of defense.  It worked for me once during an attempted mugging.  The would-be assailant stepped in front of me and demanded money and cigarettes.  In my nervousness, I laughed and said: “Do I look a smoker?”  The ruse worked long enough to let me dart away from the mugger and yell for help.

He doesn’t answer, just glares at me with that menacing expression, reminding me who’s in charge here.

“If it’s about sex, I’ll do anything you want, no need to get violent.”

“It might get rough.”  Do I detect a hint of bemusement in his voice.

“That’s okay, but I’d still really appreciate that cup of tea.  Can I make you one?”

“No, I don’t want any damn tea!”  but he doesn’t move to stop me and he’s dropped down onto the couch now, stretched across it, his legs splayed out over the end, his massive belly displaying one long scar carved into his side, and I realize he’s removed his shirt.

Cautiously, I make for the sink, feeling like I’m moving in slow motion.  His voice stops me.

“Why’d you have to put lanolin on the food tray?”  His voice is mournful, gravelly, and if I didn’t know that my life is in danger, I might l have laughed out loud.  My mind races:  He must work in food services.

“I didn’t,”  I stammer.  “I mean…I don’t use lanolin…don’t even have any.”  Then, sensing the opportunity:   “Somebody would do that?” I play the sympathy card.

“Makes my job damned near impossible,” he mumbles.  “Makes me angry enough kill!”

So we’re back to that.  Is that what happened to the two young women?  They greased the dinner tray?

“Hurry up with the tea already; I don’t have all day.”

He closes his eyes for a moment and I examine his face.  An unfortunate soul, really, I think.  Large, beefy jowls, and a bulbous nose that likely indicates years of alcohol abuse.  A scar covers one eye socket, and his lipless mouth seems to hang open unaware of itself.

Just as I turn again towards the kitchen, a light tapping on the door precedes the entrance of an entourage of people.

“Housekeeping, Miss.” A woman bustles in carrying freshly pressed and hung laundry.  “Where would like these?”  Behind her comes another housekeeper bearing clean towels, and a team poised to clean.  “Is this a good time?”

“A very good time!”  I turn to see that the hulk has gone.  Did he slide away?  I wonder.  Did anyone see him?  I direct the clothes to be hung in the bedroom closet and smile with genuine gratitude for the disruption, but keep my council.  He may still be hiding in the suite.

Two young teens then barge through the now open door and buzz around delighting at everything in the room.

“Excuse me,” I say to them.  “What are you doing?”

“This is our room!  We just checked in!”

“This is my room,”  I can feel the anger rising up in me.  I have had enough disruptions this morning already.  Things are beginning to feel surreal, and I just want some peace to recollect myself.  “There has been a mistake.  Leave!”

The doorway fills with what must be the rest of the family:  a man and woman and four more children.

“Check-in,” I tell them, ” is not until four o’clock.  The room is still mine.”  I had forgotten that today was check-out and the realization brings me new hope – I might get out of this alive yet.  I have work to do.

The family and housekeepers all leave with the exception of one little straggler.  I start to give him directions to the lobby, then realize he is too little to understand, so I walk him down the hall instead.  As we approach the reunion with his parents, I see that Ric has returned and is approaching the building.  The nightmare is finally coming to an end.

I turn back towards the room, anxious to get packed up.  I see him in my peripheral vision as he steps out of the shadows.  I stop.  Surely he won’t accost me here in the hallway, with people around.

“Did you see my scars?” he asks, eyes turned away.

“I did,” I respond unemotionally.  What can he possibly want me to say?  Like the wounds you left on those poor young women, I think.

I hear Ric’s approach and see the killer step away.  Should I tell my husband? I decide not.  Ric would react protectively, and could end up getting killed as well.  I greet my husband warmly, and turn our attention to the task at hand.

Car loaded, Ric pulls toward the exit just as a police vehicle drives in.

“Stop here.” I command, rolling down the window and catching the driver’s attention.  “The man you’re looking for works in the kitchen,” I tell him.

Then I signal for Ric to drive away and wake up.

It’s all been a dream.

Dump Truck

Cumbersome and heavyweight,
determination driving,
I roll with a shudder,
ignoring limitations,
promising caution,
pretending control.

Road blocks, detours,
and bustle –
everywhere bustle!
Unavoidable confusion.

(Control, it seems, is illusory.
How had I not anticipated this?)

Rattled intentions-
delayed reactions –
slowed starts.
I am an abomination.

Children dart about,
heightening my angst.
Go-getters impatient,
rev at my sluggishness.

(Get out of the way!)

Compliance compels, but
the girth of my metal
inevitably obstructs –
Misfits are not welcome here.

My load is heavy –
grievances topped with
personal dramas, blended
with ingested toxins.

(Warning: compassion is low!)

My apologetic countenance
masks underlying menace –
Do not misread hesitation.
A beast is poised to strike.

(Control, remember, is illusory.)

Labyrinth

I am a tourist in this life.
Expectations of enlightenment,
education and entertainment,
spur me forward with excited anticipation.
Feed me discovery in ordered exhibits,
carefully construed facades of control,
garner me with a sense of security:
I am an eager explorer, readily engaged.

By the time wariness enter my consciousness,
I am too far in, committed to the direction,
unable to turn back – the folly of my naiveté
taking hold.  I feel the panic set in – forge ahead –
now driven by fear, not wonder – I see a light.
Relief! Temporarily. All is not as it seems.
Security is not solid. Boundaries are blurred.
I have ventured too deep into this maze of horror.

Injustice and lawlessness surround me –
relentless battery, unbridled savagery,
mummified memories claw at my soul.
I am not willing to die this way-
my screams powerless against a
raging reality, willing my demise.
Is there no sympathy to be had?
The nightmare continues.

I am a student of life,
reluctantly enrolled in a program
that I should have already mastered,
seeking enlightenment in the tucked
away crevices of existence,
crowding in with other lost souls –
expectant, dubious, involuntary –
arrogance and superiority my walls.

I sit amongst the delinquents.
Cynicism blocks flowery attempts
to win me over, nor am I swayed
by blatant appeals to primitive appetites.
I have grown callous, and calculated
hardened by my journey – and when
the lesson comes, delivered in an
unfamiliar tongue – I deflect.

But wait. Despite my hard-heartedness –
hard-headedness – truth seeps
into the corners of my mind and
with coinciding dismay and delight
I realize the folly of my ignorance:
In the struggle between survival
and striving, so much has been overlooked.
I am finding my way out of the maze.