Tag: dreams

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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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)

Dreamers

While babes slumber,
calm, unconscious,
dreamers manifest

Goddess power –
pray for their ill,
harness a creator

an ancient dwelling
(ignore the presence
of trios – ascension

a slow plod) – choose
to honour the arrival
of beauty’s essence

the light of healing,
creativity expressed,
illuminators, artists

Grace encompassing
compassion, nocturnal
inspiration honouring

the aged, the ailing,
all beloveds, respect
for this blessed life.

(Image: Pinterest)

Whale Dreams

(Note:  Messages from the dreamtime inspire much of my poetry, and as an experiment, I decided to revisit an old dream, from May 2013, and see what new insights it might deliver.  The original posting, entitled “Whale Dreaming”, can be viewed here. )

Exposed we are, voyageurs,
crossing a great expanse –
one tiny vessel bearing
the weight of our lives,
two oars to navigate

Unknown depths below
and shadows, murky –
we push on. Row. Row.
sights set on new land
uncharted possibilities

a shape emerges –
great hulking mass
of being, parting waters
rising and transforming
a caricature of our fear

I am mesmerized, read
divinity’s presence, he
shrugs, pragmatically
notes the St. Lawrence
is home to such mammals

I dream of whales, crave
communion, project
mystical wisdom, equate
size with spirit, marvel
at potential connections

Just as I wait for a sign
from the departed, inviting
a simpler life, inspiring hope –
a shore life from which
I can observe the numinous.

A Body in the Bathtub

There’s a dead body in my bathtub –
metaphorically speaking, of course,
but the shock of it is real

I’ve seen her before, this woman,
young, stylish – like a rising star –
her nakedness is blinding

How long has she been here, and
is she not cold: stark white skin
tinged with blue – appalling

I’d be more sympathetic, except
I’ve enough to contend with
given the plans we are making

the revolving door of visitors
and obligations and responsibility;
she’s more than I can deal with

but wait… did I detect movement,
could there be life in her yet,
I cannot tear myself away

there’s something eerily familiar
about her youthfulness Рa naivet̩
that I’ve long since buried

reminds me of dreams I once had –
fantasies of theater, and Shakespeare –
wanted to be the next Maggie Smith

I see it all now – the gradual sapping
of life, slashed by choices – a more
conventional route, an achingly painful

death – oh, I’ve tried to keep her alive,
dabbled in sidelines, never a priority;
you see worth is tied up in tradition

and to pursue one’s dreams…well,
that’s just self-centered folly and
I let her whither, I admit, but

I hadn’t meant to let her die
just could not bear the burden
of one more disappointment

Anger rises and I want to shake her
this embodiment of failure – how
was I supposed to keep you alive

You were an escape, that’s all
a vessel for hope and aspirations
the musings of a misguided youth

what kind of devilry is this –
you showing up now, when illness
has claimed me, and potential

wanes – are you taunting me?
Is this a threat?  don’t just lie there
mired in your own drama

face me, woman – and so she rises
like a second coming, and I see
that she is only a mirror

a reflection of myself, not disabled,
but polished, refined, accomplished
challenging me to never give up

be found dead in a pool of regrets –
a certainty at the rate I am going –
obstacles, she tells me, are illusory

success requires goals, and progress
is not defined by limitations, and if
you pace yourself, value yourself

believe in yourself, in us, then there
is time – and for a brief moment,
her image fades and I see my father

blue eyes exuding warmth, and
confidence, encouraging me on
and I understand: I am still alive…

( Image by Elena del Palacio, Untitled)

Haunting Irony

You come to me in the Dreamtime
slipping between the veil of what is
and what shall never be, stirring my
restlessness, a bittersweet reminder
of love once cherished, yet shunned.

You are a ghost shattering illusions
of sleep, thrusting me into lucidity,
regrets real – I want to hold you to me
for eternity, devoured by the shame of
what I did to you – relentless sorrow…

Always, you are steadfast, forgiving,
offering up your unshakeable love,
melting me with the depth of your
tenderness, your patient smile, those
ocean blue eyes – you redeem me

Then day comes, and pulls me from
your embrace, and promises fade,
but the dream lingers, leaves me
dissatisfied, a punishing reminder
that I let you go to save us from pain.

(Image: blogsleepingsimple.com)

Mud

Sticks and stones may be inert
at causing pain, but names catch,
travel, complicate the defenceless,
incubate, invite curiosity, remain.

So much dirt involved in building
dreams, to stretch imaginations,
span across crevices of despair,
progress threatened by storms,

emotional waters turning hope
to mud, supports lost at crucial
intervals, silenced by the depth
of loss, crashing in the slime.

What was precious, now lost,
enveloped in layers of excess
compulsion to claw apart vile
skin, tear away the grossness.

Yet, all is not lost, a garden
grows best when planted
in soil, watered, as long as
the sun is allowed to shine.

Need A Road To Follow

Heading somewhere,
chauffeur unreliable –
treacherously absent
direction – any road

would be better than
these curb-hopping,
tendencies, head-on
into snowy banks –

Common sense –
usually a stabilizer –
is off duty, lacking
appropriate attire,

his willowy, tree-like
composure relaxed;
nonchalantly shrugs
off the current drama.

It’s not that I don’t
have dreams – have
birthed projects –
lack the stature to

move beyond the
laneway, ambition –
reduced by concern –
imagining catastrophe

death by recklessness,
or worse, attacked by
loyalty – vicious end
to a goal-less journey.

Hide(me)away

I covet a place hidden
from view, tucked in
between the Highway
Of Life’s Disappointments
and the Edge of the World.

Access cloaked by years
of unkempt bramble, forks
left, just before the abrupt
right turn onto the Freeway
Of Destiny’s Next Calling.

A hermit’s cottage, quaint,
shrouded in the Forest of
Puppeteers, where one can
live a simple pantomime –
pretend strings don’t exist.

Perpetually perched between
bustle and abyss – a child’s game
of I can’t see you, you must not
be able to see me – I’d sleep,
a blissful state of detachment.

stock-photo-73106481-surrounded-by-tall-trees-spring-season